1
20
584
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https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/02c2060d67ead06fb17bb4cfc0ad2ea2.mp3
b5a5c005ba2e44f484ee925bc2de0385
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An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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00:39:58
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The habit of violence
Description
An account of the resource
Audio recording of a lecture delivered on January 10, 1959 by Stringfellow Barr as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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Barr, Stringfellow, 1897-1982
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St. John's College
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Annapolis, MD
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1959-01-10
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lec Barr 1959-01-10
Friday night lecture
Presidents
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https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/8908d181ae842b8a5f7e3a6308ade933.pdf
6d521e62342a8d9c9ce342fc7660d6d7
PDF Text
Text
)
~'
ecte b
The uni ~~'.?.:?-1 _t?_~~ ' nis material may he
Copyright law (Title 11 .::>.Code)
This is going to be a funny kind of
concert, part Quaker Meeting;
lec~--ure
- part
part of it is going to be talk.
That is the most difficult part.
Difficult be cause I shHll
try to stick to my subject, music, with all the rigour I can
And I want you to do the s 2Jne.
muster.
will subordinate the talk to the music.
That means that I
We can all talk
aftervrn.rds, when there will be no more music - or only a little
·if requir·ed to make a point clear.
During the lecture I want to let the music speak, and
myself to get a word in edgeways here and there where this can
be done without drowning the music.
that the one will drovm. the other.
music, for once, dominate,,
I
There is always the danger
If nec essary, let the
After some of the musical examples
shall try to let some moments of silence elapse before t aking
up the talk again.
Partly as a measm.'e of , self-defence - the
SD Oken
music is so much more eloquent tha t a.nyfwords fall very flat
after
• .l-
l
v;
but partly al so, and more in1portantly, b e cause I
really vmnt the music to have its say and to be cons ider ed,
So I sha ll occasionally try to give you time to consider it
v hen your ears are still full of it.
1
You might even - in an
unquakerish way - Yvant to jot things dov1 that occur to you.
m
Music has al1Nays been bedevilled by irrelevant talk.
Irrelevance a1, ises all too easily - it seems almost impo ss ible
to avoid it.
I continually c atch myse lf at it.
suffer from i rre levan t t alk;
All subjects
but thi s one mos t particularly,
for some fairly obvious and some more comp licated reason s .
One of the obvious reasons is that not all people experience
music mus ic a llv ( t118.t 1 s a.n und eI'statement) £md there is a
�- 2 -
..
conspiracy to pretend that they do.
Therefore we get a lot
of talk ostensibly about music that is not really about music
at all.
I am not saying that the unrausical cannot or should
not talk about nm.sic - they can and they should : the discovery
of true extra-nmsical analogies may depend on them.
But this
matter of exnerience nm.st always be kept firmly in mind.
By
experiencing music musically I mean something that involves
the whole person, including the mind, the active, participating
mind.
Not the mind that, Yihile there is music going on,
concentrates of half concentrates on something else - be it
the Bible, p·~to, or mathematics;
or the mind that drifts off
to visions, d1"es1ns, or reminiscences.
Befo:;"'."'e we start I should like to make some remaI•lrn about
the voluminous document you have been given.
Actually they
are pretty close to the heart of the matter we want to discuss
later.
For the texts that are not originally in English
that is,
when the composer set them to music - for those texts I have
It does not scsn like
given a rough and ready translation.
is
the original.
It fis:~ neither singable nor entirely literal,
noj_" in any way loyal to a s t'lle - it is rough.
Its purpose
is mainly to give the gener•al sense of the whole snd the exact
translation of the keI vrords in the original.
The latter•, the
exact translation of key words, :ls v1hat matters most:
bees.use
the listener should kn.ov1 what certain vrords mean that have
entered into union yrith cei-·tain musical phrases.
l\Iuch of the point of the best kind of vocal
cm:T~losi tion
(and all the e:o::01n~1les to-night belong to the best ki:1C1 Cchough
there is
not
a single operatic exam:pleJ)much of the point of
such a corn:::iosition is lost if the music is actually or mentally
�3
(in the listener's mind) forced into an· adulterous union
(however loose) with different words.
In this kind of vocal
music j_t is not just the general drift of a verbal statement,
or even the precise MetLlJ.ing of the vrhole statement, that has
been corribined with music, but often it is single vrnrds or
groups of tvrn or three v;ords that are t1expressed 11 ,
by - that are
.§._\~
t1accom:panied 11
vdth particular notes or groups of
notes~
Not only in such glar•ingly obvious cases as that of
word
11
th~
charms 11 in the E:;cam.ple you will hear first (Hat once it
charms the sensell)
or the sliqhtly less obvious
not only in such cases as tle
11
grieven;
"jarring seeds 11 ruJ.d the nscatter'd
a t oms", ouu also in a case l:lke that of the llwox•ld below 11 ar:d
...-A
.,
.L
"the spheres above 11
-
right up fu::c. ther to a case of such
0
sublimation or sublimi t;)T as our final sung example to-night.,
So, to get back to the use to be :made of this docu:rient, I
Viould advise the follovJine; : don't x·ead ahead.
Sufficient unto
A..n.d as v1e get to some
Examples, I may say something about the words.
Example, I think, needs no advance e::c_planation ..
The first
<:i'-r
( .12.i-t'...$
1)
-
'Tis nature's voice, 'tis nature's voice,
Thro all the movinc; wood and creatures understood,
The universal tonsue, the universal tongue,
To none of all her num'rous race unknovm,
From her, from her it learnt
The :mighty, the mighty, the mighty art
To court the ear> or stri1rn the heart,
At once the passions to ex_;;iress·and move,
At once the passions to express,
to express and move.
We hear, and straight v!e grieve o:c· hate,
We hear, and straight we grieve or hate,
rejoice or love.
In unseen chains it does the fancy bind,
it does, it does the fancy bind.
At once it charms the sense and captivates the mind;
At once it charms the sense and captivates the mind.
�- 4 -
..
Soul of the World, inspired by thee,
The jarring, jarring seeds,
The jarring, jarring seeds of matter did agree.
Thou didst the scatter'd atoms bind
Thou didst the scatter 1 d, ~Le scatter 1 d atoms bind,
·which by thy laws of true proportion joined,
Made up of various par· ts,
!"1ade up of various parts, of various, various parts,
Made up of various parts one.perfect,
One perfect, one perfect, perfect harmony.
..
.
Thou tun 1 st this world, this vTOrld. belo33_,
The spheres above,
Who in the heavenly round
To their own nmsic move.
However persuasively put, this is a bunch of pretty bold
claims.
They were made - not uniquely - you will be f aro.iliar
with most of them - by one Nicholas Brady.
the music, is by Henry Purcell.
11
The persuasion,
These two were chosen by
The Musical Society". in London to vVJ:>ite an Ode for St. Ceci-
lia's Day in 1692 (Purcell also wrote others, but this is his
biggest).·
Cecilia, as you may know, was a Rom.211 matron and
becsI!le a Christian saint.
blind - and of music.
She is the patron .saint of the
.
«S
Musical literature is full of pieces
written in her honour, but Purcell's great OdeA.the greatest,
because the most musically relevant, the most magnificent, and
the most assertive.
(The composer himself, incidentally,
sang the number with which we started and from which I,took
my title.)
The words, I said, are by Brady (a less distinguished
poet than Joh.tL Dryden - but just listen, one day, to the
Dryden/Haendel Cecilia Ode and you will be able to disprove
for yourselves the wisdom of Beethoven's desire to compose the
words of poets worthy of his efforts, like Homer or Schiller.)
The vrords of this Ode, then/ are by Brady.
did not
sheets.
~ite
But he probably
all those repetitions that you have on your
Those are by Purcell - and I only put a minimum of
�- 5 -
them down - in the polyphonic choral number even more repeating
goes on between the different voices•
repetitions?
Because if~ou repeat something often enough, even
a lie, it will be believed?
fancy bind n?
Why did he put all those
"It does, it does, it does the
Or
ttat once the passions to express and move,
at once the passions to express,
to express and move. 11
At any rate it is
That may be the most crucial claim of all.
one that is most volub"ly and most heatedly discussed nowadays.
Here is what the
11
anti-expressionist 11 Stravinsky says:
11 I consider that nmsic is, by its very nature, essentially
powerless to e:x:oress anything at all, whether a feeling,
an attitude of mind, a psychological mood, a phenomenon
of nature, etc ••• ~E.x:oression has never been an inlierent
•
.
.
property of music.
That is by no ment:,- the purpose •••
(E.A."}lression is) an aspect which, unconsciously or by
force of habit, we have come to confuse with its essential
being ••• Music is given to us with the sole purpose of
establishing an order in things, including, and particularly,
the coordination between man and time.
Its indispensable
requirement is constructiOll:Construction once completed,
this order has been attained, and there is nothing more
to be said. 11
Q.~"'s
11
0rder.c.the coordination between man and time. ~t (PLAY Ex. 2)
/ " G o t t e s Zeit, Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste,
ist die allerbeste Zeit,
die allerbe s te,
ist die allerbeste Zeit. II
Some of you may remember that.
Bach's Cantata
all 11 •
11
It is the opening "of
God's time is the best time
-
the best time of
The cantata is also called the Actus Tragicus.
a funeral piece.
It does not sound funereal.
win then : it expresses nothing?
It is
Does Stravinsky
Or the "expressionists rr vdn :
it expresses the Christian joy at a departure to a better life?
Or does Stravinsky win after all, because it "establishes an orde:r
••• between man and time 11
-
in whatever sense you may choose to
take that - either by its statement of the fact that "God's time
�-
is the best time 11
-
6 -
or by the very nature of music?
Let us ha.ve another example.
(Ex. 3)
Ich bin vergnilgt mit meinem Gliicke,
das mir der liebe Gott beschert."
11
A slow waltz.
11
But hardly gay.
You may have caught the words:
Ich bin vergnngt in meinem Glilcke 11
-
the lady says she is gay,
or content, in her happiness, or good fortune.
The oboe, and
indeed the lady rs vocal line, seems to say. ·something different
ri
t~
h
·;;
c.~ ...eJ.~J"A-~
~..
·
"""":•
""-e_.,.~.,.,-..J!... ~---""'"~Ji-
;t!J?~o
·,,. ..... l'J. . . ~~·'· e
... ·~<:~...t.L.,.$~"'£\
1,;...... ..,,_s..,_,...,,-~
·
(-c:>r something extra?).
J ·The next example, which I want to give
/'you for the sake of comparison, does not seem to me to be a far
cry:
Ex. 4
11
Erbarme dich.
o. 11
It is, most of you know it,
11
Erbarme dich 11 (Have mercy, Lord),
the plea for mercy af·ter Peter's betrayal and bitter tears in
the St. Matthew Passion.
Let us have the whole of that passage:
the three-fold challenge, tlJ.e three, increasingly emphatic,
denials, and the remorse.
It is Example 5 and you have all the
words on page 2, with a rough English translation beside them.
It is the Gospel story.
Try to stick to the German words and
only refer to the English when necessary.
Ex. 5
~
(Ex. 5)
Petrus aber sass draussen im Palast,
'Und es tra t zu ihm eine Magd und sprach:
Und du warest auch mit dem Jesu aus Galil!la.
Er leugnete aber vor ihnen allen und sprach:
Ich weiss nicht, vrns du sagest.
Als er aber zur T-8.r hinausging, sahe ihn eine andre
und sprach zu denen, die da waren:
Dieser war auch mit dem Jesu von Nazareth.
Und er leugnete abermal und schwur dazu:
Ich kenne des Menschen nicht.
Und ilber eine kleine V!eile traten hinzu die da sta.n.den
und sprachen zu Petro:
'Wahrlich, du bist auch einer -Von denen,
denn deine Sprache verr~t dich.'
Da hub er an sich zu verf luchen und zu schw8ren:
Ich kenne des l'.Ienschen nicht.
Und alsbald kr!ihete der Hahn.
Da dachte Petrus an die Worte Jesu,, da er zu ihm sagte:
Ehe der Har.in kr!llien wird,
_ 11
�- 7 Wirst du mich dreimal verleugnen.
Und ging heraus und V1einete bitterlich.
Erbarme di ch, me in Gott, u:.m me iner Zfiliren will en.
Schaue hier, shhaue hier,
Herz und Auge weint vor dir,
Weint vor dir bitterlich ••• 11
And now let us have the other, the gay lady once more.
(Ex. 6)
(Ex. 6)
~.course
when I say she says she is gay, I am not hinting
subtly that I think Bach is bungling his job.
rr express"
That he can
when he wants to "express t1 in the usual, if I may call
it that, most prosaic sense, he shovrn in his treatment of the
words llweinete bitterlichn.
I could give a lot of examples
for that kind of expression.
There are, however, other kinds
too that need illustrating.
TheT'e is a penitentialfanfilta, 11 Her1", gehe nicht ins Gericht 11
(Lord, enter not into judgment) vrhich has a suitably dovmcast,
.
.
ContrJ.. te b e"'01."' nni· DP' an?t t'nen , on
.
-o, -'-~
+:'.l~.le
~
,,-rords na.enn vor di· r 1.uird.
.-
kein Lebendiger gerechttr (for in Thy sight shall no man be
justified) breaks into a lively dance.
Is Bach bungling again?
There is no time for this first chorus fyou will have to take
my word for it), nor for the whole of the incredibly beautiful
but long aria on the vrnrds
1 "~Yie
zi ttern und wanken der sunder
Gedanken 11 (How the sinners' thoughts quake and tremble).
most incredible beauty comes in the development.
The
Unfortunately
I can only play the very beginning of it and I want to play
that because of its obvious rhyth'!lic connection with the
concluding chorale.
words
11
The chorale (Exrunple 7) starts on the
?Iun, ich weiss, du wirst mir stillen mein Gewissen, das
mich plagt 11 (Now I 1:now Thou wilt still my conscience ••• )
And the "stillingll is shown in the orchestra.
The singers
have a quarter note per syllable, and to begin with the strings
�- 8 -
"
quake below with 4 sixteenths per syllable, just as they did
in the soprano aria, then
the~,
calm dovm to triplets, then to
two eighths, then to nearly one, namely a quarter and an eighth
in 12/8 time (with the singers still in 4/4), then, ·when the
singing has stopped, to simple
postlude.
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q~arter
.---,
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notes, in the
~~\-l,l
lu..i v
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J1~ 1 fl i ,
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A simple trick?
0
___..
( \ (.
/
r
/
~tl
/
\
~
?
}
''
\...../
,)
But effective.
Bach was perfectly
~apable of more complicated rhythmic tricks; but I want to
leave those till later.
Let us first go back before the Fall, before Sin, repentance,
and anxiety.
Let us listen to the Creation of Man, as
~:l..-
presented byr:,_Joseph Haydn.
words on page 3.
It is Example 8 arid you have the
The recitative comes more or less straight
from Genesis:
Und Gott schuf den Menschen
Nach seinem Ebenbilde,
Nach dem Ebenbilde Gottes
Schuf er Lh..n.
Mann und Weib erschuf er sie,
Den Atem des Lebens hauchte er
In sein Angesicht,
�..
- 9 -
Und der Mensch vrurde
Zur lebendigen Seele.
The aria comes more or less straight from Milton - whose version
you can see below.
Haydn's version goes:
Mit wiirdt und Hoheit angetan,
Mit Sch8nheit, St!irk 1 und Mut begabt,
Gen HL11Lmel auf gerichtet
Steht der Mensch,
Ein Mann und K8nig der Natur.
Die breit gew8lbt' erhabne Stirn
Verklindt' der Weisheit tiefen Sinn,
Und aus dem hellen Blicke ~
Strahlt der Geist,
Des Sch8pfers Hauch und Ebenbild.
Actually M::iJton said (-when Satan first sees Adam and Eve):
••• the fiend
Saw undelighted, all delight, all kind
Of living creatures, new to sight 2.nd strange.
Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,
Godlike erect, with native honour clad,
In naked majesty seemed lords of all:
.And \'rorthy seemed; for in their looks divine
The image of their glorious Maker shone,
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure
(Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,)
vfnence true authority in men.
We only have time for
Or expressive?
One can virtually
-~
Man rising, and stand upright.
But then something happens
in the music that has no visual correlative.
In the passage
about man's sublime brow and his wisdom the music provides a
perfect non-pictorial image of the nobility and complexity of
man 1 s mind.
Let us hear that part again.
(Ex. 8b)
Does it not seem to correspond in a startling way to Iv1ilton 1 s
0 image
of their glorious Maker"'?
(Ex. 8c)
Let us have it once more.
It does not do it in words or in pictures.
Gesture comes closest to it, perhaps, but does not solve the
�- 10 -
..
When one trie$ to convey what happens in
riddle either.
the music, one is likely to use two hands to show the diversity
in the unity, the divergence of the lines of horns and strings
and their juxtaposition with the voice.
But one is just as
likely to throvv up oner s hands helplessly, for this kind of
miravle cannot really be explained, although one
ca~oint to
this and that that goes on in it.
It is not even that the various parts that make it up
It is that we are confronted with
are so many or strange.
the nature of music.
how?
It conveys something - but what, and
Or perhaps I should hy%,enate that and say
"what-and-how"?
Perhaps the
11
What 11 and the
11
How 11 are
identical.
My next example is much more complicated and quite
frankly so.
I can only pick out a few elements of it.
It is the opening chorus of the St. Matthew Passion.
I
hope the words, which you have got, ·will be of some help.
I would ask you to look at them now, rather carefully, so that
later, when you listen to the music, you need at most to glance
at them.
First, though, let me say this:
forces in this piece :
Bach employs considerable
two entire and separate orchestras,,
two choirs of four parts each, plus an extra choir of
sopranos, called Ripieno.
The two orchestras start, slowly,
After a while the first choir comes in and sings
sadly.
words that maan something like
lament 11
-
11
Come ye daughters, help me
with some repetition, but I have by no means
indicated all repetitions in the text you have in front of
you;
I
~'
hovirever, tried to indicate the difference between
the passages where four to eight voices polyphonically have
�- 11 -
their words at different times (and often have many notes to
a syllable) between such passages on the one hand, and the
passages where they are all together, on the other hand.
have underlined the latter.
underline~)
:
11
Sehet 11
-
11
Choir I goes on (altogether,
Behold 11
-
never mind the stresses fall1img
differently in English - follow the German (and to say
11
11
see" or
look" would not help either, or not much, because it only has
one syllable;
like
11 him 11 ,
and one cannot add a monosyllabic object,
because the exchange between the two choirs that
follows keeps changing que's tions.
"Behold ii, says Choir I,
11
So let us just take
Whom? n asks Choir II,
says Choir I, and goes on : "See him 11 •
11
I
Like a lrunb 11 , is the answer;
11
11
11
behold 11 . )
the bridegroom",
How 11 , asks Choir II
and as though this word "Lamb 11
had triggered something, the Ripieno choir enters, slowly,
deliberately, sounding almost unconcerned, heartless, inexorable,
with a choral tune no Lamm Gottes unschuldig 11 (0 guiltless laJUb
of God).
I have sometimes tried to cheat a bit to get the exact
English word underneath the corresponding German word, but
mostly I have simply used the English word order and I run fairly
sure you will see which Germa...n words mea...n what.
of course, what \vord is wedded to -vvhich note.
It does matter,
That is why it
seems to me best to perform a piece in the language in ·which it
'Nas composed.
One can always supply a translation for the
listener to refer to and must hope that he won't concentrate on
the trac"lslation instead of on the music.)
The slov-r can tus f irmus, that is the chorale melody sung by
the Ripieno choir, goes on (IN CAPITAL LETTERS) 11 am Stamm des·
or slawrh tered
Kreuzes geschlachtet 11 that is 11 butchered/on'-'the tree of the cross 11
�- 12 - while the two other choirs carry on with the lament and the
pointings and th0 questions and answers about the bridegroom,
(The . can tus f irmus is given in capital letters
the lamb.
thr our;i;hou t. )
Comes a s11ort orchestral interlude.
resume their exchange.
Be.hold - what? - behold the patience;
and the cantus firmus takes up
.
'
d espiseQ l1 •
Then the two choirs
11 always
four1d patient, hovvever
Then another short orchestral interlude, still in
J
the old rhytbrn, with the insistent
in the basses and grou:;Js of eighths, tied in different ways,
above - sometimes a dotted quarter, namely three eie;hths, tied
to the fi :st of
Nt
l~/
..
/~
.t~ ~
(
/
next gJ:ouIJ of
,,l .
·Tl
,, '
J ·"' /
~l
,l
l
ltt
9-
t~ll3
t
j J ,)
'
/
t<f'\
/
}
)
,i'
r._7
eight11s, tht1s
..i
'l:r
r'
7
~
>
...
J'
I
rT1
.-
...
:!_. I
}! 1 J. ~
;
..\
j
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tl1~ece
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-)
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.\...
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;..
,r,•
cJJ.
()...{.,· .,._.., ;)
'-"'l
v-
(;}vi?_.
,(
~
.f\
~ck ~;A,_.-e~}
f
But suddenly the pattern ch£'Lrise s.
'-"
The obstinate bass continues,
but above it there are now g;rou _ of three staccato eighths.
_:;s
And the Y1o:eds?
our guilt.
11
Look - at what, R_t vihat.,, 2t what? - look at
Surely it is no accident that this Protestant
11
Cantor, vrhen it comes to the confes:=;ion of guilt, emplo:rs the
musical equivalef\t of the Catholic triple striking of the breast.
Thou bo::r.ne 11 (it is
all rather 1~e:miniscent of th,3 Latin ·1:0::..•c.~; of t:i::; U'.::iJ·s
qul
'-_ •
toll''" ""'"CC".\+-..,
J.. "'' l"'
c .. v
c;
0.
-~11ndJ" • i1)
l<l ·'- ~
-
tteJ.~,e
•
1••1,1
e
11 .Agnus
sh_ould hqve to des_c,1 ai:r 0
-
Then the two choirs point to Christ carrying his own cross to
Dei
•
�- 13 his execution and the Ripieno choir ends by calling on Jesus
to have mercy - just as the corrt8ponding part of the Mass
concludes
~1 miserere
The two choirs once more point
nob is 11 •
to the Bridegroom, the Lamb, then comes the orchestral 2ostlude.
This introductory chorus is a long number and straightaway
sets the tone for a great and long work.
As soon as its starts
·we knmv we are in for 4 and a half hours of it., or should be.
That, too., is an aspect of the role of time in music.
time Stravinsky was talking about.
music.
To
~
The
One has to give time to
One cannot have it an.d something alse at the same time.
act as though one
.
~
is self-deception and has serious,
diabolical consequences.
So this great work starts with a grand and long number,
which by the clock usually taKts 10 or 11 minutes (the way
Schvrni tzer advocates and Scherchen actually takes is s ome.v1hat
quicker.
We m:>e now about to hear a
11
standard 11 version-} -
but, whatever the basic speed, the number itself contains two
distinct orders of time - or an image of time and eternity.
The two orchestras and choirs operate in one, the ripieno choir
clearly in another.
Its basic unit per syllable is a dotted
quarter or three basic units of an eighth( that the others
work in.
The difference, the distinctness, is further empha-
sised by the distrihution of the phrases of the cantus firmus
over what goes on belov1 and by the fact that it is a major tune
and much of what the others utter is in minor or where it is
not imt'~nor is harmonically slanted in a way to contrast vrith thE
clearly ma:;.,.,ked melody of the
Ex. 9 (Kormnt ih...r T8chter)
~·
(PAUSE.
Then: )
C&'l.
tus firnrus.
(Ex. 9·}
�- 14 -
You
lr.now~the
quotation from Stravinsky which I
at the beginning was incomplete.
I
~ave
you
ga'4e it in the form in
which it is given in a book of the "expressionist" school of
thought that has appeared relatively recently:
nhor, by Donald Ferguson.
Sally, a straw man.
Music as Meta-
Ferguson clearly needed an Aunt
So he made half a Stravinsky into his
stre:w man and quoted:
11
I consider that music is, by its very nature, essentially
powerless to express anything at all, whether a feeling,
an attitude of mind, a psychological mood, a phenomenon
of nature, etc.
Expression has never been an inherent
property of music.
That is by no mea.-ris the purpose of
its existence, •• ~xpression is) an aspect which, unconsciously or by force O.Lfiabi t, we have come to confuse with its
essential being ••• Music is given us with the sole purpose
of establishing an order in things, including, and particularly, the coordination between man and time,,,Its
indispen$able requirement is construction:-- Construction
once completed, this order has been attained, and there
is nothing more to be said, 11
That is the Ferguson quotation from strawman Stravinsky,
Now,
let me give you the real Stravinsky:
11 ••• For I consider that music is, b:T its very nature,
essentially powerless· to express anything at all, whether
a feeling, an attitude of mind, a psychological mood, a
phenomenon of nature, etc •••. Expression has never been
an inherent property of music,
That is by no means the
purpose of its existence.
If' as is nearl a~ ~'
music a-:Jnears to express some hin.iz
is is oniv an~illusioil
no ·a real t •
is s_mp -~nal a ri'biT£e-.,...v.....,·rn.-.i-;-,~--- and inve erate
- acit
greement, we~
t'11rU:St un~~ a conve~- in ·d}lort, an
~ich, unconsciousl~force of habit, we have
come to confUse with its essential being.
Music is the sole domain in which man real.,.,. s the pres en'
the inroer ec vi:m of is - "GU· , ma·1 is doomed t su m -1>0yhe p.assag~1e - to i s cav :ories of
s~w~~ p a le
o ive su sta.i'1ce, and therefore
-~ ~i'Z.gorv oj_
ne o:'ip:-71.>-;-:o~~-i-v:-.-----~1-ienomeno of music is given to us with the sole
purpose of es ab_ishing an order in things, including, and
particularly, the coordination between man and time.
To
re put into practice, its indispen$able and single requirement
is construction.
Construction once completed, this order
has been attained, and there is nothing more to be said.
It·
...._ would be fu til.e to look for, or expect anything else from ....
· it.
It is precisely this construction, this achieved order
�- 15 -
which produces in us a UTulUe emotion having nothing_
~~~+-~
in uuHm1on vn.l,n our or d.
.inarv_s_e.J.~.ons
ancl our resnonses
~iliLI~p.i1-asiiDD.s nf (;LS j J ¥-i.u_a__ t-efte- "'H~o-t-oe tter define the sensation
c D.y music thf:Jll by
saying that it is~~'cca with that evoked by the
interplay of ~_1rtJitectural forms.
Goethe thoroughly
underC'
ct that when he called architecture petrified
~------'-'
_.
~-)
What interests me most in the part of Stravinsky suppressed
by Ferguson G'is the last bit about it being "precisely this
construction, this achieved order, ·which produces in us a
unique emotion.
11
The s&'lle Stravinsky, incidentall,, said
some time later, ·when asked about religion and the 1Nri ting of
relie;ious music (and as you know he writes it) : that it
cannot be done without faith.
And he did not, I think, just
say that to bamboozle the burghers.
11 A
unique emotiono ••
We obviously do not all feel it
11
who are properly moved by it.
s~me
harmful to pretend
But there is something in cornraon between those
that we do.
to the
~nd
It is useless
when we listen to music ..
The same thing in them responds
thing in the nTQsic.
One can also be improperly
moved,, by extra-musical associations.
The improper movement
can be ezploi ted and manipulated by Movie and Muzak
other Merchants.
.And I
8Jn
make1~s
and
convinced that unless v;e drive
them out where theJ have no legitimate business, and keep them
at bay, Hi-Fi, transistors, and all, we will be driven out of
our minds.
It is precisely because it is the universal
tongue that music must not be ubiquitous.
Let us, however, return to proper motion or emotion mid
to our last
I~x.runple.
V!e ~~ moved - bod:Lly and in ou:r souls.
'i'I'nat is it that does that?
the v-railing on
11 Come
In this instance it was not just
ye daughters .... 11
,_,
It is the ·way that
musical phrase has been used in a musical structure, not only
�.
- 16 having the "llih'1loved 11 cantus firmus superimposed on it, but also
-being switched about, mo-ved and used here and there, either as
the stressed or as the unstressed part of the larger unit, and
used with different words.
All our exarnple s to-day were of music with words - though
I think the most exciting part of the Haydn is the purely
orchestral part - still 1 it comes in a context of sung words.
You may have noticed that I omitted opera.
This was not done
to rig the argument in any way ( it doesn 1 t actually - opera
cuts both ways ) but in order to keep the field of discussion
manageable.
On the other hand I do want to end with ·a_ few words a~out
instrumental music.
.. It moves too - even_, and especially,
when it is far removed from any association with words •
. You 1mov1 .tl1a_t I __could give exs.mples of instrumental music that
seems to express emotion.
Much of Mozart rs instrumental music
is dovmright operatic, reminds one of dr&'llatic situations and
characters singing.
But for my last e:cample I have chosen
something to whic:h no emotional label will stick.
And yet
~t
moves.
So let Mozart have the last 1,wrd.
(Ex. 10, Minuet from
Serenade in·
C-minor)
�
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The universal tongue
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Typescript of a lecture delivered in 1963 by Beate Ruhm von Oppen as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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lec Ruhm von Oppen 1963
FaFi-Ruhm von OppenB024
Friday night lecture
Tutors
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Text
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St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe
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Shakespeare : (the phoenix and the turtle)
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Transcript of a lecture given in the fall of 1964 by Charles Bell.
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Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616.
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24000021
Friday night lecture
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THE STUDENT'S PROBLEM
LECTURE ON THE LIBERAL ARTS
Eva Brann
Collegian Supplement,
~tober
1967
�St. John's College is a small liberal arts school, co-educational
and non-sectarian, with campuses in Annapolis, Maryland and
Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Editors. . . . . • . • . . . . . . . • . . . . .George and Meredith Anthony
Associate Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . • • • . • • .Richard Sohmer
Assistant Editors. . . • . . • . . . • . . . . . . . . . . . • Steve Forman
Masha Zager
F<1.culty Advisor . . • . . . . • . . . . • . . . • . . . • . . . . . • Eva Brann
Cover Design . • . . . . . . . . . . . . . • . . . •.•.. Gabrielle Bershen
St. John's College
Annapolis, Maryland
�The Student's Problem
Lecture on the Liberal Arts, given at St. John's College in
Annapolis on Friday night, September 22, 1967
Eva Brann, Tutor
Fellow members of the Community of Learning,
There is a sickness, traditionally called melancholy, which
is particularly at home in communities of learning such as ours.
Its visible form can be seen in the engraving by Duerer called
Melencolia Prima. Amidst the signs and symbols of the liberal
-arts, especially geometry, sits heavily a winged woman. Her
eyes are fixed intently on visions of nothing - she is a figure of
"careless desolation" surrounded by unvalued riches. Almost all
the older members of this - and any - community of learning, be
they teachers or students, are well acquainted with her. So will
you be, who are fresh to our enterprise, the later the more devastatingly. However, not only we, but students throughout this
country, over a quarter of whose citizens are now entering schools,
are subject to this malady which has, in fact, in this very decade
reached epidemic proportions. It therefore seems right to take
account of it publicly, the more so since its cause is a peculiar
version of a fundamental human problem which is just now beginning
to cause this nation what will turn out to be, I think, its most
characteristic agony. It is the problem of poverty amidst riches.
I shall try to talk about its intellectual aspect not in those facile
current terms which can do little but give the victims the bleak
satisfaction of having a disease at once choice and popular. I shall
not mention either "identity crises" or "alienation, " nor shall I
talk of "middle class values, " rejected or otherwise, and "trends
in society, "rapidly increasing or the opposite. Instead I shall begin by referring to a book which is a compendium of the traditional
wisdom concerning the nature of human unhappiness, written when
the human soul had not yet become a "field" for experts. In the
beginning of the seventeenth century an English scholar, Robert
Burton, wrote for his own relief and for the comfort of his friends
a book called The Anatomy of Melancholy, in which everyone may
find his particular misery acknowledged as a human condition.
Burton makes a distinction between chronic suffering, a true
disease of spirit, and the occasional type, of which he says simply
that "melancholy in this sense is the character of mortality." I
-3-
�think that by the "character -of mortality" he means the knowledge,
implied in every feeling that has any urgency about it, that the time
of our life is finite. Melancholy, however peculiar and complex it
may be, is essentially the sometimes paralyzing and sometimes
frenzying dread of "missing out, " which comes to those who have
had tantalizing intimations of earthly happiness. It is the stronger
the more remote death is, and so strongest in the young, for in
them every day demands the renunciation of a hundred possible
futures for the choice of one actual life, and the very riches of this
indeterminacy may stymie the energies and induce listlessness and
restless sloth. Consequently the opposite of melancholy is riches
in poverty, a serene ardour of the sort perfectly described in a
: Buddist song of which the translation is as follows (I have, of
course, no idea what the original really says):
Well -roofed and pleasant is my little hut,
And screened from winds:- Rain at thy will, thou god!
My heart is well composed, my heart is free,
- And ardent is my mood. Now rain, god! rain.
· Melancholy is, then, a human sickness attendant ort the in · vestrhertt and expenditure of living time. That this is the case is
shown by the kind of reliefthat that part of the youth of this country
is indulging in which negotiates its future for an instant bliss and
sells its hopes for a high moment, as the slogan goes, "right now."
Their prototype is Dr . Faustus, the melancholy scholar who buys
"experiences" of the devil at the expense of all time to come; there
is,. in fact, a very perceptive novel of student life by John Hersey,
called Too Far to Walk, which exploits this very legend of the
melancholy doctor in modern dress.
This then is the sickness which particularly afflicts students,
and I shall now inquire why this is so. Our freshmen will soon
lea.rn that the English word "school" is derived from the Greek
word ''schole" which means "leisure." A student at school is a
· person of leisure, a human being with an abnormal wealth of time
free from business, left free to confront the acknowledged riches
-of the spirit. And yet he often finds his appetite inept to this food,
so that he who must have come because he wanted the life of study
as a whole, cannot bring himself to study this or that assignment
and spends his time in the frame of mind of which Paul says: "For
what I would that do I not; but what I hate, that do I." Why does
this happen?
-4-
�There are certain reasons for student discontent which I
shall not consider much since they do not seem to me to go to the
heart of the matter. One has to do with the restrictions and con formities demanded by the school as a semi-public institution. A
college is a civil association grounded in the body politic and en tirely dependent on it for its survival. Its members, in joining
this association, have in fact agreed to conform to the laws of the
land. There remains, however, the vexed and vastly exaggerated
question of conforming to its conventions. Here a subtle argument
applies, and a student's appreciation of it is the measure of his
understanding of the nature of a liberal education. For as I shall
try to show later, a proper school harbours within itself such
depths of true dissent and such abysses of true radicality, that an
unobtrusive cloak of ordinary behavior is essential to its internal
and external survival. Those who are considering growing long
beards and sporting bare feet are, though they may not know it,
supported even by classical Western authority, for the last great
pagan, the Emperor Julian, showed in his essay called the "Beardhater" that it is a sign of Christian impiousness to despise beards,
which are, even when thickets of lice, the philosopher's attribute.
And who has read Plato's Symposium and does not know that bare
feet are the very marks of the demon Love himself? But it is precisely because he appreciates the significance of such external
signs that a serious person can afford to avoid them until he is
sure that he knows what he is doing and to whom - to call such
deliberate conformity hypocrisy is extremely simple-minded.
Much restlessness also arises from the fact that students,
who are in these years by the plan of nature at the peak of their
sexual desires, are required by serious schools to observe the
rites of celibacy. In this, more than in any other respect, the
rules of school - life are no mere conventions, for whoever knows
anything about the life of learning will not entertain the frivolous
notion that it ought to be a very natural or satisfied life, but will
understand that it requires a certain tension of soul and body and a
certain reserve of deferred desire. µi the Symposium Aristophanes,
whose business as a comedian it is to pursue the logic of ordinary
and natural human behavior to its absurd end, gives a picture of
constantly fulfilled desire as a frontless, faceless "two-backed
beast" within which the mediating distance through which Eros
needs to move has been closed, with the result that love and its
attendant learning are at an end. And indeed, most of us have felt
a certain loss of ardour in ageneration which feels free to proceed
-5-
�immediately to that end.
Such then are what appear to me false irritants. There is,
of course, also a genuine reason for the universal student disgust,
and this has no cure but revolution - just such a revolution, I be lieve, as took place when the present program was instituted at
this school over a generation ago. * Let me describe, justly, I
hope, what seems to me the position which must be overthrown,
the position of the vast majority of those engaged in the vast busi ness of higher education.
They consider that there are at hand ready made bodies of
information and disciplines which constitute the heritage of human
learning. These must be made available to the student, who may,
however, be expected to choose among them and who is therefore
expected to desire to learn the ones he elects. Moreover, a certain
randomness or freedom is granted in the manner in which the subject is to be absorbed, and some resistance to the mental food is
not only expected but is actually considered healthy. Incentives
such as marks are certainly used, but it is recognized that the best
feeders ingest because they are hungry. The finest of the teachers
under this view of learning are usually those who have themselves
become in turn absorbed in their subject and are contributing.to its
advancement. The institution of learning which corresponds to this
·'view is a vast clearing-house for the private predilections of people
who are, to be sure, usually very much in earnest. This storehouse of specialist knowledge is the university, with its two major
divisions of the sciences and the humanities and its combination
of freedom of choice and formalization of presentation. The activity carried on there is diverse and stimulating, and yet efficiently
organized, as Kant already observed, like a factory, on the
principle of division of labor. It is in the nature of the set-up that
the latest, the most effective and the most highly technical and
theoretically elegant field is found most captivating by bright and
. fresh students, and that the universities should become the breeding grounds of sophisticated theories and techniques.
~
*The program of St. John's College requires every student
to· pursue the elements of the linguistic as well as the mathematical
arts; and to consider seriously certain books belonging to the reflective tradition.
-6-
�Now why is it that this veritable smorgasbord of learning is
more often than not stale and tasteless for its students? It is, I
think, because this view of learning regards everything whichis
not the latest technique as rriere history, somehow fascinating to
those who happen to be curious and fond of sight-seeing, but not
inevitably interesting to all who are human: "For to converse with
those of other centuries is almost the same thing as totravel,"
says Descartes in the Discourse. The effect of engaging in such
historical, or "objective", investigations of other people's affairs
and opinions can be deadly. Let me read you what the most prophetic critic of our contemporary life, Nietzsche, wrote about the
universities of 1873:
. . . The young man is kicked through all the centuries;
boys who know nothing of war, diplomacy, or commerce
are considered fit to be introduced to political history. We
moderns also run through art galleries and hear concerts
in the same way as the youngman runs through history. We
can feel that one thing sounds different from another, and
pronounce on the different "effects." And the power of
gradually losing all feelings of strangeness or astonishment,
and finally being pleased at anything, is called the historical
sense or historical culture. The crowd of influences
streaming on the young soul is so great, the clods of barbarism and violence flung at him so strange and overwhelm ing, that an assumed stupidity is his only refuge. Where
there is a subtler and stronger self-consciousness we find
another emotion, too - disgust. The young man has become
homeless: _ he doubts all ideas, all moralities. He knows
"it was different in every age, and what you are does not
matter. " . . . No, such study of history bewilders and
overwhelms. It is not necessary for youth, as the ancients
show, but even in the highest degree dangerous, as the
moderns show. Consider the student of history, the heir of
ennui that appears even in his boyhood. He has the "me thods" for original work, the "correct ideas" and the airs of
the master at his fingers' ends. A little isolated period of
the past is marked out for sacrifice. He cleverly applies
his method and produces something, or rather, in prouder
phrase, "creates" something. ·He becomes a "servant of
truth" and a ruler in the great domain of history. Ifhe was
what they call ripe as a boy, he is now overripe. You only
need shake him and wisdom will rattle down into your lap;
-7-
�but the wisdom is rotten, and every apple has its worm. . .
Thus Nietzsche.
But I shall not linger on this genuine cause of student des pair either, since you at St. John's College are not, I think, confronted with it. If the sin of the universities may be defined as the
perversion of tradition into history and of the liberal arts into
special techniques, then the deeply conservative revolution by which
the program of this college was instituted may be described as a
return to the tradition of learning and the liberal arts. But as ,the
freshman will learn all too soon, this campus too is the scene of
much confusion of the spirit resulting in dreary apathy or danger ous wildness. Whatever the particular circumstances of those afflicted, in some central way our program of study is responsible.
It too occasionally induces melancholy, and that in some of the
most serious students, who sometimes feel a stultifying lack of fit
between their human necessities and the store of learning provided,
to whom the wisdom of the ages sometimes appears as a grotesque
formalization of their vital problems, for whom the course of
study sometimes runs aslant of, or counter to, the course of their
lives. So I shall address myself now to this particular problem
which I recognize as the central legitimate difficulty of the life of
learning: Why are we sometimes unable to accept the riches we
have inherited? I shall do this by investigating what the liberal
arts are and, in connection with this, what is meant by our tradition of learning.
For us it is not so important to know that there are traditionally seven liberal arts as to understand why these are divided
into two groups, the trivium of grammar, rhetoric and logic and
the quadrivium of arithmetic, geometry, music and astronomy.
This division mirrors the double nature of learning, namely that
it is always done through words on the one hand, and that these are
always concerned with learnable objects on the other. The trivium,
the arts of the word, deals with those skills by which thought, that
which is internal to human beings, is brought out, expressed and
made communal, while the quadrivium, the arts, one might say,
of the world, deals with those skills which help us to acquire as
knowledge what is in the world, apart from and outside of our
speech. The first group was sometimes called "exoteric, "suitable
for the uninitiated, since words are that of which all human beings
-8-
�have sufficient natural know ledge to be ready for artful instruction.
Thus grammar, the art of using words correctly is, as Cassiodorus, the sixth century author of a book fundamental for the whole
subsequent liberal arts tradition, says, the principle, source and
foundation of the arts. The second group was, correspondingly,
called "acroamatic," meaning the arts "to be heard," namely by
fewer and more advanced students. This distinction goes back to
Plato's Republic, in which all citizens receive some sort of education in poetry, while only certain chosen C'>nes study precisely those
arts which were later to be known as the quadrivium - arithmetic,
geometry, astronomy, and music, dealing in turn with numbers,
bodies, moving bodies and audible moving bodies, understood as
the intelligible elements which constitute the natural world. I
mention this ancient and medieval distinction because, with acertain shift of meaning and blurring of lines, it still dominates the
schools. The devotees, as we all know, of the literary fields often
think of mathematicians and scientists as practicing black arts
alien to humanity, while the latter think of the former quite simply
as occupied with "trivial" matters.
Now that I have said briefly what liberal arts traditionally
exist, let us take a look at their name itself. The liberal arts are
the "free" or "freeing arts." But isn't the phrase which names
them a contradiction in terms? Listen how John of Salisbury, a
medieval defender of the trivium, defines "art" in his work called
Metalogicon: "Art is a reasonable procedure which, using the
shortcuts proper to it, brings about a facility for achieving the
naturally possible. For in this procedure reason does not promise
to undertake or effect the impossible, but having in view those
things which can be done, it opposes, as it were, to the wasteful
circuitous road of nature a short cut, and brings into being, if I
may put it this way, a faculty for mastering the difficult. For this
reason the Greeks speak of art as 'method,' a 'short way, ' which
avoidi? the extra expenditure of nature and makes straight its winding circuit, so that that which is to be done can be done more di rectly and easily." And Thomas Aquinas says: "Art, then, is a
method, a set course, whose pursuit has become a habit, a second
nature, and whose aim is to do something and to do it efficiently. "
(It goes, of course, without saying that the activities of people
called "artists" at present can be called arts only insofar as these
people are fully in command of their work. But we are, in any
case, not now concerned with the so-called productive or with the
mechanical arts, but with the arts of learning.)
-9-
�Now to be able to do things in this way means to be a train ed expert. The notion of efficient theoretical know-how, acquired
by habit-forming training, by the internalizing of precepts, which
dominates the modern instructional business, derives, therefore,
strange to say, from the traditional liberal arts themselves. The
arts are understood as curriculum subjects, scheduled and insti tutionalized learning programs, or as John of Salisbury himself
calls them: "compendia," sets of precepts governing a range of
particulars. Since the body of such precepts needs to be developed
and perfected by the concerted and continued efforts of the masters
of the arts, arts-learning is always "traditional" in the two senses
of the Latin word "tradere," namely of "handing on" and of "betraying" a heritage. For the accumulation of know-how is on the one
hand passed down, mostly in books, from generation to generation,
and regarded as a valuable inheritance, but on the other hand, insofar as improvements and advancements in learning are made,
each generation is very willing to forget and deny the perch from
which it took off - and obviously, the steeper the flight, the more
vehement the denial. To give an example: for almost two millenia
the great tool of learning which tops off the triviwn, logic, had had
its most authoritative statement in a body of treatises by Aristotle
called traditionally the Organon or "Instrument." At the beginning
of the seventeenth century Francis Bacon published, as part of a
huge plan for the re-organization of human knowledge, a work
significantly and boldly called the "New Organon," in which he
writes: "For after the sciences had been cultivated and handled
diligently, there has risen up some man of bold disposition (he
means Aristotle), and famous for methods and short ways, which
people like, who has in appearance reduced them to an art, while
he has, in fact only spoiled all that the others had done." And that
from a man a good quarter of whose vocabulary is, I would think,
Aristotelian! The point, however, which I mean to make is that
the arts-tradition, characterized by the conception of art as
method, is as much behind the iconoclast as behind the scholastic.
Let us take a very brief and inadequate look at the history
and meaning of this word, "method. " The Greek word m~thodos
means simply "a way to follow" or a "pursuit." In the dialogue
The Republic, Socrates uses the word in just this way. He speaks
of the "pursuit" of mathematical studies which will end in a unified
view of all of these, and then goes on to speak of the "way followed
by dialectic, which alone travels in such a way that it gets rid of
hypotheses and comes to the source itself . . . . " If someone
-10-
�were to translate "the way followed by dialectic" by the words "the
dialectic method" he would be very much misrepresenting Plato's
text, for the way of dialectic, the way of questions and answers
about the nature of things, is, as I shall try to show, fundamentally different from, if not diametrically opposed to, the artful, abbreviated, problem-solving procedure which is signified by the
word for us. Gradually, largely under the influence of medical
writers, who particularly appropriate the word and mean by it a
rationalized technique of treatment clearly communicable to an
apprentice physician, method comes to be a key word with very
nearly its present meaning. An obvious and essential part of this
meaning is that such a technique must be teachable, that is, - there
must be handy, rationally organized compendia of precepts such as
are associated with a program of studies; an art must have "elements," first beginnings through which a student is properly introduced to it. In fact, in time "method" sometimes comes to
mean simply "curricular subject, " any organized public presenta ti on. By the sixteenth century interest in "method" as the pedagogi cal side of arts learning had become rampantly exaggerated. An
outraged scholar (I'urnebe) of the period says: "Method - no word
is more popular in our lectures these days, none more often heard
none give a more delightful ring than that term. . . . " And
Ramus, the prolific rhetorician whom he is attacking and who is the
great proponent of method at this time, says: "But method is used
not only in the matter of arts and curricular subjects but in every
matter which we wish to teach easily and clearly." Our modern
"textbooks" are the consequences of this trend.
In the next century the method of method undergoes one of
those great betrayals of which I have spoken. Having been so far
largely in the service of humanist training, particularly rhetoric
and logic, or, in terms of the liberal arts, in the service of the
trivium, it is freshly appropriated now for the inquiry of nature,
it becomes "scientific," always with the intimation that no previous
method was a true method. The work most characteristic of this
development and most influential in the new understanding of the
meaning of science (although by no means in the actual pursuit of
it) is Descartes introduction to three physico-mathematical
treatises setting out his own discoveries in optics, analytical
geometry and metc:;orology, called significantly a Oiscourse on the
Method of Rightly Conducting the Reason and Seeking for Truth in
the Sciences. It proposes essentially the introduction of quantita-
-11-
�tive, that is, mathematical, methods into the speculative or liberal
arts. Descartes says: "Most of all I was delighted with mathematics because of the certainty of its demonstrations and the evidence
of its reasoriing, but I did not yet understand its true use, and believing that it was of service only in the mechanical arts, I was
astonished that, seeing how firm and solid was its basis, no loftier
edifice has been reared thereupon." And later on: "I have never
made much of those things which proceed from my own mind, and
so long as I culled no other fruits from the method which I use,
beyond . that of satisfying myself respecting certain difficulties
which pertain to the speculative sciences . . . , I never believed
myself obliged to write anything about it, but so soon as I had ac quired some general notions concerning physics I believed that I
could not keep them concealed . . .. For they caused me to see that
it is possible to attain knowledge which is very useful in life and
that, instead bf that speculative philosophy which is taught in the
Schools, we may find a practical philosophy by means of which,
knowing the force and action of fire, water, air, the stars, heavens
and all other bodies that environ us as distinctly as we know the'
different crafts of our artisans, we can in the same way employ
them in all those uses to which they are adopted, and thus render
ourselves the masters and possessors of nature. " (Incidentally,
the phrase "practical philosophy" contains that very self-contradiction I am on the way to pointing out - for what in the world might
an "applied" love of wisdom be? - whose end-result is that thorough
debasement of philosophy whieh Hegel, with vicious humour, il lustrates in his Encyclopaedia by a new book title he found announced
in an English newspaper, namely "The Art of Preserving Hair on
Philosophical Principles.") Speaking very broadly, then, ever
since Descartes to be "scientific" means to introduce the Cartesian
method or to approach matters of any sort as a natural scientist.
As one little sample of the scope and pervasiveness of the method,
I might quote from just such an application, Emile Durkheim's
fundamental essay on sociology, called "The Rules of Sociological
Method." In this book he says: "that what the method demands is
that the sociologist put himself in the same state. of mind as the
physicist, chemist, or physiologist. "
I have introduced this insufficient little disquisition on
method to complete the description of the arts side of the liberal
arts. Arts are rules for the direction of the mind, binding precepts. Medieval writers, who are still much concerned with the
nature of the curricular arts, emphasize this by their understand-12-
�ing of the etymology of the Latin word "artes" itself. The same
Cassiodorus I mentioned before, as well as Isidore of Seville,
claims that arts are so called because, in Latin, "artant arte"
(translated: "they bind strictly"). Thus the arts appear to be the
opposite of free or freeing. Again Cassiodorus - the work, inci dentally; in which he introduces the pagan liberal arts into Christendom is called the Institutes of Divine and Worldly Arts - recognizes this problem by rather shamelessly claiming that "liberal"
comes from "liber, "book, thus turning the free arts into the bookish arts, a characterization which does, of course, in view of the
traditional nature of the arts, have some appropriateness. John of
Salisbury, again, catches another aspect in understanding "liberal"
as pertaining to "liberi, " children, so that the arts are here interpreted as the education of children, which also has some truth
in it. A last medieval writer, Hugo
St. Victor, in his very acute
discussion of the liberal arts called the Didascalicon, the "Teacher's Manual, " takes full account of the fact that the arts are con straining and that they are, perforce, taught by masters to. the
immature: "They are indeed the best instruments and rudiments
for preparing the way for the soul of a full knowledge of philosophi cal truth. This is why they are called the three-way (the trivium)
and the fourway (the quadrivium) . . . . Of Pythagoras too it is
said that he employed in his studies · a special custom." (I should
remark here that the introduction of the quadrivium is traditionally attributed to Pythagoras, a Greek "mathematician" of the sixth
century B. C., , the same one who is said to have introduced the
word philosophia, literally the "love of, or friendship, for wisdom").
"For seven years," Hugo continues, "obviously corresponding to
the seven liberal arts, none of his students might dare to demand
of him a reason for what he said, but the words of the master had
to be taken on faith until the student hadheard everything and could
thus find the reason for himself." With this story Hugo acknowledges that the very arts intended to make the independent search
for knowledge possible must come to the student as to a child, in
a constraining and authoritative way. We all know that this aspect
of the teaching of the arts is usually predominant.
At the beginning of the eighteenth century appeared a work
which crystalizes the development which I am sketching, and which
0
oreshadows, in an almost uncanny way, the problem of our own
:ducational situation, Giambatista Vico's expanded lecture On the
Study Plan of Our Time.
Vico understands what he calls "the
genius of his time, " his modernity, in terms of the menacing
-13-
�dominance of the scientific method; the whole work is a reaction of
somewhat concealed but vehement opposition to Bacon and Des cartes. He describes the method of the latter, which he calls the
"new critical philosophy," as intending to be "the common instrument of all our arts and sciences," which "supplies us with something fundamentally true of which we can be certain even when as sailed by doubt." There are also particular instruments such as
the telescope, the microscope, the universities, the printing press,
which assist in the discovery and mastery of nature and in the wide
dispersion of that knowledge. But of all these the most powerful
instrument is "analysis," that is, algebra, which represents the
method in all its characteristic aspects, in its brevity, ease,
communicability, power. Vico, although he acknowledges these
virtues, is at heart disturbed by the predominance of training in
these swift and certain manipulations in the study programs of
young men. He believes that "the greatest drawback of our educational plan is that we pay an excessive amount of attention to the
natural sciences and not enough to matters of human conduct."
Vico, who delivered this lecture in his official capacity as Professor of Rhetoric at the University of Naples, wants to lead the
university back to an emphasis on the uncertain, understood as the
probable, which, he conceives, was taught in traditional logic. He
wants the imagination again to be trained by poetry, the common
sense by the wisdom of the ancients and the judgement by the opinions of contemporary men. In short, he wants the universities to
give more weight to what we call the humanities, which are for
him comprised in rhetoric. He is initiating, under the guise of the
then current topic of the quarrel between the ancients and the
moderns, the deeply shallow division of university learning into
the "two cultures" of humanism and science with which we are
more than ever afflicted. Now note what lies at the root ofthis
quarrel. It is the difference between method and non-method. Let
him who is not to be a physicist or mechanic, Vico says, "not
spend much time as a boy or afterwards in those studies which are
handed on by method." The founders of such studies are compared
to tyrants who scatter the inhabitants of a eity to prevent opposition, who hobble individual judgment with rules, and gravest of all,
who know nothing of free speech. The distinction between studies
is based only secondarily on the nature of the objects involved, and
primarily on the kind of approach used. But this distinction leads
to an almost paradoxical classification. The natural sciences
alone are artful, in the sense _ being methodical, while all that
of
concerns not the experts but humanity in common is artless, that
-14-
�is, free, but only in the sense of having no strict procedure, and
being dependent on the taste and talent of each individual. Vico
himself does not fail to issue a demand for the unification of the
study plan of universities, but, I submit, his own understanding of
the di vision of studies makes this unification permanently im possible, as the present state of universities, 250 years after
Vico's lecture, shows. For so long as the sciences are regarded
as the rigorously reasoned but inhuman business of a group specially habituated to a certain theoretical procedure, while a vast con glomeration of interests called the humanities are in the hands of
professors who do not take quite so great a professional pride in
their ability to think rigorously as in the meticulousness of their
sensibility, clearly no power on earth, not even that benevolent
coercion, an interdisciplinary credit requirement, can persuade
very many students to study seriously in both divisions. For
everyone will plead that his preferences are really the expression
of his aptitudes and that he has, as the case may be, that famous
"block" against mathematics or against languages. And so the
liberal arts disappear, torn apart into the humanly rudderless artfulness of scientific method and the willful freedom of organized
idiosyncracy. As I have tried to show, this division, driven to
pernicious extremes in the universities, is in fact already inherent
in the very notion of the liberal arts and in any liberal arts program, and our problem raises the possibility that the very neces sity of the paradox points to some understanding which, instead oi
perpetuating the division, will heal it by showing it to be an indis pensable and yet a merely intermediary phase of a truly humar
education. To point out this possibility will, among other things,
mean giving aid and comfort to that serious student whose diffi culties with our program are precisely that it presents himat fixed
and perhaps privately inappropriate times with prepared problems
and procedures, which may all seem to shunt aside rather than
meet his own concerns and doubts. In particular, there are those
well-known scandals, the so-called classics of tradition, the foremost food of solid schools, which, although presented as containing
what human wisdom there is, seem to insist on speaking in terms
infuriatingly remote and "academic." And yet every student acknowledges with his act of matriculation that he is in need of an
organized community of learning where there will perforce be a
set sequence of studies such as can take little account of the con tingencies of the single human soul, and that whatever skills and
arts there are can hardly be transmitted otherwise than in the
terms of those who perfected them, so that in the beginning, at
-15-
�least, their rules and precepts and requirements must be submitted to. What troubles him, and rightly, is how he himself fares in
this beneficent assault, how the tyranny exercised by the arts can
ever succeed in setting him free from confusion and impotence.
The problem can now be formulated m this way: how can the arts
be the freeing arts?
Let me put that same problem one last time in te rms of a
simple and pointed formula. Human inquiry proceeds either .£y
setting problems or by asking questions. I would by no means
claim that the distinction between them which I am about to offer
is simply a general fact of language usage; in fact, the Cartesian
work which formulates the "rules for the direction of the mind"
toward problems specifically terms these "questiones." But it is
sufficiently pervasive at present for my purpose. Vico had, very
accurately, seen the essence of Descartes' new method in an instrument which he regarded as a great danger to the human spirit,
in "analysis" or algebra. Now Descartes himself received this
instrument from a great but insufficiently acknowledged predeces sor, Franciscus Vieta by name. His fundamental essay, which
has the significant name "Introduction to the Analytical Art, " ends
with the following stupendous claim:
"Finally, the analytical art
appropriates to itself by right the proud problem of problems,
which is: TO SOLVE EVERY PROBLEM." We are still or rather,
more than ever, dominated by Vieta's immense ambition. We see
everywhere and in everything problems which we expect to solve
by the application of some general method - that is why we submit
to the tyranny of a training. We speak of the "problem of freedom" or the "problem of God." Our griefs a::re called "personal
problems, " and if they are expressed in a form annoying to others,
"personality problems;" our aches and pains are "health problems," our vices "drinking problems" and the like; our public
statements, especially lectures, frequently recur to "the problem
under examination. "
What is a problem? Again it will be useful to go back to the
original meaning of the word in Greek. A problema is simply
"something thrown out before" us, anything from an outwork, that
is, a defensive structure thrown out before a military camp, to a
task set before someone to be done. The word was also used with
a special meaning in geometry, where it signified that a construe tion was to be furnished rather than a theorem demonstrated. For
instance, the last book of Euclid's Elements culminates in a series
-16-
�of problems, the constructing of the five regular solids; and the
propositions read, in abbreviated form: "to construct a pyramid",
"to construct an octahedron, " a cube, an icosahedron, a dodecahedron. An ancient commentator observes that in some sense all
problems are theorems, for "we regard the generation that takes
place iu them as referring not to actual making but to' knowledge, "
and Euclid presents his problems in this theoretical way. But
there is a procedure which is special to problems as distinct from
theorems and which the Greeks called "analysis;" here is the
source of this important method, which consists essentially in
imagining the construction as having already been done, and then
analyzing it, that is, breaking it up, to discover how it could have
been do.n e. The elements which, as the technical phrase goes,
wUl "do the problem" are then put back together or "synthesized."
Furthermore, Aristotle, using the word "problem" in a logical
context, distinguishes it, in his Topics, from the straight-forward
interrogative proposition by the manner of the response expected;
the problematic form constrains the answer to be an affirmative
or a negative, as, for example in the question: "Is it, or is it not
the case that animal is the genus of man", while the propositional
form simply asks: "Is animal the genus of man?"
We see that there are three related aspects to a problem.
It is first of all a challenge, a publicly enunciated task requiring a
solution in its own terms; secondly, its solution usually has the
nature of a construction which may well be a th·e oretical construct;
and finally and fundamentally, a problem is characteristically that
which requires a solution, that is to say it requires its own aboli tion; a solv;ed problem is no longer a problem, and problems once
solved are very legitimately forgotten. Take as an example the
famous problem of squaring the circle, attacked in the past with
veritably fanatical persistence. When in 1882 this problem was
solved, or rather resolved, by being proved to be insoluble, the
many clever efforts made in its behalf all, at a stroke, lost their
interest except for antiquarians or slightly unhinged characters,
like Public Prosecutor Paravant in Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain,
who, laying out a piece of string on the circumference of a circle,
attempts to catch the problem napping, as it were, by suddenly
pouncing on the string and stretching ,it into the shape of a square.
This self-destroying nature of a problem is acknowledged by Bacon
and Vico and Kant, who all use for their new method, the method
which turns every question into a soluble problem, the metaphor
of Ariadne's clue, the thread which lead Theseus out of the laby-17-·
�rinth to safety after he had killed the monster at the center.
Problems have a fourth aspect, which is the one most relevant in my present context. In the Republic Socrates makes a
special point of introducing problems into the quadrivium. He says:
"Then in astronomy, as in geometry, we should employ problems
and let the heavens alone . . . . " We have some evidence of what
he meant by "employing problems" and "letting the heavens alone,"
since Plato is said to have set for his students the problem of
rationalizing the irregularity of the visible heavenly motions by
going beyond them to form mathematical hypotheses. The word
"hypothesis" as used here designates the solution of the special
kind of problem which calls for a mathematical fiction such as shall,
without itself laying any claim to being true, provide a rational
underpinning for the errant appearances of nature. What hypotheses are produced is never quite so interesting as that they
should be produceable. From this point of view Socrates' call for
the use of problems by learners, that is, the demand that they
should construct hypotheses, is a demand that they should learn by
exercising their skills on questions the answers to which are fundamentally indifferent. We are all very familiar with a rather low
example of this teaching device: the practice problem. For instance, an analytic geometry textbook may present a student with
the problem (I choose one of a multitude): "Show analytically that
the latus rectum of a parabola is of length 4a. " This is the very
model of a problem, showing explicitly what every problem at least
implies. To begin with, the author and i:he student are both aware
t,hat the problem is not waiting for the latter to be solved - his
solution is in itself of no interest. Furthermore he is to "show
analytically" what is required, and he understands immediately that
this means "show by constructing an equation, " "show algebraically. "
Just as the arts have in them the seeds of the scientific method, so
the very notion of problem has in it an invitation to analysis or
algebra; you will remember that analysis was originally a geometric procedure in which a construction is regarded as accomplish ed from the very beginning and then analyzed. But this is precisely what the fundamental algebraic form, the "formula" or equation,
does for general numbers, for when I write 3x=l2, I am putting
down a mathematical sentence which requires no question mark,
much as if I already knew the answer, and all I need to do to make
that answer explicit is to analyze out the unknown number by re organizing the equation. Now I can simply read off: x= 12 == 4.
3
-18-
�The solution, four, does away with and abolishes the problem, for
when I substitute it in place of x, the equation becomes an identity,
a useless tautology. But most significantly, the unknown is fourid
wholly in terms of the original problem so that the solution reaches
in no way beyond it. Now, this procedure, although most nakedly
apparent in mathematics, may be used in any art, and, as some
people think, even in those human enterprises which go beyond the
arts, if only their terms have been compacted into recognized
obstacles, outworks inviting attack, that is problems. This is in
fact our predominant way.
Let me now say what a problem is in terms of all that has
gone before. A problem is a sham question, a counterfeit question.
For a genuine question is the desire for an answer, and it does not
dissolve when an answer is gained anymore than love necessarily
disappears because its object is won. A genuine question does not
demand an answer in its own terms or on its own level, but seeks
its desire wherever it may hope to find it, remaining open to any
intimation its object might give. Nor will it rest satisfied by a
construct or a fiction fabricated only to set it at rest, for it wants
only what is in itself worth having. Problems are ultimately exercises, mere means, but questions are the serious and final hu man business. Let me try to formulate this once more.
Is there something which human beings have for themselves,
which is so very much our own that if we found a creat:Ure that
possessed that same ability we would count it as human, no matter
what its shape? Or, to put it in the opposite way, a very contemporary way: is there not something that we can be certain the
most complex computer can never do? There is such a thing. The
most sophisticated machine can never ask a question. For it can
never feel the desire to know, which is the heart of a question.
This desire, the desire in a true question, is not for apre-conceived x, hidden but present and entangled with all the terms at hand,
but for something beyond. If, for instance, I seriously ask "what
human learning might be?" I do not want my question transformed
into the . problem of describing learning "systematically" or of
"measuring it methodically," or of finding its "correlative phenomena, " or even of "constructing an effective theory" of learning,
·· but I want to gr asp what it truly is whenever it takes place. Here
my very question implies that everything that is presented to me
about learning, in observation or in books, is external and insufficient; I want to know for myself, and yet, in the common langu-19-
�age of human beings, what makes the thing what it is. I am not
looking for a pre-conceived x, unknown for the moment but so involved with and defined by the problem itself that I need only to
re-arrange the terms cleverly enough to get a solution, but I want
something beyond these, namely the reason why the thing is what
it is, and I want this reason to be freely communicable. Every
"academic" search, particularly the kind nowadays called "research, " moves strictly within the set terms of its discipline, and
is therefore usually of interest only to the expert specialist, while
many others can live without it: the quest of a question alone is
after that without which we can hardly be said to live our lives, at
least as human beings. So it is the genuineness of the desire in a
question which keeps it open, keeps it from pre-judging the answer
by setting it terms. There are no "traditional, " inherited, ques tions; every question is my own, and yet every such question is
generic to human beings, insofar as they are human.
Here now is the place to say something about "the Tradi tion" and its relevance to the quest for truth and the love of wisdom.
The unreflective opinion of the times has it that human wisdom is
both cumulative and automatically transferrable. We speak all the
time of "our rapidly increasing knowledge," "our recent achievements and advances, " "our breakthrough" in this or that field, as
if each contemporary human magically acquired the results of the
research carried on by thousands of different people. Ridiculously
we talk as if human beings were no longer born as naked little
babies who have to begin the learning process at the beginning and
who have perhaps a quarter century to invest in it. Now the Pla tonic dialogue The Statesman does envision a race of men born old
and, perhaps, wise, who return in the course of their lives to a
first childhood. But this race lives when the world's time is reversed, in the Golden Age when a god sits at the temporal tiller of
the cosmos. In our present, mortally governed, world we have to
begin at the beginning. Undeniably, the disciplines of the quadri vium, more modernly speaking, of mathematics and the sciences,
are "progressive," in the sense of being capable of becoming more
and more sophisticated and potent tools of research and manipula tion. But this does not for a moment mean that the young man
who "inherits" such subjects in their advanced state has inherited
accumulated knowledge. The wisdom of babes may indeed be
powerful, but it is almost always bought at the expense of a re flective understanding of the terms and first elements of the science
in question, for such an understanding becomes almost inaccessible
-20-
�when the beginnings of a disciplinewhich arose progressively, that
i's, as a continuous sequence of problems, are relegated to mere
history. Most possessors of such latter-day knowledge are, I say,
prodigious babies, Peter Pans of wisdom who, incapable of remembering their past, lightly fly hither and thither over their o\vn
fantastic islands, · having lost their mother and the groi.ind under
their feet. . Those, on the other hand, who are willing, as you are,
to go more slowly in order to keep solid ground underfoot, will
soon find themselves involved in the dialogue of tradition. It is a
telling fact that a work by the very founder of modern physics; the
one which introduces ·the New Astronomy tb the public, is itself
written in dialogue form and includes among its participants his
Greek predecessor: in Galileo's Dialogue Concerning the Chief
Two World Systems, Aristotle, the founder of the ancient physics,
is literally present in the shape of a book in the pocket of one of the
interlocutors; this is Galileo's way of acknowledging that thebasis
of the New Sciences is the responsive repudiation of the tradition.
On the other hand, in those studies which are not progressive in their original design but only insofar as they are forcibly
assimilated to the natural sciences, for instance, in psychology,
anthropology and sociology (the accounts of the soul, of man and
of community) the tradition is yet more than the grolln.d of the present - it is that present itself, for quite aside from the incidental
fact that our times seem to me to show a strong decline of wisdom
concerning these matters, the tradition, just because it is not
progressive, consists of a conversation in which the participants
listen to each other, circumvent, re-invent and echo each other,
so that while temporal in its parts, it is timeless, or ever-present,
as a whole. It is in this sense that it seems tome possible that our
West alone. has a tradition, that this strange dialogue of contemporaries who are yet bound into their times, this sequence .of acceptance and betrayal, can take place only through books in the Western
sense, ,hooks of arguable "theory" rather than of spiritual practice.
This 'conjecture is supported by circumstances of the following
sorts: the the Indians , for instance, seem to have no word for
philosophy, for that search for a wisdom which is a communicable
activity rather than a silent possession.
Now how are · the members of this tradition established?
This is the general version of the perennial question: how do we
choose our seminar books?, for the tradition comes to us through
books. What books are these? Are we entirely at the mercy of our
-21-
�library catalogues? We are indeed. It seems to me just as possi ble that there are momentous manuscripts which are quite unknown
as that unworthy books become canonized. But all in all, I think
we can trust the consensus of reading mankind as shown in the
quantity of the propagation of a book. We can do this so much the
more safely because of a human fact which I have always marvelled
at - that worthy works attract the professional industry of legions
of people who have no interest in their contents. A principal
example of this in my own experience is the crowd of classical
philologists, those "scientific language microscopists," as Nietzsche calls them, who fill libraries with comment on the attendant
circumstances of wisdom.
What single trait dis tinguishes the persons acknowledged as
belonging to the tradition? Here we must refer once again to the
distinction made between history and tradition. The persons of
history, if there be such a science, must be, as Hegel says,
nations. The persons of tradition are single and special human
souls. If there be such an item as "the Greek mind, " if for instance
it was the pervasive quirk of canonical Greeks to believe in visible
gods, then the authors of the classical tradition have probably overcome that quirk and are certainly not of that mind. For these
authors are usually radicals; this is why they are at worst ignored
and at best considered dangerous in their own times. So that if,
for instance, the Olympian gods appear in the Homeric poems,
they may safely be suspected of playing there a role deeply different from that which they played in the mind of "the Greeks, " a
problematic, perhaps even an ironic, role. Hence so-called
"historical backgrounds" can never help to understand the central
intention of works of tradition (except, perhaps, to set off the
foregroundofthought by contrast), since history does not make that
which is valuable in the tradition - although the tradition sometimes
makes history. For the authors of tradition sound a reflective
descant on the common opinions of mankind and the peculiar opin ions of their nation - and so these opinions sometimes modulate.
The tradition is, then, always problematic, and it is for this
reason that no one is born into it. As children we become entan g led in a web of accepted opinions and conventions; in youth we begin,
largely by means of books, to break out of this cocoon into the light
of the tradition, and this cannot help but be .a laborious but monumentous phase of our lives. Nowadays most of the earliest serious
reading done is contemporary, and this raises a question which I
-22-
�will put very outrageously: Are contemporary writings ever part
of ·the tradition? or, what is the same thing: Are contemporary
writirigs ever relevant to the hurtJ.an condition? There seems to be
no inherent reason why they should not be, though it is, perhaps,
as unlikely for a "contemporary" to enter into the realm of trac:lition as for · the camel to go through the needle's eye, simply because it is'. essentially the agreeably conforming, even if apparently shocklng, which instantaneously fascinates and becomes pbpu lar, while the' tradition is always somewhat uncomfortable, not to
say repiilsiv~ . .· · Especially at present, the contemporary, with its
accent orl the new, the changeable and the young, tends to be sham
radfral, and i.t s problems tend to be derivative and, in fact, antiquated. ·. For to begin with, it is self-defeating to insist on newness 'and youth as independent goods, forgetting that newness and
youth are conditions which by their very nature have no future. But
more important, the easy revolt of the contemporary scene is an
opposition almost entirely determined by that which is rejects, a
mirror image of common current opinion; conthlning all the flaws
of the older opponent in reverse, a counteraction in the manner of
·a brute body whose reaction is equal to the action upon it. Such
mere :qehavior is truly "reactionary." . I will give an example. In
1864 · Dostoyevsky published a manifesto of genuine despair over
ciV:i.l:faation,calledLetters from the Underworld, in whieh he wrote:
hF solerrip.ly declare to you that I have often wished to become an
i'ns'ect; but couldliever attain my desire." In this century, over a
~eneration ago; Franz l(afk~ wrote a dreadful story called "The
Metamorphbsis, " in which one young man, a travelling salesman,
in silent 'desperation over what present day jargon would call
''middle Class values" painfully turns himself into a great cocktdach'; In . the 19pO's, finally, a whole swarm of youngmen turn
therhselves into Beatles with the most exuberant facility, and the
fuldej:'ground man emerges in amiable companies, his eyes shield:
ed' against the Unwonted sun, his inardculate wisdom pinned to him
on a printed button, his ways mildly lawless, his uniform complete•
ly determined by opposition to rosily wholesome suburbanity, a
harmless, institutionalized latter-day version of the prophetic,
criminal outcast of the Western traditicn.
It is, then, the very radicality of the tradition which mikes
it so· inaccessible. For to become absorbed in the tradition means
quite simply to break away both from one's own private idiom and
the current public jargon into the language of humanity, to com tntinieate; not in the current sense of "being effective" or "making
-23-
�contact," but in the sense of entering the human community. The
traditional authors, who speak that language, must always seem
somewhat forbidding, for this human tongue is much more boldly
simple and subtly complex than the dialect of our place and time.
It takes time to grow simple and subtle and requires a certain
willing trust in the wisdom of these initiators and guides, who are
as yet untried strangers, but such an expense of present, youthful
time is the best way of insuring a future in which ardour will on
the whole outweigh melancholy. For at best a faithful student has
hope of sharing the experience of Dante in his journey through the
world of the soul, when, in the face of hell, his guide and teacher
Virgil "placed his hand on mine, and with a cheerful countenance,
which comforted me, led me into the secret things. " And at worst
he will have learned to make a knowledgeable and dignified retreat
into the decent pleasures of the practical life.
But, you will recall, I entered upon this consideration of
the tradition after I had defined traditional problems as sham
questions, almost as if traditional learning of necessity interfered
with genuine questioning. For questioning is that situationofdetermined openness in which the soul, willingly attentive to the apparent and the immediate, encounters even in its deepest delights
certain difficulties and perplexities which, out of its very love and
concern for things, it is determined to face and resolve, or not
think life worth living; it is the "ardent mood" of the soul which is
well -composed and free. If this enterprise is carried on with a
certain trust in its possibility, it is called the love of wisdom. But
the traditional questions come to the learner as "problems, " by
which I mean as another's question, which is, if anything is, a
contradiction in terms. In sum, all formal study, perhaps even
all purposeful conversation, must give up living thought to "formulations." Nay more - evidently Western tradition itself must needs
progress along the road, which Nietzsche characterizes as leading from the forms of Plato to the formulas of algebra.
I cannot resolve this, the problem of my lecture and the
question in my mind. I herewith hand it over to you, without,of
course, myself relinquishing it. The study of the liberal arts,
which are the public and adequate learning procedures, and of their
fruits, which are the various bodies of knowledge, as well as the
absorption of the reflective tradition which is based on them, can
only provide materials, tools and a language for questioning; the
love of wisdom itself cannot be gainedby study; and for that portion
-24-
�of our life of learning in which our unknown source fails us - for
it is more arduous to maintain the condition of openness than a
state of levitation - we must expect to be sometimes prey to the
mortal's malady, the confusion of the soul induced by the futile
passing of precious time. But in this understanding of that sickness there is implicit the suggestion of a cure: .to fix stubbornly
and determinedly on that present preparation, that acquisition of
the problem-solving arts and the problem -posing tradition, which
is certainly at least the pre-condition of a questioning life, a life
worth living. In the words of the tradition as represented once
more by the Didascalicon of Hugo St. Victor:
"Therefore it seems to me that first an effort should
be made in the arts, for here are the foundations of everything and in them pure and simple truth is opened up; most
of all I am thinking of the seven of which I have spoken
which are the instruments of all philosophy . . . . But
philosophy is the love and the pursuit and, in a manner of
speaking, the friendship felt for wisdom; not, however, for
that wisdom which is concerned with some kind of hardware
and any sort 9f applied science and expertise - he says: quae
in ferramentis quibusdam et in aliqua fabrili scientia
notitiaque versatur - but of that wisdom which needs nothing
and is living thought and the sole original reason for things
- vivax mens et sola rerum primaeva ratio."
-25-
�
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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The student's problem: lecture on the liberal arts
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1967-09-22
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Typescript of a lecture delivered on September 22, 1967 by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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lec Brann 1967-09-22
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The Collegian, October 1967
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College
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text
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Brann, Eva T. H.
Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
-
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PDF Text
Text
A READlNG OF THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS
Eva Brann
Expanded Version ·
Friday ~ight Lecture
1968
�Final text of the addre••
delivered at th• dedication of the c..etery at Gettysburg
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on.
thla continent, an• natlon, o-•tv•d'ln. Liberty, and dedicated
to the proposition that all •en ar• created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great eivll var, testing whether that
nation, or any nation ao oencelved and so dedicated, can lo'ftl endure.
We are 118t on a great battle-field of that war~ We hav• coae t•
dedicate a portion ef that field, as a ft.na~ reatlng ptaee fer
those who here gave their live• that that natien •lght .live. It ls
altesether fitting and preper "
that ve ehould do thl1.
.
lut, in a larger aenae, we ean net d•d1oat• ... we oan not
consecrate • we ean Mt ball•w • thl1 greund• TM brave •en, llving
and dead, who 1trugsled here, have conaeerat•d it, far a"v• e>ur·
· poor power te add or detraet. the world will little n.te, nar long
re11•ber tlhat we say h•r•, .but it oan never for get 111h.at they did .
here, It is for ue the living, rather, to be dedicated her• te the
unflnlahed · werk which they whe fought her• nave t:hu1 far •• nobly
advanced. It la rather for us te be her• dedlt!ated ~ tlut great task
reaaln.ing before ua - that fr•• t1-•• honored dead ve take lncr••••d
devotion t• that cauae for vhleh they gave the last fwll ••••ur• of
devotion • that we here highly reeelve that th••• dead 1hall n.t
have died ln valn • that this ~tlon, under God, ahall have a new
birth of (rHdoa • and that geverna•nt of the people, by the p.. ple,
fer the peeple, shall net perl1h fro• the earth.
Abrah.,. Llnceln
Nov•b•r 19, 1863
1.
the Speech •• a Whal•
It la probably beat to .begin by ebaerving what la aoet ebvlous
about thle "Address Delivered at the Dedioatloo of the Cemetery at
Gettysburg" (p. 734)* - its brevity. It . oen•i•t• of t•n eentenoes
which can be spoken ln a little over two airutea. It la ao short that
on the eccaslon of lte delivery in the open air, before a orovd of
more than 15,000 people, though the speaker delivered hla wurds •tn
a cl•ar, full veloe.• he
d to have finished before his voice
had really begun t• car~y.
•re..
Perhaps this very (ugltive character of the live speech has
something to do wtth its enduranae as a piece of pro••· We know
that Lincoln meant the speech t• 1urvlv• as a written tut, since
h• ht.aaelf prepared ••.v eral copies fer publl•ation, the laat ene
over three months after its dellvery.2 · And although Lincoln
punctuated thi• 1peech, aa he did allhi.1 epeeohea, in the . .nner
of an orator, as it was to be heard (cf. P• 47), using especially
~
.
At'th•• Ltnqf~na
{brary,
62.
*All page references to Lincoln's speeches co• fro•
Speechee !ml ·· Writ:iD&•• ed. R. P. Bailer, Uni.versa
H.ll
�the ce...s of grammar to . .rk th• ~o. .as o~ 1peaker'1 pau1e• of
the rhetorle, yet there ta ••••thlng peoµl l.&rly .•1et_ dew• and
permanent about lt.
· •· ·
·
· · · · · ' , . ' ··
furtheraore we know fro• Llneoln hl•••lf that h• ohee• hie
format quite deliberately. Fer he answered _Everett- vh9 had
,
generously· written t• bi• that "I ahould t>e'"sl•d if . I could flatter
•yself that I ca- as near te the central ldeae! the oeea1ion
in two hours •• you did in twe •11tut•a" that _ ,
M•n
In our respective p&rtl Y••t•rday. ' ye~ oeul.d net ha-..
exouaed te uke • ahort addre1a, no·r I a leng on• (pa 737) •
• •~
•
J
Edward Everett, whe had been·· both a ~·t•a:ler ~t Gr•'• k •t
Harvard and a d:l•t inguiahed atate1un 1 bad been oheaen to be the
t1aln apeaker at the dedication as a national ce-tery of th• piece
of ground beught by the eight~-.n ~orth~r~ ~tat~e ;wtio had l••t aen
at the battles ef Getty1burg. · · Linceln, aa chief. of aiate, bad been
invited only two weeka be!ore the · oereuny and £verett had court. .usly
sent hi• his own two-hour 's peech, 3. ctoapoaed _ the olaaat.alzing
lp
,
style. for which he vaa famous, ao that Llneoln alsl\t 'aenelder lt
in writt.rg hie own (p. 738). We •1ght then ...-otL1neoln'• speech
to be oo. 1POa•d aa a eounterpol••- t• Everett•• 1 ln !apt, ln eplte of
1
Li.neoln'a expressed adalrat1on (p~ 737) • . it ." •ett•s to be, a tacit·
and tactful repudiation : ef auoh learned rnetoric. : . .'
Everett be~ina vitha re!erence ·to th• funeral cere•niee for
tJ1e so).dlers of ancient· ·Athene, reporte~ by thuc.ydidee in the
~-e~ond ·book of t-h• PtltRtoDI• ttn ~ (para a. · 35 ff.) , ..-:td end a by
quoting Pericles• speech, ·aa Thucydides givee it. Evk"•tt'•
speech wae thus intended to be, and wa1 readily reeognlzed •• bet.ng1
••elass1cal • ln t&ne. In a aal iolous but not totally inept editorial,
the Richmond ~9111)1r had said of Everett'• perfor•anc~a •so f&J!
the play was strictly classtc•1 and then o! Lincoln's 1peeoh .. To
suit the gert•ral public, ·however, a little ad•ixtt.Fe .e f the •re
irregular ro•antlc drau was allowed"• the latt;.,•r tena •ight
conceivably be applied te a apeeon which, in its reveal.,ns brev i ty,
was 11.ke the aerteua obverse of a Llncoln!ai\ anecdotfh
.
.Here are certain other points in whloh the twe apeeche1 differed.
Everett'• waa heavtlydaotylica a stress verelon ' of the Greek epie
_ foo~ of. one , long and two short ayllablea appeared eften, , beginrill18
with the first words 1
·
··
- I
I
..
.
'
Standing beneath this serene
eky,
through phrases Ilk••
" the
.. -
I
. .
·
.
,
'
.
I
~raves , o!
our brethren beneath our feet;,
,.,
I
•
· I
. .
I
.
.
the -eloquent ·Silence of God and Nature, ·
.,
c~
.,.. I
I ..
I
I
It was appeil'\ted by law in Athens;· ·
to the final wordsa
�·l~
I
I
I
that whtoh r•latel to the Battles of Gettyaburg.
Lincoln's speech, on the other hand, has the prevallina diayllabic
pattern, . . stly lamba, ·natural .to sober Engli1h apeeah. So after
the two long beats of a grave and 11e>urnful apondee the pattern
sets ina
I
I
I
I
I
Four score and seven year• age,
and in the last paragraph partioularl~ sequences of laablo
penta•eter are dlaoernible.
In respect t• diction, Everett'• prose vaa «=la11loal and
Latinate, while, lt ha1 been reckoned, Llnoalil on thi1 eccaaion uaed
only 32 words of Latin orlgin9 in contrast to . his praotlae vhtll'l
addressing a aelfM!t body, for instance, Congreaa; aa ln th• pererat. lon of his Annual Heaaage of 18611
With a relianee on Providence, all th• 110re fir• and earneat,"1et
i•:: t · us proceed ln the great task which events have devolved upon
·
It ".'.,
(pa 635) e
.
.
us
Aa for eettl~, Everett conaeived hie effo~t ae part ef a
11onumental tradlt1.on of aeldler~ funeral oratory. He: ende by
••belliahill8 upon P•rlolea• . .snlloquent saying that •tbe whole
earth ls the sepulchre of llluatrloua men.• Lincoln,,ln aontra1t,
asslgn1 to the dead neither the earth wlth which he end1 hi• apeeeh,
nor th& continent with which he begin•, nor even the battle field on
which he dwells in the slddle, but soberly, a aere . .deat •postlon
of that field.• So also Everett, beginnlng •• Periclea had, with
a reference to the law in Athena, aakes aucb of the am;t.que 1anctlon
for such cere•nle1 1 whla!h included an ebllsatory funeral eratlen
delivered by an orator chosen for th• purpe1e. Llnoelft• en th•
other hand, in hia first draft aaya brusquely, -•thle we aay in all
propriety do" (p. 736) 1 intiaating that such dedication• are an
indulgence of the livl~, and aoderates this in delivery to a brief
statement of co11aon propriety•
It ls altosether fitting and proper that we ahould do thl••
(p.
734,
cf~
P• 728),
.
only to go on to call the whole cere11e>ny in questlan1
But 1 in a larger aenae, we can not dedicate - we oan not
consecrate - we can not hallaw • this ground. The brave aen,
living and dead, who 1truggled here, have consecrated it, far
above our poor power ' to add er detract.
Lincoln ls lmplioitly ..klng the aignlficant point that it is !!IS
the l~w tn Aaeriaa to have such oaaequles and such speaker1, that
honor, particularly for the dead, 11 not an ••tabll1hed publics
concern 1n A••rlca.
�In content, · what la ••t atriking t.1 that Everett touahe1 on
a nwiber of •attere .on whioh_L1neoln has . not one exp11clt word.
Everett re!era te the Confederate "lnva1lon11 of Maryland and ·
Pennsylvania and ceaparea 1t te the Peralan invaai•ft~f G~•eae.
Lincoln, en th• ether band, ~d. ln a letter to General Ralleek,
specl.fically objeeted t• a phr••• ltke ·11 drlv• ti. invad•i' tr••
our 1011•. uaed by General Meade ln hla order thanklng the aray for
the victory at Gettyabur· . Fer, Lincoln. · aaid, "th• male country
g
is our soil,• alndful ef the faot that th• opponent vae not a
fore~ner • .. Hence h• aaye nethin.g of the _
atratestc a1.roW11tamea
of" th~ battle credited with ending th• danger of a Colilfederat•
occupation ef the North which aake up:.:, the bulk of Everett' a tut,
nor . doea he, aa Everett, assign reaponaib111ty fer· .the var, _ tak• up
epeciflc conatltutienal queetiona or aention explieitly the fundaaenta}
issues of alavery and Unt.on. It 11 worth ••ntlont.ng th.ea• oal1alone,
because, as will be shown, in a way they ahape the apeeea.
·
Thus Linooln preeenta an alt•rnatlve te the olaa9loizlng atyle,
an unde110cratle style daalgned, at bttttoa, fqr the secret and eeparate
satle!actlon of the speaker and
conn.laaeura. Thi• appears
aost cleaaly at a _polnt in Which Lincoln
in~e · algni!loant
contrast with the claaaloal •delatheaaelvea, vi.th Thuaydt.d•• and
his Pericles, net by way ot .E:verett'a learned fllter, but 1. .edlatelyt
nor aa a etudent of the P9lo~ont1110 !!II: (there ls n. evldence that
,_he was), but as an Aaerican vth an Athenian 1tate1un. Everett••
·- cholce of aedel had, after all, been an aead••ic, a polltleally
bl ind cholcje, fer in the Aurlaan tradition P•rloles 11, of neceaaity,
a dubious figure, the leader whO, aa Al•xander Haallton aaya tn
~he sixth F1de;9ll•~· was fer peraonal aottvea
·
••Ille
co•••
aucber •f tha• fa-.ua aM -ta1*al , war._ wbl~h
••
•• tenlnated in the · ruin of the Athenian co..,,nw•alth.
~h• prl•lalv•
~
It is only necessary t• cal 1 that var a o1v11 var to sn" that . Perie lea
la Lincoln'• - roper antique antagenl8t. The queet~n here la1 hov
p
do they contrast with respect to political rhetqric1
·
The single sentence or th• 1peech wbieh had the greateet eff'9Ct
at the tiae and was aoat singled out for anecd(>te and quetatlon
(for instance, by the P~iJ1d1lpbi1 Pr•10 Ind Htrptr'• Wtfi\y) vas
the follovln~ generou• alsehooda
.
The world vl,11 little n0t:e, ner long re11e•ber what we aay
here; but lt can never forget what they did here.
The word
In
5UJl was the only word underecered (F1tet Draft, P• 736).
this emphasis on the soldlers• deed, LtncQln, of oeurn,
_expresses hie senae of urgency in that late fall of 1863, vb.en after
the SWiiier battles of Gettysburg, auch to his dlsappointaent~ ·
expressed in urgent letters to his generals (cf. PP• 711-12, 726-27),
there had been only indecisive 11aneuvering ln the eaat. Lincoln
_
�felt oppressed by unf1nlshed buslnass and had said that hia speech
would be "ehort. short. ahert." the "unflnt.ahed wark." "the gr••t
task reraalning before ua• curtail the foraat of the a~ech, and
in the precipitous elllpsea of the last sentence, .affeet lta gr-.r.
for the sentence lacks all the conneativea here eonjeeturally
supplied a
· It t.a rather for us to be here d•dt.cated .to the great taak
reaalrit.~ before ua •[vhlch aeana] that fro• th••• homred
dead we take increased devott.en to that cause fer whioh they
.8ave the last full •aaure of devotion - [and] that we here
hl~ly resolve that these dead ahall not have ·dlecf t.n valn •
[aoJ that this nation, under God, ahallheue • new birth of
lreedo• • and that govern111tnt of the people. by the people,
for the people, shall not perish fro• the earth•
But the 110re significant aspect of Linaoln'a depreciation of
"what we say here• can be beat seen by contrast with a correepondlng
sentence fro• Perlolea' open1"8• He says!
·
Moat of •Y predecessors t.n this place· have ee-ended hia
who •de this speech part of the law,. telling ua that it ia
well that it should be delivered at the burlal o( thoae ·who
fall in battle. For •Y••lf, I should have thought that the
worth which had displayed itself in deeds, would be auff\,ciently
rewarded by honours also ahriwn by deede1 such aa yeu now see in
·this funeral prepared at the people's coat. And I oeuld have
·Wished that the reputations .of many brave •en were net to be
i•perllled ln the 11outh ef a alngle individual, to stand or fall
aooordlng as he spoke well or 111 (II, 35).
the deprecating phrases barely hide Periclea• persuasion that the
dead must rely on hi• fer their life in the elty•s aeaory, !•r ho,,ar,n~·
that his speech ia worth a battle; as Thucydides thought hls history
worth a war. With that, contrast Lincoln'• assertion that the dead
are beat honored by their own deeds, that they do theiaaelvee honor,
that the task at hand overshadows all ceremony, and hie avoidance
of the pronoun "I".
·
Hore of the rhetorical character of Peri.el.••' apeech le writ
large in Plato• s d lalo~ue . Htgrcenu1, in. whieh Spcrate1 . recitee to
Menexenus an excruciatingly ~own-up caricature of Pertelea• funeral
oratory, which he elai•a to have learned fro• Pericles' hlgh•elaaa
whore Aepaeia. It ls essentially a pervers ton of the •noble lte•
of the Republt.c (414f .) • For tn it the Athenians are•·teld that
they are all autoebt:henoue, deseended fro• those whe sprang fro11
the earth, their aether, and so share equally in a h1gh and heroic
lineage (M!poxenue, 237 ff.). By th• prolonged repetttlen,·of i thla
and other false facts, erateri, .a11 Socrates deacribea . lt,
bewitch our soul•·•••o that even I, Henexenus, when so
lauded by the• feel thoroughly noble, and eaeh tlM I stand
and listen enthralled and think that I have becoae suddenly
�bigger and nobler and Mre handso•e• •• And this exaltation
re-ins wlth ae for •ore than three days (235).
Nov co•pare a speech in which Lincoln deals with the aatter of
traditional colebratl•n•, his Chicago speech of 1858 (p. 401). He
calls attention to the natl.en'• rutn•aboriginal nature, ta its
beginning 82 years ~gor he calla th• faundera,"aen we clala ae eur
fathers and ~randfathers," not hereee, but •tron aen"t he apprevea
of the annual celebratien of the ancestral founder• ef eur present
prosperity and saya drily that "we go fro• these 11eetinga tn better
humour with ourselves.• But · then he stops and r--bera that half
the preaent citizens of the country a,re not blood descendants of
the founding fathers, and he finds that the true co. .on •rather• of
all Amerloana is in fact a declaration of "soral principle,• and
through lt all AMerieana are "blood of the 'blood, and !leah of the
flesh, of the Nen who wrote that Declaratien" (p. 402).
·
In Lincoln's rhetoric, then, general prosperity take• the place
si~nificant founding act replaces continuity of .
habitatlont •nd a peraanent 11eed of sober self-approbatlcm subatitutee
for the 'exaltati•n of the days a tradition e! principle euperoedes a
llnea~e of blood,
And fer all these reasons together, the Aaerioa.n
speaker ls net a •aster aani.pulator, but a ftlitlcal t11g~.al'• the
only course open to a man Who believed, ind etinct eppea tion to
the thesis that •so.e ••n are too isnor•nt, and too ylgloul to share
in ~overnment" (p. 279), .
·
of proud deedst a
that n:. aan .ls ~ood enou~h to
ether' 1 c1 naent ( p. 304) •
~overn
another -n, · wttl]!ut
.
~
The Gettysbur~ Address will, accordingly, turn out to be a
distlllatlen of Lincoln'• political phiteaophy, which he, . en thle
occasion as on many others, atteapted tG infuse tnt,o t;he natien at·
lar~e. a nation distingulahed by the !aet th&t its proaperity ."hae a
philesophical cause" (p. 513). It is !or this reas. n that the vrltt•n
o
versions of the apeeeh have no foraal ealutat ten. - it la addressed to
all citizens. And the brevity that aade its ten sentenc•e at the
.
ti•• so fugitive in the hearing, aake them a "peraanent peea•••lon• ,
ln later readings. For because ef it the speech is readily learned
by heart, and la, ln fact, learned by ·heart by aany aehool children.
But that ••ans that it aay aucoeed in lodging in the ~t in the
fora of seund sentl11ent, e! "virtue and v1~1lance" (p~fh, theee
very propoeltlons, essential to the national life, which are too
difficult - and perhaps too dubleus - to be continually kept in !!.lm!•
Lincoln reco~nized that
.
.
In this age, in this country, public sentlaent ls everything,
since in A•erica si~nlfloant political action depends entirely on
such sentl•ent. Consequently, as a republioan stateeaan, he aade
lt his continual rhetorical task t• guide it,- that i1, te ••nvert
the founding doauaents' sound principles. into the ot.ti&•n•' sober
passion, in unoensclous accO'rdance wlth Monteaquieu•a advice in the
§piri!= ~.ll the L!n•
For he says in the chapter "Of Educatien in a
�-7Republlcan Governaent" that the ~ullar republican virtue, •teve
of the laws and of our country,• requtr•• a kt.nd ef aelf•renunolation.,
a "constant preference of public to private lnterest," and that "to
inspire it ought to be the principal business of educatien" (II,S).
But such love of things public la precisely the product of propeaition
transforaed int• sent1aental Llnoeln'• rhetarlc la ba••d en the
conversion of politlc•l principle into "aoral sentlaent" (p. 401).
••Y••
·
Thus Lincoln, who deprecates what ht
aust •ke every word
i>nl8n&nt with a werld of -•nlng, a~ hia eonte.porarlea reoo~nized
that he did just that. Th• Spr\ng!lfld Rfpubllean ce~nteda
Hts little speech ts a perfect g. . a deep ln feeling, coapact ln
thought and expreaalen, and tasteful and .elegant in every word
and eo...... Turn ba~k and read it over, it wlll repay atudy
as a 1t0del apeeeh. Strong feelings and a large brain were ·
its parents - a little palnataklr« lta tccoucl\§y[•
•ad•
The be~innlng of suctiatudy ls beat
with a acanning of the
whole, which will brlng out the g~and fraaevork of this little speech•
· In time it spans the past ("Feur score and seven years ago"), the
present ("Now we are engaged in a great civil war") and the future
("this natlen ••• ahall have a new birth of freedoa"), ¥hil• in apace
it coraprtaes the battle ground, on which it ls delivered (aiddle
sentences), the continent on which the nation was ~rn (first sentencE
and the earth which it ls to aave (last sentence). ·
11.
The First Paragraph
Linaeln- begln••
Four scere and seven
yea~s
ago •••
"Four score," vi.th its long •h's, repeated in several assonancea,
and the first of 11any alliteratlena, sounds a abre mourttful and
solemn ·, note than the wards "eighty-seven years," but th• choice
of the phrase is not only a J1Atter of sound1 it also carries a ·
speclal iuant.ng. It ta· the language of the Btble, as in Psal11 90, 101
The days 'o f our years are threeacGre · yeara and tena and
if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is th•ir
strength labour and sorrow.a for it is soon out off, and we fly
away •
. With the psala in mind ·the phrase ••ane- jus~ beyond the .ae•ry of
1
anyone new alive, too long ago for living lleaGry. Now ve know that
from youth on Lincoln was concerned with a peculiarly Aaerlcan dangers
the death of sound political passion. In hie speech on "The
Perpetuati•n of our Political lnetltutlons" of 1838,s Llnceln drew
a clear parallel with the early cofllltlnlty e! Christians, whose danger
lay ln the fact that the first generation of disciples and eye•
witnesses was followed by a second which had only heard by word of
�-8-
mouth, by a third which had begun only to have read of Christ, and
a fourth which had begun t• fer~et. So in the Aaerican co11munityi
the ecenes of the revolution
J2.! so universally known, nor so vividly felt, as they
_,,the generation juat gone to r••t (p. 84).
CtQDlt
..r.
The ••n who had seen the Revolution, who were its "l tving history••
are now genes
They were the pillars. o! the temple of llberty1 and now,
that they have cruabled away, that teaple 11ust fall, unless ve,
thelr deseendanta, .supply their places with other pillars,
hewn fro• the aolld quarry of s&ber r~ason (p. 84).
The danger that the enthuslaa11s of the Revelutlon aight beco11e mere
myths .has advaneed to a fact in 1863, the ti•• of the fourth generation
fro• that eventa the national edifice has to be rebuilt "fro11 the
solid quarry of sober reason." This la the age for a deliberate
11ining of the ft.rat aceounte, for rereadl~ ·the founding docuraents·.
Se, then "Feur 1oore and seven years ago" points to that quarry,
that alne, ef reasen. Subtract .87 fr•• 1863 and the result 18 1776.
Lincoln cen1idera that th~l natt.gn was both conceived l~ and born with
.
the Declaration .2! ln1'pt_enc§• ·· on July 7, 1863, in response to a
serenade en the eccas ctn o the . victory of Gettysburg. under the
influence cf the providential coincidence that both the victories of
that battler . and Vicksburg had been announced on the Fourth or July,
and that Jefferson and John Ada11s had both dled on that day, he
had said1
How long ago ls it • eighty odd years • since -on the Fourth .
of July for the first tl•• in the history of the world a natien
by its representatives, assembled and declared as a self·
evident truth that "all 11en are created equal•• That was the
birthday of the United States of America (P• 709) •
...
And in earlier speeches he had often counted back the et'ghty or
eighty•two years to 1776 (pp. 39!, 393)• In repeatedly fixing on
the signing of the Declaration as a crucial date, Lincoln ls making
a deliberate pelltieal judgment concerning the 'hierarehy of founding
events, different for instance fro11 the of Toombs of Georgia who ·
had begun a speech ln 1850 in this waya
Sixty years ago our Cathers joined together to form a more
perfect Union. and to establish justice ••• (of. P• 216),
refe.-ring the foun<1log Sl[ ~republic to 1790 (the date when the las~
ori8lna1 , state ratified the Constitution), and quoting frora its
Preaable. Lincoln's veraien ~ives rather the birth .2.{ Sh!! nation.
�- q ..
He goes
on~
••• our fathers brought 'fbrth on this continent, a new natlon,
conceived ln Liberty, and dedicated to the propoeltlon that all
men are created equal.
The "fathers" - he calls them fathers, although they are only
forefathers, to bring the Revolutlon close - are a very deflnlte
group of men. In another context he had said•
I suppose the "t:hirty-nine" who st.gned the original instrrn..nt
(here the Constltutiona.ay bf!' fairly called our fathers who
t'r••d that part of th• fresent Governaent (p. 517).
In this speech, then, "our fathers" must be those men, tn .part
identical vlth the signers of the Constitution (p. 305), who devlsed
and signed the Declaration, ~specially Jefferson.
·
·
. .. These men "brought forth"• thts is again Biblical dlctiona ' the
phrase ls used, for tnstance, . ln ~ 1, 31 in the annunciation of
the Messiah's birth. They •brought forth on this continent" (all
. versions but the last two had "upon•) L ther.e are undertones here
of "begot upon the body of this land,• "fathered on thla .fallQv
contlnent a1 aother•a the child nation ts safe tn the ' lap of a
whole continent, capable ef protecting it from foreign: interference
and o! providing those unlimited riches whlch are ita material
condltlon.
The new nation was •conceived ln Liberty• ("liberty" being the
only noun capital lzed beald,,.~, "God") 1 not conceived in love aa are
blessed children, but conc,lVed in the love of liberty as are
bleased nations \Cf• P• 315)~ Thus the ~gettirut of this nation
was a begetting of reason (so. also "bringing f'orth" can mean
·
"uttering reasons," cf. 11111!} 41.21), primarily a male acta as in
Aeschylus• &U!!ent.deo the begetting of the wisdom of Athens, the
conception of Athena, is exclusively male (1. 736)1 America ls a
fatherland, not a Henexenean aotherland, and this lend' Lincoln's
•patriotis111• a special cast. Upon this conception, thtJ nationchild vaa dedicated to a proposition as in a baptism. The proposition,
"that all men are created e.ual," was tn quot,tion marks ln the first
draft (p. 735) since it com.ra. from the second paragr4ph of the ·
Declaration of Independence.
·
I! these are the tmplications of the first, and shortest, of
the three paragraphs of increasing length, what ts its sign1flcance7
Consider ftret the continent, the first Qf a nation's three
parts, which are "its territory, its people, •nd its lava" (p. 676).
The second Federal1et says
Thia country and this people seem to have been made
for each other •••
�-10-
De Tocqueville makes the s&11e point of the United States1
••• God hlaself gave the11 the 11eans of remaining equal and free,
placing the11 upon a boundless continent, ••• (De10s;racy
!n A11eric1, I, xvii).
·
by
Lincoln too, especi-ally in hia ·Annual Messages to Congress, spoke .
almost with awe of the continent, "the ever-enduring part" of the
nation, whose riches give llb~rty an object, whGae 1.11pregnability
fosters an unlnvidious patrl~tls11-, and whose integrity makes
secession a chlmaerae
Physically speaking, we cannot separate (1861, P• 586) ••• the
land we inhabit ••• would, ere lo~, force reunion, however auoh
blood and t;reasure the s•paratio!l might have cost (1A62, P• 679).
Such a contl~nt makes the fittest ground for a aeed of principle,
for a continental spac• is needed te safeguard the first e11bodt11ent
of the deaGeratlc ldea.
Next• What of the blrthdate of 17767 Censonant . with the second
Fedgallst, Lincoln held that the Declaratlcan of Independ•nce ·was
.
~~te- by the Union, for~ally established by the Arti~les of
Assoc atian 1774, and was ft~~ceeded by the establishment of the
Constitution in 1787 (p. 5~. This sequence was of the greatest
stgniflcance, for 1.t ·aeant - that the nation's birth was a birth of
principle, whose issue was •ads peaslble by the ali~htly . antecedent
union of the people, and whose nature was kept safe by allowing the
practical . lnstruaent of its life to wait on its conception. · Thus,
usln~ phrases borrowed fro• Proverbs 25,11, Lincoln, wrote of the
principle .. Liberty to all" as expressed in t:he Declaration•
·
The assertion of that principle, at .tl!!£ ,.t.111§., was the
word .. fltly eppktn .. which has proved an "apple--orgold .. t;o us.
The Union and the Constituti•n are the pictut:s! of §ilver,
subsequently fraaed around tt ,(p. 513).
Herf! "subsequently .. 11t1st, ln the case of the Union, mean not later
in tiMe, but in pelltlcal priority.
Lincoln. then, held the Declaration ta be far more than a
declaration ef independence (cf. PP• 574, 577), and lndeed, it
would in that case have been a peculiar docuaent to cite in a war
to. fight secessi•n• But 1.t 1§. llUCh mores for its wri.ter, Jefferson,
had the coolness, t:orecast and capacity to lntroduce 1.nto a
Merely revolutionary document an abstract truth, ••• (p. 489)1
and lt is precisely 'by the o•lssion of this truth that the various '
"merely revolutlenary .. Declarations of Independence adopted by the
Union's adversaries are characterized (p. 607). And so Llnceln eaysa
�J have never had a feeltng polltlcal.ly that did not sprlng frofti
the eentlraente embodied in the Declarat.lon of Independence.,.
It wan not the 11ere 11atter of the separat \.on of th" Co lonles
fro11 the •otherland1 but that sentiment ln th• D•clar.atlon of
Independence whlch ~ave 1 t.berty, not alone to the peopla of thl ; ;
country, but~I hop~, to the world, for all future time (Adores~
10 ~Jl~1J11en!"t1nc,; ll!ll, 186 l, P• 577, cf. PP- 362, 513).
Now what l8 of pt·lme lmportance ln the speech ls Wu! these
pr lnc lplft~, which mark the tru.t beg hmlng of the nation, are hel d .
tincqln denomlnatf!~ t h ers "concrp'lgn§'" nnd "Q!oposi~12n~." In the
Of!claratt.on the fftthers hact he rl that they were "ltelf-~vid11a.nt Truths .;
So11ftthln~ hae happened between the foundln~ and the present: which
forc~u Llncoln to c4ll the axi.011s o! the Declaration mere proposltlo n
Th la le 'fhllt had happened 1 tpe Declarat: ton had been cal led ln
publ lo. 11 a aelf·evlchmt l le, .. a phrase Lincoln often clted with
rfl!pu~nanoe (pp • .
'314, 331, 489, cf, P• 275), for i.t qreates a f a tal
sltu11tlon1
One would ~tart wlth great conf 1.dence that he coulo convlnc
any sane chlld that the et11pler proposi.tlons of Euclid are trueJ
but neverthole~se he would fall, utterly, wlth one who should
deny tho de!tnltiona anc1 axioms. The pri.nciples cf Jefferson
Are the de!inltione •nd axi.01110 of free soctety (p!. 489).
That Llncutn hac'I 11ade a epecial effort to study t~xte concerned with .
itnrt to ponder the natUJ;e of, axt.or1att.c sel!·evtdence and logical
conaequeno• is k.nown. In hls short autoblo~raphy he particularly
nientiQne that he had "studt.ed &nd nearlv 11astered the six books of
F.:uclld tttnce he wae a me1'1lber of' Co~res; .. (p. 549). He understood
that melf~evldence le a peculiarly delicate affair. since once
impugned, one~ only dented in publtci · a,self•evtdent truth turns
lnto a debatable proposition. Yet as the axtom, precisely by reason
<>f lts eel!•evldence. was unprovable, so the . proposition has no
·
rational proof from hi,gher prtnclples, but can be verified only
fro~ its consequences or • draadful prospect - from the fatal
consequences of ite oontrary. !hie, then, ts the peculiar danger
or a natlon which lives on a tradition of expl{clt prl~ctple rather
than of ingrained myth, • prlnclple afflr~ed at its very beginning
in one event: whose impact no later ones, wlth l:he unhappy exception
of 1Jo11n catastrophe, ce.n match· that it grows blind to the selfevldence of lts conceptiona untll a catastrophe opens lts eyes.
And now, what.,more precisely, are these principles whose s tandi r
has changed? In the words of the Declaratlon they are1
that all M~n are preated equal, that thoy are endowed by their
Creator with certain unalienable Rlghts, that among these are
Llfe, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.
Bere equality of creation, equality before God, precedes, and ls the
condltlon of, the other rl~hts, of whlch only some are named. One
etrlkln~ o~teslon ls of positive importance, slnce wlthout lt
Ltncoln could scarcely have cited thls document ln that year which
had be~un, ln the Emanclpatlon Proclamation of January · t, lR63, with
what was ~dmitteoly a destruction of the property of many Americans
·1. ·.·
�-12-
(p. 6At). In Leok•'• teeurrent f•raula .. ll!e, liberty and preperty
(or eG.. •qulvalent fer
l••t• ni.
Itt•t~lf .It C1Y.1l
~'!.!,nuot• ••8• par••· 123, 11,, lli),• •r•en•~ 1ubitltiited
?Or prepert:y .,the Purault ef ff•J>plne11, • l••vlns the , erl9lnal p"ra•e
to be pt.oked up in the Con1tltutten (p. 524). Exoept fer thi•
sub•tltutlen th• Deelaratlen -.euld b.ardly have been ••
t•
the heart ef Lt.nceln, wtMI r ...•bered wt.th apprnval
th•
11
S•J•?f
cl•••
that ttw Je!feraon party were foraed upon it• ~UP'8••<t 1upet:'ler
devetlen t• the peraenal rtfht• ef aen, holding th• rl1hi• •f
property te be eecendary en y, and a•••tly t.nferl•~•·•• (p. •&&).
But a ••••nt
v•r dead
epeelfleally
• r • reuin,
th•
ef natlenal erisle and
t~•
ee•••lGn •f ••••... rating
lt 1earoely an eppertune tl•• te ·dwell en the
per1onal rlgftts te life and th• pursult ef happlne•••
eut et: th• Deelaratlon, tir•t equality •nd then libert1•
Nov Llneeln ••••• in thl1 epeech ta reverae tht1 erder in
setting l 1berty as th• orla1M1 ··oe'n.eeptlen, •• he had befere tented
"Liberty to all," ~ principle of the Deelaratien (p. 513). Jut
el eevhere he 1aya a ·
·
1
I believe that the deolaratienthat "all "'fin are created
equal" l• the gr••~ ('und1••nt:al prlnaipl• upon vhlch eur
f9M t i.Qtih.~~l- . i"••~ "f ~ 1
·479) I
.
l.t le tha feundt.ng prinelple to be kept: tn vlev, !er ln1t•na•, when
the terrlteriea pa1a eut ef a state ef nature and the !•undatiena
of aeeiety are latd. What do•• Llneeln censider t:• be the real
relatton •f these twe prlnclple•?
De Tequev1ll• lri th• ohapter inquiri"' .. Whr10. . .oratie Natlana
Shew a More Ardent and Enduring Leve o! lqual tty than •! Liberty•.
(n. .1yr11y in AMtlll• II, ii, t) een1lder1 lt.berty and equality
two d v•r•• aM in •P•ndent thtng1 1 ef vhloh equality pertain•
pri-rlly ta th• •••lat, liberty t:e the pelltlcal sphere. Yet
he ad•lta that ultl..tely, radlaally, ceneldered the t"t are what
weuld be called tn legtoal ter•a •co•..naurately unlveri,t,• that
11, they i•ply eaoh other•
·
It la pe•alble t• l••8ine
freedom and equallty veuld
•••t
an
I
extre•e polnt at which
and blend.
Lincoln take• exactly tht.a '*extr•••" .ul•• · '.ff8, bbit11-'111"r'i1•t•
eut hl1 underatandlng of the prlna1ple ef equal1ty with respect t•
the alavery que1tlen, whlch would appear to be prt.aarlly a queatlen
of 11berty • On the ether hand, ...h•. lnt~rprete equal lty ef ereat; ion
t:• -•n •r•ol••lY the .PO•••••l•n'ef 11 unallena-le rlght•"• chief
wh1eh le peilltt.eal liberty. The Deolarat:1en. alttwugh by ne aeana
declaring •en equal J.n Ill [!lltct1,
••Iii
�- 11-
At the Srime time> true t:o the openness_ deman<ted by the prtnc.i.ples
he usually abstains from the rhetorlcal compulsion of specific pleas,
these sentences of his .last public address, deallng with~
burning problem of the moment, are typlcal1
In the Annual Message of Dec. 1863 and accompanylng Proclamatlon,
I pre~enterl ~ plan of re-constructlon (as the phrase goes) which,
I proml!ied, if adopted by any State,- should be acceptable to,
and sustalned by, : the Executive gov.e rnment of the nation. I
distinctly stated that this was not the only plan which mi5ht:
possibly be Rcceptablea ••• (p. 797).
·
Instead of att~mptinp, to compel the people t:il ·a co1:itse deduced
. dogmatically, in the manner of an ideoloe,tst:, h~ presented in the
words of the London Spectator,
A poli.tlcal transparency, ln which the nation could see an
lndivldual character of great power working out the problems
set before them all •••
He manages to make these problems supremely absorbing, and he does
it by making almost every speech an interpretation of the founding
documents, in whlch he reveals at once their inexhaustible
radical t.ty and their enduring applicability - by g.lvlng ,Americans a
secular complement to the Scriptures (p. 84).
With respect to the promissory character of democratic
principles, Lincoln 1mder:scores lt by projecting the . growth of the
past into the futures
There are already among us those, who, if the Union be preserved,
wl 11 l lve to see lt contain two hun<1re<1 ann fifty mll 1 ions.
The struggle of today, ls not altoP-eth~r for t.oday .. it ls for
a vast future also (p. 635, cf, PP• 681, 75f1).
The present is thus understood as being the sponsor of the
futures yet the future · ts, 1.n turn, nothing but t[le magntftcation
of the past (cf. p• 656). But polttlcally the American past ls of
a. pecullar sorta it ts not an extensive, unbroken tradition but t:he
memory of a s1.ngle, lntense event - just as a fabric of reason
beg.1.ns with a principle from whlch lt is derived, so the history
of democracy beglns with the Revolutlon. Lincoln intends to assure
that that beelnntng ls present to the futur", that that event
remains the tradltion which governs the future. For the prlnciples
of the fathers are, by their \lery nature, the r.oot of the future
insofar as it ls good.
An<l finally, wlth respect to the passive and incurious mode
in which the democratic principles of equality and liberty tend to
be accepted, it is significant that Lincoln himself never attempts
to raise the question of their truth, nor even .to supply a defl.nl.tion,
exc.ept in extremely slmple, and negative terms. So he says,
�-14-
state of nature exists, Cengreae. with the aid ef that "standard
•axia for free society" (p. l61), the principle of equall.ty, 11 laya
tbe foundations ef society" (p. 479) • pelltlca precedes eeciety,
not the reverse (p • . 279). Thua, since 1001.ety ls 1ria~qallf
based on pell.ti.cal pri.neiplea, which .theaaelves nave a -r• and,
finally, a rtl\g11u1 basia, Aaerican lite depends ulttaately en a
higher source. And ••• by his reference to the principlet ef equallty,
Lino•ln realnda the natl•n which laeka the earth-born equality of
coa•n · blrth, teuted for Athena t.n the Her•QUI• ef a coamn high
.
paternal origins it la a natien equal •un er God."
III.
the Second Paragraph
Now we are enga$ed in a great ctvll war, testing whether
that nation, or •ny natten so conceived and .so dedicated, can
long endure.
In hie •iddle paragraph Llnooln passes fre• "four acere and aev&n
years age• and •our fathers" to "nev" and "we•, fro• the Aeneratl•n
of the Rev•lution to the generation ef the ' Rebellion, ef the "great
civil war", which, ln its enor11lty, he had in the·daya •f the
victory ef Gettysburg teraed, in Hiltonlc language, a "stgantlc
Rebell ton .. (p. 709, ala• P• 702). Indeed there was to hi• aeaetht.~
ef the .Fall ln the wanten
destructien ef our national fabric, with all its benefits, tta
11e11ories and its hopes, •••• Will you hazard ao desperate•
step, ••• while the eert·a1n ills you fly t•, are greater than
all the real enes yeu fly fre11? (First Inaugural Addreaa, P• 584)
Yet in that very a,..eoh Lineoln aaintained the right of
revolution (p. 587), whleh he had already aaaerted in the House as
a "sacred right" during the war with Mexico, in a speeeh attacki~
the President fer waging, without. consulting Congress, a leng,
aggressive and 1..,ral var (p. 209). · But, he aalntat.nec:t,11 the actl•n
of the seuthern st•t•• was not revolution, er aecessien, but
"rebellion" (p. 602),
·
·
Why was it net seceaslon7 The word, he declared to Congress,
i11plles the legality of states leaving the Unien as statea. But,
he had said,
I. hold, that ln conte•plation of universal law• and ef
theCanetltuti.on, . tpe Union of these States 1s perpetual (p.
582)~
This ls · because the Union represents the fundamental social caapact1
aa Locke says in Ihe S~con!! treatise 2f Ctvtl Goverm1ent1
That which ..akes the coaaunity and brings aan out ef the loose
state of nature lrito one politic aociety ts the agreeaent which
�everybody has with the rest to incorporate and act as one body,
and s.o to be one dlsti.nct commonwealth. The usual an.d almc~t
only way whereby t:hl9 union ts dissolved is the inroad of
for\.'ign force making a conquest upon them ••• (para. 21 t, of, 243).
Secession of any sort therefore does violence to pollt:lcal society
itself and ts simply insupportable. But formally lt was a theory of
statehood .which allowed Lincoln to maintai.n the absolute p..,rpet:ulty
of the Union, a theory which again turned about the date and wordi~
of the Declaration of Independence.. He observed that that document
first declared the "united Colonies" "free and independent st:at:es"
(p. 603), so that the Union, whlch had preceded independence. hlid
certainly preceded statehood. Accordingly he denied that the new
Confederacy was right ln claiming that the Art i.cles of Coo.federat: ion
adopted by Congress in the year af'ter the Declaration, .according to
which MEach state retains its sovereignty, freedom, and independencett
(Art. II), repreeented a kind of prototype pertod, a state of nature ~
so to speak, for the States, in which thelr original sovereignty
· dlsplayed itself. For the Union, having prec~ded the Declaration, .
!! fortiori preceded any organic law, as shown by the Preamble of tht:
Constitution. which speaks merely of ·establishing " a ~ perfect
Unton"' (p. 582). The states had never existed 11 out of" the Uni.on, .
but had entered it, insofar as they were entitles at all, only as
colonies, or, if territories, from the state of nature' (p. 479)1
Our States have neither 11ore nor less. power than that reserved
them in the Union by the Constitution - no one of them ever ·
having been a state out of the Uniona The orlglnal ones passed
into the Union even ~fore they cast off thelr lirltlsh colonlal
dependence, ••• ,. The new ones only took the designs.ti.on of
States on comtng into the Union, while that name '-ra.s f tr st
adopted for the old ones in and by the Declaration of Independe <
:
•••• Having never been States, either in substanc~ 'or in name,
outside of t:he Union, whence this magical omnipotence of
"State rights", asserting a claim of power to !awfully destroy
the Union ltself7 (pp. 603·604. cf. P• 572) •
....
"
Hence the assumption of the states• power of lawful witttdi:awal ~as
a "sophlsm" (p. 603).. Lincoln's term "civil war", i.11pl'les precls~ly
the denial of the Confederate view, that it is a "war between the
States.•
·
'
This 1s only apparently an appeal to•er~ dates. · Here history,
ln the providential course lt . seeras to run on this continent, dlsplay
the nature of the case, for the Unlon comes naturally before the
states, b~ing the ground and guarantor of that popular goverl'l.lll,ent
which is the incarnation of the founding principles. Thi~ le
.
expres$ed in its instrument, the Constitution, in two places. Fire ·~.:
ln its Preample1 the very phrase, .. We, the people", le meant to
ind lcate t,hat only a unlted people, ·speaking in it:e own voice, can
sanction republican fundamental law - as Lincoln had pointed out, it:
had been precisely this phrase which was altered in the new ,southern
�-16document to •we, the deputl•• of the sovereign and independent
States•, in aeoerdance with the fact that the new Deelarat1ona had.
omitted the words -all ..n are ereated eqwa1.• •Why thla dellberata
preaalng eut •f vtew th• rlghta of •en and the authertty ef the
pectple7• he ••k• (p. 607). seoendly ln lte bodya the Cenatitutlon
provides that "The Unlted St:atea ahall guarantee to every atate ln
the Union a republican fora of gever1t11ent• (Art. IV, Sec. 4), ••
that
if a atato ••Y lawfully
g~
out of the Union, having done so,
lt uy alee dlseard the relf)Ubllcan for• of Gevern11ont1•••
(p. 608, ef, P• 740) • ·
the Union is reapenalblle not eniy for th• eatabliahaent but al10 for
pervasiven••• of republican institution•• But «le T•equev111e
••Y••
Th• •overetgnty ef the Union la an abatract beln.l•••t the
sovereignty of the atatea if perceetibla by tho
eaally
understood, and constantly active {DtlJllC[ICY !D Aurtc1, l, xvltl } ,
••n••••
Lincoln's effort ia, without detriment to tho dl1tlnctlveneaa of the
states (p. 446), to turn this abstraction into a palpat.le feeling,
as 11Uch •• anywhere ln thla speech, ln which out of tactful respect
for the fact that .it is a natlerual but not a federal cemetery which
is being dedicated, the w.rd "Union• never appears.
Now the right ef aeceeaion being rejected, what happens to the
right of revelutlen? Lincoln thinks on thi• crucial matter as a
radical conservative. That le, when charged with revolutionary vieva
he protest• his eeneervatlaa'i
What la conservatiaa? ls it net adherence to the old and trl•d•
against the new and untried? We stick to, eentend !or, the ·
identical old policy on the point in controversy which w~s
adopted by •our fathers who fra11ed the govermaent ·under which
we llve" (p. 528),
.
·
but alnce the controversy referred to is the extension of alavery,
which Llnceln opJ>Gsed with all hls ai.ght, his v"ry opposition to
change t.1 made in the spirit of the Revolution. ' In other wrda,
in this country, whose original government vae cenatituted by
revolution, the aoat pregreaaiv• side tries most faithfully to return
to the beginnings, so that even innovations are aade in a context
of rational arguMent with the fathers (p. 525). It haa once and !or
all preeapted the Revolution, embodied in the process of change by
majority decision, so t~t henceforth all rebellion is counter- ·
revolution • . In a well-f11unded pol tty, justice ls almost o•lncident
with organic law, and a sense of justice with the intention to
preserve it.
In practice this means, on the one hand, that bad laws
�.. I 7 ..
should be repealed as soon as possible, still while they
- contlnue 1.n force·, for the sake of exa11ple, they should be
religiously observed (p. 81),
·
even 1.f 1.t is expected that they will be .held unconstitutional (p. 58 ~
and on the other, that no law or decision need become 9• a rule of
polit:ical action" (p. 418, cf. p .. 396) until it is judged to harmoniz(
with t.he intent ion of the Founders. · The right to revolution does
remains however it ls clearly c1rcumscr.ibed, n.nd :tn such tP-rms as to
reveal the chief function of the Conatltut'-on in a working democracy c
If, by mere force of numbers, a majority should deprive a
· ~lnorlty c.•f any clearly written constitutional right, le might,
tn a moral pob1t of view, justify revolution .. certainly would,
if such a !°-ight were a vital one (p. 5'84).
The issue mu~t, then, be one of constitutional rlghts dented, or
extra-legal action upon i.t constitut~s an upris1ng against the
people• So Lincoln says of th~ aecessiqnisttu
.These politicians are subt i.l-e and profound on the rlght:B of.
mlnoritieB. They are not partial to that power which me.de
the
Con~t:ltution,
and speaka from the preamble. calling 'itself
"We, the People_" (p. 606).
Thus any sectional or factional uprisif\S, upon a mere feeling of
dissent or discuntnet, or ev"n ort a plea of "social just tee", no
matter how worthy of sympathy, b~ing dir~cted against that government which ls itself the first living and prospering incarnati.on
of the r~volutionary principle,
conoucing ~ore essentially to the ends of civil and religtous
liberty (p. 76)
than any previol!sly known, wi.thout ' vlable alternative, and moreover
as Lincoln emphasized, containing the means of lts own a~endmenc
wt.thin itself {p. 587)~ ls a catastrophe of a p~culiarly _ allful sort.
Llncoln d~cl ined to participate in it even where hla sen•e of jt•stice
was completely outraged (p. 3]6). For the man who
proposes to abandon such a Government, . would d<.' welt to consider .
in deference . to what princ-lple it ls that: he does it' what bette·
he i.s likely to get in U:e !l!teach .whether the substltute will
6lve, or be intend~d to give, so much of good to the people?
(p. 607).
. .
The question is thus always, in Lincoln's a<laptat1.on of Hamlet's
weighing. of suicide (III, i, 82)•
Will you hazard so desperate a step, .... whi.le .the certain llls
you fly to, are greater than all the real ones you fly from7
(p. 584).
�·18-
Thle , v.ar, Lincoln goes on to say., ls a .tJ!.1..k• The oriaia has the
nature of a teat, because, aa he had aatd 1.n -iits ..aaage to the
Congress vhlch he had called into special session to aeet on that
fateful . date e! July .4, at the beginning of the war ln 1861, thla
goverruaent ls an experl•enta
·
· Our pepular govern•ent has often been cal led an experlaent •
Two points ln it eur people have already eettled - the auoceaaful
t•t•rl19hi~, and th~ eueceaaful 1~11ni•f•{1Dft ef it. one atlll
0
re11a ne • ~. auooeasful 11tifilY'nc1 aga net a foraldable internal
.
attempt to overthrow 1t (p.
. •
·
.
.
As a final phase of 4n experiaent the war represents one teat for
all cases, a aodel caae of a natl.en established' on expltcit prinoiplea,
ln which two rutceasary foundi~ conditions, na•ely the vtade• ef
the fathers and the reeeptivity of the contin~nt had been optiaal •
lf. this ?14tlon fails then it la de11onatrated that "any natlen• muat
fall. Thia ls how the American enterprise had. been underatoed fro•
the founding1 lt 1ee11e te have been reserved", says the ft.rat
Federal tot
11
to the people of thie country, by their conduct and exaaple,
to decide the i11portant question, whether oocletlea of aen are
really capable or not, of eetabl iahi"R good govet·!Wetlt fro•
reflectlen and choioe ••• ,
and this very thlng h•d •oved de Tocqueville to write his book
(I, xvli9 end). When the Thucydt.dean Pericles calla the whole city
"an edueatlen to Greece .. (II, 41)he •eans that Athene 11 the· unique
and t.ni•ltable cynosure of the Greeke1 when Lincoln calls the
government an experiaent and the present war a teat.1for all natl•n•
he offers Amert.ca as a practical poli.tt.cal pattern to the werld.
The funda11ental iseue, whlch t.n the course of the war had beoo•e
"distinct, staple and inflexible• i1 an lssue which can only be tried
by war and decided in victory (p. 787). But how can a war be a teat
of anythi.ng? The var vlll, .Llnceln says at lt11 beginntnai, teach th~t
when ballots have fat.rly and constitut't.onally decided, there
can 6e no succeaa!ul appeal baak te bullet•••• (1861, P• 608).
Is Lincoln rutt aelf •contradt.ctory here? How could the suooeasful u1e
of bullets tn thi• var preve that there can be ne succeeeful appe•l
te bullets in republlca7 Or, lf the argu..ent ia that strength at
war ls the converted strength of the ballet box, will it not be
necessary to say that every outco•e proves the principle of popular
eoverelgnty? Certainly, Lincoln f&und his old "faith that right 11akea
might" (e.g., P• · 536) corroborated by the popul.• r aupport the Unlen '
co!Ulanded {pp. 606-7, 764, 786)1 to hi• the solid conservatism of the
11ajortty was a sign of political soundnesa • . But as the war went on
�he looked ure often to a higher judge, to .. the God of battles .. of
the Revolution (p• 264) ,· who• the theoreticians o! popular governnem:
had not been able to aveld invoking.
In the Seoon~ Ireatloe g.! Civil Goyer~en;. Locke says, not
perhaps with much inner conv1ctlon, but rater driven by the argu. .nt,
that
where there 1• no judicature on earth te decide eantroveraiea
amongst men, God in heaven 11 Judge (par••· 241-242, of. 168).
And the Second Inaugural Address (1865) ls a fervent reference to
Psalm 19,91
qth• judg••nta of tha Lord, are ttu• and righteoua altegether•
(p. 793, of. Letttr ~ A{ G, Qqd111 1. Aprll 4, 1864, Which
anticipates · the Inaugura ).
. .
And in a private ••dtaation on the divine will "net written to be
seen of men• in 1862, he ascribes the dlreotlen and the outcn•e of
the war entirely te the will of God who uaes the contestants ae his
•huraan instruaentalitles" (p. 655, cf. P• 610). While there ls
still peaoe, Ged'a juds•ente are ~lven by hie •8Nat tribunal, the
A•erlcan people• (Firat Inaugural, P• 587), but ~nee at war, the
Almi~hty adjudicates. Frcn• the day Lincoln left for wa·• hington, as
Prealdent~e1ect, he did what the A•ertcan people have always expected
their fallible fellow citizens who rule the• to do - he co•mitted
himself te God, (p. 568), aa the only power htih enough to oversee
the tendency •f the whole, and in this spirit he CGnttnued1
I olalm not to have controlled events, but confess
that eventa have controlled me. New at the enp of
struggle the nation's cenditien la not what either
any 11an deviaed, er expected. God alone can clat.11
!2. A, q, H9dge1. April 4, 1864).
plainly
three y11tars
party, or
it (LetterI
Exactly what the test · was to prove Lincoln had· stated already in
his •Perpetuation• speech o! 1838. It was to b~·
a practical de•onatratian of the truth of a propositi•n• which
had hitherto been cnna1dered, at best no better, than proble11atloal
namely, the ~rAtltv 2! A pegple IA gove~n themoelyes
(p. 82, cf. P• 1
•
"The experiment is successful", he had then added, but as the self•
evldence of the axlom · e! equality had begun to fade, se it• practical
oonsequence, the gevernaent, was thrown t.n doubt. The more precise
forra of. the questlon n.w lsa
.
·whether di.scentented indlvlduale, too few in nmnbers to contr•l
ad11lnistration. according to organic law, in any case, can always,
upon the .pretenses 11ade ln thle case, or on any other pretenses,
or arb.ttrarlly, without any pretense. break up their Government,
and thus practically put an end to . free goverlll'llent upon the earth ••
�-20•ts th•~•· in •11 republtoa, thls inherent and fatal weak"-••T•
•Huat a Geverftll8nt, of neoe11lty, be too
tor the 11bei:tl••
of lt• own peeple, or
Kl!k te •alntaifi?ta evn ex1~teneet•
n1ou
t••
(p. 598).
·
That • natien, heir te the •tuM••ental bl•••lna•~ •! th• •falr•et
portion of the earth•, lnvulnera~l• t• lnva1l•n• •• ~•11 ••tea
fref· gover1111ent, eeuld enly "die by auieide• (pp. 76-77) had lene
see1ied plain te Lt.nceln, though at ·the t i - (lRl8) 1'• had tboual\t
that thi• internal trlal would take th• fer• of that p•rv•,•l•n of
de11c .cracy, whioh he called •ubeeracy•, in vhleh.
JtMPl• l.Wt.•
vldt1ally forget te ~evern thnaelv••• Nev lt tum1 eut that ln hit
century the teat of endurance baa taken th• for11 't elvll war, i n
whl<·h a whole a•g•nt of the Mtian refuaea td aubaltl 'i• lte !'.'I
t•
StY!·~~rtl•
t::
.
··~. :-::~
..
Lincoln goee ona
We are .•et en a Areat battle•fleld o! that war.
But he avoids any particularization of the circu••tancea ef the
battle of the great . war 1 iV§tC~.~. tit4 treated that at length.
p,re~ . test
Lo::·-··.-"·"" -' ··- ·" ,::;: . :... - .~---=a:~..--:r..:::::::.-q:;::.r:;ctr.J•P"'
We have colle to dedicate a pertlon of that field, as a ·
final resting place fer thoae who here gave their lives that
that nation might live. It ls altogether fitting and proper
that we should do this.
A pi.rt of the fi.eld, which had, incidentally, been called Ce•etery
Hl11 even before the battle, ls being eet aside as the earthly
dom .ln of these newly dead soldier• vhe, ae the father• gave the
nat1 .on birth insured lt11 continuing life.
IV.
The Third Paragraph
But in a larger sense
we can not dedicate we can net consecrate •
we can not hallow •
this ground.
The third paragraph has features of an incantation, repetition and
rhy11e, but it ls a negative incantation. It begins by warding off
an 4!rror1 fit and proper though it may be in a narrow sense to
comtuct dedication ceremonies, there la danger that the present
gem,ration, txhat •we", •ay substitute the redundant rituals of
ded~ .catlon, censecrat1on and devotion for dedication in the sense of
the fathers, 'that dedication of a piece of ground may take the place
of 1:he larger ded'lcation to a proposition called for. by the great
war. So one can hear tlhe steady lambs of Lincoln's three-line
rhyritng ref'raln perturbed by a warntnge11.phasls on "we 11 •
�•21-
The brave aen, living and dead, who struggled here, have
consecrated it, far above our poor power to add ~r detract.
With this sentence Lincoln honors at ol'\ee the Union dead, the
Union aurvlvora, and genereualy but tactfully, the enell)', fer the
phrase "the brave men, living and dead, who atruggled here", with
its intranaitlva. uae ef the verb, applies also . to the other alde of
whom about an equal number, 23,000 aen, had died (p. 712). Lincoln,
unlike Pericles in speaking to the Greek Athenians, always keepe
before hl11 the· terrible fact of the civll war, that Alierlcana are
fighting Aaerican1. He aaya not one derogatory werd of the transient
enemy a -three weeks after the Addreaa, Lincoln issued a Proclaut;.ien
ef Aanesty and Reoonstruction giving tull pardon to all ordinary
ct.tizena whe would resuae allegiance to the Unt:on (p. 738 f.). As .
always, he ·av•lda 11.aklng dlviaiena, fore
Our strife pertains to eurselvea • to the passing generatlens
of mens and it can, wlthout convulal•n, be hushed forever with
the passing of one generation (p. 679, of. P• 588),
1
and
What I deal wt.th ta ~9.9 AIJ'.&! .f9!': malicious deal 11)8 (p. 650) •
He goes ona
The world will little note, nor long remeaber what we say here,
but lt can never forget what they dld here.
·
as
It la. known that Lincoln considered the speech a failure
a speken
speech, for he h.ad told a friend right after its delivery1 •Lamen,
that speech won't ocour. It is a flat fallure and the people are
disappointed.• The ea11e thing had happened with respect to hls
second moat renowned speech, the Second Inaugural, ·about which he
had written to a friend•
·
I expect the latter ta wear as well as • perhaps befter than •
anything I have producedf but I believe it is not ilQlediately
popular (p. 794)•
In view of Lincoln's correct appraisals of hi& ~peeches, the sentence
cannot be regarded as a conunent on the Address1 rather, besides
carrying the meaning siven above, it serves as the counterpart of
one in his previous Annual Messaget
We ~ we are for the
we say this (p. 688).
Union~
The world will not forget that
The state11ent of ai11 has been once and for all made, and now all is
concentrated on its mil ltary !9.9.~.!e~..!•~Jlli•
t:=,";;:, .. ~ ... __ ...... _ ~· • ••.:.::::.:..• ,; ; .;..:.-:.~~.~:.. ··..:·...~....:;;.. ;;;..,1. ~ ;. ;::-,.-:-..:;~..;.:-:;; =-~:::;,..
:
...
And then come the last two sentences, . half the speech in length,
wh1.ch develop its expl lcit theme - the second dedtcat\qn. of the
�-22·
natt.nn, ln this consecrated pl•~· ll!Dt (Lincoln reaoved a fourth
.. here" fr•• th• ft.ul veraten), "'
"
·
Tt l• f•r ua the llvtns. rat:her, to be dedlcated here
to the un!tnlahed WGrk
whloh they vha fou,!ht here hav• thua far so nobly advanced.
lt t1 r•ther fer ua to be here dedtcated
to the great task r•••lnlng before ua •
Practt.cal ly, th• "un!lnlehed work"; .. the great t.a11tk r••alntng before
11
,
ta the winning o! thtt W'-1" (ef. Jh 791) • bttt in 1lgnlftcance it
.
ta ao••tht.~ Ar•ater, tl\e 1ueeeelt!ul .PMl'l•t.en ef the expert.11ent
nf ~npular !•v•rn••nt.
·
tJa
-
·;·:,.~.":""'~~~~:~· · :-:.';: .~:. ~~"-~~:-~:!.. · ~~t.: : ." ' ;" :'" .~~·;:.·~ ..;~ .-~-J?-~ .•
~
Th• next two clau1e1 1 ·~•lft in that 1pell•l t.ke .diction which
gtvea eucee11\ve cola ldentlcal er n••r-tdentlcal endlnge, give the
nat.ure qf thl1 new d8dleatlon1 it •••ns
·
I
that frGa these honered dearl we take lnere&$ed devetlon
t• that caua• !ftr whleh the~, ~ave the l•st: ful 1 l'leasure of
devothm •
th.at we her• hi8hly reaolve
that these dead
shall nftt have dled
tn va1.n ..
In invok1"8 the dead, Lt.neoln t.a touohing what ln hla Flrat Inaugural
he ttalled
the 11)'11tlc ohotc1e er •e•ory;'. atret:chlng fro• every battle•.fi.eld
and patriot ~rave, to every 1 lving heart and hearth-etol"tt• ••
(p, 5ftA).
..
.
I
'fe '10 thle hf.It al~lftB the la~U&f';t!t of (!hurch and . legielatlve assemhlye
'fhe dedloat:lon, · the eena•cratt.en, .t h• hat lowing, the .devotion Lt.ncoln
i1r••• 1.a ofen
a
h1.s Rf'ttltch
pol ltlcal . sort. He had uried lt .already 1n 1R3R, in
"The Perpetuation nf our Polltlcltl Inatltl;ltlons .. ,
Let rfJv«trence for the lawa.~.becol'le thsJ91\t;1 0 alte11~1on of
the natl.ant and let the old"!'and the you ·. 1 the rt.oh an ·the
po«n'• th8 ~rave a~ the 8•Y• nf all sexes and tca~ues, and
oolai-• and eendltlena. aaorlflce unceattln81Y upon lts altars
(p.
Rt).
·
nu•an
Llncnln ls dftllberateiy ooneecrati.1\A poll.tlc1, and the ~reat
agency of reverenee la , •••ery, wtl~fQ .,1 l th\naa .. Se•• hallowed" (p. 191.
The laat: two olauaee !lV• the efteot. of
that thi.1
f reedoll -
nattnn.
undf.tr
n,.d,
~he
new dedicatlona
ahalt have a new birth ef
�-23The wonds 11 under God" were not in the flrst draft1 they were .reported
in the newspaper verslons of the ap•ech as delivered and incorporated
by Lineeln later (cf. 1s. 752). Why did he add the117
··
I¥•
Under th_, heading "Of Clvll Reli~ion", the last in
Sogial
C1ntr15t, Rousseau describes the clvll rell~i•n of repub cs wh{ch
it le the business of the acverelgn to set out, not as retl~loua
de1t•a1 but as 11 8entlaenta •f 1octablllty". They ought t• be
staple, few ln nuaber, preclaely fixed, and without explanation
or co••nt. The existence of a powerful, wlae, and benevolent
Divlnlty, vhe fer••••• and prevldee .t he life to 0011e, the
happlness ef the . juat 1 the puniahaent of the wicked, the ..
sanctity of the aeeial contract and the laws ••• (IV, viii).
This la precisely the nature of Lincd~'s faith as continually set out
tn hla public pronauncMtente (pp. 65~, 727, 757, 793). The natlen 1.a
under a "beneficent Father who dvelleth in the Heavens" (p. 728).
.
It has a double parent•~• • the !ore-fathers and the F•ther above.
Wlth the1e words, Lincoln, then~ tnvokes at once faith, the pe1:sonal
trust in a auperlitr betng, and religion, the public obligation to
reverence.
·
·
Thia natlonwill have .. a ·new birth of freedo•"· Thoee werds
were not, at the time, felt to be at all innocuous• Nor are they,
if "of freedo•" la read not as an objective genitive, so that the
natl.on is said to ~ive blrth to a new freedom, but as a parallel
to •conceived ln Liberty•, ae that the nation itself ts said to be
rebnrn. The Chteago ~. tnreperttng on the speech, aald that
in thia phrase "Mr. LIJ\COin did
foully traduce the 11otlves of
the tHm who were elaln at Gettysburg", for· they fousht only to
preserve the eld govern11ent. Now, as has been shown, Lincoln in
fact &8reed with thla conservative vlew of the struggles he bad
sai.d so explicitly1
·
I
••t
I am exceedingly anxious that thla Union, the Constitution, and
the libertle1 of . the peGple shall be perpe~uated in accordance
with the ori~lnal idea for which that strt.lggle was aade, and I
ehal l be raost happy indeed if I shall be . an humble lnstl'Uaent. ·
in the hand . of the A1111.ghty, and this, . hls almost chosen
a
people 1 for perpetuating the object of that great struggle
' {p. 57:>).
And yet theChidago Times was right to
1.ntentlon, a ra teal oppost.tlon to the
conserv.atta• expressed ln their slogan
the Union as t.t was". ln 1R54 Lincoln
suspect an underlying radical
De110crat!.c party' a klnd of
"The Constltutlon as i.t is and
had satd at Peorla1
Let u~ re-adopt the Declaratton of .Independence, and With lt,
.the practices and policy, whlch har110nize wt.th lt. Let north
and .south • let all A•ericana - let all lovers of liberty
everywhere .. join in the great and good work. If we do this,
we shall not only have saved the Unions but we shall have so
saved lt, as to make, and keep 1.t, forever worthy of saving.
We shall . have so saved it, that the succeeding mtlllons of free
�-24-
kappy people, thft worlrt ovt!r, shal 1 rl8e 1.ip, and cal 1 us
blessed, to the latest generatlons (p. 315)"
The last phrases are a para.phrase of the Hagnlfleat, the words of the
ntother-to•be of the Messlah1 "For, behold, front hence forth all
~e""ratlons shall call nte blesse"" (Luke t, 48).
It i8 Lincoln's
aweso11e lctea that the generatlon of the clvll war, undtitr his leadership, ls 81: once the savior and the par.ent of the . savior nation,·
that America is to pol itlca "all'fto.8 t" as Israel was to the spirit•
That means that for th& Union side the war ls a kind of second
comlnA, a second brlnglng-forth, after four score and seven years.
Llncoln has converted Jefferson's extravagant opinion that "a
llt:tle rebellion, now and then, is a gt>olt thing" (Letter 12. Hadlsin,
January 30, 17R7)- into a serious view concerntng the perlodlc
rP-hir.th of the Revolution - to occur, evldently, in fullest force
· ln·the fourth g"neratlon, once ln a century.
.
In this idea Llnooln recognizes that a country founded ln a
revolut\on ls bounc1 to have a Aeneratlonal problell• . For the document.
con~tltutl~ lts p;overmaent is ordalnerl and · eRtabllshed. as- the
prlnclple of popular government demands, ln the ftrst p~rson plural;
lt beglns1 "We the penple." Yet thls can mean literally only the ·
r.atifylng generation, thereafter the fundamental act . of self·
govern~nt ls lnherltec1 - but self-determinatlon by tradition ls a
ktnd nf paradox. This dlfficulty lay hehlnd Jefferson's advocacy of
· re~ular
revolutlona
Can one generation bind ariother,·ancl all others, ln succession
forev8r? l .~hlnk not. The Cr~ator has made the earth for the
living, not the dead..... A generatton may bi.mi itself as ·
long .a s lts majority continues ln l lfea when that, has dlsap•
peared, another majority ls tn place, holds all the rights and
powers their predecessors once held, and may change thelr
lawe and lnstltutlons to suit themselves. Nothlrig then ls
unch11n~P-able but the inherent anrl unalienable rights of 11an
(Letter~ J• Cartwright, June 5, 1R24).
·
Jefferson's radical solution to the problem of changlnS. generations
was opposed hy Lincoln on the ground that majority rule itself as ·
well as mlnor\.ty rlghts were guaranteed by nothing but a commitment
to the fun<Jamental law and the governmP-ntal institutions.
The very raaterial success of "the popular principle applied to
government" . acerbates the problem • . Lincoln, on several occasions,
for instance to Congress ln 1R61 and 1862, had given exultant accounte
of the fanta8tlc .increas., of population, elsht-fold ·. since the founding
11nd contlnui.ng, incredibly, even throu~h .. the )lar (pp. 72R, 761),
with the expectation at the sAme rate of growth of 250 nitlllon by
1910 ann a proportionately even greater lncrease of prosperity
(pp. f.'34-615. 6R1). But when making up Auch an account a quart?er
of a century earl ler, ln the speech "On the Perpetuation of our
PolttlcAl Jnstltutlons" he had a<t<leda
�-25-
We, when 11ountins the stage of existence, found ourselves the
legal inheritors of these fundamental blessinss. We toiled not:
ln the acquirement or establiahllent of them - they are a
legacy bequeathed u1, by a ~ hardy, brave, and patriotic,
but ~ laaented and departed race of ancestors (p. 77). ·
The generational. dileraaa raised by success ls that the epigoni, the
successor generation•• bred in that most desirable ignorance, the
ignorance of anarchy and despotls11, and 11tatak{ng the drained habits
of their parents for the tradition, will in the low ef political
passion areuae themselves by giving current problems a cataclysmic
cast, that they aay, developing an appetite for unknown terror, be
· willing to cure dlasatisfaction by catastrophe. A deliberate return
to the founding revalut~on alone can forestall · e~ch an event, or if,
as in the case ef the Clvil War, it beco. . a a fact, can turn it into
an act of salvation. Lincoln bei\tinually mak&a the effort to
.
convert the war in this way, even coflparing its financial funding
to that of the Revolution (p. 602).
,
There ls, of course, an assuMption in this which goes beyond
Jefferson's reliance on the mere principles of 1776. It is that
constitutlonal severn11ent is, in fact, the best 11eans of realizing
the11, and ts, therefore, to be equally cherished. .. Lineoln held ·
this asau•ption ln full awareness of the 11lxed and ma1111ath character
which the nation was to atta1n in the next century, and this is why .
he saw the incidents of the Civil War as "phllosophy to learn wisdom
fro11" "for any future great natienal trial" (p. 764).
f
a .Z:::st.ftW
l llH A -
-
..f.
What then, 1Mre precisely, does Lincoln aean by •a new birth .of
freedo11"7 As ·the nation was cenceived in liberty and dedicated to
equality, so it ls to be reborn ln freedort• That 11eanethat . ln this
speech 11 freedom 11 covers both equality of creation and the Latinate
"liberty•, that ls, civil freedom, which Lincoln elsewh~re calls the
jewel of liberty within the fartily of freedom1 it stands at once for
••n's riature as a creature under God and for hls means .of fulfill!~
that nature in civil seciety, as part of a natiop (cf. P• 403). ,
This means ls self•gavernaient, which Lincoln res~ects equ.lly with
its end, calling it •rtgN&~absolutely and eternally right" (p. 303).
In fact, he defines it coextensively with liberty, which means for
"each 11an to do as he pleases with himself" (p. · 748) 1
I trust I und.e rstand and truly estimate the rtght of self•
government. My faith in the propost.tion that each man should
do precisely as he pleases with all which ls exclusively his
oWn, lies at the foundation of the sense of justice there is in
•e (p. 303, cf• PP• , 394) •
.
I11pli.ed in this is first, that poltti.cally, where there must be
submission to a govern11ent, this must be by the consent of the
governed, understood as
.
A 11ajority, held in constraint by constt.Uuttonal checks and
limitations, and always changing easily with deliberate changes
of popular opinions and sentilllents ••• (p. 585),
�-26discovered in elect1ens 1 for
We can not have .free government without electlonst•••
The strife of the electien ia but huaan-nature practically
applied to the facts of the case (pp. 763-764).
And. secondly·, ·~•no•ically, that a 11an ~•t be abl• to acquire and
hold so11ethlng of hia own, -.iat have, not the assurance, but the
possibility of acquiaitlena Lincoln 11ade this a1Jit")t
aelf•
govern11ent a subject of hla firet Annual Heeaage t• Ceqre11 ln
1861 (pp. 633, ef. P• 501).
.
. ·.
of
••t
Now when Lincoln in the decade before and durlng the war
out his vlews on freedoa, h~ did it almet lnvarla)>ly in refarerac•
to lts antithesis - slavery (cf. P• 303 and P• 347). By •a new birth
of freedom• Lincoln 11eana the readoptlen of the Deelaratlen in a .
very specific sen••• a aenae which the ordinary •conae~atlvea•
strongly disapproved.
During the war Lincoln expressed his views on the slavery ·
question succinctly in a private letter. They are charaoterletic
of the double nature of his politi.cal opinions, rever•M• for the
laws combined with radioa11ty •f principle. He ~alda
I am naturally anti•elavery. If slavery la not wrong, nothing
la wreng" . .I can not r•••ber wben I did .not so thlrik, and f'eel.
·: .And . ·iy•t 1 I, hA•·· never understood that the Pres idericy conferred
upon me an unrestricted rlght to act offlclally upen tlhiai
judg11ent and feeling (April 4, 1864, cf. PP• 395, 652).
For, as he said in his Firat Inaugural, not only did he have under
the Constitution no lawful right to do so, but he even held hl•••lf
bound by his oath of office to en!orcethe constitutional provtatpn
for the reclai11ing of fugitive slaves (pp. 492, 580-581) - it wae
more i.11porta.nt . o preserve the very bas 1 e of 11.berty than to secure
t
iml'lledlate justice. At the sa11e time he found hi•s6lf. able to base
his uncompromising public opposition to slavery~on the ~plnlona e!
the . founding father3 (e.g. pp• 272-273) and on the found\ng doouaenta io
Whether or not he knew of Jeffereon•a "pblllppic against Negro slavery
which Congress had deleted fro• the final draf~. he had no
question that the Declaration meant . to include negroes, a view he
set · out ln his debate with Douglass
I should like to k°"w if taki~ this old Declaration of
Independence, which declares th11.t all men are equal upon
principle, and raaking exo•ption to it, when will it atop7
If one aan says it· does not mean a. negro • why IlC)t another
say it does not 1ftean some other man?" (pp.: 402-403, cf. PP•
360 ff, P• 479).
And he had equally no question about the intention of the Constitution
He often repeated, the argument from .. necessity .. , that to get the
Constitution at all the framers had had to compromise, but that they
�-27·
had found a way to save in the long run the principle which they
could not assert at the J'llO•ent (pp. 304, 313, 358 ff., 403, 423,
479), for
When ~he . fathers of the goverruaent cut off the source of slavery
by the· abolition of the slave trade, and adopted a systent of
restricting lt from the new territories wh&re lt had net
existed, I maintain that they placed it wh~re they understood,
and .a ll sensible men understood, it waa in the OIJHme ef
ultimate extinction (October 13, 1858, et. PP• 394, 416).
Accordingly Lincoln whe, as a responsible parti.clpant tn political
l lfe, could not support the extre11e of abel ltion, became the laplaeabL~;
foe of the 7xttn1ion of slavery • thia single ·issue doatnatea his
speeches ·be ore the war (e.g.,
170, 339) • a net in !act . brought
.
him, as lt had Jefferson (p. 272 , back lnto politics, t.n which be
had been losing interest (p. 512 • It was an lsaue important to
him ln some part because it was so peculiarly connected with the
question o .f the axiomatic character of the founding prlnclples,
namely wlth the question of their uniyersall~y, (cf. PP• 308, 477).
Such proposltlona, ·precisely because they are prlnci.plea of hwu.n
nature, pronounced concerning •all 11en", must eventually either
altogether fall or altogether preva1.1, both in respect to lnetitutlonet
p!.
I believe thl& government cannot endure, permanently
half slave and half free (1858, P• 372),
and to (ndlvlduals1
This ls a world of compensations• and he who would lll! no
slave, must consent to .b.E!.! no slave. Those who deny freedom
to others, deserve it not fer themeelves1 and, under a just
God, can not long retain lt (p. 489, cf. PP• 136, 473).
Lincoln. did not regard it aa l11poss1.ble that the nation alght fail,
that ls, that the false principle might become generally accepted
so that the natien would degenerate into despot·tsm (p. 335) t:o prevent this wa.s precisely hla pol it teal task. So, ance the war
had turned out tn be the final means of resolving .the question, for
. the very reason that his .. para11ount object.. .wa,s to
save the Union, and •••I!S!.t. either to save or destroy slavery
(1862, P• 652),
he recogni.zed, in hts Second Inaugural Address, that the "ei.ghth of
the whole population" who were slaves, were "somehow, the cause of
the war" (p. 792), and ·that
tn giving freedom to the tlave·, we assure freedom to the
~ ••• (p.
688),
for slavery was "that only thing wh:tch ever could brlng thls nation
to civil war" (p. 759). And he gave this not only a political but,
�-2R·
as was in the nature of the case, an economic interpretation, on the
principle that bad labor drives out good. So he told a labor dele ...
gation that
'
••• the exlsting rebellion 11eans more, and tends to 1110re,
than the perpetuation of African slavery • that l.t ta, in
. fact, a war upon th~ rights of all working people (March 11,
1864, cf. P• 343).
.
.·
Ihis ls why, just after the victory at Gettysburg, he had been able
to call the war
a gigantic Rebellion, at the bottom of which ls an effort to
. overthrow the principle that all 11en are · created equal•·•.
(p. 709).
.
.
.
Lincoln had s. veral time.s made a point of the fact that the
e
word Jtal•v•t!Y"' :de's 'riot appear"·tn; the CofteC:ltutien1 ·
Thus, the thing ls hid away, lri the constitution, just as an
afflicted lll8.n hldea av•y a wen
a cancer, which he dares not
cut out at once, lest he bleed to death1 with the promise,
nevertheless, that the cut·t tng may begin at; the end of a given
tl.11e (p. 313). •
.
·.
.
or
So also this speech does not contain the word, . but for a different
reason1 as the founders had to violate their feelings about it out
of political necessity, ao the ti11e had come at the beginning of that
year, 1R63, when Lincoln couldlndulge hi.a out of Military necesalty.
He used what he considered to be the Prealdent•s war powers to put
the Emanci.patl.on Precla11&tlon ln force
the states in rebellion
(p. 691), a mve he defended with the argUJMnt that the black
regl11ents were indispensable to ml.litary success (Letters of Apr~l 4
and August 17, 1864)• Since the Union slave states, l'lke Maryland
(p. 749), were proceeding wlth voluntary emancipation, it was plain ·
that the thing was on the way out. The Union was to be rec•nstru~ted
without slavery, . nd so the irgclamat1on. 2.( 6•efta A!!!\ Reconstruotio j.
a
Lincoln issued three weeks a tftr the Gtt~yabµrg _d_rees provided .
(pp. 73R ff., cf, PP• 796 ff). The "new birth of freedom" 11eant for
Lincoln the re-adoption of the Declaration ·(p, 315) and the amend11ent
o( the Constitution (pp. 679, 785) to make explicit their true
intention1 it meant "returning . slavery to the posltiori our fathers
gave it" (p. 315), and restoring the republican example to •tta
just influence lil the world .. , by · averting fro11 it the charge of
hypocrisy (p. 291) • . Llncaln made of the war a purlflcatlon1 ·
the nation was to be p~ged of inconsistency •
for
. t..
And now the last clausee
and that government of the people, by the.people, for the
people, shall not pert:l.h from the earth •.
�-29How, to begin with, should we i11agine that Lincoln read this phrase
concerning govermaent, a memerable expansion ' on •popular governm~nt''7
Did he streaa the preposltlona •ef•, "by"• "for•• or the noun "people''
which they govern? The diaayllabic rhythm of the speech is best
pres~rved by reading trochees•
I
I
I
I
I
I
of the people, by the people, for the people,
a rhythm which gives equal weight to the people and its relation to
the governaent.
As was the beginning, se tbe. end of the epeechis directly
adapted from the American oratofical tradition, namely fro11 an
abol ltioni1t seraon siven_. appropriately, en July 4 of lRSR by
the Rev. Theodore Parker1 who had 1•td1
. .
De110cracy le direct aelf-government, over all the people, for
all the people, by all the people.
Besides changin8 the rhythm, Lincoln had, significantly, softened
"over" to •or•, avoiding even a hint of deapo.t ism. Thus the people
govern 1. by repre1entatives, 2. chosen fro• aMorig theaselves,
3. who rule in the popular interest - a deacription President Lincoln
himself exemplifies (cf. P• 756).
·
.
Lincoln does not .say 11 thle government as he had . said "this"
nation, for it ia the preservation of popular, that la, elected,
govertlllent anyybere which is at stake, though the i..ediate cause
for resortil18 te force was certainly the preservation of this
.
government. But that came to the same _
thl.ngr thus near the beginning
of the war Llnceln had teld Congress, called by hlm into special
session, again on July 4 of 1861, that he regretfully found
•
•
,
J
I
the duty of e•ploytng the war power in defense of' the Government
forced upon hi11 ••• no popular Govermnent can long survive a
·
marked precedent that those who carry an election can only
save ·the Government from iNmediate destru~ion by giving up
·
the main point upon which the people gave the election (p. 609).
Lincoln had begun with the Revolution an~ its statement of
principle, the Declaration1 he ends with government and its
instituting docUJ11ent, the Constitution. This represents the dl.fferenr
in the commitments of the first and the fourth . generations '(
As the patriots of seventy-six did to support the Declaration of
Independence, so to the support of the Constitution and Laws, le·1
every American pledge his life, hts property, and his sacred
honora ... (p. 81, cf. Declaration, end).
· ·
It also represent~ the relation of the Declaration to the
Constltuttont the latter ls merely the i.nstrument of the former, as
shown tn a sentence Lincoln quotes from the second paragraph of
the Declaration 1
�.30:.. .
That to secure these rlghts, govern11ent~ are instituted among
men, DERIVING THEIR JUST POWERS -!o""ROM THE CONSENT OF THE
GOVERNED (p. 304).
The gover11111ent ts a metns, and thus a compromise of evils • Madiabwr1
says in the fifty-first Feder1li1t1
But what is gover1111ent itself but the greatest of all reflections
ori human nature? If aen were angels, no govern•ent ·vould be
necessary.
and he warns1
Don't interfere wt.th anything tn the Constitution. • That 11ust
be . . tntained, for it is the only safeguard of our liberties
(p. 345).
And so the preservation of . popular goverruaent is linlced · to .the
defense of the American Constitution~
I'
_ _ ...:u; ..--~ ..-
... ~;;.-:.'.!".=:::::.•.- .............,..,....
--
···
This goverill'lent "shall not perish from the earth",· that is ~he
"work", the "task.. , the "cause". Lincoln has ended, as he began,
with language heavy with the Bible•
The good man is perished out of the ekrtha ••d there is
none upright amng 11en1 they all lie in wait for bl•ed1 they ·
hunt every man his brother with a ne• ~M~cah 7, 2),
If . this rebellion prevails, this allusion warns, so that "these
institutions shall pert.ah" (p. 609), aen will return to that universal
state of war, the war of each against all, which prece4es the
institution of government1 the Rebellion would undo the Foundlnga
for when men, b4f! entering .into society apd civil govertllllent,
have excluded force and 1ntaoduced' laws (or the preservation
of property, peace, and unity amongst the~selves, those who
set up force again ln opposition to the laws do rebellare that ls, bring back again the state of war - and are
properly rebels' ••• (Locke, Second Treatise 2.[. Civil Government ,
para. 226).
�-31-
Tn
Lincoln's words 1
Plainly, the central idea of secess.i.on, is the eesence cf
anarchy. A majority, held in restraint by constitutional
checks and l~mitation~, and always changing easily with
deliberate changes of popular opinions and sentl11ents is the
only true sovereign of a free people. Whoever rejects tt,
does, of necessity, fly to anarchy or despotism (1861, P• 585).
And finally, there is the allusiDn to ·Jere11lah.tO,tl1
The gods that have not made the heavens am the earth, evt!n
they shall perish from the earth •••
False gods shall perish, but the ; government of the people shall
perish.
~
V•
the Speaker
After having, at length, considered the speech, it is leglti11ate
to consider the speaker.
Lincoln ts, at his height, a publtc mane
If ever I feel the soul wt.thin me elevate and expand to those
dlmen•••ns not wholly unworthy of its Almighty Architect. it
is when I contemplate the cause of my country ••• (1839, P• 112).
But the American speake~r who, like Lincoln, means to put his whole
heart and ambition (p. "Ill) in the service of the body politic.
has a peculiar problem, rooted in the quality of American life,
which de Tocquevil l& describes in the chapter "Of Some Sources of
Poetry Among Democratic Nations".·
-1
Nothing concelvab.le is so .petty, so lnslpbt, so crQwded with
pal try interests . - in one word so anti-poetic - as the lt.fe of a
man in the United States (pemocracy 1n America, II, t, 17).
'
This ls because democracy has given up ln dlst&ste the source of
aristocratic poetry. the past, while its very principle. that of
equality, deprives it, by maklng ' all contemporaries equally mediocre,
of -the present. There remain, de Tocqueville says. only three
sources to democratic poets• the nation, the future, and God - and
thls precisely anticipates the theaee of Lincoln's public poetry.
But, as he observes in · the chapter on "Why Ameri.can Writers and
Orators Often Use an Inflated Style'•,, lt is difflcul t to oresent
these themes at the middle distancea ·
ln democratic communities, each citizen is habitually engaged
in the contemplation of a very puny object t namely, hinlself.
If he ever raises his looks higher, he p~rcelves only the
hnmens., form of society at large or the stl 11 more imposing
aspect of mankind. His ideas are all either extremely minute
and clear or extremely general am1 vaguea what lies between
�-32-
ls a veld
(.i!?JJ1., lR).
For thls American proble11 of the middle void the very nature of U1e
pr\nciples of equality and liberty is responsible, Flr1t 1 11no~
they are axioms of ~penness, that is, pro.positiona et reaaon wh \ch
are yet not ~ntended ' as the .theoretical bases of a tetal 1yste••
they provide ne specific authoritative "public ph1.1i.iitiphy 0 , 10 that
each issue. ,.aust be dect.ded ·anew on the basis of prlnolplea whose
nature lt' ls precisely to give no univocal guldanciet ~e b•
politically aware is to be uncertain. Second, sin~• they ar•
. intended precisely to insure "the pursu_ t of happ1.n•••'', that t.~ ,. 1
i
a prosperous privacy, they becoae less palpable the . .re euqoe.~tully
they are at work, for, ln echolaatic terms, they are prtnclpl•• of
pure potentiality.- the possibility of goods but not theileelvea
goods, and certainly not public good.as sigrilflcantly 1 Fr•nch
"fraternity" has never co11pleaented 1 iberty ~nd equalcl.~y t.n A•erica.
And third, · insofar as they are self-evident proposltlnna •f reason
they, unlike objects of faith, · become less .and not ao~e objects of
hunlan concern as they are more e!ficact.ously at work, •o that they
tend to.drop simply out of sight in the dally conslderatlone of
national llfe1 private business induces public apathy.
·
In his speeches, Lincoln wrestles with just. t:hee~ dlfflcultiea,
which might be characterized with the aid of a clasalo•l ter•• by
the very nature of their . pol itt.cal foundation Amed.cane tend to act
not as a p9l\s, a pol t.tlcal colll1lt1nity held togethfttr by .rrt.endahlp
(Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, VIII, i, 4), but •• a aoQlety, a
col _ection of private persons who jostle each othetr into 11toae eC'rt
l
of balances his effort in his speeches is precisely to prove this
tendency inessential, to persuade the nation that it la held
toge~her by •bends of affectlan" (p. SRR) •
. To Lincoln, then, the problem of filling the agitated natto~l ·
void with sober sentiment •hewn fro11 the solid quarry of sober reaaon"
represented by the . founding principle8 is ~ probl•• of the natleth
Once the spentlanef)us conimit11ent of the Revolution l11 gontt, he aaya ln
his speech· on "The Perpetuation of Our Politi.cal Tnstlt ... tiona"• a n.ev
situation arises a
·
Passi.on has helped uss but . can do so no more. It wtlt 1.n the
future be our ~nemy. Reason, cold, calculatt.ni, . unt.11pa1u1toned
reason. rwust furnish all the materials fer our future support
and defense ... Let those materials be 11oulder1 lnto 11ner1}
. intelligence, souQd morality, and, in particular, ! [IY!Itnct
for the constitution All2. l.!l!l•••<PP• A4-85).
Lincoln's solutien of the "historical• problent, thft recedtng t'lf the
moment of greatness for ·succeeding generations., h1 bald 1 he .,fffl!rs a
new, sober passion, a passion of reason - reverence, a lawyer-llke
love. for the tnstrumentwhlch has accomplished the 11lracle of a
stable democracy - his rhetoric incorporates, and so ftllclta tt.
�At the same tlmeJtrue to the openness demanded by the principles
he usually abstains Crom the rhetorical compulsion of specific plea.st
these sentences of his last public address, dealing with the
burning problem of the mo11ent, are typical•
In the Annual Message of Dec. 1863 and acco111panylng Proclamation,
pre8ent~d A plan of re-construction (as the phra•- goes) which,
I promiaed, if adopted by any State, should be acceptable to,
and sustained by, the Executive government of the nation. I
distinctly stated . that this was not the only plan which might
possibly be 11cceptabhtr ... (p. 797).
·
I
Instead of attempting to compel the people to a course deduced
dogt1ultically, in the manner of an ideologist,· he presented i.n the
words of the London Spectator,
A political transparency, in which the nation could see an
individual character of great power working out phe problems
set before them alt •••
He manages to make these problems supre11ely. absorbing, and he does
it by maki.ng al11ost every speech an interpretation of the founding
docu11ents, in which he reveals at once their in~xhaustlble
radlcali.ty and their enduring applicability - by giving A11eri.cans a
secular complement to the Scriptures (p• 84).
With respect t<> the pro11iatmry character of democrat le
principles, Lincoln underscores lt by projecti.ng the growth of the
past into the future1
There are already among us those, who, lf the Union be preserved ¥.
will llve to see lt contain two hundred and fifty mllliona.
The struggle 2! today-, is not altogether for today - it is for
a vast future also (p. 635, cf. PP• 681, 756).
'
·
The present .is thus understood as being the sponsor of the
,future1 yet the future la, · 1n turn, nothing but the maanlfi.cation
of the past (cf. P• 656) • . But politically the American past ls of .
a peculiar sorts it ls not an extensive, unbrokentraditlon but the
me11ory of a single, intense event - just as· a,fabrtc of reason
begins with a principle from which it ls .derived, so the history
of del'locracy begins with the Revolution. Lincoln intends to assure
that that beginning is present to the future, that that event
remalns the tradition wtiich governa the future. .For the principles
of. the fathers are, by their very nature, the root of the future
insofar as lt is good.
And finally, with respect to the passive and incurious mode
in which the democratic principles of equality and liberty tend to
be accepted, lt ls significant that. Lincoln himself never attempts
to rai.se the question of their tcuth, nor even to supply a definition ~
except in extremely simple, and negative terruJ. So he says,
�-34-
The world hae never had a good definitlon of the word
l lberty, and t .h e .A11ertcan people, just now, are 11Uch ln want
of one.
And he provides lt ln the simple tertae of the possibll ity for
eelf-real.lzatien - liberty means
for each •an ta do as · he pleases wlth himself, and the product
·
of hl1 labor ••• ( P• 748) ·1
wht.le he expreasea .hie "idea ef del'locracy" in the for11 of the
fa11illar rellsloua precept "Do not do unto others as you would not
have them do unto you"•
As I would not be a §lt'llh so I would not . be a maoier.
Thia expresses 11y idea of de110cracy. Whatever d lffera ~ro11 .
thts, to the extent of the difference, it not ~eraocracy (p. 427)
I
Thus he treata the principles af A•eriean politics as s1.11ple precepts
for the . happineaa of hu•anity, which are at the aa11e time standards
of llOral perfeotlon, and about whleh he offers no theoretical
re f'l ftCt ton• I
The Saviour, I eupp«t••• did not expect that· any h1,111an creature
could be perfect ae the Fat.her tn Heaven1 but He 1ald1 11 Ae
yeur Father in Heaven le perfect, be ye also per!ect."·~·so I
say in relation to the principle that all men are created
equal, let it be•• nearly reached as we can (p. 403).
Indeed, such public inquiries would not be to the point of ht•
rhetoric. Fer the strictly rational basis of democracy ls to be
found in the theery of wnatural rights" aet out by Hobbes . and
Locke, a theory which regards precisely what ls "natural", that ~~.
conrmon, in Mn: and not what ie high, so that it is scarcely conducive
to a public feellng of plety. What Lincoln does lnstead .ls, by
speaking ln dellberate analogy to Christ (p. 403), to ralee these
princlple111 fro11 1elf-evld1tnt propoaltlone to arttclea Q{ faith,
thu• returning, as de Tocqueville ahow~d (QR• .cit.•• I, ~). to a
.
foundation · 1n fact deeper than t.hti! rational begrrlnlngs provided by
the found lng fathers. _
. .
.·
·
,
.
·
To explain why "the oolr\t g.i rells1on and the ru"?lrtt !lf l tbert\(
are anclently lncorporated wlth each other ln A11ert.ca, de Tocquevil l ~:
had appealed to the classical tradltlon concerning the nef'td for
public pl8ty to support the body politlc1
·
Llberty regatcts religion as its companl.on in all lts
battles and ite trlul'llphll, a& the cradle of t.t8 infancp and
the divine source of tts . clal•s (21?, • .£!..t•• I, 11).
·
And he had found this theory corrobor~t.ed in A111erlca1
�-35Religion in Arnerica takes no direct part ln the government
of society, but it must be regarded as the first of their
political lnstltutt.ons (SlQ• ill•, I, xvii).
The older Lincoln came to a view which is. the insenuous converse
of this posl.tion of expediency1 not religion serves polities, but
the reverse - republican government is itself a great religious
lnstitution1 in his own words "the only greater institution• ta
the church (p. AS). The rock of reason of Washington's foundation
has the sa11e basis as Peter'e church. That reverence for the laws
which Lincoln calls "the political religion" of the nation (p. 81)
derives froN a trans-political faith. It Nuet be urged that this is
not an opinion l .. lncoln holds routinely or perfunctorily .. for .hi.a,
the Republic, which puts the sood of the whole finally into the
hands of a numerical majority (p. 785), ls plausible to the ••ul
only as a community of the faithful, protect~d by a kindly provision
that few shall be totally without gracP., that
of all those who conte into the world, only a email percentage
are natural tyrants (p. 301).
Were . it otherwise, democracy would be a continual garAble wtth the
body politic at stake.
Accordlngly the Gettysburg Addrfi2SR begins and ends not:. only
wt.th phrases hftrrowed fro11 American oratory but with the diction of
the Bible. To Lincoln.the people of the Revolution ls also the
second people of the Boo¥;, the "al11ost chosen people" (p. -575) • All
1\mericans, he said in his Second Inaugural,
read the same Bible and pray to the same God ••• (p. 793).
Lincoln himself was not only, as 110st backwoodsmen, hr. ught up on
o
the Bible, but he wrote to hls friend Speed in the year .before
his deatha
I am profitably engaged t.n reading the
J:S1Dle,
and in the same year he said to a committee which .had presented
a Bible 1
It is the best gift God has given to men. All the good
Savior gave to the world was communicated through this book.
But for it we could not know right from Wrong. All things aost
desirable for 11.an•s welfare, here and hereafter, are to be found
portrayed in it (September 9, 1864).
Lincoln's commitment to tihe Bible ls not .that of an orthodox
Chrietian, for, as he sald,
I have neverunited myself to any church, . because I have
found difficulty tn.glvlng my assent, without mental reservation~
�-36-
to the long• complicated statement 11 of Christ tan doctrine
whlch characterize their Articles of Belle! and Confessions
of Faith (Remark to H. c. Demig, c. 1R62, cf. P• 186).
For h111 the Bible is rather a palit ~cal ••vr•• book, and that in
two contrasting respect•• On the one hand it lends hi• a lan~uage
at once high and popular, beyond both the de11agogue and the
intellectual, a language of salvation with which to ••gnify the
A11eri.can enterprise 1 wlth i.ta dlcti.on he speaks as ••Father Abraham"•
As the first patriarch of a new generation of founding fathers.
And on the other, it supports him in a view of the n•ture of things
which, when publicly acknewledged,da11pa the hysterical activity
filling the American void, and reduces it to ~hat 11elaneholle
deliberateness on which the public buain••• thrivea. F•r Linceln
had been fro11 h.18 youth a believer in an inner counterpoise tt>
political liberty, which he understood to be called the "Doctrt.ne
of Necessity",
that is, that the hu•an mind ls impelled to action, or held
ln rest by some power, over whtch the raind itself has noi:
control ••• (p. 187-188J.
.
· ·
.
That power ls God who, though •not a person••, can yet directly
exercise his will in human affairs•
By his mere great power on the 111nds of the now contestants,
he could have either eav•d' ( or destroyed the Union without a
human contest (Hedltat1.ou 2Ji the . Divine~. 1862, P• 655).
This ~od, in who11 Lincoln, by the peculiar power of hla falth,
recognizes ·at once •Nature's God" and the God of the Bible, le
Lincoln's and the people's political 11B.ster1 he constitute• a
direct limitation on the power of hu11an contrivance. 1he humanity
. which ls the consequence of Lincoln's view ls embOdled ln Lincoln's
last speech to the natlon before his assassination, the Second
Inaugural Address, which is evidently the clae~ical American poem
drawing particularly on de Tocqueville's third source of democratic
poetry, God.
·
t::.::.;.::.;:;:=.~::;...-..:-:.·- -,........~
.:~::=-~,.::a:=a=::E. '.Z.;l1
The sarne speaker who is so eminently democratic ln theme is,
however, the very reverse 1n form. Again de Tocqueville provldes
the criteria in h!s chapter on •Ltterary Characteristics of
Democratic Times" 1
·
.
.
· Taken as a. whole, literature in democratic ages can never
present, as lt does in periods of arlsto~racy, an aspect of
order, regularity, science and art1 its form, on the contrary,
will ordinarily be slighted, sometimet11 despl8ed. Style will
frequently be fantastic, incorrect, overburdened, and lotn!le,
almo8t alwa.ys vehement and bold. · Au~hors will aim at rapidity
of execution more than at perfection of detail. Small
productions wlll be more common than bulky books •••
(Democracy!!! America, II, i, 11).
�Now, thl:s oth;:~rwise sn accurat~e .1k~scrtpUon ti:; ci>rH~picnmrnly
~ nc.tppl tcablG to Linc..~oln° s; h'rit i:ngi
The ~;~!·.ttY§..hU£t~ t\d~!tS:!il! is
small, to he sure., hut: lt W35 not r·aptrny exf ~cuted - Lincoln had
brought a worl\~d .. over tlraft from ~va:~hingtonr he rf~-w1n ·k,z·:rd this in
Getty sbtff('.; on t::h1:i ~V(~ of dt:~l t Vt?r~·, and h(~ {!mended e<~ch n f · thf;• thr-e .-~
kn.own co'pi1~s he m~de ovn-r the nf:'xt three m{H1l:bs.. A 1 thoor;hf as
he sa ld, not: a master: of langt..H:tge nnr tn po:s1H,:ost.o n n f ;1 flne
e<lucat ion ( fh 39:3), be !!~~ careful 1 ·
·
Gentlem(mt' Jud iv:~~ noue;Ias informed you tha.t th t. s Spt~f!'Ch () r In tH <'~
was p1:-ohahly ca1:--efully pre{A11.rede T •:hirnit. i.t wan (p .. 392).
By thio ca1:·e he SlK'C<-:eded tn glving hi<> thuu-r~hts their almost
unalt.Grahle f,n·nh For..· thts purpose he had 1• ~ft·er t:he agB of twenty~
t:hreef Bet lli.mself t i } study~ E.ngltsh 8~:'.f;\lliffi.:U~~ "lmpl"!-:rff!Ctly~ uf COUt:'Ge~
but so as to speak and l~'i'C:t~ as wGll a~~ he does nuw" (l8hll, p~ 5.'.}9).
enabli.ng him to write to a man whn had submit.tH1! t:o h1m an ecHt(~ii
ve~·&ion of one of hi.n. speedv:.•81
So f;:ff as ·1.t la tnt:ended me.r~.:, Jy to i mprov'1:" 1n gicarn.rnar, .aml
elegancE:-~ .zy.f comp•oslt. l&n,. I. am qul t .e agceed 6 hut I do not. w tf~h
the st•nsc~ change.•d, or rii.odifi.ed,. to· a hatr~s .breac\t:h. i\nd you,
not havtng
ntudi.t.~d
parttcular points
<:>r~
cl:o1.rnly as 1 haV<:"i·· ,can
not be qutte sure that you do not at\8.n!';H the , sens~ whl'.:ln :yo_l clo
L
,..lif
t:''t:
~
.
not. ~t.nten'J ~t ( p., .J4J; ct., p .. c:3 8,) ·• .
:>
:.
.· . .
Hts style.I> . ton-t ts the very oppu.sltu of that of t: ~1~ typical cternocrat i c
wrltert descrthe-d by dt~ Iucqmwi.lle in hiv chaprer on "How AmerlcHn
nemoct.~acy ha6 Morn.n .P.·d the gnslioh :Langua.ge" (J.h.!:S:1~1' IIP L; 16) Wh<~t
out of lack of . egre ~ lmH~ of chang~ und <lesire fo:r blgn~ss, us~G
old words in indeterminate seasen~ i.ntxodue~s vast rn.m1bf~t-s of rn"w
wonlslt usually borrowed · fl.'£.'\'.tn technical vt-.cabul.artes, and 1o<ids hl'8
speech wtth abstract ar.ttt gew:,r.a1. expreastor'\s. ne TocqttevU lo had
called lawveis t.he ar:tstocr~'its (}f Am~d. ca (i.bld ... J xvi}" and ln
part Li.ncoinf s caN'fu1ness tn that: of a lawyei.=-·1nrt~.r:pr~~i-. ln.~ law.
But t .he lapidar·y precisi.tH'l of form which earrh;;s the p:n.:ri.a.rcb3l
gran~eur of Ltn.coln~ ~ rhe-toric . ... h. e W<'HJ. Lm~1h~e m•rrniy to 1 P.C1:_ur13
.
(p .. 54t) - !.~ sometctnng 1~:H"fd~~ it. is a Blf>;n ot a HO\H~l ki..nd of
aristocracy ~ republi.ca.n arlstocracy. L\.nenln had t ..~cttly r<~jected
Everett• s cold L~lasslc1..sm a.s inapproi:,wiat:e t.n a, democ.r-r.tt'ic speaker,
\.-Knse object must not be to dt:aJ17onstrate or 8xert h r.s (lWn. superior ity.
Hts amblth1Tt '\>;t,'lSv r«~ttu~r.·, as he told hlo f1-ien1I H'~ tndont "to bi;~
d}. stinct:1y under.·stood by th~! '('ornmon pt:>op1H'' (p~ ti5)~ dnd to U:'>i".: blfl
power as had hts mo~fol, Clay, in t:he tHffvtce of d~mot:rat t c d~c; a
r'\ll hiE< i:J;ffortn were mad~ for practtcal effect~ Ho new~r
spoke merely to l>e l1eard •. H.e never 't~el i v<~red a .Y11iurth or J111\r
cn:ation" o.r an eulogy on an occaGlon 1 Lke tbta U'\!19.Bl'. ~,~.Q lfC'nrv
f,lay, July 6, 1'852f cf. P• 269} ~
--
Yet hts rhetori.c Hhow~ pn~ctse1y th~ fundamental chH:CiH:'!terist' i.cs of
ancient artstocratic wrltt~rs. of whi.ch de Tncquev) l le, i.n thi~ ch;;ptf"'r
�') •·
••ll • ,, 1-
"Th~ 'Stucty o:r Greek and Lat t n L i.te.
.r.atur c ts Peculiarly
Useful in Of:mocrat:ic (}o'Tlmuniti.es" wrtt:ese.
·
ent ltlect
Nothing tn thE::ir wol."ks seems done haoti.ly or .at :candomw · eve:r::y
1 inH is writt:e1'1 ft"H: · the eye of the conno lsseur and i.s shapod
after .some \.~cmcept ton of lt'.iea1 . b~m1ty • No l it:e.r ature places
tht.rne flne . qu~•t itles ln . \4hteh the wr: i.terc, uf democr:-ach~s . <:i:r.e
naturally dHf'].cl.ent in bolch~r relief than trH~-=.l. \'.,f 'i:he .anct.ent:t:11'
no l iteraturet thm 'efort• ~ ou:.~ht to be rno.r.e -stud s_,.:>d h1 democrat 1.c
t: tmt~s
11, t, 15).
<w..si . ,
Llncoln h\rna.elf ls~ 1: h<.:Hl 10 in de Tncqw?.>vtlle' s s.•~m'!'e an aristoeratic
writer\\ cwen tu t:he point ·of flndlng hit~ sourceo tn tru:- par.t. The
msn who had had f·r·om y'1'uth the .. pecul lil:r amblti(mn ·
of betng truly esteemed of my fellow men, by rern.1erl.ng myself
. worthy o.f the!.r esteem (p~ 57 v ef ~ Jh 48)),
and who Ga id he tnped h1~ UW:it?rStO~tri "th~{.t Which CQlll3t itub.HJ the tns ide
c•f a gentleman'' (p .. 414-).c · eould have no quC!rn· .'l wtth thp- essence of ,
"
m-i.stQcracy.
In faet11 in the weak~1 ju5t before the d•:>ltvery of the
· .Qc-tt~yfil.>~ [likh:e~ he had .had vlsi.tot~s whn urged him a.t ~he (rn,r;-1 t~nt
occ~tii.on t<:.i prest:mt the Uni.on. to the 'public ~·a_s . ftght'htf.~ the batt1 e
of democracy for .all the wor.tdn and th<... war Hs being one ~~ of 't:JH5 people
s.ta tnst the arlstocratsv; l .he had accepted the former ~'lnd rejected the
l.att:er st.1.gge~th.;1h F'or hl~ w~H hbnself s eorroboration of
Jef.fer~on w o contentton, set out tn hlH .cor.re.operndence with Adams
(Octob!!.•r. .2H t 1 Al :J) ~ that md.stocracy an6 dsrnocn~cyi' the t~ule (!~ f the
best etnd the rule . of the ,peopl~'" have been marle t:o111patlble in the
United St~teG, t:hat the: citize'n~ tn fre~· -eleott6n can and will nln
~enaral •• choose from among · thernselvt~s the "rtatural ~ls,t.Q\ , the
best by nature" The ~~q;b_ur.,g iHJQ.rgJ}£. ts thu u'Ctr..~r.ance o.f such an
§.X.i§tsu~. t <) man at 'the s-ame thnH ex.celle•nt in the arit i.que sense and
good in the common um1eratarLding ..
0
�1
· For a desert pt ion of tht~ events of the Gett.y s hurg ded l.cat ion and
a collect ion of crnnmentari.~s on the ~meeches see :Car:l Sandburg r
Abraham Ltnool.r!t JJt~ l l i ~.• New York ( l 939), Vol. !I~
PP• ~452-4~
2 For an annotated col lectlon of the vartous versions seL~ Ihe
Colle~t;!Zd ~ ~J.~~~l!l Linc9...ln~ ed. Roy · p, Ih"lsl-01-·" Ne;;-Drunewlck
'CT95"3), Vol VII \.l8b3·lJJb4)t ppe 17~·23 . .
3
Edward Evere,ttf ill.:..E!.'tlOfl..§. ill1f1 .S~fil'Jl.~11 liostun (1892) 11, Vol~ IV,
}lp.
622~659.
see Harold l:ysklnd, ~'I\ Rhet.ori.~a.l linalyE.d;s of the Geti~'sbur.g
Addre·s6 1' , J.21!£.lli!l u.[ Q.ene..r~l J~Qn~ Vol~ IV (1950)., PP• 202-212.
4
5
.For an analys ls whtch .doe-s just ioe to the awesome i.mpl icat ions of
the,. speech see. H~!l~Y V ~ Jaffa~ ~JJi
( 1 9 :> 9) t pp c l 8 J"' ~ 3 L ~
tl
S.~ l:!Q~~ .Jl};y1d~
,
,
61
'
n t h' i ng out these paragraphs J. rec~ 'i ved much .
i.nk
help from Geor,ge
i\naat:aplo. ~§ Q.'l th.«r; f.l!:fil~ t\11\endmett..t .t.g .tl!!t. ~2!1~~1.t:ut .!Q!! J2i. the
Un .. cd St;at:es· ~ Ductural. Hisser.tat ton,, Univer~i.ty of Chi~go
U 64 v ~l\ppentlix I, 6, p .. 600 'ff~
7
8
Prom a spee<
ch lnd irectly repo1i:t.ed in
(1890). Vol~ !I, P• lilS.
S~e Carl L. Becker.,
P• 142 ..
J!le:
~:.!]litfu.1~§. !JJ.l~Ql nf
Chicago
~la!£!~tiqn ~2( !D&~.Q.fill.£!£11 E~t New "York (1958),
...
�
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Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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A reading of the Gettysburg Address (expanded version)
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1968
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Typescript of a lecture delivered in 1968 by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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lec Brann 1968
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Brann, Eva T. H.
Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
-
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a77b3def97e5c30f51e9a5b04b135edc
PDF Text
Text
re~ ~r~mcttf~
~vee
oJ science
6rattn
�A Supplement to PALAESTRA
April 1968
THE ELEMENTS OF SCIENCE
Eva Brarm
PALAESTRA
St. John's College
Annapolis, Maryland 21404
Editors
George and Meredith
Anthony
Associate Editors
Steve Forman
Masha Zager
Assistant Editor
Daniel Sullivan
Faculty Advisor
Eva Brann
Cover Design
Gabrielle Bershen
Miss Brann is a tutor at St. John's College,
a small liberal arts school, co-educational
and non-sectarian, with campuses in Annapolis, Maryland and Santa Fe, New Mexico.
* * *
This article reproduces a lecture given to the
upper classes of the Tower Hill School in
Wilmington, Delaware on January 31, 1968.
�ERRATA SHEET
Page 3, column 1, line 3 ••
change "idesthi" to "idesth~i"
Page 7, column 2, line 12
change "mathemetical"
Page 9, column 2, line 17 .•
change "truest" to "trust"
to . "mathematical"
�THE ELEMENTS OF SCIENCE
Eva Brann, Tutor
Students of the Tower Hill School,
The title of my lecture in your lecture series
"Revolution and Ferment in Mid-Century" is "The
Elements of Science." In it I shall try to say as exactly and plainly as I can what I mean by this title and this will be what the lecture consists of. I shall
use whatever learning or insight! might possess withoutanyreserve for, as you will see, it is part of my
argument that these matters, elementary matters, are
accessibletoallofusinsofaras we are human. Presumably you are.
What, then, is the meaning of the word "elements?" Those of you who study Latin may have
heard that there is an untrustworthy, but highly suggestive, derivation of this word, according to which
it is to bereadL-M-N-tum, likealpha-betor A-B-C,
since 1, m, n are the first three letters in the second
row of the old Latin alphabet of twenty letters. An
element is, this derivation implies, a constituent
of an abc, in short, a kind of letter.
This understanding of the word implies that to
have an elementary knowledge of any subject is to
have some sort of reading knowledge of it. And conversely, a subject which has elements is one of
which it is possible to acquire a reading knowledge.
Nowwhatis meant by having a reading knowledge -1-
�of a subject? An ancient commentator on a certain
well-known mathematical work called "The Elements;'indiscussingits title, says: ", .• the term
element is applied by analogy to that which, being one
and small, is useful for many purposes. " A person,
accordingly, who has a reading knowledge, say of
books, knows twenty-four small and simple little
items which enable him to decipher whole libraries.
You may object that not letters are the true elements of books but something else, something beyond
and behind the letters, which the readers should get to
as soon as possible - that books should not be read
"literally." But this notion, that we should at top
speed leap beyond the letter to the general idea and,
probably, beyond the poet to his tradition and beyond
a paragraph to its cultural background, is extremely
dangerous - deadly, in fact.
-2-
Let me illustrate what! mean by analyzing a passagefromapoetwhoclearlywants us to pay attention
to the text (a text being a woven texture of letter elements) in all its detail, namely a passage from the
Iliad.
The Iliad is the poem of the ferment that takes
place in Achilles , a man of such terrific aliveness
that he has chosen to expend his life in one short,
high-pitchedspan, ratherthantoletitwear out quietly and normally. As the time for his death approaches
hecannotfacetheideaofnot being alive on this earth,
so he shapes his final weeks into an agonizing drama
which will drive him inevitably into the death he has,
in his heart, chosen . He begins by staying away
from the fighting around Troy on a ridiculous pretext
and sits singing in his tent. His one close friend,
Patroclus, is both ashamed and a little eager to have
his own great moment. Achilles allows himself to be
persuaded to lend Patroclus his very conspicuous
suit of armor, and Patroclus, being mistaken, as is
inevitableinGreekarmor, for the man whose suit he
is wearing, quickly comes under full-scale assault by
the Trojans, particularly Hector, their chief, and is
killed. He is brought back to Achilles. I shall read
what Achilles says in Greek so you can hear the moaning behind his words. "My dear friend i s dead, " he
�says,
,,
I
/
/
/
I
:J'atroklos, ton ego peri panton ti9n hetairon,
1s9n e;n~ keo9a1l. _ton_ap6les,.. teucpea de' Ektor
deosas apedyse pel6na, thauma idesthi,
kAla ... "
Translated: "My friend is daad, who meant more to
me than all my friends, as much as my very self. I
have lost him, and Hector who killed him has stripped off the tremendous armor which is a marvelous,
a beautiful sight. . . . "
The Greekphrase"ton apolesa" is always trans"'
lated "I have lost him," but if a reader paid attention
to what these words literally say - which would, to be
sure, mean learning Greek - he would notice that they
have another meaning, one in which the terrific meaningof the whole poem is collected; for what Achilles
also, and perhaps primarily, says is: "I have murd_ red him" - and that is the stark truth:----e
Andfuthermore, a careful reader who makes a
mental note of the way the loss of the armor to Hector, who will wear it from now on, is emphasized in
th~ whole scene will have a clue for deciphering the
climax of the poem. This is the dreamlike chase
when Achilles, the fastest of the Greeks, cannot catch
his enemy Hector, t~e heavy-set Trojan, as they keep
r_unrung around the c1tycaught as in a nightmare, until
finally that enemy stops running and turns around.
:r~ronlysuc~areader can see in his mind's e ye who
1t 1s that has fmally stopped running and who it is that
Achilles is at last facing - himself.
Of course, I am perfectly ready to admit that
even this sort of close reading is not a matter of
merely reading the letters. But, on the other hand
it is also quite impossible without that kind of be-'
giruiing, and that is the point I want to make. In any
case, I am using "reading knowledge" merely as a
metaphor for a certain kind of knowledge of the world,
namely elementary knowledge , to which it is analogous. Let me try to say more straightforwardly
what seems to me to characterize the realm of the
elementary.
If letters are to books as elements are to the -3-
�world, it follows that the latter have this character:
they must be absolutely simple, limited in kind, but
appearing over and over, as often as you please. They
must be equally present wherever you turn, and everything must be made ''out of'' them, though what is made
out of them need not be in the least like them, as a
word or a paragraph or a book is nothing like a letter.
And finally, they must everywhere be combined by
similar rules for spelling as it were, by general laws.
This elementary simplicity and generality differs
from other conceivable kinds of singleness and uni versality found in intelligible things, for ins tance
from the main idea expressed in a book, since this
idea is not necessa rily very simple, nor present on
every page a hundred times over, nor, for that matter, "in" the book in any literal sense at all. The
questionisthen, whether the world is, in fact, made
up of such elements. I might add here a fact which
proves nothing but which is at least suggestive, namelythatin Greek, a language with an uncanny aptitude
for telling the truth, the word for letter and for ele-4- ment in the larger sense is one and the same.
Let us now look at the meaning of the word "science. " Those of you who study Latin Will know that
it is nothing but the Latin word scientia, meaning
"knowledge," knowledge in the sense of t he ability
to distinguish things. The Bible, in its deep understanding of human nature, presents as the first science acquired by man the scientia boni et mali, the
knowledge of good and evil, acquired at the price of
the loss of paradise. Milton in his poem Paradise
Lost gives an interpretationofChapter 3 of Genesis,
where Eve is tempted by the subtle serpent with the
fruit of the tree of knowledge and acc epts it, which
makes it seem as if that episode had been written
precisely for this decade. For what, according to
Milton, the serpentine Satan in the leaves offers Eve
is the fruit of experience, or rather a fruit whichinduces "experiences" -the experiences which Eve is
promised will put her in a state such " that your eyes
shall be opened and ye shall be as gods, knowing
good and evil." And this i s exactly what happens.In
a state of intoxication Eve sees the world with great
vividness, sees into the center of things, as she
�imagines, where at first the beauty and then all the
horrorofher-ownhumanlife is revealed to her. The
scene ends with Eve, in the aftermath of herhigh
state, squabblingwith Adam over matters of life and
death. Meanwhile Satan arrives in Hell and reports
his initiation of Eve to the experiences of hell,and the
fallen angels, for one dreadful moment, tum into hissing serpents who, greedily reaching after that same
fruit, chew dust.
This, then, istheoriginalknowledge, a temptationanda sin. But in the seventeenth century, at the
beginning of modem times, the world was created
over again, sinless this time. On November 10,
1619, a Frenchman named Descartes discovered "an
entirely new science," or, as he said, a scientia
mirabilis, borrowing a phrase from Psalm 139. (This
man, incidentally, had most of his works published
byaprinterwhoseemblemwas a tree with a serpentine growth on its trunk from which a pagan wise man
is deliberately, and with no sinful look about him,
plucking a fruit.) He published the foundation of this
new science in an account of a series of meditations
hehadconductedover sixdays. Presumably he rested on the seventh. His marvelous new science was
persuasive enough to come in time to be called by
everyone simply "Science."
I mentioned these historical matters only to bring
out the blasphemy and arrogance that are, although
hidden, always present when we speak of "science,"
simply. I shall try to show that the "scientists"have
no cause for arrogance.
Now what is this "science" simply? I shall ill ustrate what I think it is with an example taken from a
book written by a contemporary of Descartes called
Galileo Galilei and entitled, Dialogues Concerning
Two New Sciences, and held - imagine - on six suecessivedays . The two new sciences, essentially the
same as that founded by Descartes, are those of bodies under pressure and in motion, in short, modern
classicalphysics. "Physics" is a Greek word meaningwhat belongs to nature. The new knowledge is the
science of nature.
-5-
�I shall illustrate the nature ofthis natural science
with an example chosen from the first of the six suecessive days of the new creation. Galileo is fascinated
by a wonderful coincidence which had been discovered
by certain Greek mathematicians: of the tones of our
common Western musical scale some, when they are
played together as chords, are "concords," that is,
they sound well together and are "consonant." Others
are dissonant or dicordant. Everyone hears this,
and if anyone should claim that he likes dissonance
not as a seasoning but by itself, he could only mean
that he has gorged on centuries of straight music and
isnowpreparedfor a little perversity. Now it turns
out that consonant tones ca n be produced by plucking
different strings which have the following remarkable
property: all such strings have to each other the relation of one small natural, that is, whole, number
to another. Thus the octave, for instance from G to
Gbelow, achord so consonant as to be in an odd way
almost an identity, is produced by plucking a string
of a basic unitlengthandanotherof twice that length.
A fifth , as from G down to C, is produc ed by plucking
-6- the string of double l ength a nd anothe r oftrtple the
original unit length. This concord is not quite so
smoothly consonant as the octave but, as Galileo says,
ittickles the ear and gives "at the same moment the
impression of a gentle kiss and of a bite." If now together with the triple string, another string, offour
times the unit length, is plucked, we hear the concord of a fourth, from C down to G.
Galileo wants t o know why numbers and sensa tions should show this remarkable coincidence. He
observes that plucked strings vibrate and that the
number of their vibrations in a given time are dependent on, or as we would s ay, vary inversely, with
the length of the string, which means that the doubly
long string vibrates half as often. He further notices that such vibrations can be communicated by the
air to other sensitive bodies, for instance a goblet.
He also knows that our ears contain a drum which is
sensitive in just this way, and he concludes, thereby
incidentally founding the science of acoustics, that
we hear a satisfying chord when the sympathetic vibrations set up in our ea r by two strings a re in step
or in phase, so tha t , in the case of the octave, on
e xactly every second impulse from the shorter, high-
�er-sounding string, there comes in a single one from
the, longer, lower string. But if the vibrations cannot arrive in phase so very often, which will happen
if the lengths do not have small number relations (or
if perhaps they never arrive together, which must
happen, as some of you will know, if it were possible
to cut strings which have no unit in common) then the
sound is increasingly dissonant and produces an impression from tickling to torturous.
This, it seems tome, is, at least as a beginning,
a satisfactory explanation of the phaenomenon, and it
is certainly one of the kind called "scientific." What
are its characteristics?
You will notice that such an explanation demands
that there be certain elements present everywhere in the strings, in the air, in the ear drum, and that
Galileo sees just such elements in numbers and
lengths, in arithmetical and geometrical objects.
Their presence alone makes such different things as
strips of cat' s gut and our sensory organs capable of
being definitely and precisely related . Such math-
ematical objects, few and simple in kind, and connected in clearly prescribed ways, are everywhere
in nature, and wherever they are, the same general
rulesapplyinsucha way that every little occurrence
is equally an example of what we call the "laws of nature . " This circumstance is responsible for our
ability to experiment, since on account of it we can
see in a small room on earth the very same laws at
work which hold, for instance, our natural satellite,
the moon, in its orbit. The science of nature is,
accordingly, mathematical science and the elements
of nature are mathemetical elements.
What is specially characteristic of mathematical
elements? The Greek word "mathematics" means
simply "that which is learnable." Why might mathematics have seemed particularly learnable to those
who gave it that name (who were, incidentally, identical with those who discovered it)?
You will remember that I compared elements to
letters, which are simple and everywhere related by
general rules. But we all know that no one can tell -7-
�by looking at the twenty-four letters what the rules of
spelling are, for letters give no clue to their uses and
relations, which are agreed upon arbitrarily. Mathematicalelements, on the other hand, do give us such
clues; for instance, it is by inspecting a line segment
that we know that the whole segment is greater than
each of its parts, and it is by thinking about imagined
triangles that we know under what circumstances they
might be congruent. (I am bypassing here the complicating fac tthat, having imagined and thought enough
aboutmathematicalobjects,we ma,y constructa s ys tem which pretends that the rules relating numbers to
geometric figures came before these objects and that
the objectscomeintobeingonly later, by being construe ted according to these rules, or axioms, as they
are called.)
Mathematical objects are thus characteristically
transparently simple and at the same time rich in
built -in relations . This is, I think, why the first
mathematical system, Euclid's geometry, was called
the "Elements" - geometric objects are, so to speak,
-8- the perfect elements, elements par excellenc e, name-
1y simple beginnings whose property it is to enter into a great multitude of things, though these things rna y
innowayappearmathematical, as a consonance does
not sound like a small number ratio.
All this implies that to speak of the " elements of
science" is as much as to speak of mathematics,
which, in turn, is that which everyone can learn. In
oneofPlato's dialogues, the one called Meno, anex periment is performed by Socrates to show that even
a totally uneducated boy, if rightly questioned, can
discoverwithinhimselfthe answer to a really rather
sophisticated mathematical problem, namely how long
a line must be used as the base of a square with an
area of two square feet. If there is someone here
amongyouwho thinks that he has a particularlyhard
block against mathematics, I am willing to reproduce
this experiment - on the condition that if it works it
proves my point, and if it doesn't it proves nothing.
My point is essentiaJly that eve ryone can learn
the elements of science, simply by reason of having
ahumanintellect. The sciences are the pre-eminent
�humanities. I rna y here seem to be turning things upside down, but I shall go right on just the same to
make a list which might outrage some of you, a list
crudely entitled Easy and Hard Subjects. The easy
subjects are: mathematics, particularly Descartes'
great discovery of analytic geometry; el""mentary
classical physics and certain approaches to electricity and magnetism as well as to the special theory of
relativity; also, I imagine, electronics, computer
science, etc. etc. Hardsubjects are: the science of
the soul, sometimes called psychology; the inquiry
into the actions of men, called in the English Greek
we so often speak, history (which originally meant
"inquiry" simply); the study of men in associations,
called sociology; etc., etc. You will notice that my
"easy" list consists of the sciences of nature and their
prerequisites and applications - and I do, in all seriousness, believe that everyone can learn their beginnings, though I agree that at a certain level they
quickly get too complex for the unspecialized student.
The "hard" list consists of the study of man, of human beings, and the strange fact is· that these are not
accessible to any human being by what Descartes
called the "unaided light of the intellect," but require
something more: a prior knowledge of nature, e:xperience, sensibility and another thing which I will try
todescribeina moment. I therefore think my order
of difficulty, though it turns the one usually accepted
in schools and colleges upside down, is the true one.
I mentioned as one of the requirements ofthe
study of man the knowledge of nature. An obvious
reason for this requirement is that we can know little
about ourselves unless we know about the things .
around us which support and oppose us. But there is
a deeper and more subtle reason too. In order to understand ourselves we have to know how we come to
know, we have to know what it means to have or to do
science. And this can never be understood by anyone
who has nottried to study the scientific enterprise itself - I myself would never truest a historian who talked ofthe "Scientific Revolution" andcouldnottalk, for
example, about the old and the new ways of generating
conic sections. Happily, an elementary knowledge of
science is, as I have tried to show, entirely within
the power of any high school and college · student, pre- -9-
�cisely because science rests on elements. And I
think that such elementary study - by which I do not
mean a survey - is sufficient for the purpose.
That brings me to that other requirement for the
study of man. In studying science we build up from
the elements to greater complexity and efficacy, and
to get there we accept the elements. The beauty of
thiswayisprecisely that it gets us somewhere; by it
we become powerful experts. Now it seems to me
that the ultimate requirement for the study of man is a
firm unwillingness to be stampeded along this road.
To know ourselves it is necessary to tum around, to
tum on, and not away from, the elements, in the
Latin term, to reflect. This kind of patient reflection will not immediately teach us how to do things,
but it is indispensable if we want to know what we are
doingandwhy. In otherwords, this last requirement
for the study of man is identical with the chief requirement for purposeful action.
The word for turning things around or upside
-10- down is "revolution." The planets in their courses
are a t the moment making revolutions. If somebody
gets upset and in turn upset s a car, there has been a
revolution, and when a man suddenly flips and stands
on his head, literally or metaphorically, he has undergone a revolution. All such revolutions, tremendous
as they rna y seem, are explicable in terms of the laws
ofnature. They occur as do things which are always
the same, in mid-century , at the beginning, or atthe
end, and the less we attend t o current events i n studyingthem, the more hope we shall have of understanding them. But there is another kind of revolution, a
revolution which is an action in the true sense of the
word, not a mere happening. It occurs wherever
someone turns a matter over in his mind and, all by
and for himself, comes to a conclusion which may be
- though it need not be - utterly the opposite of what
the others think they think. It is the possibility of
suchtrulytremendous revolutions which I was really
leadingup to tonight, and if there are s!udents here
who think that any other revolutions should concern
them much at this point i n their lives, I wish they
would tell me their r easons later on.
Thank you.
�
Dublin Core
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Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
Title
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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The elements of science
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1968-01-31
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Typescript of a lecture delivered on January 01, 1968 by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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lec Brann 1968-01-31
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Palaestra, April 1968
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Annapolis, MD
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Brann, Eva T. H.
Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
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SPECUIATIONS ON LIBERAL AND ILLIBERAL POLITICS
BY
Laurence Berns
A revised version of a lecture delivered at
St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland
May 24, 1968
Now he [Socrates] was not eager for his companions to
become able speakers, able men of affairs and able contrivers,
but before these things he considered it to be necessary for
them to acquire moderation. For he believed that those who
are capable of these things without being moderate are both
more unjust and more able to work harm. First, indeed, he
tried to make his companions more moderate about gods.
Xenophon, Memorabilia, IV. 3.
�Speculations on Liberal and Illiberal Politics*
by Laurence Berns**
We live during a time of vast and rapidly moving social, political
and economic changes.
This most obvious fact seems to shape the back-
ground and foreground of almost all academic political discussion today.
To enable us to become well-informed about this most complex of societies
new techniques of sununarizing, condensing, tabulating and distributing
information have been developed.
Corresponding habits of rapid reading and
machine-like memorization, reading with a minimum of reflective thought,
seem to be appropriate for the imbibing of much of this material.
These changes, changes in the conditions of political and social
life, are, for the most part, consequences of progress in the medical and
technological sciences.
They confront us with apparently unprecedented
practical problems, increasingly complicated interdependence, relative
affluence and overpopulation, the control of nuclear weapons, to mention
only a few.
causes.
However, a distinction may be drawn between conditions and
The conditions delimit the range of alternatives possible for
human action.
The primary causes decide which alternatives are chosen.
They constitute what is called human nature.
It is in no way evident that
human nature, in the decisive respects, has changed as have the external
conditions of political and social life.
Among the causes which account for human behaviour are reasons, and
Bcise<l on a le(;CW..:: delivered at St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland,
May 24, 1968.
** Tutor, St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland; Ph.D.,The University of
Chicago, 1957.
-t
�even those causes which are not reasons, like appetites, passions, and
desires, are rarely unmixed with reasons.
Reasons can be right or·wrong,
more or less right or wrong, true and false, etc.
Human behaviour cannot
be understood adequately without understanding the adequacy or inadequacy
of the cognitions guiding, or accompanying, the behaviour, the prejudices,
or opinions, false or true, or the knowledge guiding the behaviour.
An
adequate social science then, one capable of distinguishing between knowlege, opinion, and prejudice, would have to be a philosophic social science.
The study of human nature, of the persistent causes of human behaviour, has more to do with meditation and reflection than it has with
technique and technology.
One learns about it from those, regardless of
when they lived, or live, who are most of all masters of reflection and
meditation.
It may well be that, along with misguided scientism, the
habits of study and thought, formed in pursuit of solutions to our most
urgent problems tend to make the reflections of those writers from whom
illumination is most needed less and less accessible.
sobriety is easily lost.
Freedom without
This attempt to articulate certain sobering re-
flections, that once were much more the common property of educated men
than they are today, is undertaken with some sense of urgency.
Such re-
flections could never be brought to light by any technique cir manipulatory
skill, however sophisticated.
The aim of this paper is to arrive at an adequate notion of what it
means
to
be liberal.
It is divided into five, sometimes overlapping parts:
1. Classical Liberalism, 2. Historicist Liberalism, 3. The Radicality of
Classical Liberalism, 4. The Conservatism of Classical Liberalism,
Liberalism.
s.
American
�3
CLASSICAL LIBERALISM
By classical liberalism we do not refer to the doctrines associated
with Locke, Adam Smith, John Stuart Mill, laissez-faire economics and what
historians frequently call individualism.
liberal as it is used in classical Greek.
1
We refer rather to the word
The liberal, the
e~E.U IJ{fU) $
(eleutherios), belulvwa like a free man in contradistinction to a slave • .
But true slavishness is baseness, being enslaved by the baser parts of one's
nature.
The liberal man is liberated from control by the baser side of his
nature: he is free from the love of money, free from domination by bodily
desires and from domination by fear.
He is free from vulgarity.
Freedom
from, however, is not enough, and one of the Greek words for vulgarity points
to what the liberal man has been liberated for:
that word is
'
\
C(1t£'f" I<. «.1. <./ ci(
(apeirokalia), literally, lack of experience with nobility, with beauty,
lack of experience with things noble. The liberal man does what he does for
the sake of the noble.
a devotee of the Muses.
He is a cultivated man, a liberally educated man,
2
1. On the grounds of modern, as distinct from classical, liberalism, see Laurence
Berns, "Thomas Hobbes", in History of Political Philosophy, eds. Leo Strauss
and Joseph Cropsey,Rand McNally, 1963,pp.359-63. Cf. ibid.,Warren Winiarski,
"Niccolo Machiavelli",pp.273-75; Stanley Rosen, "Benedict Spinoza", p.417;
Robert A. Goldwin, "John Locke" ,pp.453-64; and esp. Leo Strauss, Natural
Right and History,u. of Chicago, 1953,pp.181-2.
2. Cf. Plato, Republic,403 C; Xenophon, Memorabilia,bk.4,ch.5; Oeconomicus,
1,17-23; Aristotle, !!.• Ethics,1099 a 11-20; Leo Strauss, Liberalism Ancient
and Modern,Basic Books, 1968, chs. 1 and 2.
�4
What has all this to do with politics?
The cultivated men, for
Aristotle at least, are not what one would call ae$thetes, they form a
definite political class.
of. virtue.
They are not non-partisan, they ai:e partisans
They are united not by
common social origins or common eco-
nornic situation, but by their common goal, the love and pursuit of excellence,
of virtue.
They look forward to a political order that encourages and
fosters this love and this pursuit.
HISTORICIST LIBERALISM
This characterization might be accepted by many who call themselves
liberals today, but only as partial descriptions of themselves.
For the word
as it is most often used today points not so much, or so directly, to the
noble and the base, and therefore implicitly to the good and the bad, as it
does to another set of distinctions.
to conservative, or reactionary.
Liberal is, of course, generally opposed
We frequently speak of men and proposals as
progressive or reactionary, assuming automatically that to try to go back to
some older way or older idea is bad and to move towards the new is good, or
that "forward looking" is good and "backward looking" bad.
The conservative
is thought of as incapable of appreciating changed conditions and the need for
corresponding political, social and economic changes.
It is as if the distinction
between progressive and reactionary were to replace the distinction between
good and bad.
But the term progress, of course, implies not only change, but
change for the better, the term reaction, as it is used in politics, usually
means change for the worse.
These terms often suggest that the issue of good-
ness or badness has been prejudged or is trivial, the decisive consideration
is the attitude towards change.
The new distinctions are time-
~T hi~tory-
�5
oriented.
The power of the historicist assumptions underlying them, at
least in the .intellectual community, can hardly be exaggerated.
almost all of our discourse about practical politics.
them is usually taken as a sign of lack of cultivation.
They pervade
Not to respond to
The inadequacy of
an approach that identifies rightness with change and wrongness with opposition
to change would seem to be obvious as soon as it is made explicit.
Its
persistence, however, is a sign that perhaps some more serious concern or
issue underlies it, or is reflected in it.
that more serious issue later.
We shall address ourselves to
3
The classical liberal, if not every reasonable man, wants to conserve
what is good and to eliminate what is bad, to promote change for the better
and to prevent change for the worse.
He will be conservative, progressive,
and even reactionary (in the sense of going back to an older policy), according
to what is called for by the circumstances.
From this perspective the simple
opposition between liberal and conservative makes little sense.
To take another approach to this problem, Book Five of Aristotle's
Politics is frequently called the book on revolutions.
But somehow the word
revolution is too fancy for what Aristotle describes.
The word rebellion, the
word used in the Constitution of the United States, is probably closer to
Aristotle's meaning.
Rebellion is old-fashioned, common-sensical and personal.
Revolution is more scientific, impersonal necessity is suggested.
The term is
a scientific term in mathematics, physics, and astronomy: a sphere is generated
by tj_ie revolution of a semi-circle about its diameter; Copernicus writes about
the revolutions of the celestial spheres, the revolutions of inanimate bodies.
3. See below, p.20.
�6
The word rebel is usually associated with the image of a man who strikes out
against the government, the word revolutionary with an intellectual fighting
for an elaborately articulated cause.
Aristotle in Book Five was, one might
say, concerned primarily with rebellions, those political controversies and
conflicts of beliefs and opinions, those conflicts about justice, which arise,
so to speak, naturally between political men, that is, from the consideration
of political and personal issues alone without any explicit or direct intervention of theory or science.
When appeal to higher authority is made in non-
philosophical, non-theoretical, political life, it is usually to the gods or
God generally accepted by the religious conununity of the country.
Aristotle
articulates political arguments in a political spirit, and, as far as I know,
only in his Politics introduces oaths to Zeus into his arguments.
4
The notion
4. 1281 a 17 and 1281 b 19. Cf. Abraham Lincoln, To the Voters of the Seventh
Congressional District, July 31, 1846.
Fellow Citizens:
A charge having got into circulation in some of the neighborhoods
of this District, in substance that I am an open scoffer at Christianity,
I have by the advice of some friends concluded to notice the subject in
this form. That I am not a member of any Christian Church, is true;
but I have never denied the truth of the Scriptures; and I have never
spoken with intentional disrepect of religion in general or of any
denomination of Christians in particular. It is true that in early life
I was inclined to believe in what I understand ts called the "Doctrine
ef Necessity"-- that is, that the human mind is impelled to action, or
held in rest by some power,over·which the mind itself has no control;
and I have sometimes (with one, two or three, but never publicly) tried
to maintaift this opinion in argument-- the habit of arguing thus however,
I have, entirely left off for IN:>re than five years-- And I add here, I
have always understood this same opinion to be held by several of the
Christian denominations. The foregoing, is the whole truth, briefly
stated, in relation to myself, upon this subject.
I do not think I could myself, be brought to support a man for office,
whom I knew to be an open enemy of, and scoffer at religion.--Leaving
the higher matter of eternal consquences between him and his Maker, I
still do not think any man has the right thus to insult the feelings, and
injure the IN:>rals, of the community in which he may live.--If, then, I
was guilty of such conduct, I should blame no man who should condemn me
for it; but I do blame those, whoever they may be, who falsely put such a
�7
of revolution is usually tied in, not with popular religion, but with
what has come to be called ideology.
Ideologies have been called, not
inappropriately, secular political religions.
In the post-Kantian
development the distinction between progressive and reactionary usually
plays a role, because the ultimate appeal of these ideologies is to
.
a theory, or an alleged science, of history.
Revolution rather than
rebellion seems more appropriate to a modern technological society, a
scientific society, an enlightened society.
The movement called Enlightenment could be considered as the attempt
to replace revealed religion by popularized philosophy.
The two most
outstanding characteristics of ideologies, at the risk of further oversimplification, are: 1) as regards their theoretical foundations, history
replaces nature as the standard of right and wrong and good and
2) popularized philosophy replaces revealed religion.
bad~
and
One way to under-
stand the origins, if not the rationale, of our IOC>dern theories of history
might be to see them as attempts to surIOC>unt the difficulties consequent
upon the radical separation by Kant of thought about freedom from thought
about nature, of the IOC>ral realm from the natural.
Theoretical history
aims, so to speak, at bringing the two realms back together again and at
relating them within a doctrine of the whole of human life.
5
charge in circulation against me.
Cf. also Winston s. Churchill, letter to Lady Randolph, 14 January 1897,
in Winston~ Churchill, by Randolph s. Churchill, Companion Volume.!_,~~'
1899-1900, Houghton Mifflin, Boston, 1967, pp. 724-25
5. "ldee zu einer allgemeinen Geschichte in weltbuergerlicher Absic1rt.•
"Kants Werke, Akademie - Textausgabe, B. viii, pp. 15-32. "Idea for a
Universal History from a Cosmopolitan Point of View." in I<ant, 2E_ History,
ed. Lewis Beck, Library of Liberal Arts, pp. 11-26
�8
The more general problem behind all this would seem to be the difficulty
for a science of human nature based on modern mathematical natural science
to account for morality and science.
6
A passage from Kant's "Conjectural Beginning of Human History" may
serve to illustrate the spirit of the Enlightenment.
Kant presents his
account in that work in the form of a commentary on the book of Genesis,
chapters two to six.
at every point
to
He invites his reader to consult the Biblical text
see whether the way that philosophy takes coincides
with that of Holy Writ.
Towards the middle of the piece he speaks about
how man became aware of how nature has raised him above community with
animals.
"The first time he ever said to the sheep, 'nature has given
you the skin you wear for my use, not for yours'; the first time he ever
took that skin and put it upon himself (3:21) - that time he became aware
of the way in which his nature privileged and raised him above all animals."
He refers to, but does not quote, Genesis 3:21, which reads, "Unto Adam
and to his wife did the Lord God make coats of skin, and clothed them."
What the Bible attributes to the action of God, Kant's philosophic conjectures about history have man do for himself.
Ideology is supposed to incorporate Enlightenment within itself.
Enlightenment looks forward to a vast expansiop of man's power to control
his own destiny, a vast expansion of human ambition.
relation between ideology and ambition.
Let us consider the
The Chorus in Oedipus declares,
"I pray that god may never abolish the eager ambition (the rivalry), that
keeps the city noble."
6.
Ambition is a subtle passion:
it can drive a
"Muthmasslicher Anfang der Menschengeschichte';ibid., pp. 107-23
cit., pp. 53-68.
Sophoclei;-necrrpus Tyrannus, 11. 880-81.
Trans.,~
7.
7
�9
hardy soul like Macbeth
to
raging tyranny and, on the other hand, as
Sophocles's Chorus says, keep a city noble.
The craving for glory,
for honor, is a selfish passion, yet a passion that attains its objects
most readily through public service.
A public man might think that he
loves the people because they are loveable, but he also might think
that he loves them because they have the power to bestow what he really
loves more, fame, honor, or glory.
Ideology and the philosophy of
history tend to focus the attention of the educable away from the analysis
of the lives and the souls of individual men.
Nations, social,
political, or economic classes, "cultures," societies, trends and
movements become the individuals concentrated on.
Such concentration
makes it easier for political men to disguise their own personal ambition from themselves.
How much demagoguery and political fanaticism
might be prevented, if the politically aspiring, or their educators,
were once again to be educated by those classical authors who made it
their business to try to train political men to appreciate the subtlety
of their own ambition, to train them to master their master passion?
8
It might be instructive in this connection to compare Jack Cade,
the rebel, as Shakespeare presents him in the second part of Henry the
Sixth, with the revolutionaries Vladimir Lenin and Adolf Hitler.
Cade,
one might say, is the demagogue according to nature, Lenin and Hitler
ideological demagogues.
Cade is stubborn, courageous, enduring and clever.
Secretly set on by the Duke of York, with pretensions to the royal title
of Lord Mortimer, whom he resembles, he leads his Kentish rebels into
the heart of London and almost wins the city.
He seems most of all to
want the title Lord, and is ready to grant a Lordship to the first man
8. Cf. Xenophon, Meioorabilia, bk. 3, chs. 6 and 7; bk. 4, chs. 2 and 3;
bk. 1, ch. 2.
�10
who addresses him as Your Lordship.
9
He promises his followers that
"all things shall be in conmen," money will be abolished, the price of
bread will be lowered by two-thirds, and that he will destroy their
enemies, that is all scholars, lawyers, courtiers and gentlemen.
10
In
this connection it is interesting to note that the late Senator Joseph
McCarthy was relatively successful so long as he confined his attacks
to government officials, lawyers and academics.
He began to lose his
following and to consolidate his opposition when he became so reckless
as to extend his attacks to the military and to the clergy.
Cade has
no way of fulfilling the first promises, but enemies, or material for
erunity, is always available.
Henry the Sixth's Treasurer, Lord Say,
for executing policies he did not initiate or even approve, has become
a particular object of popular hatred.
Besides, Cade charges,
Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in
erecting a grammar school: and whereas, before, our forefathers
had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused
printing to be used, and, contrary to the King his crown and dignity,
thou hast built a paper mill. It will be proven to thy face that
thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb
and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear.
Thou hast appointed justices of peace, to call poor men before
them about matters they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou
hast put them in prison; and because they could not read, thou
hast hanged them; when, indeed, only for that cause they have
been most worthy to live.
Say denies the specific charges and goes on:
Justice with favor have I always done;
Pray'rs and tears have noved me, gifts could never.
When have I aught exacted at your hands
But to maintain the King, the realm, and you?
Large gifts have I bestowed on learned clerks,
Because my book preferred me to the King;
And, seeing ignorance is the curse of God,
Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to Heaven,
Unless you be possessed with devilish spirits,
You cannot but forbear to murder me.
This tongue hath parleyed unto foreign kings
For your behoof.
9. Henry the
Sixth,~~'
10. Op. cit., 4.4.39.
4.7.4-5
�11
Cade replies, "Tut, when struckst thou one blow in the field?"
He orders him to be beheaded.
Say speaks again:
Tell me wherein have I off ended most?
Have I affected wealth or honor?
Speak.
Are my chests filled with extorted gold?
Is my apparel sumptuous to behold?
Whom have I injured that ye seek my death?
These hands are free from guiltless bloodshedding,
This breast from harboring foul deceitful thoughts.
Oh, let me live!" (11)
Cade is Ioc>ved by these words, but bridles the remorse that he, but not
apparently his followers, feels at Say's words; and sensible that for
.
.
.
most men the most potent mark of authority is t h e power o f execution, 12
has Say put to death.
However, shortly thereafter, confronted by the
force of the old and clever Baron Clifford who wins away his followers
by granting them pardons, invoking the name of their hero, Henry the Fifth,
and appealing to their patriotic hatred of the French, Cade is forced
to flee for his own life; not, however, before he observes, "Was ever
feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude?"
Where the
scientific ideologist sees masses moved by necessary and scientifically
determinable reactions to objective deprivations, Jack Cade sees a flighty
multitude, ready
to
follow the man most skillful at arousing and shaping
their expectations, at transforming their notions and feelings about what
is tolerable and intolerable, just and unjust. He knows that the same men
in the same conditions may be led to endure, or may be led to rebel -
and sometimes by being made to expect by right what no one can ever provide
them.
His impressive final scene, the scene of his death, begins with the
line, "Fie on ambitions."
11. 4.7.32-46, 69-82, 101-08.
12. Consider the implications for the question
of capital punishment
�12
For all his villainy, Cade can still feel remorse and he is aware
of his own ambition:
he wants to lord it over other men.
His counter-
part, the ideological demagogue, learns from a science, or pseudo-science,
of history to identify the
ultima~e
good with the practical and necessary
success, the "historical" goals of his revolution.
I quote from Lenin,
"The great world-wide historic service of Marx and Engels lies in the
fact that they proved by scientific analysis the inevitability of the
downfall of capitalism and its transition to communism under which there
will be no more exploitation of man by man."
13
This seems to be some kind
of corruption of what in Kant's religious philosophy and speculations on
history is called rational faith, i.e., what, in the absence of knowledge,
we are obliged by reason to believe, in order to strengthen our capacity
to act in accordance with the moral law.
It is not too difficult for a
man to be misled by a doctrine, which successfully propagated would place
him in a position of highest authority.
The ideological demagogue consci-
entiously disciplines himself to stifle and discount any remorse or scruple
that might impede success.
Since for him moralities are all products of
history, whatever scruples he might feel can be dismissed as discardable
vestiges from a discredited past.
ance.
He identifies his opposition with ignor-
He learns, apparently, to forget about himself.
ambition from himself.
He disguises his
He seems to combine worst parts of
intellectual,
demagogue, and religious fanatic.
Men like Cade and men like Lenin and Hitler, share in common the
natural qualities of the talented and dangerous demagogue.
What distinguishes
the ideological demagogues, we suggest, is the fanatic intellectuality they
add to the character.
13.
2!!.!:!!!. Theory
Lenin was the author of a philosophic book like
of Marxism, International Publishers, New York, (1948).
(cont. on foilowing page)
�13
Materialism and Emperio-Criticisrn.
On Contradiction.
Mao Tse-Tung is the author of
Hitler could say, "It's against my own inclinations
that I devote myself to politics....
philosophy.
I'd have chosen the arts or
1114
New communications technology and the tastelessness of the news
industry have made it all too easy for too many to be seduced and carried
away by their desires for fame and notoriety.
The craving for distinction, however, takes on many forms.
Between
mere exhibitionism and the craving to be distinguished for ex- ellence alone,
c
but certainly closer to the latter, is the hero.
There is much in modern
life, not to speak of any life, antithetical to heroism.
Aspirations for
some form of heroic nobility would seem to be behind much of the political
and moral rebellion of our times.
Some, alarmed by what corrupted and
perverted heroism can lead to, recormnend the elimination of heroic
ation from the world altogether.
~spir-
If heroic aspiration, expressed in some
form or another, is ineradicably rooted in human nature, and if nature can
be fulfilled, corrupted, or perverted, but not eliminated, the only course
left would seem to be to direct one's efforts towards the cultivation of
taste for, and understanding of, authentic heroism. Merely debunking is
hardly sufficient:
again the balance of classical liberalism shows itself
in its ability to articulate together both the nobility and limits of the
Cf. Karl Loewith, Heidegger, Denker in duerft1ger Zeit, Goettingen. 1960.
chs. 2 and 4; Stanley Rosen, "Philosophy and Ideology: Reflections on
Heidegger," Social Research, Summer, 1968. The common ground, from our
point of view, of these doctrines can be seen in Hegel's remark: 11 For WorldHistory moves itself on a higher ground than that on which morality has its
proper station •••• " "Denn die Weltgeschichte bewegt sich auf einem hoehern
Boden, als der ist, auf dem die Moralitaet ihre eigentuemliche Staette hat, ••• "
Vorlesungen ueber die Philosophie der Geschichte, Einleitung.
14. Hitler's Secret Conversations, 1941-1944, Signet Books, p. 252
�14
hero.
There may be no better way to begin this refinement of taste
than by studying Shakespeare and The Iliad and The Odyssey and by
trying to understand the differences between Coriolanus, Brutus, Henry
v,
and Prospero; between Achilles, Agamemnon_ and Odysseus.
THE RADICALITY OF CLASSICAL LIBERALISM
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., in his letter to fellow clergymen
from the Birminghan Jail, refers to Thomas Aquinas's "T.reatise on Law, 1115
in order to justify his advocacy of disobedience for segregation laws.
An unjust law, Thomas cites Augustine, seems to be no law at all.
Every
human law is binding as law only in so far as it is derived from the natural
law, the law of reason.
To the extent to which it deviates from the
law it is a perversion of law.
n~tural
The right to rebellion enunciated by Thomas
is based on the distinction between human law and natural law which is in
turn an interpretation of Aristotle's distinction between natural justice,
'
'
(' I
or natural right, TO fUtrlt<OV olK.d..lOl
or conventional justice,
(to physikon dikaion) , and legal
TO TOi'ot l K ~ V l/i<f!f..toi '(to
noI!Ukon dikaion).
16
The
highest law, higher than any law promulgated by a political legislator,
is the law of living reason.
In Question 96, article 4, Thomas qualifies
the right to rebellion, as the Declaration of Independence does, by pointing
out that the possession of a. right does not automatically license the possessor
to exercise the right.
Whether a right ought to be exercised or not depends
upon the given circumstances of the situation.
If it is likely that the
evils attendant upon the exercise of a right would outweigh evils justly
complained of, for the sake of avoiding the greater evil the just man yields
his right.
In the exercise of his rights too, man is responsible for the
15. Summa Theologica, I-II Q. 95, A. 2
16. ~· Ethics,
s. 7,
1134 b 18 ,.. U35 a 15
�15
foreseeable consequences of his actions.
The right to rebellion as
found in Plato, Aristotle, Thomas Aquinas, the Declaration of Independence,
Lincoln and others serves as a reminder that no government of men is as
important as are the moral principles of good government.
The beautiful
balance of Thoma.s's position can be seen in a passage where, pointing
out that rebellion is always a serious matter for conscience, he quotes
the Apostle Paul's Letter to the Romans:
"All human power is from God;
Therefore, he that resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God."
But in the middle of his quote st. Thomas adds the decisive liberal
qualification, "in matters that are within its scope."
The quote then
with Thoma.s's addition reads, "All human power is from God:
Therefore
he that resisteth the power, 'in matters that are within its scope,'
resisteth the ordinance of God.' ;,l 7
Why reasonable radicali ty must be
accompanied by reasonable conservatism can be seen by considering the
fact that he who speculates about the principles justifying all government
is in that very act speculating about principles which could justify the
alteration or abolition of any government that does not measure up to
those principles.
THE CONSERVATISM OF CLASSICAL LIBERALISM
Why is government, why are human laws, laws which compel obedience
through fear of punishment, thought to be necessary?
Why is the natural
law, which appeals to reason alone, not sufficient?
Federalist fifty-one
notes, "what is government itself but the greatest of all reflections on
human nature?
If men were angels no government would be necessary.
If
17. Q. 96, A. 4, ad 1. Cf. John Calvin, Commentary ~ the Epistle ~ the
Romans, ch. 13, secs. 1-4; Institutes of the Christian Religion, bk. 4,
ch. 2o, esp. secs. 16ff. Cf. John Locke, ~Paraphrase and Notes ~ the
Epistles of St. Paul •••• Cf. note p on Romans, 13:1, with the end of
oaragraph 2 of Locke's introduction to this section, and cp. the latter
�16
angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on government would be necessary."
Men who are primarily devoted to learning and to teaching, concentrating on the strengthening and development of their rational powers, are
prone to exaggerate the part reason plays in the lives of most men, men
not so concentrated and so dedicated.
Although it leads to some squandering
of forces, as a practical rule of thumb in the profession of learning and
teaching, if one is likely to err, it is better to err on the side of overestimating rational capacities.
In politics, however, this generous, and
in that sense liberal, tendency can lead to consequences far worse than
mere ineffectiveness.
Those who expect too much from reason are bound to
be frustrated; then, like disappointed lovers, overcome by a despair that
can easily turn to contempt and hate, they are liable to begin to reject
reasonable procedures altogether, to turn to pressure, intimidation, dire c t
action and force, thus depriving political life of that limited but saving
'b
.
part that reason can contri ute to it. 18
Although it is certainly not universally true, and though it does
depend upon the books, it still might be said that in general readers of
books are more rational than those who do not read books.
Thus, to make
reason more effective and to correct their readers' characteristic error
the great tradition of classical writers taught the limits of reason.
Herman Melville, comnenting on More's Utopia and Plato's Republic, wrote
with the tables of contents of his Two Treatises on Government.
18. Cf. Plato, Phaedo, 89 C ff. Cf. in this order Turgenev's novels
Fathers and ~and Virgin Soil, and Dostoevsky's Possessed, for
an account of how Russia's political intellectuals turned from
populism to terrorism.
�17
a small poem entitled,
~
Reasonable Constitution.
What though Reason forged your scheme?
'Twas Reason dreamed the Utopia's dream:
'Tis ·dream to think that Reason can
19
Govern the reasoning creature man.
Plato and Aristotle, I believe, would not disapprove of that poem.
Aristotle's Metaphysics begins with the assertion: "All men by nature desire
to know."
This passage is frequently misunderstood.
He never said that
for IOC>St men the desire to know dominates the other desires.
ones for whom this is so are rather rare.
Those blessed
In the preface to the Politics,
the last chapter of the Nicomachean Ethics, he argues that while all men
do desire to know, IOC>st men desire other things more.
The presence and
the power of those desires make political or human law necessary.
We might, following Thomas and Aristotle, divide the purpose of
human law, or government, into maximal and minimal purposes.
The maximal
purpose is to furnish man with the training, or discipline, (and perhaps the
conditions), which he requires for the perfection of virtue, for excellence,
that is, education.
And because they are most inexperienced with it, most
in need of it, and most capable of acquiring it, this discipline, or education,
is primarily education of the young.
For those whom Aristotle calls naturally
free or liberal, that is with good and uncorrupted natural dispositions, words,
arguments and discourses, especially parental admonitions, can provide the
ethical part of this education.
But most men, living as they do by passion,
prone to vice, are not easily moved by words.
20
The minimal purpose of govern-
ment is to restrain these men from evil by force and fear of punishment, to
restrain them from harming themselves, and especially from harming others, from
19. The Selected Poems of Herman Melville, ed. Hennig Cohen, Anchor Books, 1964,
pp. 169 and 257.
20. Aristotle, N. Ethics, 1179 b 5-18.
�18
disturbing the peace of others.
peace.
The minimal purpose of government is domestic
Thomas also refers to a purpose intermediate between virtue and peace,
which is coordinated with a type of character intermediate .to the types
mentioned before: this would be the purpose of educating those who have been
habituated by force and fear of punishment, to do willingly what before they
21
.
d i.d f rom f ear, an d thus to b ecome virtuous.
Human law, or government, if it
is to be enlightened, does keep the end of the virtuous in view.
But law
must be adjusted to the capacities of those for whom the law is intended.
There are limits on what one can reasonably expect from the law in the way
of moral improvement.
Being framed for the illiberal majority, the law,
according to Thomas, should not forbid all those vices from which the liberal
can abstain.
The illiberal majority should not be burdened with precepts
too far beyond what they can be expected
to
live up to.
For, as they violate
them, they are likely to come to despise them and law in general.
Thus,
from contempt they are likely to break out into transgressions worse than
those they began with.
Thomas quotes Proverbs (30:33): "He that too vehem-
ently blows his nose brings out blood."
The law should forbid only those
Jl'Ore grievous vices from which it is possible for the majority to abstain.
It can promote, but it cannot prescribe that men be virtuous, that is, that
they not only act virtuously, but do so willingly, habitually, and for virtue's
sake.
22
When the conditions presupposed by laws have changed, the laws may or
21. Swmna Theologica, I-II, Q.92, A.2,ad 4; Q.95, A.l.
22. Aristotle, N. Ethics,1105 a 26- 1105 b 1.
�19
may not thereby be rendered obsolete.
They might still be applicable, in
whole or in part, to the new conditions; if not, they ought to be changed.
As the need for new legislation to adapt to rapidly changing conditions grows,
understanding the complexity of the problem of change becomes increasingly
important.
The conservatism of classical liberalism comes to a focus in what
it has to say about change in laws, the subject of Question 97 of Thoma.s's
Treatise on Law.
We quote from article 2:
Human law is rightly changed in so far as such change is
conducive to the common interest. But to a certain extent
change of law itself is detrimental to the common good. For
custom has great force in the observance of laws, in as much
as what is done contrary to common custom, even if it should
be in itself light, seems to be grave. Thus when a law is
changed the constraining force of law is diminished, in so
far as custom is destroyed.
Consequently, Thomas goes on, human laws should not be changed unless the
good attained by the change outweighs the harm done in this respect.
The
first objection goes as follows:
It seems that human law ought always to be changed whenever something better occurs. For human laws are devised by human reason
as are the other arts. But in the other arts that which was held
at first, is changed, if something better occurs. Therefore the
same ought also to be done in human laws.
Tho mas answers:
Rules of art derive their efficacy from reason alone, and
therefore whenever any improvement occurs, that which was held
before ought to be changed. But laws derive very great force
from custom as the Phi,losopher says in Book II of the Politics,
and therefore they ought not to be readily changed.
In the passage referred to Aristotle points out that the strength of law with
regard to compliance, depends upon the compliance becoming habitual, and, he
notes, it takes some time to form habits.
23. 1268 b 23 - 1269 a 28.
23
Unlike what goes on in the other
�20
arts and in the sciences, what reason alone would dictate is not simply
applicable in political matters.
Reason, even wisdom, must compromise
with and thereby be diluted by the requirements of compliance and consent,
that is, by habit, prejudice, and custom.
It is unreasonable not to make
due concessions to irrationality in political affairs.
What seems then, to underly the common opposition between liberal
and conservative is a more fundamental difference of opinion concerning
the relative strengths of rational and irrational powers in most men, in
practical terms, concerning how much rationality is to be expected from
most men.
The distinction between conservative and what probably should be
called progressive would seem to be more adequate: both make serious claims to
be called liberal.
This disparity between what is appropriate for the sciences and the arts,
and what is appropriate for social and political life is treated more dialectically in Plato's Republic
and Aristotle's Politics.
if not the fundamental theme of both books.
It is a fundamental,
Arguments for aristocracy and
kingship, the rule of living reason, in Plato and Aristotle are accompanied
.
24
b y arguments b y ana 1 ogy f rom th e arts an d sciences.
The rank orders of
the regimes in both books could be understood as being based on the degree
to which the peoples of the respective regimes are capable or not of receiving
more artistic or more scientific political forms, the degree to which they are
capable of being governed in a liberal manner, the degree to which they are
capable of conforming their lives to the rule of their most reasonable fellows.
The idea of the rule of living reason functions as a paradigm, as a standard of
improvement for politics.
24.
It moves us to continue to search for governors who,
E.g., Aristotle, Politics, 1273 b 10-12, where flute playing is paired
with shoemaking. The former addresses itself to the soul, especially the
passions, the latter protects the body.
�21
as The Federalist (number fifty-seven) puts it, "possess most wisdom to
discern, and most virtue to pursue, the coilUIIOn good."
It reminds us that
institutions ought ultimately to be judged not by technical standards, but
by the kind of human beings they encourage and tend to produce and by the
kind they discourage and tend to eliminate, that is, that ethics is the
architechtonic part of social and political science.
The idea of the rule
of living reason gratifies reasonable hopes by clarifying and articulating
fully their ultimate goals.
At the same time, however, it presupposes con-
ditions which are so impossible, or so rare, as to preclude it as a practical
political possibility.
possibility.)
(This would not automatically preclude it as a personal
By clarifying how rare, or impossible, the pre-conditions for
the perfect political order are, writers like Plato and Aristotle save idealism
from fanaticism, they teach men to moderate and to civilize their hopes.
They
prepare men to accept the implications of the distinctions between what is best
in itself, that is, what is best in the best possible circumstances, what is
best in circumstances that most generally prevail, and what is best relative
to any particular set of given circumstances.
The chief political alternatives open to Americans and Western Europeans
would seem to be the rule of reasonable law or some form of despotism, benevolent or unbenevolent.
also.
This seemed to be the case to Herman Melville in 1863
In July, 1863, riots protesting the draft broke out in New York City.
The rioters turned to attacking Negroes and burned a Negro church and an orphanage.
Melville reflected on these events, and more, in a remarkable poem called
The House Top - A Night Piece - :
�22
(July, 1863)
No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air
And binds the brain-a dense oppression, such
As tawny tigers feel in matted shades,
Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage.
Beneath the stars the roofy desert spreads
Vacant as Libya. All is hushed near by.
Yet fitfully from far breaks a mixed surf
Of muffled sound, the Atheist roar of riot.
Yonder, where parching Sirius set in drought,
Balefully glares red Arson-there-and there •
••• All civil charms
And priestly spells which late held hearts in aweFear-bound, subjected to a better sway
Than sway of self; these like a dream dissolve,
And man rebounds whole aeons back in nature.
Hail to the low dull rumble, dull and dead,
And ponderous drag that shakes the wall.
Wise Draco comes, deep in the midnight roll
Of black artillery; he comes, though late;
In code corroborating Calvin's creed
And cynic tyrannies of honest kings;
He comes, nor parlies; and the Town, redeemed,
Gives thanks devout; nor, being thankful, heeds
The grimy slur on the Republic's faith implied,
Which holds that Man is naturally good,
25
And-more-is Nature's Roman, never to be scourged.
The rule of law, it must be said, cannot by itself produce nobility of soul,
but it may go far towards producing the best possible conditions for the
cultivation of nobility of soul.
Most informed citizens in the English-speaking world pay lip-service
to
the blessings of the rule of law.
But those who would most directly and
severely feel the loss of liberty its weakening would entail are those whose
very calling presupposes freedom of speech, those for whom learning, study,
teaching and serious conversation are habitual and regular occupations. How
ironic it is then-- we hope it is not just--that the spirit of Draco should
be receiving some of its loudest invitations today from institutions that are
25.
2E..!.
cit., above, n. 19, p. 24.
Cf. Acts of the Apostles, 22: 24 and 25
�23
avowedly institutions of higher learning.
We cannot avoid considering
the implications of Melville's words, "Wise Draco comes":
suffer an unwise Draco, or to deserve a wise?
Is it 'WOrse to
It is altogether possible to
suffer both conditions.
The irony referred to, however, may not be something only peculiar to
our times.
It would seem that now, in the beginning, and always, science
and philosophy come into the world with the awareness that a distinction
can be made between nature and convention, or between the reasonable and
the conventional.
Wherever there are philosophers (a class which can include
erring philosophers) there seem to arise imitators of philosophers, men who
are aware of the distinction between nature and convention, but who never
sufficiently reflect on the reasons for the conventions.
Some would say that
such men, sometimes called sophists, sometimes intellectuals, are more attracted by the honors of philosophers than by their true objects, or that they
somehow confound political ambition with philosophic ambition, but whatever
their motives, the problem is that they abuse the instruments of philosophy,
they abuse the distinction between nature and convention, so as to undermine
all conventions, so as to undermine ordinary decency.
One permanent task of
Socratic philosophy then would seem to be to defend ordinary pre-philosophic
practical wisdom from sophistical attack;
that is, to prepare, if necessary,
a theoretical defence of ordinary decency against sophistical science. To
avoid misunderstanding, it should be said that such polemical activity does
not mean that one ceases to -U-y to understand or to learn from those one
attacks.
26.
We need only consider the Socrates of Plato and Xenophon.
26
Cf. Note 4, above, and Leo Strauss, On Tyranny, The Free Press of Glencoe,
1963, esp. p. 199
�24
AMERICAN LIBERALISM
"It has been frequently remarked," writes Hamilton in the opening
paragraph of '?he Federalist,
that it seems to have been reserved to the people of this
country, by their conduct and example, to decide the important
question, whether societies of men are really capable or not
of establishing good government from reflection and choice, or
whether they are forever destined to depend for their political
constitutions on accident and force.27
It is hard to conceive of a better solution to the problem of political
stability and change than the American constitutional system.
The Constitution
provides a point of veneration and the fixed and stable framework within which
the various departments of government are granted broad and flexible powers
to deal energetically with the problems arising from changing conditions. The
reasonability of the constitution itself is attested to by its ample recognition
of and reliance upon the indecorous, but never failing, springs of human selfWe recur to Federalist, number fifty-one:
ishness.
If men were angels, no government would be necessary.
If angels were to govern men, neither external nor
internal controls on government would be necessary.
In framing a government which is to be administered
by men over men, the great difficulty lies in this:
you must enable the government to control the governed;
and in the next place oblige it to control itself.
A dependence on the people is, no doubt, the primary control
on the government; but experience has taught mankind the
necessity of auxiliary precautions.
Those auxiliary precautions are the check and balance system and separation of
powers.
Finding the right balance between the enabling powers of government
and restrictions on governmental power is the permanent problem of American
government.
If one focuses not on the needs of liberal learning, but on the ordinary
concerns of most men, it might be said without too much oversimplification that
the most prevalent and persistent forms of injustice are bullying and cheating.
27.
Footnote on the next page
�25
The English-speaking peoples by means of the rule of law seem to have
concentrated on preventing men from bullying one another.
Like our Conunun-
ist rivals, we have also been greatly concerned with preventing cheating,
but have taken the precaution to deal with this problem in such a way as to
avoid concentrating too much power in the hands of our governmental protectors,
so as to avoid putting our protectors themselves in a position to bully us.
The reasoning behind this choice seems to be that, although the two are often
connected, injury to dignity is worse than injury to material well-being.
In addition, he who is in a position to bully is usually in a position to cheat
as well, whereas the converse is not true.
What the right balance between enabling powers and restrictions on
government is depends upon the given conditions of material life.
Along with
the introduction of large-scale technology, a new system of administration and
ownership of peoperty developed in the West, devised to coordinate the resources
of large groups of men in a manner appropriate to new technological possibilities.
We refer to the rise of the depersonalized, that is ethically irres-
ponsible, ownership of joint-stock companies, organized for profit and with
limited liability.
28
The inequities engendered by this system might be traced,
at least in part, to the fact that the system was developed under the guidance
of a philosophy, or social science, that either minimized or denied the significance of ethics for political, social, and economic science.
However this
may be, the principle seems to be generally accepted now that the inequities
resulting from the growth of large-scale non-governmental corporate and
27.
Cf. George Anastaplo, Book Review, Levy: Legacy of Suppression-Freedom
of Speech and Press in Early American History, 39 New York University
Law Review 735 (1964), esp. p. 741; Laurence Berns, "Two Old Conservatives
Discuss the Anastaplo Case," 54 Cornell Law Review 920, July, 1969.
28. Cf. R. H. Tawney, The Acquisitive Society,
ch. 5.
�26
institutional power can be effectively remedied only by a
enlargement of goverrunental powers of regulation.
corres~nding
In addition, the licen-
sing of _
government corporations and agencies has been expanded in order to
perform necessary public services that privately owned enterprises could not
be relied upon to supply.
The American system is peculiarly well adapted to solving the problems
brought on by new conditions without sacrificing, or at least with a minimum
1oss o f , l 1'b erty. 29
New ways are continually being found to combine justice
and liberty, public responsibility and private initiative.
By the skillful
use of tax laws an amazing proliferation of private welfare and cultural
agencies has been induced, performing needed social services without concentrating power in the hands of goverrunent.
Large corporations under threat
of increasing regulation and taxes, and guided by an increasing awareness of
the insufficiency of an unmitigated profit motive, are tending to follow more
public-spirited policies and even to take on a semi-public character.
Within
government itself the institution of specialized relatively independent corporations and authorities, in addition to the regular constitutional separation
of powers both within and between Federal, State and local governments, all
enable us to address ourselves to new conditions without that concentration
of power in the central government that less sophisticated structures of
government cannot avoid.
The principle behind the American Union and the Constitution of the United
States, in Lincoln's words, "entwining itself more closely about the human heart,"
is the Declaration of Independence's assertion of "Liberty to all."
This prin-
ciple in Lincoln's mind is inextricably connected with the Declaration's assertion
that "all men are created equal."
30
The great and no longer tolerable failing
Cf. De Tocqueville, Democracy in America, vol. I, ch. 5, last section~
vol. 2, bk. 2, ch. 7
30. "Fragment: The Constitution and the Union" 1860 or 1861, Collected Works
29.
of Abraham Lincoln, Roy Basler, ed.
Rutgers
u.
Press, vol. lV, PP• 168-6 9 •
�27
of American political life, the failure to guarantee Negro citizens equal
rights of citizenship, is not, according to Lincoln, a failure of American
principles; it is rather a failure of men to act in accordance with those
principles.
Lincoln commented on that statement in his speech on .the
Dred Scott decision:
I think the authors of that notable instrument intended to
include all men, but they did not intend to declare all men
equal in all respects. They did not mean to say all were
equal in color, size, intellect, moral developments, or social
capacity. They defined with tolerable distinctness, in what
respects they did consider all men created equal--equal in
"certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty, and
the pursuit of happiness." This they said, and this they meant.
They did not mean to assert the obvious untruth, that all were
then actually enjoying that equality, nor yet, that they were
about to confer it immediately upon them. In fact they had
no power to confer such a boon. They meant simply to declare
the right, so that the enforcement of it might follow as fast
as circumstances should permit. They meant to set up a standard
maxim for free society, which could be familiar to all, and
revered by all; constantly looked to, constantly spreading
and deepening its influence, and augmenting the happiness and
value of life to all people of all colors everywhere. The
assertion that "all men are created equal" was of no practical use in effecting our separation from Great Britain; and
it was placed in the Declaration, not for that, but for future
use. Its authors meant it to be, thank God, it is now proving
itself, a stumbling block to those who in after times might
seek to turn a free people back into the hateful paths of
despoti~m.
They knew the proneness of prosperity to breed
tyrants, and they meant when such should re-appear in this fair
land and commence their vocatio~ they should find left for them
1
at least one hard nut to crack.
The difference in nature (the Declaration speaks of the "Laws of Nature")
that these natural rights are based upon, rights which all men share, is the
difference between rational and irrational animals, between men, animals
capable of thoughtful speech, and beasts, animals incapable of thoughtful
speech.
This difference both for a classical liberal like Aristotle and
the Founding Fathers is elementary and fundamental.
31.
fo~
Aristotle goes on to
Speech at Springfield, Illinois, June 26, 1857, emphasis in original.
f
�28
divide men in terms of the different ways and degrees that they possess
this capacity, but the differences of ways and degrees can never be as
significant as the difference between animals lacking the capacity
entirely and those having it in any degree whatever.
Part of what Aristotle and the Declaration of Independence mean was
spelled out by Kant in the work referred to before, where he uses the book
of Genesis to speculate about the various stages man might have gone through
32
.
.
.
in h. progress t owar d s un d erstand.
is
ing h. uniqueness among t h e anima 1 s.
is
Kant minimizes the importance of eating from the tree of the knowledge of
good and evil.
fig-leaf.
For him the epoch-making event was the institution of the
He interprets it as follows:
this removal of the object of
inclination from the view of the senses reflects man's first awareness of
a certain degree of mastery of reason over impulse;
that he is a moral creature.
this was his first hint
His partner's similar action, this implicit
refusal, forces man, moved by sensual desire, to become aware of the moral
qualities of the objects of his desire, the rational and moral qualities of
his fellow human beings.
Thus he becomes able to be moved not only by
sensual, but also- by more inward spiritual attractions; he becomes able to
move from animal desire to love, from the desire of possessive enjoyment to
the simple appreciation of beauty.
Through self-restraint and refusal men
come to deserve and to recognize each other as worthy of the dignities
befitting free men.
St. Jorrn•s College, Aunapolis, Maryland
May 24, 1968
32.
~cit.,
above, n. 6.
�
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Speculations on liberal and illiberal politics
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Friday night lecture
Tutors
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GRATITUDE, NATURE, AND PIETY
IN
KING LEAR
LA.tJRENCE BERNS
Revised VersionOf
AFomal Lectlll"e Delivered At St John.'s: College
�27
GRATITUDE, NATURE, AND PIETY IN KING LEAR
LAURENCE BERNS
And they go to trial on a charge on account of which men hate each other most,
but go to trial about least, that is, ingratitude. And him who they know to be able
to return a favor, but does not return it, they also punish severely. For they think
that the ungrateful would also be most neglectful about gods, about parents, about
country, and about friends; and what seems to follow upon ingratitude most of
all is shamelessness, and it is this indeed which seems to be the greatest leader towards every baseness.
-Xenophon, Cyropaedeia [1.2.7]
I
In the fourth act of King Lear the cruelly blinded Duke of Gloucester
is saved and guided by a man disguised as a mad beggar. The strangeness
of beggar guiding duke is compounded by the fact that Gloucester's unknown guide is his son Edgar, who had assumed this wretched disguise
to escape the sentence wrongfully laid upon him by his gullible father.
Edgar serves not only as his father's eyes, he becomes his provider, the
nurse of his broken spirit, his teacher, and the saviour of his life. He saves
him from Oswald's murderous attack and from a more formidable foe,
despair. He concocts what for Gloucester is a divine miracle, to arouse
within him the strength to live ; and he preaches the lessons that enable
Gloucester to avail himself of that strength. Edgar fulfills parental offices,
and more, for his father. The once masterful father, helpless as a babe, is,
as it were, fathered , sustained, and educated by his own son. This unsettling reversal of normal stations is pitiful and thought-provoking.1
Small debts of gratitude can be paid without much difficulty. But what
recompense can be made to those who are the very sources of one's being?
Does not every recompense fall short, is not every recompense simply disproportionate to what is owed? Since one is always in their debt, the
command "Honor thy father and thy mother" can be invoked almost
without any reservations.2 Although this debt of gratitude is normally
impossible to discharge, Edgar either did discharge it or came as close
This article is a revised version of a lecture presented at St. John's College, Annapolis, May 1969.
Laurence Berns is a Tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis.
l Oedipus in a questionable way assumes his father's position through violence.
Shakespeare's Edgar behaves as a father to his father with perfect justice. Cp. the
beginning of this scene, 4.6, with Matt. 4.5-11, and with Prospero's "miracles~· in
The Tempest.
1 Cf. Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics 1161a 20 and 1163b 12-29.
�28
Interpretation
Q.J;;;_ I 'I 'T «,
to doing so as any man could. The story of Edgar and his father seems
to have been designed to show what would be required for such a debt
to be paid in full.
The mercantile aspect of the language of gratitude~ebts, payments,
owing-is vaguely offensive, but apparently unavoidable. Lear, raging in
the storm, calls out:
... Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax you not, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,
You owe me no subscription: .. . [3 .2.14-181.
The hunted Edgar, consoling himself with the thought that "The lowest
and most dejected thing of Fortune/Stands still in esperance," goes on to
say:
.. . Welcome. then,
Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace:
The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst
Owes nothing to thy blasts [4.1.3-9].
Nothing good received, nothing owed.3 But what i(just being itself is good?
Although we prosecute and punish those who buy or borrow and do not
pay, such offenses do not evoke the gravest condemnations. But "sharper
than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child." And ingratitude
is a "marble-hearted fiend, more hideous when thou showest thee in a
child than the sea-monster." The seriousness of the wrong can also be
reckoned roughly by its effect. Kent speaks of "how unnatural and bemadding a sorrow" is the filial ingratitude that Lear suffers. When that sorrow
has nearly done its work, Gloucester addresses Lear as "O ruin'd piece
of nature."
Gratitude is akin to grace and graciousness, as their etymologies indicate. 4 Capacities or incapacities for gratitude seem to be direct reflections
of character; the obligation when regarded as genuine is self-incurred.
It becomes suspect when external compulsion is in the background, when
it does not "come from the heart." To pay one's bills grudgingly is not
gracious but does not violate the spirit of commerce. Can gratitude be
paid grudgingly? Coming from within, it seems to be a natural movement
in the sense of the Aristotelian distinction.5 In this way it is akin to love.
Gratitude might be thought of as being between justice and love. Like
a Cf. 2.4.179 ff. and .252, 3.4.20, and Regan's (!) morally indignant words to
Gloucester, "Ingrateful fox" (3.7.28). She probably means that he is ungrateful to his
country: he is referred to as a traitor twelve times. All line numbers are from the
Arden Ed., ed. Kenneth Muir, Harvard, 1959.
' Cf. Aristotle Rhetoric 1385a 16-b 11, Cope ed., Vol. II, pp. 87-93.
6 Cf. Aristotle Physics 192b 7-23. Cf. 215a 1-5, 230a 19 ff., and 254b 12 ff.
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear
29
commutative justice, which seeks arithmetic equality in exchanges of goods
and services, gratitude involves an element of calculation. 6 Gratitude
should be proportionate to benefits or favors bestowed. 7 But unlike the
demands of commutative justice, these obligations are unenforceable, at
least by any human court. Unlike commercial and contractual obligations,
here there is no explicit promise to return an equal value for what has
been received. s What occurs depends entirely upon the grace of the benefactor. The beneficiary cannot be forced to pay this kind of debt, which
is also a debt that he was in no way responsible for incurring. Whether
he pays or not depends upon the kind of man he is. Is he to be held
responsible for the kind of man he is? Gratitude then, in so far as its
payment is unenforceable, in so far as it must be rendered willingly, and
in so far as it reflects the character of those engaged in it, is like love.
Where benefits causing- gratitude and where love depend essentially on
the personal merits of the benefactor or the beloved, distributive justice,
which concerns itself with the proportionality of rewards to personal
merit, comes into consideration.9 Despite their connections or parallelism,
gratitude and love, at least noble love, may be distinguished. Lear's failure
to appreciate this difference seems to have been an important part of what
led to his downfall.to
II
Lear introduces what has been called his love test with the following
words:
Tell me, my daughters,
(Since now we will divest us both of rule,
Interest of territory, cares of state)
Which of you shall we say doth love us most?
That we our largest bounty may extend
Where nature doth with merit challenge11 [1.1.48-53].
8 Xenophon's Socrates defines ingratitude as a certain kind of pure injustice:
Memorabilia 2.2.3. See also King Lear 1.1.183.
1 Cf. Aristotle NE 1163a 10-24.
s In circumstances where either rejection or acceptance is possible, acceptance
could in some contexts be understood as implying such a promise.
9 Cf. Aristotle NE 1160b 23-62a 9, 1163a 24-63b 27, 1167a 15-22, 1167b 16-68a
27. The subject abounds in difficulties. Cp., for example, 116la 20-23 and 1162a
4-9 (where it is shown why, in accordance with justice, children, like subjects in
relation to their kings, should love parents more than parents should love children),
with 116lb 18-30 and 1167b 16-68a 27 (where it is shown why, generally speaking,
parents love chil.dren more than. children love parents). Cf. Eudemian Ethics
124la 35-b 11; and Thomas Aquinas Summa Theologica 1-11, Q. 100, A. 5, ad 4.
Cf. also Plato Republic 330c, 457c end-458b, 462a-e, 463c-465c, 472b 3-6.
1° Cp. Kent's love for Lear with Cordelia's. The love between Kent and Lear seems
inseparable from "service." Cf. 1.4.4-7 and 1.4.92-93.
11 The last line is difficult. Nature here could refer to filial or to paternal
affection; merit correspondingly could refer to good deeds, that is, obedience and
�Interpretation
30
He will give most, he says, to that daughter that loves him most, and
the implication is, each daughter will receive a share of bounty proportionate to her love for her father. If Lear intended to test or to measure
the amounts of his daughters' loves by their speeches, he would have
waited till each daughter had spoken and each speech could have been
compared with the others before making his distribution. But after each
speech, before hearing those remaining, he disposes of a share in accordance with what appears to be and is once explicitly referred to by him
as a prearranged plan (1.1.37-38). Moreover, the plan, which had been
discussed with, or at least presented to, his advisors and council, seems
to have been a sagacious one.12 The love test then may first have been
thought of by Lear as a mere formality, staged for the sake of a public
ratification of a well-thought-out succession scheme. The question as to
why this form was used still remains. It is through Cordelia's actions that
the love test becomes decisive for Lear and for the play as a whole : For
Cordelia's love and being sure of her love were, more than he knew, overwhelmingly important for Lear. Cordelia's experience in scene 1, in important respects, prefigures Lear's.
The Duke of Burgundy and the King of France are in Lear's court to
sue for the hand of Cordelia, Lear's favorite daughter. When Lear strips
Cordelia of all her inheritance, of her dowry, and of his paternal favor ,
the difference between Burgundy's and France's loves becomes plain.
Burgundy will take Cordelia only with the portion first proposed by Lear.
Lear says:
. . . Sir, there she stands:
If aught within that little-seeming substance,
Or all of it, with our displeasure piec'd.
And nothing more, may fitly like your Grace,
She's there, and she is yours.
Burgundy replies, "I know no answer." Lear intensifies his condemnation and urges France not even to consider his former suit. France
wonders what Cordelia's offense could have been. She replies; and he
addresses himself to Burgundy:
... My Lord of Burgundy,
What say you to the lady? Love's not love
conformity in ratification of the settlement Lear here proclaims, or simply love of
Lear. According to Muir, nature means "'paternal affection' and merit, in the
context, means 'filial affection' " (Arden Ed., p. 6).
u 1.1.3-7. Cordelia and her consort, with Lear so long as he is alive, are to
occupy the larger strategic center, balancing Goneril and Albany on the north and
Regan and Cornwall on the south. Cf. Harry V. Jaffa, "The Limits of Politics:
King Lear, Act One, Scene One," in Shakespeare's Politics, Allan Bloom and Harry
V. Jaffa, Basic Books, 1964, pp. 118 ff. This present essay is, in a number of important respects, an attempt to develop points first stated by Harry Jaffa.
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear
31
When it is mingled with regards that stand
Aloof from th' entire point. Will you have her?
She is herself a dowry.
After Burgundy applies to Lear again for her dowry, is rejected, and
withdraws his suit, Cordelia says:
Peace be with Burgundy!
Since that respect and fortunes are his love,
I shall not be his wife [1.1.247-49].
France speaks again:
Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd!
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:
Be it lawful, I take up what's cast away.
Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect
My love should kindle to inflam'd respect.
"Inflam' d respect" might well serve to characterize noble love.13
After being stripped of the accoutrements of power, wealth, and favor,
Cordelia does learn who loves her for herself, for herself and her virtues,
as France puts it, and who loves her for what she possesses, whose love
"is mingled with regards that stand/ Aloof from th' entire point." The
dismantling of "so many folds of favor," including the favor of gods and
fortune, not only reveals the qualities of her suitors' loves, but, more
importantly, reveals what she is herself, reveals her lovability. France, as
Kent conjectures (3.1.28-29), may have some political reasons for wanting
to marry Cordelia: these, however, need not be incompatible with those
manifest reasons that lead him to love her for her own sake. To believe
that she could have deserved the condemnation she received from Lear,
France says, "Must be a faith that reason without miracle/Should never
plant in me." Positively put, reason without miracle confirms Cordelia's
virtue and her lovability. France's love then could be described as a
kind of rational faith based on what he has learned about her character.
It is not easy for a king, a princess, or anyone with large and evident
powers to bestow benefits and ills, to learn what people truly think of
them. Lear finally learns who loves him and what those about him think
of him, but like Cordelia, he must be stripped and must strip himself of
the trappings of majesty first.14
u In Cordelia's speech (1.1.248) respect probably means "looking again" or
"looking back," respectare, to something else beside herself, to her fortune, that is,
comparison and calculation. In France's speech (1.1.255) the word means honoring or
esteem, but also involves an element of "looking," .of calculation, or estimation, of
personal worth. The sense of distance suggested by the admiration, estimation, and
deference usually associated with "respect" makes the unusual conjunction with
"inflam'd" all the more poignant. Cf. also 2.4.24.
14 Cf. 4.1.19-21, and n. to I. 20, Arden Ed., K. Muir, ed.
�32
Interpretation
III
Private and public interfere with each other for Lear: The very proposing of a love test evidences a certain confusion about the properly public
and the properly private. To command public declarations or testimony in
the execution of one's office is certainly appropriate for a judge, magistrate, or king; but Lear seems to have tried, as it were, to absorb the
private into the public, to have confused what can be demanded and
enforced by right of law and majesty with what can only arise naturally,
what is beyond all external command or control. 15
However one conceives of the Lear of the love test, 1 6 his vulnerability
with respect to Cordelia is crucial. Lear deserved gratitude from his
daughters, perhaps especially from Cordelia. And gratitude, or thankfulness, should be proportionate to how much one has to be thankful for.
But Lear demands professions of love. He fails to appreciate how demeaning it would be for Cordelia to allow her love to seem to be proportionate
to the magnitude of the fortune he bestows on her. The preciousness of
her love is tied necessarily to its proud independence from mercenary
influences or threats. It cannot be bought, not with fortune, power, sensual
pleasure, protection, or anything else less than virtue . Cordelia's refusal
15 See notes S and 9 above. Cf. Immanuel Kant, "The End of All Things," in
On History, ed. Lewis W. Beck, Library of Liberal Arts. 1963, pp. 81 -84. Ausgewiihlte kleine Schriften. Taschenausgaben der Philosophischen Bibliothek, pp.
89-92. [The end of the second paragraph, p. 82, Beck ed., should read: "for it is
a contradiction to command someone not just to do something but also that he
should like to do it" (auch gem tun solle).] Should not the "love" referred to by
Kant, p. 84, 1.5, be, more strictly, gratitude?
19 There is great division among the commentators. We may distinguish four
alternatives:
1) Lear is a weak, senile, old man in his dotage. Can this be reconciled with the
deep and powerful Lear of the rest of the play, with the man whose favorites had
been Kent and Cordelia, who wisely favored Albany over Cornwall, who killed the
man (probably a captain, 5.3.27) hanging Cordelia?
2) Lear is a sagacious, though not a wise, king. He is not altogether incognizant
of his elder daughters' characters and hypocrisy : he never accuses them of violating
their love oaths. He could have regarded the love test at first as primarily a
ceremony to ratify and to sanctify the succession; but being particularly vulnerable
in relation to Cordelia, he allowed "her most small fault" to wrench his "frame of
nature from the fixed place." It was this vulnerability, he rebukes himself, "that
let thy folly in, and thy dear judgement out." Why then did Lear in Act 2 seem
to think that he could rely on his elder daughters?
3) Shakespeare sim_ ly took over the old story and did not concern himself with
p
consistency here.
4) There is no inconsistency: A man can be .a weak, foolish dotard and under
great suffering reveal heretofore untapped great depths of passion and powers of
insight.
The argument of this essay is most compatible with the second of these alternatives.
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear
33
to participate in Lear's ceremony, her disobedience (and Kent's also), is
correctly diagnosed by Lear as rooted in pride.1 7 Lear, however, fails
to see how that pride with its occasionally offensive honesty, necessarily
goes along with the Jove for which he craves. In its critical pride such
a Jove reflects the lover's estimate of the intrinsic merits of the beloved.is
If Lear had succeeded in humbling Cordelia, he might have destroyed
what he loved most.
Lear never accuses Cordelia, as he does his other daughters, of ingratitude. Her love, or certain evidence of her l~ve, is what he wants. He loved
her most, he says, as if this gave him the right to command her to love
him most. But even if love, or noble love, could be deserved, it cannot
be commanded. There does not seem to be any court competent io grant
compensation for the "pangs of dispriz'd love."19 Lear, it seems, needs
Cordelia's love because it would be evidence for himself (and for others)
of his own excellence. If he were a wise man or a philosopher, he would
"know himself" and perhaps not need such confirmation.20 But Lear is
not a philosopher. Regan is not the best witness, but she is not entirely
wrong when she says of Lear, "He hath ever but slenderly known himself" (1.1.294, cf. 1.4.238 and .260). In commanding, or expecting love
where he could only rightly expect gratitude, in thinking that he could
simply disclaim "Propinquity and property of blood," in expecting full
honors of kingship, after having relinquished power and responsibility,
Lear presumes upon an intrinsic authority and self-sufficiency that he does
not, and perhaps no man could, possess.21
IV
"In none of the fifty or sixty versions of the Lear story in existence
before Shakespeare's play does the old king go mad."22 Gloucester and
Lear suffer most in this play. Reflecting on the madness of the king,
Gloucester says to himself:
Better I were distract:
So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs,
And woes by wrong imaginations lose
The knowledge of themselves.
It may be that her fault is "small" only when compared with ingratitude, for,
as Don Quixote says, "There are those who will tell you that one of the greatest
sins man can commit is pride, but I maintain that ingratitude is worse." Part 2,
ch. 58, Putnam trans., Viking, p. 889. See also Ulrici, in Variorum Ed., ed. Furness,
p. 456.
18 Cf. Aristotle NE 1159a 22-25, 1167a II 21, 1170b 8-14, 1172a 10 14.
tt Cf. Don Quixote, Part I, ch. 14.
20 Aristotle NE II 77a 12-79a 32; and Jaffa, op. cit., pp. 133 ff.
r1 Jaffa suggests that "In proclaiming love of himself as the principle of distributive justice," Lear was "pretending to the attributes of divinity," op. cit., pp. 132
and 133. Cf. George Anastaplo, The Constitutionalist: Notes on the First Amendment, Southern Methodist University Press, 1971, p. 791; and 2.4.252.
" Kenneth Muir, Arden Ed., Introduction, p. xliii, n. 1.
17
�Interpretation
34
And yet the contrast between the two shows rather how much more
pathetic Lear's suffering in the mind is:23 The loss of eyes-the wayfinders for physical movement, the conditions for independent actionis not so pathetic as losing the light of reason, the intellectual guide that
lets us grasp the general meanings of things.24
There is a connection, it has been observed, between pride and
madness.25 Proud men do not like to justify and explain themselves. Their
rectitude, they feel, should be taken for granted. They balk at the
inferiority, or equality, implicit in being required to explain themselves,
for example, Lear before Albany, Kent before Cornwall, Gloucester and
Regan, and Cordelia before the court (1.4.248 ff., 2.2.61 ff., and 1.1.87
ff.). The proud see or feel themselves to be within a definite hierarchical
order. They prize their place within the order and, accordingly, the order
itself. They are most sensitive to insult and most prone to the passion
most consequent upon insult, anger. Anger, unlike grief, contains within
itself a desire to strike back. And, most importantly for our argument,
the desire to strike back for most men, if not for all men, exists even when
there is nothing to strike back against. Men derive relief from cursing
the table or bench they have knocked against. When loved ones suffer
some grave and irremediable illness or misfortune, men can speak, not of
misfortune, but of "affliction," thus, as it were, striking back in speech
against the causes of the suffering. All the affections of what is poetically ·
called the "heart"26 may tend to personify, and thus obscure, the difference between the living and the dead, but anger seems peculiarly prone
to personification. Something similar often happens in love. It seems that
men desire what they love, or what they think they love, to love them in
return, whether such love is capable of being returned or not. Hope rises
from desire. Hope and desire find fulfillment in fact or in fantasy.
Cf. 3.4.6-25.
Cf. 4.1.27-28 .
u Cf. Thomas Hobbes, Leviarhan, ch. 8, Everyman's Library Ed., p. 59, and
Elements of Law, ch. I0.9-11; and G . W. F. Hegel, Enzyk/opiidie d .p.W., III. Die
Philosophie des Geistes, § 408, Zusatz, fJfJ), "die eigentliche Narrheit." Cf. inter a/ia,
Sophocles Ajax; and Euripides Herakles.
ze The word heart occurs rather often in King Lear (about fifty times). In
general it seems to refer to what is responsible for coordinating men's appetites,
passions, desires, thoughts and wills, their loves and hates. Cp. Dante's "animo"
in Purgatorio, Canto I 7. The word heart enters into Thomas Aquinas' discussion in
the Summa Theo/ogica, usually when citations from the Bible or Church authorities
need explication. Sometimes he interprets it as practical reason or conscience (e.g.,
II-I Q. 94, A.6. Cf. A.5 ad I, A.2, and I, Q. 24, A.I) and frequently as will
(e.g., 11-1, Q. 4, A.4; Q. 6, A.4 ad I; Q. I9, A.8 ad I, A.IO ad 1 sed con; Q. 24,
A.3). Nonmetaphorically he speaks of the heart as that organ that initiates all
bodily, all vital movement, the "instrument of the soul's passions" (e.g., I, Q. 20,
A.l ad l; 11-1, Q. 17, A.9 ad 2; Q. 37, A.4 ; Q. 38, A.5 ad 3; Q. 40, A.6;
Q. 44, A.I ad l; Q 48, A.2-4). Cf. Plato Republic, the discussion of E>uµo~
439e-442d; and Timaeus 69d end-72c 1.
{L 'lt.~L+-_'.,_
'"L ~~
1:J .......___ J 1.18 -J.~.
13
u
s-.
q ..
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear
35
In some of its extreme forms this personification is what is called
madness. Lear insists that it must have been the unkindness of Poor Tom's
nonexistent daughters that brought him to such lowness (3.4.48 ff.). He
will take a joint-stool for his daughter and Poor Tom and the Fool for
Justices, if that is the only way he has to bring his daughters before the
bar of justice (3.6.20 ff.). Lear's pride, his self-respect, his sense of where
he belongs in the hierarchical order of things, is, so to speak, the point
of origin for his orientation in the world. As his self-respect is assailed,
he finds it increasingly difficult to be objective, as Edgar says to Gloucester,
to "Bear free and patient thoughts," that is, thoughts free from the presumption that everything that happens in the world has been personally
directed with a view to its effect upon himself. His pride and his love of
justice lead him to refuse to accept the existence of the world where his
worth is denied. He will try to see the world as it is only if the world makes
place for his pride. And yet one of the measures of his worth is the intensity with which he struggles to save his sanity. lf his pride did not have
some basis in truth, even his own love of truth and justice, his madness
could not be as significant as it is.
v
In the early acts of the play Lear swears by those specific divinities,
the sun, the night, Hecate, Apollo, and Jupiter; he also calls on the heavens
and calls nature goddess. He seems to see himself and his kingdom as
part of one grand natural and divine order, a just hierarchical order, with
the heavenly powers, the gods, especially Jupi~er, at the summit of the
cosmic hierarchy and himself correspondingly at the summit of that subordinate order, his kingdom. When his daughters, his ~ol, and his shame,
the correlate of his pride, destroy his self-respect, "abuse," "subdue,"
"oppress," "ruin," and "bemad" his nature, what is bemadding is that
at the same time they are destroying the basis of his orientation in the
world, driving his soul into a storm of questions, doubts, and partial insights too heavy for his patience and judgment to bear.27
The disorder in the moral and political world is associated in Act 3
with tumult in the cosmic order, the rage in Lear's soul with the raging
! 7 Cf. Robert B. Heilman, This Great Stage, Image and Structure in King Lear,
University of Washington, 1963, pp. 72-74. Cf. also Laurence Berns, "Aristotle's
Poetics" in Ancients and Moderns, Essays on the Tradition of Political Philosophy
in Honor of Leo Strauss, ed. Joseph Cropsey, Basic Books, 1964, p. 82. In that
essay the division on p. 82 should be marked "Epilogue"; part II begins on p. 72
and part III on p. 79; p. 70, last line, first paragraph, "man" should read "men"
and "his" should read "their"; p. 72, eighth line from bottom, "Book" should read
"chapter"; p. 80, 11.7 and 23 shonld each have a comma after "for the most part";
p. 85, n. 16, 1.6, "flow" should read "flaw"; p. 86, 1.14, in n. 16, "what lies bcnea:h"
should be inserted between "civilizing" and "politics"; p. 86, n. 23, 1.2 "Politics"
should read "Poetics."
�36
Interpretation
of the heavens. The gentleman who meets Kent speaks of how the
"impetuous blasts with eyeless rage" catch Lear's white hair in their fury.
But for Lear lightnings are "thought-executing fires," and the elements
are addressed as seeing and thinking beings. At first he bids them, "Let
fall your horrible pleasure." They owe him no subscription. However, that
soon changes:
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That will with two pernicious daughters join
Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. 0, ho! 'tis foul.
His outrage seems to tum toward the gods themselves.. But his faith
is not yet entirely destroyed. He realizes that patience is what he needs.
Perhaps his suffering is some divine affliction, later to be redeemed? He
calls out as if the storm were herald to a day of judgment when justice
and honesty will prevail and he will be revealed as a man more sinned
against than sinning.
Let the great Gods,
That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhipp'd of Justice; hide thee, thou bloody hand,
Thou perjur'd, and thou simular of virtue
That art incestuous; caitiff, to pieces shake,
That under covert and convenient seeming
Has practis'd on man's life; close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and cry
These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man
More sinn'd against than sinning 28 (3.2.49-59] .
Later, after he has agreed to enter a nearby hovel, he says, "I'll pray
and then 111 sleep." But he does not pray, if praying means addressing
divinities.29 He directs his words not to the high, to the gods, but to the
poor, the wretched and the low:
Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O! I have ta'en
Too little care of this. Take physic, Pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,
. And show the Heavens more just [3.4.27-36).
zs Cf. Kent's speech preceding and Mark, 13, esp. 13.12; see Variorum Ed., ed.
Furness, p. 339; cf. Sophocles Oedipus at Colonus, 11.266-67.
n Cf. 1.5.47-48, 2.4.192, and 2.4.273-80.
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety m King Lear
37
Like thoughts are expressed later by Gloucester, as he gives a purse
to the man he believes to be Poor Tom:
Here, take this purse, thou whom the heav'ns' plagues
Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched
Makes thee the happier: Heavens, deal so still!
Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man,
That slaves your ordinance, that will not see
Because he does not feel, feel your power quickly;
So distribution should undo excess,
And each man have enough [4.1.64-71).
Lear's statement goes further: The very justice of the heavens is called
into question. 30
The decisive point in this process is reached when Lear strips off his
royal garments, after he has encountered Poor Tom, the exemplar of
human wretchedness in the extreme.31 Gratitude, its bonds, its cosmic
and divine implications, have proved snares and delusions for Lear. Here,
with Poor Tom as his model, undeceived by a groundless reliance on
gratitude and the flattery of pomp and majesty, he thinks that he can see
the truly fundamental situation of man.
Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the
beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume .. .. Thou art the thing itself;
unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou
art. Off, off you )endings! Come; unbutton here [3.4.105-12]. 3 !
Tom owes the worm no silk because he has no silk, the sheep no wool
because he has no wool. Lear takes Tom, the unaccommodated man, as
the "natural man." But does Tom have nothing? He has his life and
he has his misery; and as gratitude is one of the chief roots of natural
piety, so fear and wretchedness can theologize and moralize as well. Tom
has his catechism:
Take heed o' th' foul fiend. Obey thy parents; keep thy word's justice; swear not;
commit not with man's sworn spouse; set not thy sweet heart on proud array
[3.4.80-83].
Each of these six commandments corresponds to one of the Bible's Ten
Commandments: the last most tenuously to the Bible's Tenth, Tom's fifth
to the Bible's Seventh, his fourth to the Bible's Third, his third to the
Bible's Ninth, and his second to the Bible's Fifth.33 Lear has proclaimed
ao "And show the Heavens more just" is the last line Lear speaks before madness
overcomes him. See 3.4.48. In Aristotelian terms this is the point at which the
reversal, or peripety, occurs in King Lear; Poetics 1452a 21-52b 13. Cf. also Laurence Berns, op. cit., n. 27 above, pp. 75 and 82.
11 The extreme must include madness.
at Cf. 2.3.7-9.
11 Tom's replacement of the Fifth Commandment's "Honor thy father and thy
mother" by "Obey" corresponds to a replacement of gratitude by fear.
�38
Interpretation
twice in this play that "nothing can be made out of nothing."34 If nothing
comes from nothing, everything that does come to be must come from
something, something which itself does not come to be, that is, is unchanging. It is not altogether unreasonable for Poor Tom and anyone who
would take him as the man himself to regard what most men call God,
the ultimate source of his misery, as a foul fiend. Tom's first commandment
corresponds to the Bible's First Commandment: "Thou shalt have no
other gods before me."35 The question about filial gratitude, about what
children owe to their parents, to the sources of their being, is here extended
to the limit: What is owed, or due, to the guiding principle, or principles,
of life as a whole, to the sources, or source, of all being?
When Lear strips himself of his royal garments, those "\endings," he
tries to strip himself of every vestige of royalty. When Kent asks him,
"How fares your Grace?" he does not even acknowledge that the term
could be meaningful and replies, "What's he?" His divestment of his royal
garments is the outer sign of his soul's divestment of its former protections and supports, of those beliefs and convictions that heretofore had
sustained and guided his activity in the world. He thinks that now he is
in a position to come to know man, to know himself, to philosophize
(1.4.238 and .259). But the conditions required to make him want to
philosophize are those that he declared earlier would make a truly human
life impossible. "O! reason not the need," he replies to his daughters'
questioning his need for attendants of his own:
our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous:
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady;
If only to go warm were gorgeous,
Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,
Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need.You Heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!-38 (2.4.266-73].
Not only does Poor Tom become the representative of humanity for
Lear, but because he of all men is least likely to have been blinded by
gratitude or flattery, he becomes after Lear's divestment the philosopher
for Lear_ "First," before accepting fire, food, and shelter, "let me talk
u See 1.4.134-39, 1.1.90, and 1.2.31-35. Shakespeare's presentation of the
"Angstphanomen," Lear's "eye of anguish" (4.4.15), seems to have been unnoticed
by Martin Heidegger, Sein und Zeit , Niemeyer, 1957, p. 190; cf. n. on 199.
35 Exodus 20.1-17, Deuteronomy 5.6-21, and King Lear, 3.4.80-83. The statement
following the Second Commandment tells of God visiting the iniquity of fathers
upon their children; Shakespeare, less mysteriously with a view to considerations of
justice, visits the iniquity of children upon fathers. See 3.4.74-75. Cf. A. C. Bradley,
Shakespearean Tragedy, Macmillan, London, 1961, pp. 222 ff_
18 Cf. 3.6.4-5. Edith Sitwell suggests that these lines were written under the
.infh1ence of Plato's Phaedo 64d-e 1; A Notebook on William Shakespeare, Macmillan, 1965, pp. 75-76.
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear
39
with this philosopher," he says. His first question is: "What is the cause
of thunder?" Shortly before divesting, he apparently had no doubts about
the cause of thunder, that is, Jupiter.
I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot,
Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove [2.4.229-30].
But now such questions have become open. He never addresses a god
by a personal name again. During all the time of his madness he speaks
of the divinities ("Gods," 4.6.128) only once. Lear seems now to be in a
position to see deeper into the nature of things than he ever was before.
The word nature and words with nature as their root are used fifty
times in what has come to be the generally accepted text of King Lear.
The word unnatural occurs seven times, more than twice as often as it
occurs in any other play of Shakespeare. Lear uses words with nature as
root more than twice as often as any other character in the play.37 These
usages could be classified under five, not always clearly distinguishable,
headings. Nature sometimes means (1) the general order of the social,
political, and cosmic whole within which the activity of any one person
or group can only be a part; (2) the constitution, or character, of an
individual as a whole, that is, the unity arising from both endowment and
habit; (3) the original endowment of an individual with the powers
directed, though not necessarily compelled, toward definite ends, or purposes. This is the meaning expressed most often by Lear. Nature also
means (4) the original endowment of an individual with powers supplied
to be used howsoever their possessor wills. This is the meaning expressed
most powerfully by Edmund. (5) Nature is twice personified as goddess:
once by Lear conflating meanings 1 and 3, and once by Edmund conflating meanings 1 and 4. The play has often been understood as presenting the world as a great arena where the principles of ethical and unethical nature contest for dominion over the whole.38 The disagreements
of the commentators are just one more reflection of the fact that Shakespeare has been far more explicit about raising the question of nature,
Nineteen times. Gloucester is next with nine times. (Unnaturalness occurs once.)
Cf. G. Wilson Knight, The Wheel of Fire, Meridian, p. 179; E. K. Chambers,
Shakespeare: A Survey, Hill and Wang, pp. 240 ff. and esp. pp. 215-16; D. A.
Traversi, An Approach to Shakespeare, Sands, revised and enlarged ed., p. 185;
John F. Danby, Shakespeare's Doctrine of Nature , A Study of King Lear, Faber &
Faber, 1949, pp. 15-19; and esp. Robert B. Heilman, op. cit., n. 27 above, chs. 4
and 5, and pp. 115, 133-34, and 179-81.
Heilman's careful work is a fundamental book, perhaps the fundamental book,
for any serious study of King Lear. By carefully and searchingly tracing out and
relating the amazingly intricate patterns of imagery in the play, Heilman lets
Shakespeare's philosophy speak for itself. The book's deficiencies, deficiencies
generally shared by critics of pre-nineteenth-century literature, stem from an
insufficient understanding of certain key notions of classical philosophy, especially the
notion of natural right (see Leo Strauss, Natural Right and History, Chicago, 1953,
chs. 3 and 4) and the notion of "intuitive reason," that is, nous (see Jacob Klein,
37
38
�40
Interpretation
raising the question about the relation between nature and morality, than
he has been about presenting any definite solution.
There is more clarity, however, about who is wrong: The transgressions
of Edmund, Goneril, Regan, and Cornwall lead ultimately to their own
destruction. Nature repels simple viciousness. And about the meeting of
Lear and Gloucester in Act 4, scene 6: "What could better point the
transcendent issues Shakespeare has developed . . . than this encounter of
the sensual man robbed of his eyes, with the wilful man, the light of his
mind put out."39 Royal Lear's understanding of how morality is effected
within nature is certainly not adequate. He conceives of the relation between morality and nature as being more organic than it is (3.4.14-16); he
overestimates the power of law; he is insufficiently attentive to the limits
set by nature to what authority and law can command. He relies overmuch
on divine enforcement of nature's directives, and consequently is unaware
of the extent to which the accomplishment of nature's purposes is left
to chance and, on the basis of the conditions provided by nature and
chance, to human prudence. In other words, the substitution of divine
intervention for chance leads to an underestimation of the possibilities for
evil and an insufficient awareness of the need for prudence. Lear's faith in
the rightness of the divine and natural order is shattered by his suffering.
But what does his shattering experience open him to?
VI
In his madness Lear becomes estranged, not only from the divinities
he swore by before, but from nature as a whole, especially from nature
as the source of generation.40 From the outset in Lear's mind the themes
of generation, gratitude, and justice are intertwined. In his first great
storm scene he bids the thunder, as if it were a divinity with authority and
power over nature, to:
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world!
Crack Nature's moulds, all germens spill at once
That makes ingrateful man! [3 .2.7-9].
Destroy the world's pregnancy, he cries: Destroy nature's means for
producing man, who shows by his failure to appreciate rightly the sources
"Aristotle, An Introduction," Ancients and Moderns, Essays on the Tradition of
Political Philosophy in Honor of Leo Strauss, ed. Joseph Cropsey, Basic Books,
1964). Thus Heilman tends to identify · "reason" with calculation, so that insight
and the perception of "value," that is, the good according to nature, are attributed
to a "non-rational" imaginative awareness. See pp. 161, 170, and King Lear,
4.6.132-33, .177, n. 13, and pp. 30-31 above.
at H. Granville-Barker, Prefaces to Shakespeare, quoted in Edith Sitwell, op. cit.,
n. 36 above, p. 47. In later editions Granville-Barker has apparently substituted,
less aptly in our view, "despot" for "wilful man."
.'° Cf. 4.6.115-16.
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear
41
of his being how undeserving he is of the gift of life. What Edmund can
speak of as "the lusty stealth of nature" is, for Lear, associated with:
hell . . . darkness,
... the sulphurous pit-burning, scalding,
Stench, consumption; fie, fie, fie! pah, pah!
Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary,
To sweeten my imagination [4.6.129-33).
Mad Lear comes to a view of nature somewhat similar to Edmund's,
nature as the primitive, undeveloped beginnings of things. But his anguish
and revulsion indicate how much more he originally expected from nature:
He feels and suffers the absence of what he can no longer believe in.
Like Jesus he speaks against the Old Testament sentence for adultery.41
He goes to extremes and, as if all possibility of redemption were lost,
declares: "Let copulation thrive." Jesus was more sober: After delivering
the adulteress from condemnation, his last words to her were "go and sin
no more" (John, 8.1-11). Lear, however, condemns women generally,
confounding sex with Biblical, mostly New Testament, images of hell.
In his condemnation of the world's justice, Lear cries:
Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!
Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back;
Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kind
For which thou whipp'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener [4.6.162-65).
Again we are reminded of the New Testament: "But I say unto you,
That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed
adultery with her already in his heart" (Matt. 5.27-28) and "He that is
without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her" (John 8.7).
Yet universal sainthood failing, decency requires that offenses be
punished whether the intentions of the punishers be pure or not. Should
thoughts and actions be equally punishable? Do men have as much control
over their thoughts and desires as they do over their actions? Are others
harmed by thoughts directed against themselves when those thoughts are
neither divulged nor acted upon? If in the New Testament, as some would
claim, these are deliberate rhetorical exaggerations, Lear seems to have
lost the capacity to make the required qualifications.
In a farmer's dog chasing a beggar, Lear says:
There thou might'st behold
The great image of Authority
A dog's obey'd in office.
Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear;
Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,
And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks;
u Lev. 20.10. He "pardons" an adulterer rather than an adulteress. Cf. 2.4.12933 and .233-35.
�42
Interpretation
Arm it in rags, a pygmy's straw does pierce it.
None does offend, none, I say, none; . ..
If none does offend, and consequently none can rightly accuse, at least
none who are not themselves spotless, perhaps none could ever rightly
accuse: "Judge not, that ye be not judged."42 Edgar's commentary on this
speech is: "O! matter and impertinency mix'd; I Reason in madness." An
attempt should be made to separate some of the reason from the madness.
The farmer's dog does often chase away the thief, but the dog cannot,
unfortunately, distinguish between villainous and innocent, not to speak
of undeserved, lowness.
Authority and law are usually more rigorous with the poor and weak,
partly because they are less capable of protecting themselves, and partly
for less simple reasons. Wealth, power, and authority usually go together.
And just as the unsuccessful can exaggerate the part played by chance
and accident in human affairs, so the successful can flatter themselves
by exaggerating the extent to which their good fortune is owed to their
merits. By reasoning obversely about the misfortunes of others, they can
allow themselves to become obtuse and callous to the miseries of the
unfortunate, smothering charity in self-complacent rigor.43 Such is the
man "that will not see I Because he does not feel . . ." When Gloucester
in the fourth act asks the disguised Edgar who he is, Edgar replies:
A most poor man made tame to Fortune's blows;
Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows,
Am pregnant to good pity.
The sufferings of Lear, Gloucester, and Edgar would seem to be the
remedy for this, the occupational disease of greatness. 44 Yet if suffering
of such magnitude is required, the price of sufficiently educating authority
in mercy or equity is hopelessly high. Few can do as much, perhaps, as the
educator Shakespeare, who by his art, his presentations of feigned experiences, has made it possible for some to feel, without fully suffering,
what they might need to feel in order to see.
Lear's suffering, however, and the perspective he has come to adopt,
have not prepared him for governing more responsibly, but rather ·for a
renunciation of the "world." His suffering has completely destroyed him
as a political man. Perhaps the most poignant expression of Lear's death
as a political man is his reception of Kent in the last scene. Kent's affection
for Lear is never severed from a political context. He always approaches
Lear, even in defiance and in death, as servant to master, never simply as
man to man. 45 At the end, although other explanations are possible, Lear's
u Romans 3.1 -18; cp. 3.10-12 with Psalms 14; and Matt. 7.1-5. Lear is open to
the charge the Apostle Paul said was made against himself, loc. cit. 3.8.
" Cf. Laurence Berns, op. cit., n. 27 above, pp. 75-77.
" For another approach to the problem see I Henry IV, 1.2 and 3.2; and
Henry V, 4.1.
" Cf. n. 10 above.
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear
43
cold reception of Kent indicates that Kent and what he stands for have
faded into almost complete insignificance for Lear. Yet his renunciation
of the world is not complete. The desire for vengeance remains: "And
when I have stol'n upon these son-in-laws, I Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill,
kill!" (4.6.188-89).
VII
When Lear awakes after his long sleep, "Our foster-nurse of Nature"
(4.4.12), "the great rage," the doctor reports, " .. . is kill'd in him"
(4.7.78-79). Clad in new garments, the images Lear uses are resurrection
from the grave and entry into a new life, a life characterized by the
interchange of blessing (from Lear) and forgiveness (from Cordelia) and
mutual love.46 After the battle and their capture, Lear is given over
almost entirely to love, the love of Cordelia.
Come, let's away to prison;
We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage:
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,
And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
.
•'\s if we were Gess spic1r aAd we'll wear e1d,ati~ ~, o-J...
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,
~~~
Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take upon 's the mystery of things,
As if we were God-s"sPies: and we'll wear out,
In a wall'd prison, pacts and sects of great ones
That ebb and flow by the moon.
Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,
The Gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee?
He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven,
And fire us hence like foxes [5.3.8-23].
Lear seems to be perfectly fulfilled. He has no lingering regrets. The
worth of being reconciled in love with Cordelia is beyond price: It cannot
be measured by any of the measures Lear used in the first scene. No
sacrifice, be it rule, extent of territory, honor, even freedom itself, seems
too great, or even comparable with what Lear has gained. And with his
love and the prospect of love's joy that he holds before himself has come
patience. His patience and his love go together with his renunciation of
the world. His desire for revenge is as dead as his pride. When Cordelia
proudly says:
For thee, oppressed King, I am cast down;
Myself could else out-frown false Fortune's frown.
Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?
Lear answers, "No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison." And at the
•a Cf. also 4.6.33-80.
�44
Interpretation
moment of his death, with the dead Cordelia before him, it is clear that
Lear can live no longer in the world where even these last hopes are
dashed. He dies in a vision of reunion with Cordelia living once again.
There has been extensive debate about whether these scenes are to be
understood in a Christian sense or not.47 Was Lear's moment of joy at his
death "based on an illusion"?4S Or, was it the triumphal culmination of
his purgatorial, his redemptive suffering, a loving glimpse into that better
world to come where all righteous hopes will be fulfilled?
What we have been describing is the development of attitudes and a
perspective that Shakespeare has presented in terms that are recognizably
Christian. 49
This development in King Lear, however, is presented as a natural
development. What was Shakespeare's perspective, as distinct from Lear's?
The dramatic poet does not speak in his own name. His perspective can
be inferred only from the play as a whole. "Hard were it for me, as if
I were a god, to tell of all these things," says Homer.50 The poet stands
as a god over the world of his play, but a god limited to what nature
leaves to possibility and to chance: For nature, or the poet's understanding
of nature, provides the framework. "ls there any cause in nature," Lear
asks, "that makes these hard hearts?" (3.6. 78-79). Shakespeare seems
to have asked: "ls there any cause in nature that makes these Christian
hearts?" Nature, or the problem of nature, as articulated by classical
philosophy, we suggest, provides the framework for King Lear.51
The major classical philosophers, Plato and Aristotle, of course, never
elaborated an answer to what we suppose was Shakespeare's question. This
could be due to historical accident. The serious question is: Are the
principles and the framework they first articulated adequate to comprehend such an account? Must not the rise and triumph of Christianity be
explained? Can the decision about the best way of life be compelling
unless all fundamental alternatives have been examined? It is incumbent
upon classical philosophy to try to see whether the revealed religions and
the souls formed by them can be rendered intelligible to natural reason.
Shakespeare seems to have been exploring this possibility, especially in
King Lear.
Yet, it could be argued, nature has its place also within the Christian
41 See K. Muir, Arden Ed., pp. Iv ff.; Barbara Everett, "The New King Lear," in
Shakespeare: King Lear, Casebook Series, ed. F. Kermode, 1969, pp. 184 ff.; G.
W. Knight, op. cit., pp. 187 ff.; and Susan Snyder, "King Lear and the Prodigal Son,"
Shakespeare Quarterly, Autumn 1966.
48 K. Muir, loc. cit., p. lix.
" Cf. Heilman, op. cit., p. 78; n. 11, p. 309; and esp. n. 1, p. 331.
'° Iliad XII, 1.176.
11 Aristotle NE 1134b 18-35. Cf. Leo Strauss, "The Law of Reason in the
Kuzari," Persecution and the Art of Writing, Free Press, 1952, pp. 95-98; Allan
Bloom, op. cit., 11- 12 above, Introduction; . and Howard B. White, Copp'd Hills
Towards Heaven: Shakespeare's Classical Polity, Nijhoff, 1970.
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear
45
cosmos. Could not Shakespeare have been showing rather how God's
invisible law might, "from the creation of the world," have been written
by nature in men's hearts? Might he not have been showing what would
have to be endured by a "natural man," that is, a man with no knowledge
of Jesus Christ and the Bible, for that law to begin to become visible
to him?52
If the issue were to be put in terms of the primacy of compassionate
love as compared with the primacy of insight, Shakespeare may have
provided a clue to his own opinion in Act 4 of King Lear. An unnamed
gentleman describes Cordelia's tears while she reads of her father's sufferings as "pearls from diamonds dropped." "Tears of compassion are
pearls; eyes are diamonds ... ": Tears of compassion are compared to
rare and precious stones, but eyes, that is, insight, are more precious
still. 53
"Hath not God," wrote the Apostle Paul, "made foolish the wisdom
of this world?"54 For Paul the "foolish" of faith possess a wisdom far
deeper than anything accessible to natural reason. Is this what Shakespeare suggests by echoing this language about wisdom and folly in his
articulation of the problem of morality and justice in King Lear? The
Fool tells Kent:
That sir which serves and seeks for gain,
And follows but for form,
Will pack when it begins to rain,
And leave thee in the storm.
But I will tarry; the Fool will stay,
And let the wise man fly:
The knave turns Fool that runs away;
The Fool no knave, perdy [2.4.78-85].
In this play the word fool moves through a range of meanings.
The official Fool in motley is "foolish," funny, and privileged because
he seems, or is licensed to pretend, not to know the most ordinary conventions.
In general, a fool is a man who does not know what every man is
expected to know. Somewhat less generally, assuming that in everything
a man chooses to do, some benefit to himself is intended, a fool is a man
who does things that harm himself, who lacks judgment about what
benefits himself. This is the elementary meaning of the word in the play
that is presupposed by the four meanings following.
The honest fools, best exemplified by Gloucester and by Edgar of the
Cf. Romans l.20, 2.14-15; and I Car. 2.14.
Heilman, op. cit., pp. 155-56. Cf. King Lear, 5.3.189-90 and l. l.56.
5• I Car. 2.20 and ibid. chs. 1-4. But cp. A Midsummer Night's Dream, 4.1.1026: and cf. ibid., 4.1.218-21 with I Car. 2.9: ibid. l.2.22-99 with I Car. 9.22: ibid.
1.2.8,15; 3.1.1-81; 4.2.30-end with Galatians 2:11 ff.: also ibid. 5.1.195-96, 311,
and 360-62.
52
53
�Interpretation
46
early scenes, are overtrusting and, as in Gloucester's case, overcredulous
about heavenly influences on human actions. They fail to understand
people unlike themselves, to understand vice and malice. They are easily
gulled by those clever and unscrupulous enough to exploit and betray their
trust.
The loyal and dutiful are "moral fools ." So Albany is regarded by
Goneril and Kent spoken of by the Fool. The same could be said of the
servant who mortally wounds Cornwall and is killed by Regan. Lear in
acting on the expectation that his elder daughters would be bound by filial
gratitude and duty is another kind of "moral fool." The moral fools tend
to act as if moral laws were as inviolable as natural laws, as if moral
laws were natural laws. They are regarded as fools by the "worldly wise"
for not appreciating sufficiently the arbitrary and conventional factors
in morality, the bestial elements in human nature, and for not appreciating
sufficiently how self-seeking usually masks itself in moral guises. For the
worldly wise self-seeking is the only kind of seeking sanctioned by nature.
What the moral fool senses or sees and the worldly wise are blind to is
the extent to which the humanity of any one man's life is a function of the
larger moral, social, and political orders of which that individual life can
only be a part.
Examples of what we might call the "noble fool" are France, the Fool,
Edgar, Cordelia, and Lear: those capable of being touched and moved by
noble love, by "inflam'd respect."55 By their willingness to risk themselves and everything that could be subject to calculations of worldly
success, they exhibit their own conviction, and rouse admiration and
hopes, in those capable of appreciating them, that mankind is capable
of attaining states of being that are simply good in themselves. The
worldly wise are blind to this possibility.
In the light of what the moral fool and the noble fool see, the knavery
of the worldly wise reveals itself as the final folly. By their blindness to
what raises man above the beasts, the "wise" knaves finally bring themselves down with those whose justice they violate. By their blindness to
what directs men toward the divine, to what is good in itself, they are
deprived of nature's graces, the love and friendship of the noble.
But do the love and insight that Lear and Gloucester attain fully
redeem what they have suffered? What is to be inferred from the disproportion between their sins and their terrible suffering?
"We glory in tribulations," wrote the Apostle Paul,
knowing that tribulation work.eth patience; and patience experience; and experience,
hope. And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in
our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us. [Romans 5.3-5].
And from the Apostle James:
Be patient therefore brethren, unto the coming of the Lord. Behold the husbandman
waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until he
11
Cf. section II above.
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear
47
receive the earlier and the latter rain. Be ye also patient; stablish your hearts:
for the coming of the Lord draweth nigh.
It is Cordelia, her love, "The holy water from her heavenly eyes"
(4.3 .31), that near the end sustain Lear's patience. The gentleman describes how she read Kent's letters recounting Lear's ordeal:
Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence;
And now and then an ample tear trill'd down
Her delicate cheek; it seem'd she was a queen
Over her passion; who, most rebel-like,
Sought to be king o'er her.
"O! then it mov'd her?" Kent asks.
Not to a rage; patience and sorrow strove
Who should express her goodliest. You have seen
Sunshine and rain at once; her smile and tears
Were like, a better way; those happy smilets
That play'd on her ripe lip seem'd not to know
What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence,
As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. In brief,
Sorrow would be a rarity most belov"d,
If all could so become it [4.3.12-24].
Later Cordelia prays:
All bless'd secrets,
All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth,
Spring with my tears! he aidant and remediate
In the good man's distress! [4.4.15-18].
In the reconciliation scene, Lear asks, "Be your tears wet?" He answers
himself, "Yes, faith." These scenes too are often taken as argument that
"King Lear is a Christian play about a Pagan world .... "56
Sunshine and rain, however, suggest natural growth, that Cordelia's
smiles and tears were· nature·s means for curing Lear's abused heart. It
does seem, however, to be a most Christianlike use of nature. But, unlike
Lear, Cordelia, whose patience is so movingly described, is proud to the
end. She never asks for forgiveness. She is prepared to "outfrown false
Fortune's frown. " Is she prepared to live out her life "in a walled prison"?
She has not renounced political life: She calls Lear king and queenlike
puts down her rebel passions. She is ready to confront her sisters: "Shall
we not see these daughters and these sisters?" Yet what is perhaps most
significant, though obvious, for the question of Christianity in King Lear
is that there is no promise or expectation "for the coming of the Lord."
The word patience is ambiguous. In the Christian sense it seems to mean
bearing tribulations in the loving faith that their promised miraculous
reversals will surely come to pass. In the classical, or stoic, sense of the
58
I. C . Maxwell, quoted in Muir, op. cit., p. lvi.
�48
Interpretation
word it seems to mean endurance: endurance that does not anticipate
miraculous change, that accepts evil in the world as a necessity, that bases
itself only on rational hopes and the conviction that what is itself good
deserves loyalty whether that loyalty receives any other reward or not.
The unforeseen mischances of the world that bring down the just and
innocent too often with the guilty, in the classical view, engender the
wish for particular providence at the same time that they constitute
evidence for its absence. It is not incompatible with the love of truth to
respect the love of justice that is the father to that wish.
VIII
Who is the paradigm of virtue m this play? The gentleman says,
addressing himself to absent Lear:
Thou hast one daughter,
Who redeems nature from ·the general curse
Which twain have brought her to.57
Why then was Cordelia killed? Cordelia's honesty, her proud refusal
to join her sisters in their demeaning hypocrisy, precipitated the catastrophe of this play. Her death raises the question about what the moral
limits of proud honesty in an imperfect world might be.58 Pisanio and
Cornelius in Cymbeline avert tragedy by, as they put it, being false (to
the bad) in order to be true (to the good) (1.5.43-44 and 4.3.42). In Sonnet
94 those "who rightly do inherit heaven's graces I And husband nature's
riches from expense" are also those "that have pow'r to hurt and will do
none, I That do not do the thing they most do show." This last line could
never apply to Cordelia.
Edgar is the character in King Lear who most of all does not do the
thing he most does show. He successfully assumes six different guises
in the play. During the play from
a brother noble,
Whose nature is so far from doing harms
That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty
the practices of a confirmed villain ride easily, he develops into a model
of virtue armed and resourceful.
Edgar seems to be a mean between his father and his bastard brother.
Their opinions about heavenly influences over human affairs are at
opposite extremes. The father is overcredulous, Edmund undercredulous.
17 Does this indicate that ingratitude more than prideful disobedience is chiefly
responsible for the "general curse"? See n. 17 above.
58 Cf. Ulrici, Variorum Ed., ed. Furness, pp. 456 57. See also Gervinus, ibid.,
pp. 459-60, on the significance of her leadership of the invading army for the
question of her death. Cf. H. Granville-Barker, Prefaces to Shakespeare, Botsford,
1970, pp. 23-24 (277-78) and 51 (305) on Cordelia's silence.
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear
49
Both are perhaps equally at fault intellectually, but the moral fault is
clearly more the son's.59 In Shakespeare's world he who scorns all idea of
heavenly influence on human affairs rarely comes to much good. Edgar's
speech to his dying brother gives the last word of the play on the adultery
theme and constitutes an answer as well to Gloucester's "As flies to wanton
boys, are we to th' Gods; I They kill us for their sport."
The Gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us;
The dark and vicious place where thee he got
Cost him his eyes [5.3.170-73].
Edmund replies, "Th' hast spoken right, 'tis true. I The wheel is come full
circle; I am here." Edgar spoke of the gods, but Edmund speaks of
fortune 's wheel. Lear preaches to Gloucester, drawing lessons from man's
beginnings:
Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:
Thou know'st the first time that we smell the air
We wawl and cry . ...
When we are born, we cry that we are come
To this great stage of fools• 0 [4.6.180-85].
Edgar preaches to his suicidal father on the same theme:
Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither:
Ripeness is all [5.2.911].
This sermon is more adequate because it is more comprehensive. It
considers not only the beginnings but the middle and the end as welJ.61
Man's chief concern, the image suggests, should be not with what happens
when the fruit falls and dies, nor especially the beginnings, but rather
with coming to fullest maturity in the world.
IX
King Lear is based on two stories, the Lear story and the Gloucester
story. Critics have long been concerned by the apparent lack of complete
unity between them.62 The unity of King Lear comes to sight on the
level of reflection, reflection on the one philosophic theme underlying both
stories, of which both stories are necessary and complementary parts:
58
Cf. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Rea·on , B 857 58.
All the world's a stage in Shakespeare for him who, like Lear, Jaques, and
Antonio, is coming to feel himself to be an "exile in 'this' world." Macbeth (5.5.25)
is a special case.
61 I am indebted for this observation to Hilail Gildin of Queens College, N .Y.
62 Cf. Bradley, op. cit., pp. 118 ff. ; Heilman, op. cit., p. 32 and n. 28, pp. 298-99;
and "The Unity of King Lear" in op. cit., ed. Kermode, n. 47 above, pp. 169 ff.
60
�50
Interpretation
namely, that nature, while constituting the ground and limits of convention
and law, requires in man the cooperation of law and convention for its
fulfillment.
Lear in trying to command love and gratitude fails to see that the
natural growths of noble love and gratitude are beyond the control of
law and political authority. The Lear story illustrates the natural limits
of legal and political authority and the tensions that arise between nature
and law when those limits are not rightly observed.63 The Gloucester
story, the adultery theme, and the stories of Lear's elder daughters
illustrate the other side of the same coin: how certain natural passions and
powers, most manifestly the power of procreation, need to be controlled
by conventions, laws, and authority.64 Ordinary love and passion, not to
speak of base love and passion, need to be controlled by law and authority. Being conceived outside the "order of law" (1.1.19), Edmund was
banished from the family circle. He is, not altogether "unnaturally,"
devoid of family feeling. As the bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought
in, the dying Edmund exclaims, "Yet Edmund was belov'd: I The one
the other poison'd for my sake, I And after slew herself." Goneril and
Regan as well as Lear seem to have died for "love."
How would nature and convention, or law, be related when cooperating
harmoniously? Nature provides the materials, the human materials and
powers, and ordains, or manifests to natural reason, what purposes and
ends would perfect the materials and fulfill the powers. But the accomplishment of nature's purposes is left to chance and to men: On the basis
of the conditions provided by nature and chance, the responsibility for
forming the materials and developing the powers so as to function in
accordance with those ends is left to men themselves through custom,
habituation, training, law, art, and education .65 Human nature is so
constituted as to require the formation of conventions and laws for its
fulfillment.
Edgar does represent the natural man in this play, not as the poor,
bare, forked animal Lear saw, but as he is in himself, the man of many
disguises, the educable man, whose heart does not enslave his mind and
whose mind does not silence his heart,66 whose heart and mind remain
sound no matter bow his outward trappings change. He is the natural
man, not in that sense of nature that means only primitive beginnings,
but where "nature" includes fulfillment, "ripeness."67
ea Cf. Jaffa, op. cit., p. 131.
14 The control is, of course, guided by other natural powers, such as reason and
judgment. France, the king, acknowledges the law's authority even over his noble
love for Cordelia (1.1.253).
u Cf. Plato Meno, esp. beginning; and Aristotle NE Book ii, ch. 1.
H Cf. Leo Strauss, in Jason Marvin Aronson, Three Funeral Addresses, University
of Chicago, University College, December 6, 1961, p. 8.
17 Cf. Aristotle Physics Book. ii.
�Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in lGng Lear
51
The same consummate irony that led him, correctly, but for the wrong
reasons, to be called "the thing itself," that is, the natural man, by Lear
may be at work also in his being called "philosopher."68 Edgar, though
not the most tragic, nor the most pathetic, character in the play, is the
true hero of patience in King Lear.
es This is not contradicted by the fact that Edgar is the only major character
in the play who never uses the word nature or any word with nature as its root.
Cf. n. l, above.
�
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An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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26 pages
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paper
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Berns, Laurence, 1928-
Title
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Gratitude, nature, and piety in King Lear
Date
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1969-05
Description
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Revised version of a lecture delivered in May 1969 by Laurence Berns as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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Bib # 53000
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College
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English
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text
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pdf
Friday night lecture
Tutors
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https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/8b7f58fd064c06069918ccd89878b4e4.pdf
5f9c68551158547d8d3303fdbddd539d
PDF Text
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�Lecture Schedule 1969-1970
Sept 26
Oct 3
Oct 10
Oct 16
Oct 24
Oct 31
Nov 7
Nov 14
Nov 21
Dec 5
Jan 9, 1970
Jan 16
Jan 23
Feb 6
Feb 13
Feb 20
Feb 27
Mar 6
Mar 13
April 10
April 17
April 24
May 1
Robert Goldwin
St. John’s College, Annapolis
P. von Blankenhagen
Jacob Lateiner, NYC
Robert Goldwin
St. John’s College, Annapolis
Harry M. Clor
Kenyon College, Gambier OH
Malcolm Brown
Center For Hellenic Studies, Washington DC
W. J. Fishback
Earlham Coll. Richmond IN
Edward Banfield
Harvard U. Cambridge MA
Victor Gourevich
Wesleyan U, Middletown CT
Mortimer Adler
Institute for Philosophical Research, Chicago
IL
Jonathan Fineberg
Harvard U. Cambridge MA
Deborah Traynov
St. John’s College, Annapolis
Alfred Sugg
Western Coll, Oxford OH
Br. Robert Smith
St. Mary’s Coll
Beaux Arts Quartet, NYC
Thomas Settle
Polytechnic Inst. of Brooklyn, Bklyn, NY
David Lachterman
Syracuse U., Syracuse NY
Dieter Henrich
Columbia U, NY, NY
Evelyn Harrison
Columbia U. NY, NY
Joseph Cropsey
U of Chicago, Chicago IL
Leo Strauss
St. John’s College, Annapolis
Bernard Kruysen,
New York, NY
Robert Horwitz
Dean’s Opening Lecture
“The Program of the Parthenon
Concert
“St. John’s College Asks John
Locke Some Questions.”
“What is Obsenity, and What’s
Wrong With It.”
“Rhetoric and Dialectic in the
Phaedrus”
“Groups- Galoi’s Great Gift
“The Unheavenly City
“The Relationship between
Ethics and Politics in the
Philosophy of Hegel”
“The Common Sense of Politics”
“Kandinsky and the Concept of
Abstract Art”
“Logic and Logos”
“Prometheus Bound”
“Two Concepts of Comedy”
Concert
On Galileo “The Natural History
of the Experiment”
“Selfhood and Reason”
“The Basic Structure of Modern
Philosophy”
“The Marathon Painting”
“On Descartes’ Discourse on
Method”
“The Problem of Socrates”
Concert
“Aristotle in Hawaii”
�Lecture Schedule 1969-1970
May 8
May 15
May 22
May 29
Kenyon Coll. Gambier OH
Paul Lehman
Union Theological Seminary, NYC
Laurence Berns
St. John’s Coll. Annapolis
Robert Osgood and Morton Halperin
Elliott Zuckerman
St. John’s College, Annapolis
“New Testament Paradigms of a
Politics of Confrontation”
“Rational Animal, Political
Animal”
Special Dual Lecture on
Vietnam
“On A Measure in Mozart”
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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4 pages
Original Format
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paper
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Office of the Dean
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Lecture Schedule 1969-1970 (handwritten & transcribed)
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1969-1970
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Schedule of lectures and concerts for the 1969-1970 Academic Year.
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Lecture Schedule 1969-1970
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College
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English
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text
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pdf
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May 15, 1970. Berns, Laurence. <a title="Rational animal, political animal" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/1094">Rational Animal, Political Animal</a>
Contributor
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Goldwin, Robert A., 1922-2010
von Blankenhagen, P.
Lateiner, Jacob
Clor, Harry M., 1929-
Brown, Malcolm
Fishback, W. J.
Banfield, Edward C.
Gourevich, Victor
Adler, Mortimer Jerome, 1902-2001
Fineberg, Janet
Traynov, Deborah
Sugg, Alfred
Smith, Brother Robert
Settle, Thomas
Lachterman, David Rapport, 1944-
Henrich, Dieter, 1927-
Harrison, Evelyn
Cropsey, Joseph
Struass, Leo
Kruysen, Bernard
Horwitz, Robert
Lehman, Paul
Berns, Laurence
Zuckerman, Elliott
King William Players
Friday night lecture
Lecture schedule
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7d663c3b4e2138c937f2adb547233b25
PDF Text
Text
RArIONAL ANILlAL - l'OLlflOAL ANIMAL:
.
.
· Natur- and uonvention 1.n auma.n Speeoh and Politics•
bJ Laure.noe Berna••
In tne beginning of his Poli tioa Aristotle argues the. t "man
ia b7 nature a politioal animal." .· In faot man ie more a politioal
animal than a111 bee or a.n;v
herdin~
anim!il, for "man alone of the
uimala ha• apeeob, 11 "man alone of the &nimala baa reason," "man
alone of the an1JD$la haa loaoa."
A word should be said about this
word logo1, whioh oan be translated ae ward. speeoh. aooount,
•
araument, rat1Q, or reaaon.
Logos ie oonneote~ to the verb l~,:2
whioh mee.na to 1peak .and to piok out, to seleat, to oount.
·words oolleot, aeleot, and eleot are oonneoted with the
Our
a~me ~erb.
Logos la aeleoted, eleoted, and ohoaen speeoh, meaningful apeeoh,
thoughtful B.Pe•oh.
'When people •peak of Arie totle' s definition · ot
man aa the rational animal t hey are referring to hie statement that
man alone of the animala poaaesaes logos, possesses thoughtful spee r«·.·
~riatotle
goes
o~
to say:
Uow voiae funotions us a aign of pa i n ~nd pleasure ~nd
thereforo is possessed by the other animale too (for
their naturehd& gone ~s far as having eenaat1on of
*"'
leoture diven at ~t. John's College, Annapolis. May, 19'10.
••1utor, St. John's uollege, .&\nnapolia;
Clliougo.
ot
Ph.D., 195'1. rhe University
�2
pain u4 pltaaure ·Uld 1lgnifJ't111 tb9•• thing• to • •
e.noth••). a.s h&D. i• to• aald.q ol• u th• a4••'aa•ou•
a.n4 the h&l'lltul~tllereto•• •1•• th0 jaat and th, un-
ju1t. Por thia_ l• a.,.oial to • • alo~• 019pare4 wlwl\
·t h• otbar entaala; h• alont has 1.u ,~ tioa. or soo4 ci:;. 4
1
bad. and. jut an4 • j u t and tba Uk•. 4D4 th• o~t7
et th••• tbtq• ...... a houa•hel.11 UMl a 1IJ.&•...
·
(12$l• 9-18)
-- a po11t10.i
~'
.•ltf•
!!IP• au.. · 01•u
1'bl•h P••tuppo••• an anr.n•••
t~.• h~,
th• uvuitq•f)U and
ot tlbat ' 1• 1004 tor
. . . •4 llhat 11 bd, 1d11•h tor Qilatotl·• ,. ..., 11bat la in &o,or4
,
.
I
.
With nat••• --·~ ·11atue, an4 11bat l• .oontr..,. to :natwa·• ·
f'bla
a~p.,l .ill rouab~. apeeoh1 uul ;Mqbthl 11Wt~ -.tai~a
aw..euaa la
h...,•
.
.
th1ak1ag aboUt bw .• at la.. abar•4 la · toi.be 411tr1bu.ted., .
.
-.
'
th• ahariq ot thl• a•a•n••• aak•• lt ·po••ib1• tor a.n to · ~oui4er
.
. •'
.
.•'
how tll• a4Ta.nta1••• 1n4 th• h&Ntu1
·.
.
- ~·
....._t ·t• be 41•t•1ntedi
'.•bared.,
amt ·e.ppo,.,u.one«, lti •••• lt po••t•l• ,,,. • • t• eonattu 1'• ,Jut'
nity,, er· ·•M~iq,
aa4 41he unjaat. .ft• ee:
aa4 unju.at
.
•Ak••..a bou••hol4 ·&114
.
a
.
;a•llt •
•t
th•t ·.
10•4 an4 b .. , ju.at.·
1•. what . . . . • .oeaT
antt7, an4 a polt,toai o• ·, unltJ pr-Ula11J, la ita
~-r
"
0~21
tq a
',
i
.
..
-
'
.
1004, . that goo4 11 ju1t1••, nuel.J,
awaell••• .r i.&9...
..,_t ia oon•etiY-4 ·ot .
•.
..
u ih• rilbt . 41•t•1b~t1on ot . a4Y•taa•• . - huu • Po11t10.i .a· ot9tl••
o
•a·'.·then. b•. oharaotei-laed in t...U ot th• oonoept:lau ot jut.toe, I tbG
.
.
. ·..
.
.
•
•~-i>tiou ot
the
•~lht 4tatrlbutlon ot a4nntaa•• &n4
ati•• or authoritatiYe, in eaoh. 1
. ..
.
t•• baM io
I
Moat of *1; -·· '~~ 1'al'31 ••l4, J; h-1e>1, S.• nt~ .
ua4er1tand. •. Bu.tabO'lll.4 "'not b• bothered. l>J at lea1t
k•~ t•l'N ~u~' ~J•f.P4T .
'1-~'
w
.
J ....
u.a,. of...
••of~'
purti•~Nl7 ~u ttN nat~~- ·:
~tu• ,,. 4o ,1tb. goo4 . ~4 l,);~f
.
.~
~
J••tlt•
Q4 . ln~1t~••.,
..
~
I• ·not th• b1atote11Q oonoeption ot natue obaol•t•T Do·•'* •' not
.
..
tean what nature
tPCm 11•4.e rn n&ttµtal aoiene••, aDd traa·
••an•
!~~~; ii~i :9lAt! 0f·J~ 1t1!23t J1b-1it3J~ 9af. 1i.;. 2f13J2Z'~c! ! 012. b l;
'•'
�.3
the aooial aaienc•a t hat model themselves on them?
But before
taking up the theme natur• and Ari•totl• 1 a unde:rstan41iag
trr
Ntture
we should, perhapa, explain wh7 we oonoern oUl'a•lves with Aristotle
I sball try to deal with taat queation under t'j.ve heada,
at all.
41aouaaed ·in 1nor•aa1ng order ot importance • .
1)
Ariatotl•'• a;pproaoh to nature and philosophy- was t he
approach oppo1ed by th• found.era ot the modemaoientitic approaoh.
a1 •••ing
what they ••r• reaoting againat, what they rejected,
we come to underatand better the point ot view dominating our
tb•usht an4
O\U'
tlm••;
we aoa• . to under1tand ouraelvea b&t.t e:r,
Pi'em thia point ot view we approach Ariatotl•'a philosophy aa a
hiatorioal datu..
2)
Aooording to the view
~hich
trie• to understand modern
lit• in 1uob • vay,; ·they olaim, as 11 appropriate to the unique-
ness
o~
our situation, the Exiatentialiat, or HistoriQal Relativist,
or Radical Hiatorioi•t, or Heideggerian view, world views are pri-
marily creative projeets ot ditterent ages or different men in
4itteNnt
as••·
True openness, openness to determine the way which
would ba the
•ut~entia
impoaed upon
~·
were •oat
way tor ua, requires treadom trom the blind.er1
bf our tradition.
deol•i~•
in torming the
A.r1atotl• wa1 &DlOng
tr~ditiQn.
thoe ~
To clear out.
who
~he
cobv•ba, to liberate Oiu'aelvoa :rrom th• ti-adition fn ourselves.
since it la a tradition of thought, requires µnderstending it. _
Liberation from the · tradi.t ion, baaed on undars tariding 1t, ia require.,
in order to · open ourselves to the broader perapeotivas that a unititH
planet requ1rea.
3) · There· ia what oan be called the
of the Modern View
or
Nature.
Cr~sia
of Modern Science,
That is, modern scienoe, the :m.odern
�4
vl•v et aatuae ••- . te b• ua'91• to aaJI• liqae ot .._
...-u •t
th••• 111d.ll9• wbl•h uaa moat :•o ua,t i.-.'betn1•t 1•04neaa • batl.a:aa·a , ~d.Jia••• • uafalNe••• n•1Dl1U•J,•
bu.uaa, be1.11117 • ql.:ia•••• _. ·aeten•l•tie •••ial ••i..o• ••-b'-b uazdq, ol
po•t• that ••1entitlo
r'
~·
••U• •._otJ •••"•~la•• "•due juq--~~.•
..
. Inatea4 ot r•ti..-1 J•l••ipl•• et aatt.. guitaaoe
ar 'WUlea••• ·•
J.a1•*•t1•'• v:l.•-ot
I•• 111• l•
·
abtuil4""•• to wul•• ; _
at .be•t1 wo ,.u.:Ltl••
ot 9~•41•97·
••._.and. JnilU. t:.&.9••
•"'•1•
th91e 4!atln•"1•• nieh.v• flD4 ......... uaad.neJWl. t • . .
pr•.. ••'•'itt.o ·1•aottea1
'between go04l · U14 ba4,
,souild
view
li•••· •taillaetlcma
•
•*• aeue.
·o t h"taail Jit•
v•
1111• th• 41ataw'l•·
~ itJt.• ...., _.., .upporwtq a
look t~ ••• it pel'bapa AIPl~tMl•'•
viev. ot ria,ua 1• aet to lte alt•s••h• Ua Q
i:teti
I·
•'
t•'··
.
'Qll:der the h•a4 ot tlb8 C-S"i•i• · ot IH4-. · ••ii.ea•
.
th•~• l~.
'
..i.e
~~ prob1• of tshe lntelli..,lli'r . et mo••• •tlb...atl.oal Pbl'•ioc,
011
••••ta41na
tlbat . 1,,.......
au 1111.at
ltj --~d· p .......... .
ot und.w.1tan4tng.how it »olatea .t o ou.· lu4.._11d •"l>•l•o•.
~
a •lp, 'but OlllJ'
tlh• clullioal
••tan,
•f
'1b.at ·• • .,... •••
~-t
U. oout•e
Oza•• WGl'4 ,_ •o'•··· ft1p,ti'ilt\:. . IP'•tw'i 4P••
·
aaaa •Oien~·., but ic alilo lile.a JmoW1e4a• . and ude•1faanitl.q • .
Theugbtt\ll 1tdu.ta ot oluaiaal O.ei.k nOlf uattat4' :b•tOll'• tliUltt•
lat;" •Ri•tilli wtth tU wo1'14 aoien••• beeau• ·to ua. 1oien::lai· ·
uuall,- uana _.. . ••tenoe, pr•-.t.••ntl7
~t.thematiloal ~•1••··
I.DA .,hla aoi~n•• d••• 8" • • • to 1>• n.e......s.17 acoc..,anle4 "'
lllJ.dat-atandtng.
4)
Some look to u11totl• with a Yia·E to tM aeed
OQ!ll'•eh•naiv• natu.iral pb.iloaephJ' llhleh aoul.,,t u b
•11puation ot ae4•ftl .
r.. a
•en.a• a.tt
ot the
••t.ao• hCli 'ih• vu14 ot tnaan uaalag b7
�s
relating both within a unified view ot th• natural vorld. 1
.$)
We atu47 Plato and A.riatotl• beoau•• we auapect that
th.~y
may have articulated and claritled moii• ad•quatel7 than •llJ'On•
•l•• the preauppoaitione and prinoipl•• ot tbenatUl'al human
underatandlng, that ia, pre-aoientitio or pre-pbiloaophio thinking, . that order ot un4eratancl1ng with vbioh ·•very aan muat begin
all ht• thinking, that order ot underatanding which the ditterent
ot,
kinda ot aoi•nt1t1o thinking are neoeaaarllJ aoditic·ationa
that order ot understanding ot thing• Wb.ioh la :r•••aled through
our 41acou:r1e about th• object• ot ordinar1 experlenoe.
..
.
.
'I'hat aen
.
ue oampell•d to think about .thiqa · in certain preaorib•d va7a .
;
doea not ••tal:tli•h that th• tliqa thought abou• ln th. .elv••
are, or are not, •• they are thought to be.
It ve want to a9'o14
dogmatic t14ei.am (th• unp•tloaophioal faith
tpat~ t~nga
a• ju1t
a• ve experienoe them) or 4opatic •o•ptioi•• (th• dOf!'Pl& that we
know that thing• 1n th ... elv•a cannot .be u
v• e.q>erienoe th•)
a mu.oh more povertul dogaatlam . .ong· the lea.med ot our
ve au.at be open
a~ · ieaat
to the poeaib111tJ
tha~
tilll•••
th• orientation
ot the natural human understanding e.nd h\llllan diaoowae ma1 be
that inatrum•nt ot 1.•arning, underataDiing m d oaamnm.icaticm. ·
ope~
emplo7ed by vhat ia perhapa th$ only animal
and to the eaaeno•• ot things.
to the whole
Ve turn to Plato and Afl•totl•
tor help in exploring thi• po1aibilit7.
Ariatotl• take• hu.mftn
ap•eoh very aerioual7 becau1• the ••aning .of, th• · lmplioationa qt,
ordinary apeech, properl7 refined, aore . than an7thin; •l•.• ,
aooordins to hia, aoJte, ••Y• than a,.ltelio 11atlh. .atsics,
.
-.-.-g-..
.
.
.
••7 lead u•
--.2..- ."!""uf"""
...
....
.
J. A. W•i•ll•ipl~. . , . , "R'l Jl!:t•\ lfeio,.
M&linua L:yo••• BJ.••~ ~··~· Ill. t 9SJ, ·
· .
I
Al,.bertu11
�The 14•• ot nature hu . al~•J• opcn1pl•«S1 a, it not·
th• ·~
k•f
position in Wbat we o~l th• •••t;•r" tr-41tion ot thollgbt •.
.
·.
.
..
.··
. . .. ·
at v•at•:rn
Tbroug1lout tbe ·h111i91"J
,
.
thC)\lpt tbe ~-enta.). la fuel
v•r• ~su•4 in t•"'8 ot oppo11itlpu
ela•:
Hat'Ul"• an4
~aoe,
~Jtw-_. · and aoa,t).l.inc_
b•tw••
.
.
.
Jfatiire an4 Supernatui-e, th• nat11zt,i
~
·
the 41vine; b•tv-.i.1 Hatur• all4 AJ-t; b•tv••n JI'~~- and Con••ntiPlll
. between NatUJ'•
anA- Pr•,4Qll; between
~ft~•
an4 Spt;1,, ·an,4
~•twf•D
BatUJ1• and Hi•to17. 3
•ons
ocm.e, l~to th•
.
~- tact Aria1io11••
eno•. thema•lv••
.
;
other•, f~f•1;• .,hi~~aoptiJ ~d r;o!-
world
.
vfth
the
4l•oov•l"J ot ~·~\11'•.4
There . v•r• and. at1ll ~· . P•OPl• Who hav.- ~ ,,.. 4l•t1not ~d~a.. "of ' D.~'W'P·
.
..
•. , .
.
.
. . . -.
.
. .
. . . ,. .....
...
.
~
.
'
.
'
I
.'
•
•
••
.
'
•·
,
'.
'
.
'
•
'
•
The_10or41 nature . an4 nat\11" ~. ( Gre.-k Vi{.~l• and . $J•llf~~ 4() 110~ ·
.
oootQ" in th•
Ol~
.'
.
.
.
.
Teat. .nt, or in the ao,pel'.
-~•f oooQI'. t~~,\·~~
thl•• in th• l•tt•r• ot th• mo•~ aophl.i;io-tecl ~~ 'h-.
••nt vritera, th• .J.po1~le
th• lf•V
fa\ll_ ·a¥
,
~'1
in
T•ilt~ent.5
He;.
tf v•·o1;her
'l'~:JtiJ• . ·
pl$<fGf1 iJl
Betol'e nature vu 411oove:r•d, vh•ii _Q,ouahttul m•n von4eed
t
an4 ·41•oourae4 mbout
about th• soda~
logoi. ·
The
why
thin&•
The theoiosot.
are tbe ·vai th•7 are, tb•J talk•d
th• gt!}olo.ot. - ~r•o•ded
gods ordered and oomand•d thing• to wallc : o~ . to go 1:'::
th•il' ouetom..PJ'
W&J'8•
The word way_ (4erek) oooura over: 1700
3-• . The iut··:·~••
~•t1.ll"al 1foieno• -'d
4~
tu -~1!0t~
·oppo1:it:Loti• ·Pl'.•\\PP~•~ -tb~~aatur.• -. .,t .ao4••·
oQ~•ot•4 wt~la
_"o•c"•~t ot J'latw..Y~." .
~1• . diaouaa:l.on.: .la ~u.ad '. pbt*P11f \on; :th• cllaoua•lon in' IA•
o•
"1'.'•·
Strau••a Hf!t!p!J. Rlftf P4£!'tlf,(041o.~J -1953),. oh.~. _. .
S. · miese ·:. en•••~ ena, ,. ;I) '.i4 : _,iii - qw t.t: i1HQ1t\1fl.· Otnttr•
J
!.mo•
to the Bibl• • . ll!ePdaana,· (1955).
.
�7
....a th• 014 teataaent ·and (ho4oe) ••·leu•: 83 time• in the lev
ut.it.
~••t
Th• god1 ordained that tire ebould bura. olouda gi'W'• rain,
that th• earth ahould bri,.ng ,.torth crop•• that voaen .a:t).ould bear
ohildr•n. that aoae 1hould · ot eat pig ••at
n
~
others ahou14 not
kill oowa, that ••• ahould bury tb•ir .dead &n4 that other• •hould
bUftl th-, that . 'JltbdU'era •hou.14 b• put to death, or that th•J
should pa7 thett- vlot1• 1 • relatives at lea.at one ox.
the gods -ver• deli••red to tba
The oomwan.4• o:t'
anoe1tora· who were, oloaer ·to th• an4
tranaaitted by elder• to th•i:r ott1pring bJ word ot ·mouth or b7 . writt"
:reporta. Authority went v1th age, Vltb nearn•aa
t•
the
Of
IOUl'O.
authority •.
At a certain polat ••• eui-1·eu.a uut thouP,•.flUl. aaa
11111•.
ll•••
not1oe4 that . •o•• th.tn11 an• aome wa1• are alva71 ••• ••• ao 1Utta. . .
still oth••• would var7 hca tilll• to ttae
thea h11ppen th• ••• · wa7.
between th•
.n•o•••&PJ" and
t•- 11.m• tao ti.at
--
:
' what any one doe1 aluM.1t th-, an4 eth••• v..,
.ao•e
if
aen
B• b•1in1 ii• be•Qll• •'-a»•
th•
aooidea~al. th•
aa4 ·
,.
dU
or
110·
1
ll&1M
the 41a.ttr ,~ ti ·
a•o•••U7 an4 tllle
cu.;.
tcnary, and the n•o•••UJ ·and th• urat:flioial.
••Z-• to beocae .a .tra.v•ler, lit•
&l.•o notice hov •*• wa:ya are tho . _ . •••l'J
It the .... ·aanor one like bia
Herodotua, h• then von14
Vb•••• -tor u-.ple, ti•• b'lirna tb•••• ••7 -both b-1'• and in P•Mia.
ud other va7aYar7 1'P• plao• t• plaoe ua4h1111 -uibe, to ~,lbe
•
. ·..-
What •1U1.t . hav• be•Q. laQJ.~ . •~r1k.1q , at tt:rat; b,t c•q•· th•J' uat
oontradiet ·
••ov
••J• ". '11ii-e
th• wa.7a that
•UJ' trait tribe to
tribe, the way• :that depend aoat on d•oiaiona aacl op1rl1Qna ot ,,,.,~;
�8
beeau1e th• optnlou ..n hold about the wa7• *hat VUJ .t'!'ca plaae
t~
plaoe
oont~a41•t
eaoh others ·••I•, the deacl au.at be b•l•dJ theJ
au1t not be burl••• but bUJ!"ll•d·
!b••• oontra•iotion•
l•a4 to even
•o:re 1\md•ental oontradiotOl'J' opin1on1, oono•rning the veP, originl
ot th• 1041.
on•
JlrQI
poi~t
ot view one lea.ma th• truth about auoh aatt•••
.
'
.
li•t•nini obed11tntl7 to th• aqthor1tat1v• voio•• ot the -.1dem1
~,.
1
tram an'ther
o~• l,~arn•
aoa~
alv.,-1 in
th• . t"'-th l»J
aat,•r• hav• aad.• a 41ati.Qat1on
•v14•n•• and •••1"1 tor on•••lt.
that eat one oan~;·~•1iie .: '.· b• :
•an•at an4.
•••inc t• on•i•lt.
tund.-~-al .
.
au
••naient an4 , 4••1•&t1-.e.
~·~v••n
h•ertaJ
'lb:• ,u1plolol\ .b4tlim to a1••
•••.,.•I'• •• ,_. '" Dl!it\df,
•tla•• tkW•
tba- ilbe
" .
1_
0
•••* i-•~ •••-.4.ti ~1'£n1•
J\~th•r-, 0'1~
ditteitent, P•rllap1 tb•ir •o
V~~~t.
»•r-
&Jt• ••aon4~,
o•• their ••i•t•ao• te t•r•ihoupt1 £! la• nqa\•Q4d•
u•
Han aut
•ti •
...- .· t~•ir
-.a1•
••1•tl•no1 '•
lo••"'
Thq1e illlin11, wh:\cala • • eya""'*•ltl t)t• ,._., tda1oh i i
not •vi,•ntly dep•nd ppoa 4eo1atona ot •an ••119 t• do ¥ha• tq••
do b7 th•••lve1, thPough e<m• internal power ot th.air own.
I
aan Who h•• b•oOlle ·aware ot
IUi•b betwe•n
that
th••• dlatinotiona begin•
Th•
.• '
vbJ.~h
01.11"
W&7
11 riS)lt
and !bl· V&J1
.~
the
W&J
to 41stln·
aooording to nature,
food· in it••lt beoaus• it i• in aooord
with nature and that wb.$.oh 11 rigt:lt and goo4 beoauae it ·bd been
in1tltute4, l•sialat•4 etr ooma111d•d b7
. Th•l'e.tor•. to
IU9lll'i&e,
o~
on the bMili
autborit1ea •
or
the dletinotiona
between that wh1oh 11 ever,t.here th• • _. and that which varios
from place to plao• and trca time to
t.w
and trom tribe t o tribe,
�9
l»oitv•• W.at • • .IM .•••
.
. ..
.
.
.-.
'·:
·
-
-
;e-4• on
Qn•••lt U\4 vb.at one Jl.•u• trcm authoii-
tQI"
'
-
Q..'\ totion• qt
4eo1•i~
>
i;o ••• in11o an4 r-..J.p. :ln
.
,1~ts 'f•f ·~~J~ -- Oll· th• bull
-.~
-
•
b•i1:11 1 bet.'-!~en qur 4'14 ••7 MA 1;~
.
. Qt th••• 4i•t!Ji•tj,on1
th-.
~~1,ll•Yd q4'tiot)
tu
t~.a.
~O. ·~i.~nt;l•t a, ~tl1• t~. 'tbJii1':
!~1J••Qnµ
-.••••ltr,
·ozt
-
ll7
In
·~ol\)V,l\t18'' • -
u'••• ••• ·~ nft · ~Wq iao•1i n••cltul~
bt pt\M'• a:n4 •at 1• ·_
·4o~v•:ntlon.; good ~'''-~'
Oi'\J.O~al
it JI po•it•f• q.t~ - po:l.~t,,.qtl •
tthi~rJ.
Plato•• ll!z!blio, 1n 'th• - great-· debate abCll t th{'!
,,
nature and worth ot
juatioe~
.
ia truly good -arid what tnl.7
C\9epit• peat 411as:r•-•nt1
..
·
in acooaMllo-•vith nature,
oonventiona an41ava tr• thil
point
l&OJ'•
are
ot view
'
...
llhat
•ha• th•
Humu. ooBAuota
evaluated not -in
.
oo~ona .Ol'
ab~·::.
,apeo1.tioa117; :i.a _that
or goQd b7 nature.
.
terma t.t Vheth•r tb•J'
'·
bu, all th• interlooutora
premi•• that the good, Wh•t•v•r it •1 be
whioh ia
Qt •••~• or v~ 1• ,.,11t
tbat ~kno•l•4&• f't thia 11t.ppuaatl7
l•s1•1•'''' b,•.,....
leld down, or
.philosophy.
.
•.
,_. o,.. ,o .b• 'al.1~4 ~wa·o~-·
_
'l'h• 4i•ti.U,.~1Q~ -ll•tvetii 1')1.a.~ ~· - goq4
gQ04 ._J l•lf,
•
.
.-,.t""-'•' t , aq. 1iht qr•• h~, . ~d
nD~1... •t
6
' o_ th• ot-... • · 0•1'taia -JND1
n
up i~to
·
-
.
11
'
-
not 140 di.vine iav, but
are in aooord with, •• agi.in•t, nature;· aln b•o••a
1"'.!:>:~tha th.,-
p~v•ra:t~.
Philo,ophy, b-qma th1• po~t of ,vlfli, beo~,. - ~e •f~ .,~iO\d
ot _ -lwll.4 Pu.l"•ult,. - But . w~t-•v•r 1illare - ~• ~h~loeopb'r'' a clua
all
vhichcan lJaolll4•
•r•l!1$ p~~P•~•••
~lltr• •~f'l' , t~ at-1~~ ~tatora,
or - magea, ot ·pi,J.1o8QpAe,a, ••ii 'llho Ar~ •W~• At tb• 41,at~potion
i
between l\.tQJ'e
and
Q(m\'Jl91\tion, l>ut
.6. L. · Straua•, . ~· o\t. tJ
P•
·*Q ~·v•r ·~ti.c~·n~l.1 ~~t,).eot on
90.
�10 .
·oan
th• rea•ona tor th• oonventiona; tlho tail to under•tand hov it
be natural !or aen to live in aooordano• with oonventiona.
Suoh ..
••n, oall•d aophiata or int•llectuala, abua• th• diatinotlon between
nature and oonventlon ao aa to und•l'min•
undel'mine ord.1D.U"J 4•e•o7.
undepatood 1D thi•
••'1•
a ~,l
oonventloaa, ao u
to
On• peraaaentt••k ot philoaopft7, then,
th• Sooratio va7, I believe, voul4 b• to 4•-
tend · ordlnar7 pre-philoaophio practioal ·w1a4-· h'Gm ~:Qphlatlcal at•
tack'; to pr.par•, it n•o•e••l'J'• a theeretiea1 4•1'•noe e:' ~•t1u~197 4$.;.
o•noy agai]\at 1e:phlaticai aolenti•• .·~theraere, Plate'• 4t.ale8"••
voul4 ••ea to auggeat that vh•r• there 1• 11toorru,pt1on ot the 701UP)l,"
aophiata produce lt, but both aophiat• an4 philoaophera pa7 tor it.
One task ot politloal philoaoph7 then wuld b• W.
edtatt••
philoiaoph7
trait the opprobrium brought upon it bY its 1.aitatora.
II
Ve r•turn to 0\119 thtm•;
ality, hi• having
~~goa,
In hil di•cuaaion
ot
~b••-,o~eotiQD.
~at\ir•
and hia being by
th• •ooial and
between
eOC)DOL- 1!. 0
-.ii'•
:ration-
a political
a~1mal.
preoon41tiona ot polit• ·
lcial 11t.e .&J'ia·totle ret•r• . twioe to tba Oyolope ator7 in
bo~
U.•.o'
Tb• Cfclop• 1toi-y migh~ be thought ot •• Bom•~,••
the : 04>•••1· 7
anticipation ot Karl Marx • .
••11•4 on,
'l'h•noe ••
8J'i•v•4 at heart, and we cam• to
th_ land ot th• C7olopea, an overv•en1ng .c d 1.awl••• .
•
tolk, Vho, trusting in th• illlnortal god.a. plant noth1ns
with their _ an4• nor plough; but all _th••• thing• apring
h
up tor th• without ·~11ing or ploughing, . Wh•at,e.and . ·
barley, and vine.a, 'Whloh bear the rio~ oluater ot wine,
~ the rain ot Zeua g1vea tb . . increase.
Heither ......
bliea ~or oouncil have they, new appointed lava, but tba7
dwell on th• peak• ot lofty m.ountaina 1n hollow oavea;
and. eaah one la lawgiver to .·b1a . ohildren arid hi• vlvea,
.
.
.
7• . fo11tlot.
.
1252
b
22 ..: 23 and 12.S.3
.
.
a .S.
·
�11
u
"'4 ~•J
n~t t;.-.,b~_•
kn.ow~
047•••ua not
a,t;4!)•t • • ~9t~~· - _ I
th._•lv••
(11. 105-11, .. ) .
al.l that yet want• "to go and JU.k• trial ot
tho•• aen, - to l•un 1dlether·th•7 are both inaolent uid wild and
not juat. or 'tihether they love atranger• an.4 -ue go4-.r•u1ng .1n
thought. " -( 11.· 174-76.) 9 - The OJ'olop1, Polnhemu• vaa a . aonatroU.
•an, •who
•h•ph•~d•4
hi• tlooka alone an4 a.tar, and DliDgl•d not
with othqa, but lived apart v1.th hi• heart aet on lawl•5eneaa."
187-89~)
(11.
Odyaa.u1
oave.
-v!t~
twelve ot hia beat OOIU'a4ea
He aupplioatea the
C7ol~p•
en~4ra
th• Oyolopa•
in th• nan• ot Zeua, the go4 ot
atrangera and gue1ta.
h"• _
•mm
so I apoke, e.nd h• atraightv-.,. 11t.ade anaver with pitil••a
b•art: 'A tool a,~ thop, atr~g,r,
pt 0(90
lf-ff.18,
•••ing tbat tbau-bid4eat ae .eltb•r to tear or to
th• 1"-' • P• ~· C,ol~P•• t~• ~o · t~cn~lJl• tos- z.,,.,
Q"
Who beara th• aeg1•, nor of' th• .blea11t.1d goda,, ainoe .
- v•r11~ wi.
b•ti4•r t~ tb91l t ••1"' N'-Ir, ..\ll.d l, ~P '~
the wrath ot Z•ua, · apar• eithe- th•• · .Ill' th7 OOlll"ade••
r
u•
~·~t
•bic>ul4 pld ••·
(~l. 272~7a,)
Sho~tl7 tb•r•~ter.
havlAg.blop-•4
o~~ i:fb,•
w:t.l,•a MY
QtlQl
CJ~lops kill• Ind
••i;•
t!•o
'
oa••
o.-•4••.,
ot OdJf•tnW •
..
-..:t~,,~1
~· ~·• Qle$.f
th&t h• int"14' t~ UQ ~~· ~Ml• ~~ - •11 ~t ~~..,
- <>41.1•a•iw ~~•~v'~
.• :p:J.'° t<a P¥t out
r-..IJlda ot hi• •M q~l ...,. Qµ~
tti, Of~l-,P•' .,~, •::.- 1'}l~1.- . 1-•· ~-~ - I, ~· - J1-•tp,10 ft>,,
A•
.
~ wi,t~
tnt
•f~•' out a.ad. Q~Jl~ to
~av••·
•ll th•
QJ'olqp~
l1ytns .ftt'tifbJ
Th•Y tb,rpng ~\'>out outa149' "~ ~~v' ~ Nf
Vb.ether some
~
t• - k~lliN
~
·bJ
~~~
.·I...
Q79lf»pll
1~ th'~~
'4l"f .•il•
W l'J· f""Q~,
~'
~Pwf
~. ·· !':4 ~~ :.:-:traula:tiontiP,An,taett.. ..1Lof1b;:Olu.._,••1: .td.bJtu,... .
9. _ Inaolent and vlld ••_. 'o ha tlalanoe4 . 96•1nst . lOT1ng .
WUangRa ..... ,qt;::: Jmt .a•:tn•tl b•iN .....,,• ...._ ... t . . . .t. .
10. Coneider Buripides• addition to the atol"'J', C1clo.£!, 11. ~Jl-
43 ,_··582r4. _
·
�12
OctJ'CJe\UI b.aO. tol~ !Wa that hie nam• i• M--., h• repl!•a, '' . .1•n4•,
Hc:iaan i• killing me br guil•tnot by toro~.·
no aan le
4o1~
'l'h•f anawer that it'
7ou violence, p•rhap• it 1• Zeua, ao prq to om
:tather, . Lor4 Po••idon; and then th•7 leav•.
04J•••ut later oon-
trlvea hi• eaoape tr• th• oave.
The uoilOlllio needa ot the C7olopa ue provided tor bJ .the soda.
Co.naequentl7 eocncaiopr•••ur•• do not pl"od th. ., aa pr1ait!v•
u• uauall7 pro44ed,
••n
into ~o~ing larger oa•untti•• tor th• liake .
ot mutual aid, .ooopera.tion and.
uoh~•· ·
Bttoau.aethe7 ·eenever
moved to tora • · l~ger 11001ety, th•J never 4•v•loP IJrt arte or
ora.tta be7on4 the JJinimal •kill• needed ttr a 11tl•pherd 1 a lit•.
live in oavea,
~ot
have no •hip•' .and
'fl167
houau, ·and, HOlller •f•Oitioall'J' -.nttona, they
no ••n
to
•ale• 9h1f~' •o.tmat;
the sea and viait the oitiea ot otb9• folk u
moat. ~ortantl7 b1 never rOl'llling oitl•••
th•J ~t oro••·
oth9r aen
201•!••
'°·
But
ce~ioti•••
p°'itloc.l
they n•ver .davelpp th• utaot .olvili••• cl!•oourae, the uts8 .or
cc.matm.l.oation. 1 ~
Th• C)rel(;pa !a toelecl b7 a man .aJdllet in th• . .
art· ot uaing wor4a ~ . !'lleii' laok of aldll; 01' . uit ·with V.Aa make•
it iapoaeil>le tor .th- to cooperate, . ,o a i 4 their teµov . n hi• .
i
time ot nee4.
Wot .on17
are
tha O)"olopa
tiTated, but deapit• th• t'aot
entire!.7 to
th• · aeda~
~hat
b~utal,llawleaa, tt~4
th•7 owe th•:l.r material p18!1t7
th•1 -ar• imlJioua. and, :lno14enta.11J. ·oonoo1ted.
A.a the Cyolepa•i!a7a _we "pat a• h••• ••.• to th•
t!'Ul.7 we are better
~'Y
uno'11-
tar
~leased,
goda, •lnce
than theJ• 11 (11. 2TS-76.)
11. One ot tM •oat ecmaon .etjaGJ.ocl•• 9t tl\t .JIOJI~ octlllllU?ij.•ation ·
traoee it b&e>k to ~oota . .aalq llUri.at a11&U, ·QM.;.11P1Pi1, • . fS.tJ•
wall. ·
�. 13
In hia GU"JU.ll Ideolog Marx give• •n all too bri•t gl1apa• at
hla . picture ot ~he tinal OODllllW'liat · aoeiet7 1 1'bere not the 01J11Pian.
goda, but machine technolog7 and oomau.nlat ·organization will
~ro•id•
.
-
a•vyman wit~ · all. hi• · •oonc:aio need.a t~Treb7 making poaaib~• ~h•
tinal treedoa, tl-••4oa t'rCllJ the diviaion ot labor~ or d1Yia~on· ot
.
tunotlon,
or
I
~lvia~Ol\
.
ot nature it••lt.
~ttr
It vlll be •poaaibl•
. . to do one thing toda7 and another tcaorrov, to hunt ill
th~
·
.m orning, ti•h in th• atternoont rear oattl• 1n the •Y!ln1ng, oriti.
011• atter dinner, juat aa I
•
ti•~ •• h•rd•••~or
1
.
..
11~•. w~tbout
•••r beo.Un• a hunter,
a.oritio.•12 . Boli.w•.;;Qll
th• oontrQ7,
p••••117• ·uMa 41-.•lpline o:r
eoonomlo neoeaa1t7 .and ~at .1ou· vlll ••t 1• qot a new :hl~ti'l•f ¥-
augs••t•: .Liberat·e .-11 aen troa the
.•au:il7 :t'ult1lled. bre-4 ot ·~· ·but a rao• ot CJo~of,• . In one ot th• ..
many plaoea 'Where he touoh•• on the relation between uonoaio n•c11a•
••
•
"' .
.l
1ity and the 4•velopaent o:t aan•a higher taoultiea, A.ri1tot~• •P•illr•
ot how .t h• polia, the politioal. o.-unlt7,
the
c~i ty
la
.
the
'
com.plat• ommmtt7,
·111 !oh, att•r . th• toll7 all4 the village, haa o•• to tho
'
point ot tull aelt-aut"tloiene,-: Be then aay• : "1nd~ed it baa
\•18' to• th• sake ot lite, ·b ut it
(12s2 b
Jo. >13
~
tor the 1ake of the
f,,• .~
~ood
lite.• ·
·
a••·· ' .
Deuta~ 13ao1011•t a.I.A.I. 1D D" ' Pr\\hacbritt~~,
p.
1, iitijj "'aaoh ·-· ,...
ueh·
lJ. Hom.er•• treataant in tba Cjalopa atar7 ot tht tll.at of
•h••"• on th• ona 9'Ult, ••••ua \ille• •f
aet.1 and! am ol
12. ble
.,.a..r, I9JJ,
•h•
the ait7, on tih• •-••• lbnll. be . oont~aatad •i·~ 1111.t Blb11••l
. a~4&Nnt et C._in u4. Abel • . Ot. •ea11sJ ellap. 4. ci. !aaao
tl,
1
· "Comaenta1'7 on the Bible," ~
v • ~•11.tio 1 Plail••
, ecla • .
· Ralph Lerna.: uid Null•ia _,.1,
•
·· ,
& •
•. ao•'1,
"".O...
· potnte ot 'Yi_,, V• ·t9 _,. t~ S~ riatJ, !£;:": , ·
A - 6 ti. D, .
781 I - 78l A. CB tae la•taP- ••• L•• ••aut4 , L~ll•l&,I' AISJ.12'
~f, "Mod.•r~, Ba1111• ,.,,11., 1968. PP• l.,.~.
. .
�III
Tho•• .,.rk1 ·ot Ariatotl• oall•d logical reoeived that name
beoauae th•y ar•, in general, 4evote4 to th• underatan41.na, th•
di•o1pllne,. ali4.. .taaa ~••tton -ot logo•.14. In th~ tl••t ohapter .
ot
Op
· Int•rpretttlog
: Ariatotle ·upl&!m that;. l) •.itt911 vorda are .
•111bol• ot ••1oecl or apoken vor4•, 2) . apo.ken word• are aJllbola an4
aigna ot exp·e Flqoea,
OJI
pa11lon.1, . ot th• ltoul, . that _1•
peroept~;.i?IU)•
thought• and aenaationa, an4 )} the.experiea.oeaoot the aoul are
liken••••• ot thlqa • . '!'he vor4 .1Jmbol . oc:mea trm .two Greek worcla
. .uiing to throw or to put together.
put together b7 •••
SJllbola are alwa71 made, or
The 1°1rat. thtq .Arlatotl•
not••
about vrittea
and apoken •Jmbola ·11 that they U• not the••• tor · all aen, '6hereaa
the
upe•~•no•• ·~ . h•
t
tor all.
aoul . and the thlngil
~heaa•lvu
are tM · ....
Ve nee4 onl.7 to think ot what h &
ppem ••el"J till• w• uiaAei--
•tand •C!ll»thlngwittan or apolcen 1li a
-~eip
language .
Th~t
• ouncla r•t•rring to· the aaae thil\I• titter trca tribe to tribe or
nation to nation polnta to th• taot tut the 1oun4a Ao not ot th•- .
o ~lvea
aign1f'7, or r•.t•r to, the 9.ZPerl•no•• ancl thins•. theJ' are • t 1D11
ot, that 11. the7 ar• not aignitiout, or aeaningtul, b7 nature,
th•7 are aignitloantb7 &1r!8••nt, b7 OC111Paot, 1>'1 convention.
'
Oon•
iu
ft•t..ln ..t. . .1. l'll••-tiM&it, tMIR• ··. ·~· -u.U. ..... '·I t!.).-.·
, ....
·
.
f:Jt-.. .ttiui..W•dlJ' ••••l-.9t1...•he li.Uio·
teria and the
~ ~ Altuab1~ ~l!t
.
:·
1
.
·:
~-
•. ·.
·~
·
~t~· u4 4••a•t baok iilto . $~ Platon1o ea-y-. ar•. t• l>• ._.,
Mt. ..
. :.
l
afloonoa
•@••••ting ·t• •ll•a1-t.1''f • • •· ,ef; ·-~• ·91MfR&: tM· ..~•1'1'1 · W '·U4M'·• ·
.. .
by . ~an• or . the Cat!S!1'1~1• . On .
1..i~
.
... ~~·(Cl lllf.
~
ietlc 3tK~ ona~i.i\4
cloa to tiu. . l!•tj.g • . - ~
·
.,.
P. BOgg•••, .
ara i ..and · •
etQric 1 tu., Ca'ta,•v.'fit.t.., l' Pbzt!B- .
!•1•, Vol. xv, 110. 1, 1970, pp. 86-90.
al•o ThOlnaa AQ.uinia,::sem'iire:q on the Poaterior Anal ztioa o.t Al'itcotle, Magi Boolca, Albm7,
1970'; orevord, pp. ·1-3.
·
, itm1•!-JiiJ' .· ·
!
••=:: ., - .,,Prw. ·.·.:tm:.
'
!l'ofiio• .
·S••.
�1$
trarivtee, · th• .xi:»•rienoea ot the soul, th• peroeptiona, though.ta
and sensationa are .the aale tor all md do not depend upon human
agreement tor th•ir ·aeanlng; · the7 reter to Whitt · they signitJ' b'f
tha.aelvea,not tbro\18h th• ••41at1on o:t anTth1n8 else; thtt7 ar•
.
.
1~
a1gsd:t1oant, or ••anlngt\11, b7 nature • . .
Let uw anal7•• the
ap~k•n a~ol
material ot th• •Jabol i• yoioed
aore olo••lf.
aoun~, . whioh ia
.
b7 au.
The medium or
produoed natuiaall7
.
Th• peeuliu . o-'tination, o'l'ganisa~ion and ·to'.1"lat1oa o:t
·the · voioed aound.• ·ao ·
a•
.
~
'
to aignifJ' tbt• 'xpe:tiaoe, ·:.tald118 ·th,a• ~
particular aQUDd.a to •1pitf · that , patloular experience, · th• :tom!ng . ·
ot th.• aaterial of th• •Jmbol depend• . upon human inatitution, vp':;,n
oonvent~on.
"°''
· .Other 1oun4a 'ould. clo aa : v,1~, but o~qe the aoun48 tor
a pu-tioular oonoeptiqn
beo~a
.'aett1•4 it
ar• •sr••d
onoe th• deciaio.ri i•
a a1atak• to ua• tho•• aounda. another wq, to .
point to acil!llething el••• . Unli~•
.
.
"'oana
ot th• aiok. ao?'•ma ot
t.n-o• .~ laUght••, •P••oh ·aoa4. at-.U• th•~ aign1t1oat1on through
·
.
. .
.
.
'
..
'
' ·' .r. '
. ..
: :-
. ::
ct &l•totlli
·'ftMau
t!·tS. II, •.pp. 23-29. ·.; ftt•9~•t!jtp· it h~• An4 ~~t·~~~~··•.
Ol'.Jetu• . liQICI
; ·eM!llS?.·bl
iaon
'!he vor4 ·~~ol •• ua•4
~
t~A
41'7~
7.i«r~e'Urr,-
tett with it• ult!Jaa-• reraren~ and•ratood aa naturall7 ~1v•n ahoUld
be diatinguiahe4 · t'r• th• "od•rJ> aatheaatiof.1 •1l'~ol lob Ot\o m•~1! .
.
.
i• 4~t•Jlllin•4 P•lll&11i17 by •ho•e •ul•• or aetbo4 governing th• •
olgenerating 1ntell1gen ce ~ a elf and th• a7at91Jatiq 00'1-t~ o-r •J11L Qi.t1l thin 'llldoh U7 PU'tiollial' •Jllbol 00011Pa. ISH Jacob Klein, ~1'
Hath!!!atioal ThorJJ¥4~ t~lGi! ot~~·~t-• M.i.T.
iap.,Clia\)t'D' 9.1
• ;i
T ,W, ,lia • 12, · A and 8, pp. l !
J178, 192·211. · Por Vieta 'l'h• lett•r •tsn deaip~t•• the ~tent~OJV' l
obj•ot ot a
iate~\ion• ••• , n ...17 ot a concept Which it••li
· direotl,- inte!lCla another Cl'9no•ft and. no.t •
1l~J b•W•" 'l'h4t
ret•Jtent
th• lett•• alil'f o 'the •Jllbol in ita merel'j"JIB'••ible
· 4•'b•nalnat-en•11•, · ia aooord•4 a oert•in ,i~ep~clenoe vb.lop J>•~t .. ·
i • to be the ·aub j•o• et 'ca1ou.lat1on.al' dperation•." The•• aJmbol:to
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d 1&cour••· that When •• talk to eaoh other we are .talking about, or
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.
.
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415
ot tho
her" tbe
.
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e . , •4. Joa•p),l ~Cl>• ey • Baa ic Bocka,
l~9'.h pp~ 77 ... 7
• •
on· pp~ 8!) ..86; note l. above; Mont ~1J qui•l
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Pragmenl on tlie Con1tttu.tion and th9 Union,'' 1860 or 1861• 1:n
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
Title
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
Identifier
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formallectureseriesannapolis
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Page numeration
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18 pages
Original Format
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paper
Dublin Core
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Creator
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Berns, Laurence, 1928-
Title
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Rational animal - political animal: nature and convention in human speech and politics
Date
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1970-05
Description
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Typescript of a lecture delivered in May 1970 by Laurence Berns as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
Identifier
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Bib # 53003
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Publisher
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St. John's College
Language
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English
Type
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text
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St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online.
Format
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pdf
Friday night lecture
Tutors
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/e9723a83b6c01a61556f5396c78413d7.pdf
65bb45d784bf4a5eff1496049b9304fd
PDF Text
Text
/970
/171
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�Lecture Schedule 1970, 1971
Sept 25, 1970 Robert A. Goldwin
St. John’s College, Annapolis
Oct 2
Allen R. Clark
Silver Spring, MD
Oct 23
Alexander Bicket
Center For Advanced Study in the
Behavioral Sciences, Stanford CA
Oct 30
Martin Diamond
Claremont Men’s Coll., Claremont
CA
Nov 6
Noel Lee
Paris, France
Nov 18
Hans-Georg Gadamev
Heidelberg U, Heidelberg Germany
Nov 20
King William Players
St. John’s Coll. Annapolis
Dec 11
Richard McKee
Yale U., New Haven CT
Jan 8, 1971
Leon Kass
National Research Council,
Washington DC
Jan 15
Douglas Allanbrook
St. John’s College, Annapolis
Jan 22
Muhsin Mahdi
Harvard U., Cambridge MA
Feb 5
John Logan
SUNY, Buffalo NY
Feb 12
Iowa String Quartet
Feb 19
Charles Singleton
Johns Hopkins U, Baltimore MD
Feb 26
William Darkey
St. John’s College, Santa Fe
Mar 5, 1971
Gisela Berns
St. John’s Coll. Annapolis
Mar 12
Leo Strauss
St. John’s College, Annapolis
Apr 2
Eva Brann
St. John’s Coll. Annapolis
Aprt 16
Gabriel Stolzenberg
Northeast U, Boston MA
Apr 23
Eastern Chamber Ensemble
New York, NY
Deans Opening Lecture
“Philosophy of Law”
“The New Supreme CourtProspects & Problems”
On the U.S. Constitution
Piano Concert
“Plato As A Hermeneutic
Problem”
Henry IV, Part I
Concert
Biomedical Advance and
Ethical Problems
Harpsicord Concert
“Religion and Politics in
Arabian Nights”
“A Concert of Poetry, With
Comments”
Concert
“The Structure of The Divine
Comedy”
“Books and Experience”
“On Hippolytus”
On Machiavelli
On Thomas Mann’s Death in
Venice
On Mathematics
Woodwind Quintet Concert
�Lecture Schedule 1970, 1971
Apr 30
Peter Brown
The Urban Inst., Washington DC
May 1
May 7
Leslie Epstein & Douglas Allanbrook
Curtis Wilson
U. of California, San Diego CA
John Graham & Douglas Allanbrook
Allan Bloom
U of Toronto, Toronto Ont Canada
Jacob Kline
St. John’s College, Annapolis
William Pitt
Rabbi Bernard Ducoff
Bureau of Jewish Education, San
Francisco CA
May 8
May 14
May 20
May 28
June 4
“Some Moral Issues in
Metropolis Finance: Can I get
Away From It All in the
Suburbs”
Harpsicord & Recorder Concert
“Kepler, Newton and Planetary
Motion”
Harpsicord & Viola Concert
“Emile”
“About Plato’s Philebus”
“Logic- Beyond Modality”
“On Translating the Bible-Then
& Now”
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Title
A name given to the resource
St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
formallectureseriesannapolis
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
4 pages
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Office of the Dean
Title
A name given to the resource
Lecture Schedule 1970, 1971 (handwritten & transcribed)
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1970-1971
Description
An account of the resource
Schedule of lectures and concerts for the 1970-1971 Academic Year.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Lecture Schedule 1970-1971
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Language
A language of the resource
English
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
text
Rights
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Relation
A related resource
March 03, 1971. Berns, Gisela. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/1093" title="Nomos and physis">Nomos and physis: an interpretation of Euripides' Hippolytus</a>
May 07, 1971. Wilson, Curtis. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3647" title="On the origins of celestial dynamics">On the origins of celestial dynamics: Kepler and Newton</a>
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Goldwin, Robert A., 1922-2010
Clark, Allen R.
Bicket, Alexander
Diamond, Martin
Lee, Noël, 1924-2013
Gadamev, Hans-Georg
McKee, Richard
Kass, Leon
Allanbrook, Douglas
Mahdi, Muhsin
Logan, John
Singleton, Charles
Darkey, William
Berns, Gisela N.
Strauss, Leo
Brann, Eva T. H.
Stolzenberg, Gabriel
Brown, Peter
Wilson, Curtis
Bloom, Allan
Klein, Jacob
Pitt, William
Ducoff, Rabbi Bernard
King William Players
Friday night lecture
Lecture schedule
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/c5bc8027630bb866b754661a6baf700e.pdf
b8e87c27e75385f2ef4cb986f5936413
PDF Text
Text
NOMOS AND PHYSIS
(An interpretation of Euripides' Hippolytos}
Gisela Berns
St. John's College, Annapolis
The na_
tural order of presentation might seem to be reversed in a title which focuses on Nomos and Physis as ·two
related aspects of one and the same theme. Is not Physis
(Nature) an
indispens~ble
ground for Nomos (Convention) and
therefore a key to its unders,tanding? The
· the seemingly natural order can be found
arising from
~uripides'
play
~ippolytos,
rea~on
~n
the
for reversing
suggcs~ion,
that, in the case
of man, Nomos is as indispensable an end for Physis as Physis
is an
indispens~ble
ground for Nomos, that Physis provides
the potentialities, Nomos the actuality of man, and that
therefore Nornos comes to be the key to· a final understanding
of man's Physis.
II
Immediately following Aphrodite's prologue (1-57); the
play presents Hippolytos, offering
a wreath
of ·f lowers· to
Artemis (58-87). In th_ dedication of the wreath, preceeded
e
by an enthusiastic hymn to the goddess's beauty and exaltedness (58-72), Hippolytos reflects on the'possession of
�-2"olllcppoodvn" and its connection to his companionship with
Artemis.
'
"ooL
tdv6~
.
lcLµQvo,,
'
1lcxtov otlcpavov it &xnpdtou
1
6lo101.va, xooµ~aa' cplpw,
lv&' o~tc 101.µ~v &t1.ot cplpBcLV Sot~
o~t'
nl&l 1111 a(6npo,, &11' axnpatov
µllt.OOa lELµQv' npt.V~V 6t.lPX£Tat.
al6~' 6~ 1otaµCaLOL xnxcdcL 6~&00~''
.. ,
.
'
,;,
'-'to owcppovctv c1.lnxcv tt.!; ta xavt. ac ,
_,
QA).'
I
Wf(An
6l0101,VQ, XP00la!; x&µn,
'
I
\
ava6nµa 6lta1. _ xc1.po'
-'· µ cS v w 1. yap ; £• o t' t.
T o0 t
•
&10.
c~acSoo,
•
.I
c µ o '1. y &:; p a '
.
Bp o T Gh.1 •
'
'
.f
'
.I
•
001. XQL tuVCLPI. XaL loyoL, aµc1.Soµa1.,
#
\ .f
x~uwv
\
~
J!
µcv auu,.,, oµµa 6
0
;i_
0
,I
oux opwv to oov.
0
I
-
\
The dedication unfolds in two parts. Each part begins with an
appeal to the goddess and ends with a reflection, the first
one on the possession of "owcppoodvn" ,_ the second one on Hippolytos' companionship with Artemis. Both parts, though they correspond to each other in structure, differ from each other in
tone: the second one · applies to Hippolytos personally what
the first one elaborates in general.
In the first part of the dedication, Hippoiytos claims
�-3-
that only nature and divine allotment can truly account for
the possession of "aw,poadvn". This claim is
~xpressed
iri
·three, increasingly abstract statements: first a description,
then a poetic image and finally a philosophical discussion.
The description of the inviolate meadow, where the flowers
for Hippolytos' wreath were gathered, distinguishes not only
· between flock and iron on the one hand, and the roaming bee 1
on the other hand, but also implies a·distinction between the
flock, something in nature, and the iron, something from nature,
developed by art into something again.s t nature i tne sickle.
This increase in supposed violation of the meadow, inherent
in the sequence of examples which are set off from the example of the bee, has two opposite effects: its immediate .
effect, supported by a grammatical
"a~>.'"
(76), is separation.
Furthermore, the repetition of the watchword
"ax~patov"
(73; . 76) ·
ties the example of the bee rhetorically to Hippolytos' offering of the wreath, and sets them both off from the examples
of flock and iron. Yet the · interp.o sition of those examples,
implying violation, between the examples, implying no violation but rather fulfillment, suggests at the same time a
separation between Hippolytos'
offe~
and. the example of the
bee. This more subtle effect is to be weighed carefully, since
the description of the roaming bee carries ove+ into the
poetic image of
"al6111~"·
The extension of the one into the
other is grammatically effected by the implicit continuation
�-4of the direct object
11
A£ l.).JiiiV) ax~patov" (76). In keeping with
the ambiguous character of the link between Hippolytos'-offer
and the example of the bee before, the granunatical conjunction
\
.
"6t"
(78) between the example of the bee and the image of
"at6c)s" can at the same time be understood to connect and to
separate. Furthermore, the image of "al6<.3,", gardening the
inviolate meadow, contains in itself a strange alloy of .wild
and tamed nature, of nature and culture, and therefore seems
to question Hippolytos' claim that only nature and divine allotment can truly account for the possession of "awcppoa~vri",
the theme of the final discussion of the dedication's first
part. Mentioning the gathering of flowers
~n
the end of this
philosophical discussion however suggests, that there is one
continuous interpretation of Hippolytos' offer, which is consecutively exp-ressed in des~riptive, poeti'c, · and philosophical
language. The key term in Hippolytos' philosophical conclusion
. \
is "To awippovetv" (80). Like the center of two concentric
circles, it.is surrounded by two pairs of correlated terms:
"ev tf,\ ,,Soe1." and "er>.rixev" in the inner circle,
\.
~ri6ev"
and
"To~' xaxoto1. o'
opposition between the
11
'
61.oaM'tov
06" in the outer circle. The
accept~nce
of 'the 'bee and the rejection
of flock and iron from the initial .d escription repeats itself
.
. \
in this final stage of the argument as the rejection of "to
01.1>1ppovetv" as
"61.oaxt~v",
against the acceptance of
correlated with "Tot' xaxoto1."
11 't'~
oooqipovetv" as "ev T~ ftfoe1.",
correlated with "eC>.rixev". The opposition is emphasized rhe-
�-5-
torically through closeness to the center and affirmative
statement for what is accepted, remoteness from the center
apd negative statement for what is rejected. Grammatically,
an
"a>.>.'"
(79), like an echo of the one above, which isolated
the example of the bee from those before, isolates the inner
circle from the outer one. The connectiQn between the poetic
image of "at6~i;" and the philosophical discussion about . "T~
owq>povttv" is controversial. The two possible constructions
are: one --"'at6~i;' gardens with river dew for those to whom
it is not taught, but in their nature· allotted to be 'owcppwv'
with respect to all things all the time, for those to pluck,
but for the base it is not right;" the other --"'ot6~i;'
gardens with river dew; for those to whom it is not taught
but in their nature allotted to be
'a~cppwv'
with respect to
all things ali the time, f9r .tho$e to pluck, but for the base
it is not . right." In both . readings, the sentence structure is
highly complex: In . the first reading, where "at6~i;" is supposed to "garden for those, to whom it is not taught but in
I
their nature allotted to be
'o~cpp(l)v'
things all the time, for those to
with respect to all
pluck~ ·
the repetition of
the indirect object, once in relative, o·n ce in demonstrative
form, seems to overstress the connection between "at6~i;" and
"T~ awcppove:tv." At the same time however, the iength of the
relative clause separates the repeated terms more than appears
natural. In the second reading, where
11
·•at6~s;' gardens with
river dew; for those, to whom it is not taught but in their
�-6-
nature allotted to .be
'a~•pwv'
with respect to all things
ba~e
all the time, for those to pluck, but for the
it is not
right", the lack of any_grammatical relation between the
first sentence and the
followi~g
relative complex poses the
problem as to the connection between "at 6~ s" and
In addition to that, _
the necessity to supply
"to\ho1.s; opl1ca601." from
"ou
11
"t ~
a <1Hp p ov £ t
v" •
-&lµ1.s;" for
.&lµ1.s;" predicated for "xaxota1.",
makes the whole relative clause with its discussion of "t~
aw,povctv" rather suspect. 2
The problematic character of the.dedication's first part
will become clearer through an analysis of the second part
and the correlation of the two in their respective three
levels. The introduction of the second appeal to the . goddess
by "aA.A.' 11 echoes those passages from the dedication's ,·first
:
part that stated the basis
f~r
acceptance·and thus prepares
the _ground for the more personal character of the second
part. The _goddess, now addressed as friend, is bidd.e n to
accept a gift that previously was only offered. The justification
ftxc1.p~s; cuac~oOs;
im~gined
&10
11
recalls the po~tic image of "a[6~s;",
as . gardening the sacred meadow. The account of Hippoly-
tos' companionship, closely linked through "y~p" to the mention-'
i~g
of his piety, seems to correspond to the discussion of
\
"To awq>povetv" in the dedication's first part. ·1n keeping
with the positive and 'more personal character of the second
part, _the emphasis, indicated by the order of discussion, is
now rather on the supernatural gift than on the natural en-
�-7-
dowment. The correlation of "iv
t~
9t1a&1.tt and "tC>.nxtv" from
above, which centered around "t~ O(l)cppovetv", seems to reappear in the correlation of "yip as" and ~Tl>.os 6~ 1i~µ<1;a1.µ • ~al:tP
eCou",
nptcl\Jnv
which center around the description of Hippoly-
tos' and the goddess's companionship • . 'l'here
is . nothi~g
in
the second part that corresponds explicitly to. the negative
references in the first part, though the "i:ots xaxotoi. 6'
ou "
seems to be implicit in Hippolytos' exclusive chosenness, the
"61.6axt~v µn6~v" in his wish for concord between the beginning and the end of his life (a notion, that is supported
rhetorically by the position . of "tt'>.os" at the beginning of
the statement and contrasted. granunatically with "6~" from the
implications mentioned). The central account of Hippolytos'
devotion to Artemis is puzzling in so far : as it describes a
companionship'. which is characterized by the exchange of ">._ yo 1.",
&
the mortal hearing the voice but not seeing the eye of the
immortal partner. This detail beqomes significant, if one
recalls that the rational aspect of "T~ owcppovttv" had been
que•tioned, if not deniedJin the first part's negation of
\
.
and its correlation with "JC.a>eotai.." Apart from the
fact that "01.11cppoo~"Vn" is to be expla.i ned etymologically 3 as
"61..6axtov"
"thinking sane thoughts" or "saving
one'~ .
good sense" and
therefore implies a rational aspect, the question arises
whether the
excha~ge
of
11
.A.&yo1." can base itself merely on
divine. gift, allotted to one in his nature 4 , or whether the
�-8-
. qualification "xA.Jwv
\
µEV
\
au6f\', !µµa 6 'OUX
.
'
op&'rv TO OOV 11
does
not suggest that Bippolytos lacks insight 5 into the nature
of his companionship as well as of the virtues connected with
it.
Ju~ging
from the correlation between the two parts of the
dedication, Bippolyltos understands "t~ awcppovttv", meaning
chastity6, to be aided by "f&L6~~". meaning shame, and both
to be equated with "tua~tltLa'~, mea~ing pious devotion to Artemis. 'l'he lack of insight, supposedly indicated by Bippolytos'
not seeing the
e~e
of the goddess., vould pertain to three· :
related aspects of his - understandin,g:.First, the meanin,g of
the virtues
.
11
.
\
.
at6c3,, To awcppovttv, tuallitLa": second, their
origin; and third, their interrelation. The fact that Hippolytos understands the meaning of these virtues exclusively in
terms of his companionship with Artemis 7 , determines at the
same time thei,r origin and interrelation •. Yet the ambiguity
'
of. grammatical and rhetorical links in the dedication's first,
more. general, part seemed to question the interrelation between
the virtues and therefore also their meaning and .their origin.
The
unarnb~guous
character of the
~orresponding
gra.mniatical
links .in the dedication's second, more personal, part only
reinforces the impression that
Bippolyto~
the complexity inherent in both the
\
of "to
has
ineani~g
~ost s~ght
of
and the origin
G~fPOV&tv".
III
'l'he issue in question might be articulated most clearly
by considering some philosophic texts, which are concerned
�-9-
with the relationship between "at6~'" and "awcppoa\SvJl", the
terms most problematically related in this
cruci~l pass~ge
of Euripides' Hippolytos. One might object to the attempt to
clarify a dramatic statement through the analysis of a philosophic text. The objection however can be met by the fact,
that Euripides himself employs philosophical language in such
a way that it becomes an integral part of the drama.
In Plato's Charmides,,a dialogue about "owcppoodvtln, we
are {>resented with a .number of definitions that are discarded,
one after the other, as insufficient.·Though all insufficient
in themselves, their order of presentation fJ:'.om a less ra·tional
to a more rational understanding
sugge~ts
the possibility .that .
.
"
all of them play a part in a definition which, though never
.
.
.
reached, might comprehend "ow9poodvn" as ~whole.a S~gnifi
cantly for
ou~
purpose,
Ch~rmides,
in his'second attempt,
defines "awcppoodvn" ·as tt~~ep at6~'" (160e). The refutation,
which is based on a very inappropriate quote from Homer, ends
with the assertion that "at6~i;" is neither good nor bad (l6la-b)
and therefore fails to define "oll>11,i:>ool1~1l,., admittedly something. good. The questionable character of the refutation reveals itself in two aspects, which are borne out by the drama
of the dialogue: When Socrates, after comparing Charmides to
a beautiful statue (154c) , first asked him whether he posaessed
11
awq1poa1'vn 11 (158b), Charmides blushed and looked even
more beautiful than before, since his shame became his youth
(158c). Tracing out this apparent connection between
11 at6~'"
�-10-
and "01.11,pood"n", Charmides pronounces his second definition
after courageously looking into himself (160e)., an act that
later will supply the basis for one of the highest definitions
of "01.111ppoad"n" (167a). A closer examination of Socrates'
- or~ginal
question (158b-c) will provide us with an answer,
as to why Charmides' second definition was nevertheless refuted.
Socrates considered first, whether Charmides was by nature
sufficiently endowed for
11
011>1ppoo1Svn" (158b), then, whether·
he was already sufficiently
"a~fp11>v"
(158b), and finally asked
him, whether he would say that he participated sufficiently
in "ow1ppoadvn" (158c). The stress on a natural presupposition
that, oz.i .the one hand, is
fic~ent
nec~ssary,
on the other hand insuf-
in itself, explains the statement that "at6~c" is
neither. good nor bad (16lb). The comparison of Charmides to
a beautiful statue ·might point to the fact that he possesses
"a1.111ppoo .~vn"
only in the static form of its natural presuppo-
sition9.
The last chapter of book IV of Aristotle's Niccmachean.
Ethics deals with the same problem in a more elaborate form.
"At6~'" is not considered a virtue, · because it has to do with
the body (1128b 14-15) and therefore . is rather a
a
"ltL~"
"~d~o~"
than
(ll28b 10-11). Concerned with the same issue, Aris-
totle.' s Eudemian Ethics (1234a 24-35) provides the criterion
for the distinction between
''11d~n"
and "ltt1., 0
:
the former
are "!vtu 'lpoaLplatw'" (1234a 25-26). This however does 1'ot
mean that there is no connection between the two: _he "11d-&n",
t
�-11bei~9 "tpua1.xcl 11 , can be understood as leadi~9 into, "ipua1.xal
&peTaC", which are distinguished from "apeTa\" proper thr~ugh
the latter's being "lltT~ fPpov!faew'" (1234a 28-30). The example
of ''at
6..,, .. ,
/
leading into
"011Hpp oa.Svn",
is commented on in pa- ·
renthesis, that for that reason people define "awcppoadvn" in
this genus, namely "at6~s;" (l234a 3.2-33). The difference
.
'
'
'
between "fPU<H xa" apt Ta 1." and "ape T<H" . proper is made even
more explicit in book VI of Aristotle's Nichomachean Ethics
by calling the latter "apeTa~ xdp1.a1. 11 .(ll44b 3-4) 10 • Now
applied to virtue in. general, the passage in book VI not only
.
'.
· tries to clarify the similarity ("1&01. yap 6ox£t lxaaTa Tiav
~-&ii>\I U1t.dpxe1.v cpdat1. t(l)s;", 1144b 4-5) and dissimilarity (xa~.
y~p 1a1.al xal ~np(o1.' at tpua1.~al U1tdpxoud1. l~&L,, &11" &v~u
voO SlaJh:pa\ ipa(vovTa1. oi'oai.", 1144b 8-9; _.,cf. H.A. 588a 17-
589a 9) between the two forµis , of virtue, b'ut also. understands
their distinction to be based on a highly rational principle.·
While the two passages from the Eudemian Ethics spoke successively of
11
1tpoa(peat.s:"
(E.E., 1234a 25-26) and "cppdvnai.s;"
(B.E., 1234a 28-30), the passage from the Nicomachean Ethics
speaks of "vous;" (N.E., ll44b 8-9). Significantly for our
purpose, the example illustrating the lack of "voOs;" shows a
man of strong body (the natural presupposition), who lacks
s~ght;.
(the rational component) and. is therefore likely to
fall heavily (ll44b 10-12; cf. lll4b l-25). As the passage
frQm the Eudemian Ethics warned of confounding virtue with
its natural presupp6sition (e.g. defining "awtppbadvn" as
�-1211
at6ws;"), so the passage from the Nicomachean Ethics warns of
confounding it with its rational component (ll44b 17-36) and
suggests that it be understood as "oux av£U
tppOV~C7£ws;"
(1144b
20-21).
The fullest treatment of the question is to be found at
the beginning of book II of Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics:
11
.tt
Out
•
.t
.If
\
.f
•
'
•
I
apa lpu0£L OUT£ wapa 'uOLV £YYLYVOVTQL QL apttaL,
•
t
alla
'
•£fUX&OL \.l~V nµtv oltaa~aL auTas;, T£A£LOU\.llVOL$; 6~ OL~ Ton
l~ous;"
(1103a 24-26). What in the passages quoted above was
. distinguished as '11 aptta\ 1pu0Lxa\ 11 and ·"cip£·ta\ xdp1..cu", is here
articulated in terms of "odvaµLs;" and "cvlpytLa" (ll03a 26-28).
'l'he difference between the two stages has to be bridged by
"l~os;" and "6L-6aoxal{a 11 (1103~ 14-18), their proportion depending on whether the virtue is "n~hx~" or "6Lavont1ox~",
though the aspect . of teaching - and learning,
~·:hich
is illustrated
by. examples from "tlxv11" (1103a 31-34 1 ll03b 8-13), seems to
become more and more relevant even for.the moral virtues
(1103a 31-1103b 2, 1103b 13-22), for instance "aw1ppoadv11"
(1103b 1-2, cf. llOSa 17-llOSb 18). If matters were different,
Aristotle ' points out, there would be no need for teaching,
.
.
· but we all would be either good or ba. (1103b 12..;.14).
d
In such a case, as Plato's Protagoras remarks (323a-324d),
one would never praise nor blame a · man ·for the presence or
absence of a virtue, since only nature or fortune would be
responsible for it. Significantly for our purpose, the passage
directly preceding this one, Protagoras' Prometheus_ myth
�-13-
tella about how Zeus sent Hermes with the. gift of "aL6~'" and
"6C•ll" .(322c) to all men in order to prevent the threat of
their mutual destruction. What the myth, appropriately for a
d~vine.
gift, called "ato~s" and "6(xn", the following dis-
cu~sion
about political virtue calls a11uppoa.Sv11" and "61.xcua.Svn"
(323a ff.), representing the addition of a rational component
in an ending indicative for abstract nouns.11
The one feature which is common to all the texts, quoted
in this excursus, is the rejection of exclusivity in the
account of virtue, be it .by teaching,
~Y
training, by nature,
·or in any other way (Plato, Meno, 70a). The last possibility
most me~ni~gfully would con\bine all three ways~ 12
'l'he one passage that not only brings
lthis·· whole '~.discus'sion
into focus, but also opens up new perspectives to be followed
up in the analysis of Euripides' Bippolytos, is the fundamental
definition of man in the opening pages of Aristotle's Politics
(1253a 1-39): "tavcp~v, St1. ••• 6 &v~p~•o' tdac1. ~ol1.t1.x~v
~;o~"
(1253a 2-3). The "'dat1.", which is replaced, in
thee~
laboration on the definition, by "61.~ ,do1.v" and in that form
set off from "61.~ Tdxnv" (1253a 3-4) ·, states man's being political as inherent .necessity and differentiates thus the
species "man" from others within the same . genus "animal".
.
.
Bei~9
'
political, on the other hand, does not seem to be an
exclusive differentia, s'ince
~t
applies to other animals as
well. (Significantly for our purpose, the examples chosen are·
the bee and
herdi~g
animals, thus linking together the two
�-14stro?gly contrasted in Hippolytos' dedication to Artemis.
~f
Hippolytos' acceptance of the bee against the rejection
the flock might be seen in the l~ght of Socrates' myth in the
Phaedo (82b), where those who possess "awippoadvn" without
philosophy and
in
thinki~gwill,
a later life, take on the
form of other political animals like the bee).
Th~
difference,
which girll'es the differentia "q)\fo£1. 1ol.LT .1.lCdv", added to the
genus "tijlov", differentiati?g power, is a difference of degree
("61.dt1.
6i
1ol.1.T1.lC~V
o &v8pC11•os
tll'ov xcfons i ~d -~'t~ll~
.:,.:a.\ · •1:1\>'t~S
&y&l.aCou t'ou µa~l.ov, 6~l.ov", 1253a 7-~; cf. H.A. 588a l7-
589a 9), based on man's exclusive possession of tt>.&yos" (">.&yov ·
6~ µ&vov av8p(l)IOS lxt1. TWV '~(l)V", 1253a
.
II
\
\ .
fY
• \ \
. -
ta µEV ouv QAAa tll>V
,.
If
t~~\I
.
. A \
•
·
\
µuAl.OTa µEv
9-io, cf. 1332b 3-8
ill
ty
_f .
,u~EI. '
ill
l';y,
.
'
µ1.lCpa
~
' ' c '
'
1;V&.C1 lCa.&. Tot' t;-&£01.v; av-&p(l)IOS 6£ lCal. . l. _Sy..,1 µ&vos yap
.
6'
t;XEI.
A&yov' WOT£ 6ct Ta0Ta au~,wvc?v aAl.~l.01.s. ~o>.>.~ y~p nap~ TO~!;
'
\
'
.
\
\
l81.dµous lCat. Tnv ,da1.v 1pdttoua1. 61.a tov
~&yov,
·'
Eav 1c1.aema1.v
ch.All)!> f)(e1.v all.tt.ov."). This natural possession of "l.dyos"
(1253a 9) allows for universalization with respect to the
sensation and expression of pleasure and pain, shared in by
~ll
animals (1253a 10-14). While the sensation and expression
of what is pleasant and painful is always occasioned by and
bound to some particular occurrence, Which involves one individual and takes .place in one present time, the possession
of "l.cSyoi;" allows foruniversalization of both through the
notion· of what is convenient and harmful (1253a 14-15) This
�-15notion, that is based on
abstracti~g
.from a particular present
as well as from a particular individual, leads over into the
notion of just and unjust, good and bad (1253a 15-18). The
connection between the two prominent forms of the dif f erentia
'
"tdoe1. 1tOA1.·ri.xov" and
11
.
Adyov cxov" has to be gathered from
the contrasting examples of the
be~st
that is unable to, and
the. 9od who does not need to share in the notions of just and
unjust, . good a~d bad (1253a 27-29) 13 • The reference to man's
being the best of animals, if and when perfected, the worst,
if and when disassociated from "vc5µos:" and "6(x""
(1253~
31-33),
. suggests, in contrast to either beast or. god, the capability
for perfection on the basis of having "Adyos:". The difference
in
wordi~g
.
between "being political" and· "having AcSyos:" mig)lt
point to the likely 'f act that having "Adyo.s:" potentially makes
for
bei~g poli~ioal
bei~9
actually,.but that
political actu-
ally .makes for having "A6yos:" actually. The difference between
bei~g
and
havi~g
would .become apparent in the possible lack
of having "Adyos:" actually, in the possible failure of man to
.
'
use his natural .weapons for the intended purpose: "9pdvna1.'''
\
.
.
.
and "apetn" (1253a 34-35), a failure .that would cause him to
remain
11
UVOO 1.fh<ITOS:
\
JC.CU
ayp 1.chCITOS:
4Vt:U
mp etl\S:"
(125Ja 35-36) •
IV
The thematic passage (73-87) from Euripides' Hippolytos,
if it is seen in the light of this and the above discussions, .
seems to be concerned with one fundamental problem: the connection between Physis and ' Nomos • . Hippolytos' rejection of
�. -16\
""to awcpp ovctv" as "ch 6aM "tov" can be interpreted as a rejection
of the natural weapons, with which man is born and which are
intended for the perfection of his nature, i.e. for the perfection of Physis through Nomos. Hippolytos' fault then would
lie in his failure to recognize the fact, that what is natural
for all animals is narrower in content than what is natural
for man, the only animal which is by nature endowed with the
possession of
"Adyo~"
"A&yo~"·
His failure to
rec~gnize
the role of
in human nature leads him to neglect the fact that
.in the case
of
man NomoS is as indispensci.ble an. end for Physis
as Physis is an indispensdble ground for Nomos, that Physis
provides the potentialities, Nomos the actuality of man, and
that therefore·Nomos comes to be the key to a 'f inal understanding
of man's Phys is. Hippolytos' wish for concord between the be-.
. ginning and the end of his life reminds one of the description
of Charmides as a beautiful statue, a description which indicates Charmides' insufficient possession of
following
an~lysis
"awq>p
oa\S.vn". The
of the play will attempt to show that the
play can be interpreted as a development of the thematic passage we have been concerned with. Indications_ given so far by
Euripides as to the insufficiency of Bippolytos' view of himself and of human nature can be detected in .content as well
as in form: in content - from his
bei~g
together preferably
with beasts and a_ goddess; in form - from the grammatical and
rhetorical analysis of Hippolytos' dedication to Artemis, which
revealed the implicitly ·contradictory character of the ex- .
�. -17-
notion that "T~ a111q>pov&tv" is allotted to
plicitly stated
one in his nature by divine gift. The fact that the paradigms
for acceptance in Bippolytos • dedication,
t~e
example of th.e
bee, visiting, and the image of "atof.11'"• . 9ardeni~g the sacred
meadow, imply a fulfillment of ·natural potentialities_- questions .
Bippolytos' understanding of the origin ot
11
T~ ac.1Hppovctv". · ...
\
Moreover , that "a t 6111 s " . and " T' a (.I) cp p o v e: t" " • equated with " ·c uo l Bc 1. a" ,
o
seem to be at the same time grammatically disconnected and very
closely connected, questions their relation
meani~g.
·of the
i~9
as well as their
The climax of Hippolytos' dedication in the description
excha~ge
of. ").cSyo1." with Artemis, Bippolytos only hear-
the . voice but not seeing the eye of the:. goddess, reminds .
one ()f Aristotle's example of 'the man with strong body, but
without sight, who is likely to fall
heavi~y.
Aphrodite's
characterization of the · rel~tionship between Hippolytos and
Artemis as
seen in the
"µc(l;t11 BpoTc(as 1pocncawv 0µ1.).(a!;"
l~ght
(19), if it is
of the Aristotelian simile, would suggest
that Hippolytos' hearing the voice but not seeing the eye of
the goddess symbolizes his failure to appreciate the role of
"Adyo'" in man's nature and the li.J<elihood .of his fall for . that
reason~
The failure to appreciate the role of
").dy()!;"
in man's
nature would show itself in the failure to appreciate the ways
in which man's nature, perfected by convention, overcomes
nature simply (cf. Aristotle, Politics, 1253a 31-33) 14 •
�·-18-
v
In
the prologue, Aphrodite proclaims her
vengefuln~ss
towards anyone who dares to affront her with "µlya cppov£tv" (6).
Hippolytos' companionship with Artemis, yet even more his
der!Jgatory attitude towards herself ("Alyct. xax(a'tnv 6a1.µcfvwv
1t£q>uxlva1. 1511 , 13), strike her as falling beyond any human
bounds ("µcCtw BpoTc(a, 1poo1ealilv
0µ1.A(a~",
19). Artemis, in
turn, refers to the fatal revenge
Aphrodi~e
takes on Hippoly-
tos by accusing her of wrath over his "01.111ppoodv11" ( "K1hp 1. ~ •••
aei>ppovoOv'tL tixae'to, 1400-1402). When Hippolytos finally X'.eal-
.izes, which divine power destroyed him, he expresses his recognition with a verb that represents the neutral component of
.
'
6~
6aCµov"
n µ'
&1~A&acv",
1401). Between t.he two characteri-
zations of HipP:olytos, as "µ,ly11 cppov&iv" by 'A phrodite, as
"a1A>1ppovGv" by Artemis, stands, like the fulcrum of a balance,
Phaedra's prediction: "awcppovctv
µa.e~oc'ta1."
(730-731). This
prediction appears to be in striking contrast to Hippolytos'
own
.
understandi~g
.,
.
\
'
\
.
of nyo a11><ppovctv" as "µ11 61.oax't&v", where
"61.6axtov" was rather correlated with "xaxoto1.'' (79-81). In
accordance with this notion, Hippolytos' claim to
.b~
"or!cpp(l)v"
se~ond
revolves around the task to prove or disprove, in the
half of the play, whether he is base natured or not ("ct xax~,
~lcpux' &v~p", 1031, 1075, 1191; cf. lb71 "ct 6~ xaxcf' · ye
cp a (vo µ a ~ 6 o H ii\
t £
a o ("
~
, l lf. 5 2 " b>
cp ( 1. 't a .e
, w
s
y £ vva t
o ~ € xcp a ( v ti
\
1la'tpC "). Together with the thematic discussion of "'to awcppovctv"
�.
.
'
as "µn
-19.
61.6c:un~v",
the triad "µlya ,poviiiv" - "awq>povctv ·
µae!fac-ra1." - "awqipovwv" s:u9gests the question whether the
center separates or mediates between the two opposite characterizations. Before being able to answer this crucial question
one would have to explore three related aspects: first, the
broader context of Hippolytos' rejection of teaching in the
\
.
·.
case of "To Oll)q>povetv", second, the internal and external
causes behind this rejection, and third the meaning of Hippolytos' predicted
learni~g
to be
"a~eppwv".
The last consideration,
concerning itself initially with the relation between teaching
and learning (cf. Plato, Meno, 70a}, will be decisive for the
final discussion of Hippolytos as
tr~gic
hero.
In the scene (88-120), which follows Hippolytos' initial
address to Artemis, his old servant involve's him in a conversation that aim~ at questioning his exclusive devotion to one
. goddess. At first, the cautious question is, whether the "vcfµos"
of "cu1tpoanyop(11" (95), established among men (91) and supposedly ("eCu:p", 98) following the
"v~µo1."
of the gods, has
obliging force even where there is no inclination, as in the
case of Hippolytos towards Aphrodite (106,113). The old serlord changes. significantly _
from
"!vat" (88) to "1at" (107) 16 in order to indicate that. Hippoly-
vant•~
appeal to his
yo~ng
tos' attitude of mind ("To~s vlou~ y~p oo \.IL\.lnTlov q>povouvTas
o~Tws",
114-115) has to be accounted for with his youthful
(118) immaturity and therefore to be fo:rgiven (117). The final
postulate of superior wisdom on the part of the immortals (120)
�-20-
does not promise fulfillment, since both, · Aphrodite directly .
(99, 103), Hippolytos indirectly.(93, 94), . are charactel;';i.Z~d
by one and the same epithet; ''a ell\> cf, n • Aphrodite' s enmity
17
~gainst
Hippolytos in her prologue was not so much provoked
by his companionship with Artemis, as by his haughtiness,,
which expressed itself ·in derogator:v statements about .herself
(13, cf • .~, 330-342, especially 333-334). Bis attitude
appears uniquel~ provocative, in that
he
alone of the citizens
of'l'roezen (12) does not acknowledge Aphrodite's claim to .all
pervadi~g
fame (1-2, cf. 103, 445, 1268-1281). In acqordance
.w ith the emphasis on what she is called or said to be (2, 13),
her qualification
"µ&vo~
1tOAt.Tiv" recognizes the worship of
the gods to be .a public matter·, closely · tied in, ·w ith 'the· ''-..J4...a;o ""
of the "'lcH" '". In contradistinction to that, Hippolytos ·' ,
stresses not sq much the
ou~st.anding
posi t:i:on he has
amo~g
the citizens as among all mortals (84). This abstraction of
himself from conventions, bound to time and place,. and understanding himself as mortal in relationship to immortals, shows
a radicality that, goes both beyond and against the "v&µo'" in
question: beyond, in so far as it tolerates no compromisel 8
of principles; against, because through this lack. of tolerance
his attitude points to the meaningless superficiality of a
"vcSµos;" which is indifferent to the principles i'nvolved. Hippoly-
tos• · answer to the old servant's challenge to conform to the
1
"vcSµos;". of "cu1poanyop (a" with respect to Aphrodite;
• '
'
'
autnv ayvo'
al
~v
"11:pcfolll~ev
•
I
•
aa1a,oµac." (102, cf. 113), indicates that one
�-21cannot, at least not uncompromisingly (104), worship at the
same time Artemis and Aphrodite •. (The close connection between
19
the two goddesses , Artemis being not only the goddess of
but also of childbirth, completing, as it were,
vi~ginity,
the work of Aphrodite, does not render their incompatibility
less striking).
The sequence of the first two scenes, Aphrodite's prologue
and Bippolytos •. address to Artemis, presented, ·as thesis and
antithesis, the principles o1 the play. The third scene, the
conversation between Hippolytos and the old servant,
poi~ts,
· as to a synthesis, · to a possible though improbable untragic
solution. The fact that Bippolytos' only reply to the old
'
servant's final exhortation ("·uµata1.v,
xpe~v",
">' '
c.i
•.
'!tat, o<uµ&v(l)v xpt\a-&a1.
107) is in turn an exhortation to .his fellow hunters
. (108-112) is
("xpe~v",
u~derlined
by
~epeati~g
an expression of necessity
107, 110); the old servant speaks of the necessity
to use the gifts of the_ gods, Bippolytos of the necessity to
have his horses prepared for exercise. The insistence on necessity in both cases, one implying immortal, the other mortal
will, appears to hint ironically toward Hippolytos' terrible
end, the destruction through his own horses. Hippolytos' last,
con~mpuous
.I
.
•
\
,,
~
"
.
'
\
\ .f
1 ine ( "tnv .c:rnv 6e Ku11p1.v 'ltQAA • ey(I) xa1.pe1.v 1\e;yw,
120), together with
his
n~gative
attitude towards
acquiri~g
"aw<ppoalSvri" through teaching, defies the old servant's hope
that his young lord may mature and come to his right senses
("vouv lxw" oaov a~ 6£t", 105). The question, which arises
�-22· from the unity of these three introductory scenes, is, whether
the appearance of debunking .the
tho~gh
H
\I cfµ
o s;"
of
"£
u po o ray op 'a" ,
even ·
it
it involves incompatible principles, is compatible with
the possession of "a.wippood\lra", claimed by Hippolytos, and
whether his attitude towards
11
\ldµos;"
in. general is significant
for the truth oi: untruth of his notion about the origin of
VI
Th~
"vdµos;" of "tultpoonyop(a", which was discussed in
the final scene of the introduction, comes to be treated more
specifically in the conversation between the nurse and Hippolytos (601-668) , on the one hand, and Hippolytos and Theseus
,
'.
(902-1101), on the other hand. The two conversations are. grouped
.around Phaedra's prediction for Hippolytos, "awcppo\lttv µa-&!fot-rcu"
.
(731), and spe1:1 out what Hippolytos' .rejection of the "vdµos;",
specifically what his rejection of Aphrodite, means in a broader
context: Rejecting Aphrodite, on the one hand, means rejecting
family, on the other, rejecting political society, the one
being the basis for the other and both an expression of man's
· 11
,do 1. , .. ., represented
thro~gh
"vdµo1. 11 .; This representation has
its roots in the possession of
11
).dyos;", which enables man to
perfect his nature from potentialities to actuality. As a
speculation, one might say that a rejection of Aphrodite, the
. 90. dess that initiates, even if unintentionally, family and
d
political society, means, even if seemingly the opposite, a
rejection of
th~
perfecting role of "A&yos;" with' respect ·
�-23-
to human nature. Seen in this light, Hippolytos' negative
. attitude towards Aphrodite leads directly to his denial ~f
\
.
"To ow,povttv" as "61.6axT&v", as result of a process of per-
fection rather than as a gift allotted to one in his nature.
The correlation of the two aspects of Hippolytos' rejection,
the rejection of family and political society, suggests itself
both in form and in content: In form, the synunetry of the play
(with Aphrodite and Artemis providing 'the frame 20 and Phaedra's
prediction the center) .• keeps the two scenes
be~ween
the nurse ·
and Hippolytos and Bippolytos and Theseus in balance. In con•
. tent, both are inextricably related through their exchange of
roles: In the earlier scene, which points toward the rejection
of family, Hippolytos accuses , and condemns, and Phaedra, . through
the nurse, is accused and conde..mned. In the later
scene~
which
points toward ;the rejection of political society, Phaedra,
thro~qh
Theseus, accuses and condemns, and Hippolytos is accused
and condemned.
· aippolytos' condemnation of women as universal evil (608, . 616,
629, 632, 651, 6.66), with its ironic c6nclusion "~ vdv TL' aoT~'
OWtPOVttv 61.6atdTw, A x&µ• ~dtw Tatcr6' l~tµBa(v&l.V
a&\n (667-
668), ix:onic 21 if seen in the light of his rejection of teachi~g
'
as source for "-ro awcppovetv" (79-81), shows a fundamental flaw
in his understanding of human natu:t:"e: . His
ju~qement
women are alike in nature, ruled by passions,
~heir
that all
passions
served by reason; his suggestion to surround women with mute
beasts rather than servants in order to avoid corruption through
�-24exchapge of . words (645-648); and his absurd recommendation to
buy one's children rather than to continue the human race
thro~gh
women (616-624), all three attest to his .failure to
appreciate the role of ''A&yo'" in man's nature. Judging all
women to be alike in nature makes .him misjudge Phaedra through
the nurse, Phaedra's nobility
thro~gh
the nurse's vulgarity,
Phaedra's reference to the Nomos as criterion for the struggle
of reason over -the passions
thro~gh
the nurse's reference · to ·
Physis as criterion for the triumph of the passions over reason.
Towards the end of the conversation between .Phaedra and the
·nurse, the nurse had tried to persuade Phaedra of the senselessness of . fighting against love, a drive that is natural to all
creatures of all elements, including the gods (437-439, 447458). Only to have been
different decrees and
b~gotten
diffe~ent .
("tpuTe~e1.'1",
460) under
gods would, in the nurse's
eyes, justify Phaedra's uneasiness with respect to these
"v&µo1." (459-461). Phaedra's attitude, on the other hand,
points to the essential distinction between all creatures of
all elements, including the gods, and man: his not being
fixed in his nature by universal powers but being responsible
for the fulfillment of it on the basis of having "A&yos" 22 •
Hippolytos' absurd recommendation to buy one's children
accordipg to financial ability in th_ temples of the gods
e
would be a solution to the problem of continuing the human
race without..women, but it also would be a way to avoid all ·
responsibilities that family life naturally imposes on men:
�.-25-
Responsibilities between husband . and wife, between parents
and children, that form .men in their fulfillment of human
nature, in their perfecting themselves and eac;h other through
"v~µo1. 11 ,
bringing to actuality the
potenti~lit;ies.
.
'~cpda1.!;".
of
.
Despite manifest disagreement between the riurse and Hippolytos,
.
'
.
.
there is a strong resemblance in their fundamental vd.~w' of ·
.
.
human nature. Though the nurse acceptsandllippolytos rejects .·
.
.
the triumph of . the passions over reason, both . presuppose that ·
man's nature is fixed and therefore not to be . altered by education. The nurse takes her standard from all creatures of
all elements, including the gods, Hippolytos his from most
men, close to -beasts, and himself, clo.s e to gods~ Yet
this
similarity in form between the· nurse's .a'rt.d Hippolytos' view
should not obfuscate the dissimilarity in ·content between the
two. Hippolytos' intoleranc~ of baseness arid his radical 2.3 .
understanding of morality not only separate. him from the
nurse, but also bring
him close to Phaedra. Both Phaedra and
'
Hippolytos are driven into tragic conflict by the moral choice 24
between violating a sacred "vdµos" (in the case of Phaedra the
"vdµos" of yielding to suppliants, in the case of Hippolytos
the "v&µos" of keeping one's oath) and saving themselves from
shame and death. The fact, that both preserve the "v&llos"
rather than their own lives, becomes the stepping stone to
tragedy for both of them. Yet this similarity in character
between Hippolytos and Phaedra should not obfuscate the dissimilarity in tragedy between the two, shown by _the difference
�. -26. of their deaths. Phaedra is conscious of her fault and the,ref.ore ·kills herself., while Hippolytos is not conscious of his
and therefore is killed. The ,similarity a,nd . dissimilarity
between Hippolytos and ·Phaedra appears to be ..mos.t ambiguous
in Phaedra's central prediction for Hippolytos . "tn~ v&aou o~ .;
ti\a6l µoc. xoc.vfh l.IEtaax~v owcp·povetv µa-&rto£tac." (73d-7. 31) ·~
.
.
.
.
Judging from the correlation of the .s cenes. dire·c tly · surrounding
this prediction, the sickness alluded to seems to be Hippolytos' misjudgement of Phaedra, followed by Theseus' misjudge.. ment of Hippolytos • . Both .involve
a self-contradiction:
Phaedra
contradicting her love with hate, Hippolytos contradicting
his hate with love, though the one is a true, the ' othei:- ori:l,.y
an alleged self-contradiction. The question which carries
over into the sec.a nd ,E>art of the play is,·
way Phaedra•s :prediction "a(l)cppov£tv
wh~ther
µa.e~attac."
and in ·What
1
will come to
be fulfilled.
The discovery of Phaedra's note drives Theseus into ·blind
and unrelenting accusation of Hippolytos (790-1101). Theseus'
conviction of Hippolytos' guilt, in full support of Phaedra's
charge, springs from his knowledge of young men in general
(967-970), from the knowledge that they are ruled by passions,
letting their passions be served by reason (920, 926, 936,
951, 957). This
misjudgement of Hippolytos uses against him
the same argument (916-920) he himself had used in his misjudgement of Phaedra (616-668, cf. 921-922, 79..:.91): the impossibility of teacl)ing anyone to think aright and be, "awcppw\1 11 who
�-27\
is by nature "xaMos;" (94.2 , 945, 949, 959, 980). Hippolytos'
attempt to clear himself . from. . guilt (933 cf. · 73l) ' and to
.
.
Lute Theseus by demonstrating that he is
sup~rior
re-
not only . to·
the · ways of young men, .but to the ways of ·men .i n general (994-:
1001), makes him even more· suspect in the :eyes of Theseus. A
man, who claims to be a companion of the gods and a,t tpe . same
time rejects the most natural and sacred ways of men · (to have
'.
.
.. .
.
a family and to participate in political· society), has to be
suspect (949), or else the gods or the most natural .and sacred
ways of men,
s anctione~
by the gods, would be suspect. This
however is a thought Theseus is not willing to embark on (951).
Hippolytos' desire to be first in the "ay~v" rather th. n in
a
the
"lt~AH"
(1016-1017) shows a lack of commitment that reminds
one of his .recomntendation . to buy one's ch_ldren in . tlw, temples •
i
of the gods r~ther than to depend on women for the con.tin~ation
of the human race (618-624). Both instances could be .excused
by the fact that Hippolytos is the son of an Amazon and therefore by nature averse to Aphrodite and family life, and the
son of an Amazon by Theseus before The's eus' marriage to Phaedra
and therefore by convention excluded from political ieadership.
Yet, far from excusing himself, Hippolytos judges his lack of
commitment to the most natural and sacred ways of men to prove
his freedom from all human passions, which in his view are
nothing but all too human. The reason why his acclaimed bei.n g
"a~q>pCA>v"
(994-1001) - (by hipiself and by Artemis) - is accused
as being "µlya cppovwv" - (by Aphrodite and in one or the other
�-28-
form by all characters of the play) - can
be
found most openly
in his boasting about it (73-87, 102, 994-1001, 1100, 1364..,.
..
1365), as if · it were something to be recko.n ed t,o· himself rather
than to nature and fortune or to · nature and god-:~Jiven fate,· as
he himself professes (78-81). The difference in judgement
.
.
be~
.
tween the goddesse$ provides the frame for a deeper search into
the meaning of "T~ owcppove:tv"~ provoked by thecenter line
"ow1ppovti:v µa-&nae:ta
tos~
L", which seems ·t o contradict not only Hippoly.,..
understanding of himself but also his understanding Of
llippolytos• understanding
~f
himself apparently remains the
same throughout the whole play.: he sees himself as
11
th~
rrios:t:
ow1ppwv" of all mortals (994-1001). Afte.I'.. being banned from his
homeland,. and ready to' depart from it
with
his horses (which at
the beginning of the play he had ordered to be prepared for exer- ·
cise)
(110-112), Hippolytos appeals to Zeus as witness of his
innocence: " ZtD,
·
~
µ11M£T
• ttnv
•
• xoxos
\
£L
i
l 9ux • avnp ••• "
• '
c1 1 91- · ,
·
1193). In the following account of his .death, which might be
understood as Zeus' answer, one aspect comes to be pointed out
as most tetrible: that Hippolytos,
t ~o
was so familiar with
horses (1219-1220); cf. 110-112), should have been killed by his
own _horses, frightened by the appearance of the godsent bull
out of the sea (1204, 1218, 1229, 1240). Even in the last
scene, in the
presenc~
of Artemis and Theseus, the fatal race
of his horses rouses Hippolytos to a more heartre·nding ·1ament
(1355-J..357) than the fatal curse of his father (1348-1349,
�-29-
.1362-1363, 1378). The self- defending reappeal to Zeus, which
refers to his being · outstandingly
"ot:·µvoi;", "~£o<H~1tTwp"
and
"owcppoalSvt1 nav"ta& uitt:pox~v" (1365-1366) . reminds . one of the
early scene with the old servant who exhorted Hippolytos to
behave more in accordance with the "voµos" of men and . gods.
The analysis of Hippolytos' i=ejection of the "voµos" of
"&6•poonyop(a" and of his natural and bonventional disposition
towards such rejection will receive decisive clue.s from considering the circumstances of his death.
Hippoly.tos' confrontation with the bull recails Theseus'
encounter with the Minotaur .':'he significant difference between
the two events can be seen in the nature of the man as well
as in the nature of the beast. Theseus, on the one hand, represents himself, l1is family and his city. He is lead through
the labyrinth with the help of Ariadne, who had fallen in
love with him and had given him the famous thread of Daedalus.
The beast, Theseus finally conquers, is a monster with the
head of a bull and the body of a man. Hippolytos, on the other
hand, is without responsibility for either family or city, the
one by nature, the other by convention. In addition to that,
he is banned from his homeland and therefore represents solely
himself. The lack of experience in family and political life
results in a lack of judgement about man and human nature.
This lack of judgement made him spurn the thread he could
have received from Phaedra, had he learned to be "owqipwv" ,
in other words had he learned to have respect for the labyrinth
�-30-
of human nature. The symmetry of the play, with Aphrodite and
Artemis providing the frame and Phaedra's prediction for Hippolytos the center, suggests not only, as mentioned earlier, the
correspondence of the scenes between the nurse and Hippolytos,
and Hippolytos and Theseus, but also the correspondence of the
scenes between Phaedra and the nurse and the description of
Hippolytos' encounter with the bull. The development of the
scenes between Phaedra and the nurse from a mad alternating between the passions and reason (198-266) to a clear account of
reason and the passions as warring powers in man's soul (373-430),
is answered in the description of Hippolytos' encounter with the
bull by a development from self-control to a complete loss of
control; in other words, to a complete getting lost irt the labyrinth of human nature. Unaccustomed to that labyrinth and to the
hidden crossways between and the deviations of the rassions and
reason, the beast Hippolytos is finally, though indirectly, conquered by is not a monster, half beast, half man, but wholly
beast, ·Lhough of monstrous size 25 • Hippolytos' complete rejection
of the passions, which he thinks renders himself above man and
human nature, results in a complete ignorance about then and
.,
therefore in an extreme vulnerability with respect to them. The
fact that he was not killed by the bull, but by his own horses 26 ,
frightened by the bull, shows a lack in his understanding of
himself as a man, a failure to appreciate the interrelation
of the powers that make up human nature. The picture of Hippolytos in his chariot 27 , losing control over his horses, frightened
by the bull, reminds one of the picture Plato paints of the
�-31human soul
Hippolytos, as charioteer, represents the con-
trolli~g elern~nt
of reason; the horses, tied to the chariot,
represent the spirited element, in the case of Hippolytos
usually under control, but able to be swayed either by reason
or the passions; the bull, rising out of the sea, represents
the passions, frightening the spirited elemeni and finally
overriding the control of reason. The·fact that the bull comes
out of the sea, the element always and everywhere in flux, ·
might be a symbol for the difficulty of understanding the
nature of the passions. The fact that Hippolytos' horses,
frightened by the appearance .of the bull out of the sea, race
across the land and throw their master against the rocks, the
hardest form of the firm element, the earth, might be a symbol
for Hippolytos' uncompromising rigour. The circumstances of
~ippolytos'
death bear out the implications that contradicted
the explicit statement of the thematic passage about "t~
awcppovc~v"
in the beginning of the play: The fulfillment of
natural potentialities, implicit in the example of the bee,
visiting, and the image of "at6ws", gardening the
~acred
meadow,
together with the ambiguity about the connection between "a.t.S~s"
and "t~ awcppove:i:\I", between the natural presupposition of
'
"aw,poadvn" and "awcppoadvn" itself, suggested that Hippolytos'
explicit statement about "t~ . awcppove:tv", its not being taught
or to be taught, but being allotted to one in his nature, was
highly questionable. The circumstances of Hippolytos' death
seem to reaffirm the questionability of that statement. The
�-32-
complexity of human nature, represented by the complex of
charioteer, horses and bull, would suggest that virtue has
its origin not simply in nature but also in training and
teaching. Hippolytos' rejection of the two latter stages of
development and the wish for concord between the beginning
and the end of his
life means a rejection of the natural
weapons towards "qip&vna1.s;" and "apE-r~" (Aristotle, Pol., 1253a
34-35) and results somehow in remaining "avoa1.1hcnos; xai
ayp 1.chatos; &.veu
ap £Ti\s;"
(Aristotle, Pol., 1253a 35-36)
I
rather than fulfilling human nature and becoming truly
"autapx~s;" (Aristotle, Pol., 1253a 1, 25-29). In terms of the
thematic passage at the beginning of the play this would mean
that Hippol.y tos posses!R.s"a l 6ws;", the natural presupposition
of "t~ owq>pov&tv", but b~cause he rejects training and teaching~
does not possess "t~ owqipovetv", as he claims. His overestimating the divine makes him underestimate the human, a trait
that marks both his way of life and his notions about life.
A reason for that seems to be his awareness of the fact that
where\{er human affairs are concerned, there is rarely the
possibility to adhere to principles, but more often the necessity to
concede to compromises. This awareness, one could
say, of the difference between Physis and Nomos, distinguishes
Hippolytos from most men; yet it is this distinction from most
men which illudes him about himself and what it means to be
a man.
The fact that Hippolytos is killed in the end without
�-33-
ever having acknowledged the presence of any flaw in his nature
(a fact that contrasts strikingly with Phaedra's recognition
of her guilt followed by suicide) raises
centna.1.ll.ne "owqipovttv
µa-&~atta1."
a question
about the
which acts like the fulcrum
of a balance, both parts of the play representing the s. ales
c
in correspondence to each other. One aspect to be accounted
for in this context is the discrepancy between Hippolytos and
Phaedra in their connecting or disconnecting
"aw1ppoa~vn 11
with
either teaching or learning2 8 • The question which arises from
this discrepancy is whether Phaedra's prediction for Hippolytos
11
awqip ovt t v JJa.&tfat ta 1. 11 (731} is in contradiction to his
own understanding of "t~ owqipovttv" as something not taught
or not to be taught, in other words whether his denial of
teaching allows nevertheless for learning. Learning without
teaching would take place, if Hippolytos, out of his own
nature 29 , were capable of developing his natural potentialities
to the actuality ·of being fully a man, in which case the
"tl>.os:" of his life would be, as he wished for, truly in
concord with its beginning. Yet Hippolytos' repeated selfappraisai 30 as the most "awqipwv" among mortals reminds one
rather of
Aristotl~'s
description of those that by talking
and philosophizing about "acucppoa\1vn" believe that they are
"awcppwv", while they resemble the sick that only listen to
the physician without following his precepts (N.E., llOSb 918). Hippolytos' life, which is spent in the concern for the
hunt and in the company of horses, dogs, a small circle of
�-34friends and supp'?sedly the goddess of the hunt, seems to
leave little room for learning, in the sense of comprehending
the nature of man. Yet the disillusionment with his .. horses,
followed by the disillusionment with his _goddess, ~t the end
31
of the play , opens up the possibility for a final fulfillment
of Phaedra's prediction for Hippolytos. The disillusionment
with his goddess (1440 ff.) significantly is expressed in
terms that resemble the earlier description of Hippolytos'
companionship with Artemis (85-86). There Hippolytos spoke
of exchanging
11
A&yo1." with the goddess, here of obeying her
">i.&yo1.", there he spoke of hearing the voice but not seeing
the eye of the goddess, here of darkness touching his eyes an indication that his believing himself in the friendship of
Artemis was, at least from a final point of view, an illusion.
The problem of a friendship, either with beasts or gods,
arises out of the difference of their natures with respect to
man 32 • Beast as well as god, the one unable to share in a companionship which is based on the possession of ">.c!yo!;"; the
other not in need of it on account of his "a \n dp XE:" a" 3 3, are
fixed in their natures (cf. 13, "itlcpuxa") below and above man
and therefore no fitting partners for human friendship. Human
friendship, on the other hand, flourishing most and most ,stable
where it is based on equality, has as its highest goal the
perfection of the friends through each others company, though
the perfection has to stay within the limits of remaining
human. Hippolytos' death in the company of his father, after
�-35beasts as well as gods have deserted him, might be understood
as a fulfillment of Phaedra's prediction: "awqipov£tv
µaa~ottai".
His pity for and forgiveness of his father 34 seem to be motivated by respect for human suffering (1405, 1407, 1409) and
therefore to display a
"awq>poo~vn"
that is much broader then
the one Hippolytos prided himself on throughout the play,
a "owq>poothn" which was to be understood exclusively in terros
of his devotion to Artemis. Nevertheless, the fact that his
forgiveness occurs only after the appearance of Artemis and
. in obedience to her (1435-1436, 1442-1443, 1449, 1451), makes
one wonder whether a
11
au1cppoouvn" ordered by divine intervention
can be truly regarded as "owqipoouvn". In Aeschylus' words: it
makes one wonder whether Hippolytos' "awqipov£tv" at the end of
the play not only comes to .o ne who is unwilling to accept it,
but also comes as
(Aischylos,
~-'
11
lta-&c1.
µciao!;" and therefore as
"xapc.~
l3L'a1.o~"
174-183). The question left at the end of this
analysis concerns the divergence of judgement between the goddesses, "irlya cppovwv" by Aphrodite, "crwcppovwv" by Artemis, con-
••t
cerns the exact meaning of Aphrodite's
6"
Et,
(µ'
(21), which accounts for Hippolytos' violent death
~µapt~xe"
("tLiawp~ooµaL
'I111to>.otov f:.v tij6' TJJJEP'}", 21-22).
VII
'
· Racine, in his preface to his "Phedre", justifies changes
he made in the character of Hirpolytos with the fact that
already the ancients had reproached Euripides for having presented Hippolytos
11
commc un philosophe exempt de toute imper.-
fection: ce qui faisait que la mort de ce jeune prince causait
�-36-
beaucoup plus d'indignation que de
piti~"
Cf4). This charac-
terization of the Euripidean Hippolytos seems to be .at the
same time right. and wrong. Like a philosopher, HippQlytos does
not feel himself bound by a particular, commonly accepted
"vdµo!;", the worship of Aphrodite. The philosopher's reason
for feeling himself superior to any
par~icular
"vdµos", is.
the recognition, that all particular "vdµoi.", compared to
the ground they stem from, compared to "qnfo 1. s", are only t'fa.n s~eht
~~ct, depend in their coming into and going out of
being on accidents of time and place. Nevertheless, the philospher recognizes the inherent necessity in man's nature to
develop particular "v&µo1.", that is he recognizes the necessary
connection between "qnfo 1. s;" and "v&iro s" 35 • Unlike a philosopher,
Hippolytos rejects the worship of Aphrodite in the name of
the worship of Artemis, which means merely to supplant one
particular, commonly accepted "v&iros" by another particular,
though uncommonly accepted "v&µo!;". The rejection of the worship of Aphrodite in the name of the worship of Artemis seems,
at first sight, to be a rejection of the passions in the name
of something purer. The ways, in which the worship of Artemis
expresses itself,
by
~Lre,
on the other hand, certainly tainted
passion: chasing and killing animals as a hunter does not
attest to a nature that would be divested of all animalistic
feelings. In Racine's opinion not being tempted by Aphrodite
was enough ground for having Hippolytos resemble a philosopher,
cxempt from all imperfection. He consequently not only changed
�-37\
the title of his play to "Phedre", but also believed that he
should give Hippolytos nquelque faiblesse" (~4), meaning "la
passion qu'il ressent
malgr~
lui pour Aricie" (§4) •. Thus Racine,
in a Christian rather than classical spirit, takes away the
rea~
son for Hippolytos' only flaw: his feeling of superiority over
all human beings on the basis of being . by nature not tempted by
Aphrodite. The more radical "faiblesse" Hippolytos suffers from
in Euripides' play is, that he does not recognize that his by natu:
and convention being predisposed to live a life dedicated to the
worship of Artemis and therefore not being tempted by Aphrodite,
is in itself not enough reason for being better than all men.
His understanding of "owq>poauvn" as something allotted to one in
his nature leads him to restrict its meaning mainly to chastity
(87) and therefore to mistake what man is by nature potentially
for what man is by nature actually. The fact that man is an
animal, but an animal which has
11
>.ciyo'" and is political, ne-
cessitates the perfection of human nature through the development of
"ldyoE" in the society of other men, which means a
perfection on the basis of nature through training and teaching, the latter two more or less depending on the former.
The basic flaw in Hippolytos' understanding of himself and
man in general seems to consist in his failure to recognize
that in the case of man "vdµo, 11 ,
through
~hich
expresses itself
the . development of ">. oyo s;", is as indispensollle an
end for "qnfo1.!:" as "qnfo1.!;" .is .=\n indispensable ground for "v&µos;",
that "cpuol.!; 11 provides the potentialities, "voµo!;" the actuality
�-38-
of man, and that therefore "vo1.1os" comes to be the key to a
final understanding of man's
11 ,~aLs 1136
• It is for this failure
that Hippolytos is not a philosopher but a tragic hero. Seen
in the light of Phaedra's prediction: "awqipovti:v 1.1aencre:TaL",
his constant failure to recognize any flaw in his nature (1455)
makes his death fall short of being truly a "nd8e:L µdOos", of
representing a
"xaPLS
SCcuos" rather than mere "BCa" without
"xapLs". This aspect of the play, and of Euripidean plays in
general, is demonstrated most harshly through the presence of
gods, that if they are gods, ought to be wiser than men, but
that far from it, only set and clear the stage of human tragedy without ever redeeming it. What Goethe in his Song of the
Harper expresses unambiguously:
"You"-meaning . the "heavenly forces:r __
"into life lead us ahead,
You let the wretched become guilty,
Then you deliver him to grief,
For all guilt is revenged on earth"
)
this feeling of the tragic situation of man, Euripides expresses ambiguously with the Deus ex machina, with immortals
apparently solving conflicts, which for mortals remain unsolved and unsolvable. This, I think, is part of what Aristotle
(Poetics, 1453a 29-30) 37 means, when he speaks of Euripides
as the most tragic of the poets.
�-39-
NOTES
1. For the symbolism, involved in the image of the bee cf.
'Knox, "The Hippolytos of Euripides
Yale Classical
Studies, 13, 1952, p.28. It might be interesting to compare
F. Bacon, Novum Organum, I, Aph. 95,. and its elaboration in
J. Swift, The Battle of the Books, Prose Writings of Swift~
ed. w. Lewin, London, 1886, · p. 178. ·
B~M.W.
11
,
2. For the philological controversy over 11. 78-81 cf. w.s.
Barrett, Euripides, Hippolytos, Oxford, 1964, pp. 172-175.
tnv
"lv.ae:v 11a\
owQlpocnSvn'J
TOUT,., ltpooayoptlSoµ"£Vti;i 0v6µat1., w~ o~i;ovoav 't~V fP0\11'\0I.'#."
3. cf. Aristotle, N.E., VI, 1140b 11-12
4. H. North's ("Sophrosyne, Self-Knowledge and Self-Restraint
in Greek Literature", Cornell Studies in Classical Philolo ,
Vol. XXXV, Ithaca, N.Y •., 9 , pp.
.assertion: wit
regard to the origin of vJ.rtue, ·inclqding sophrosyne, Euripides
is firmly of opinion that physis plays the chief role" disr~gards the fact that the one pronouncing the theory in question .
is killed at the end of the tragedy. Euripidean fra9ments like
Fr. 807 (Nauck) "µly1.otO\I °!p' 7iv ;, rpuo1.s;•t~ Y~P Max~v ouot\s;
tplcpwv
xpncnav &v ~e:Cn ltott" do not have to be interpreted
with H. North, following E.R. Dodds ("Euripides the Irrationalist",
The Classical Review, 43, 1929, p. 99) as attesting to the
"moral impotence of reason", but can be understood as a claim
to nature as a necessary but not necessarily sufficient source
of virtue. The fact that in the case of man reason is a part
of nature makes the claim to nature as chief source of virtue
rather ambiguous. Dodds' (op. cit., p. 99} "Euripides• characters do not merely enunciate these principles, they also illustrate them", meaning "the victory of irrational impulse·
over reason in a noble but unstable being" ought to make one
cautious in separating them out as "their authors thoughts"
(op. cit., p. 98; cf. "The At6~~ of Phaedra and the Meaning
of the Hippolytos", The Classical Review, 39, 1925, p. 103),
expressing "systematic irrationalism" ("Euripides the Irrationali~t", p. 103), opposed to "Socratic intellectualism" ("The
At6ws; of Phaedra", p. 103).
·
co
5. cf. 1004-1005; for an elaboration on the distinction between
hearing and seeing with respect to "the quest for the first
things" cf. L. Strauss, Natural . Right and Historl, Chicago,
1953, Ch. III, "The Origin of the Idea of Natura Right"
pp. 86-89.
.
6. For a discussion of the different meanings of "awrppoo~v11"
in Euripidean tra,gedy cf. H. North, op.cit., pp. 68-84.
�-40-
7. Plato's Euthyphro explores this question with respect to
"&6crletLa": The original definition of "t~ oaLov" as "t~
~&ocpi.>.b;" (7a) appears to be insufficient on the basis of
differences among the gods as to their likes and dislikes (7b~
Se). The amendment of· this insufficient definition to "t~ ·
!aLov" as "t &v ~dvtts o~ ~to\ cpLAoOaLv" (9e) is o~ly an intermediary step on the way towards a more fundamental inquiry
into the nature of "T~ oaLov". The follow up of the crucial
question, '/Jhether "t~ oaLov" is 11 001.ov" because it is "-&toqi1.>.~s"
or whether it is "-&tocpL>..~s" because it is "001.ov", in the
discussion of "t~ 001.ov" a~ "µlpos Toi) . 61.xa(ouft (12a-e) points
to a more universal definition which goes beyond the scope
of th~ dialogue.
8. cf. H. North, op.cit., pp. 153-158.
9. For a comparable relationship between "ato~~" and "owcppoo'1vl'l"
cf. Xenophon,~, II, 1, 22, and H. North, op.cit., p. 92.
10. cf. F. Dirlmeier, Aristoteles, Mikomachische Ethik,Darmstadt,
1969, note 138, 9, pp. 471-472 and "Der cpJotL - Charakter der
Arete" in "Die Oikeiosislehre Theophrasts", Philologus, Suppl.
30, l, Leipzig, 1937, pp. 39-46.
11. Therefore, "owcppooi1vn" does not seem to me to be synonymous
with "ato~~", as H. North, op.cit. p. 87, claims.
12. For the same disjunctive question cf. Aristotle, N.E.,
ll79b 20 ff.; Pol., 1332a 38-b 11 and H. North, op.ci~p.
208; related to "tu&cuµov(a" on the basis of "aptTn", cf.
Aristotle, N.E., 1099b 9-llOOa 9, E.E., 1214a 14 ff •• For a
discussion of acquisition and loss()f""11 crwq>poovvn" cf. Xenophon,
Mem., I, 2, 21-23; Cyl., VII, 5, 75 and H. North, op.cit.,
pp. 123-132, especial y p.131, with the discussion of Cyr.,
III, 1, 16-17, the problem of "ow,poavwn" as "na.enµa" or
"µa-&niia".
13. For the exclusion of the lower animals and the gods from
considerations of virtue cf. Aristotle, N.E., ll49b 27-llSOa
1, ll78b 8-18 and H. North, op.cit., p. 2'05andnote 30 ibid ••
14. For a harmonious view of "v&µos" and "'tcri.:.!;" cf. Euripides,
Bacchae, 11. 890-896 and E.R. Dodds, Conunentary, adhuc,
2.
ed., Oxford, · 1960, pp. 189-190; Ion, 11. 642-644; cf. Philemon,
fr. B7(K).
-
15. Ironically enough, Hippolytos' notion of a fixed nature
is answered with fatal revenge by a goddess> the only k~nc;L of beLnq,. to
whom it truly applies. Of course, the judgement "xaxLoTnv
O
oaLµovwv", with its implicit hybris of mortal judgement over
immortal nature, carries more weight than the otherwise true
notion of a fixed nature in the case of gods.
�-41-
16. Comparably, the nurse changes her usual address to Phaedra
from "'lat" or "tlxvov" to "6la1to1.v''~ where Phaedra has shown
moral strength (433) or at least moral indignation (695).
\
17. For the ambiguity 9f 11 a£µvoc" as epithet of Aphrodite as
well as Hippolytos cf. w.s. Barrett, op.cit., p·. 187.
18. Cf,; B.M.W. Knox, op.cit., p. 22.
19. cf. B.M.W. Knox,
op.~i t.,
p. 28.
20. cf. B.M.W. Knox,
op.cit~,
P• 29.
21. I doubt whether this is simply a "good sententious peroration", cf. w.s. Barrett, op.cit., p. 286.
22. cf. Philemon, fr. 87(K}:
"t( ioTt Ilpoµnitds, ~v Alyoua' ~µas 1tAdaa1.
xal ~!Ala 1tdvta . tlat Tot £ µ~v enp(oi.s
l6wx'
£xdat~ xat~ ylvo~ µ(av ~~01.v;
&1tavT£S ot Alovtls tta~v &Ax1.µ01.,
6c1.1ol 1tdA1.v £tns 1dvtcs tto~v oL Aayw.
•
•
•
• ' ,
•
\
•
_f
OUM EOT
QAWltn~ n
µEV £1.pWV Tij ~u0£1.
no' au~lxaatos, aAl' edv Tpi.aµup(as
&A~ltcxds TLS auvaydy~, uCav ~oai.v
a~ata1aowv · S~cta1. tpditov e' lva •
• p
\
\
,
\
•
\
nµwv 6' oaa xai. Ta awµaT • • \ Tov api.~µov
EOTL
xa~· £vds, 1ooodtou5 loti. xa\ 1pd1ous t6ttv."
'
\
.
23. cf. E.R. Dodds, "The At6ws of Phaedra", p. 103.
24. cf. B.M.W. Knox, op.cit., p. 15 "The fact that the moral
alternatives are represented by r-ilence and speech is not
merely a brilliant device which connects and contrasts the
situations of the different characters, it is also an emphatic
statement of the universality of the action. It makes the play
an ironical comment on a fundamental idea, the idea that man's
power of speech, \.'hi ch distinguishes him from the other animals,
is the faculty which gives him the conception and power of
moral choice in the first place."
25. For the significance of the bull in Greek mythology cf.
E.R. Dodds, Euripides, "Bacchae", 2. ed., Oxford, 1960, p. XX;
ll. 920-922 and note pp. 193-194.
· 26. cf. the etymology of the name Hippolytos, either to be
analyzed as "Breaking in horses" or as "Broken by horses".
27. For the symbolism involved in the image of the charioteer
cf. H. North, op.cit . , pp. 380-381, especially note 3.
�-4228. cf. Plato, Meno, 70a.
29. cf. Xenophon, On Hunting, I, 11; XII; XIII, 4, lSff •• For
great parts of it, this treatis~ oi Xenophon :3oun<ls like a
· commentary on Euripides' Hippolytos, attempting . to demonstrate
that hunting is the best preparation for "awq>pocn5vnn and that
it is best to be taught "itap~ aihns; Ti'i' q?lfo&ws;" (XIII, 4).
30. cf. F. Bacon's interpretation of a similar myth in The
Wisdom of the Ancients, IV, "Narcissus 11 or "Self-Love", The
Works of F. Bacon, ud. Spedding, Ellis, Heath, Vol. VI, pp.
705-706.
31. cf. B.M.W. Knox, op.cit., p. 22, referring to Euripides,
Hippolytos 11. 141, 1451.
32. cf. Homer, Od., IX, 105-566; both,the Cyclops and Hippolytos, are representatives of the same phenomenon, the "choA1.s;",
though the Cyclops on the side of the beast, Hippolytos on
the side of the god.
33. cf. Aristotle~ Pol., 1253a 28 with N.E., 1158b 29-1159a 12;
E.E., 1238b 18;27; l24'4b 1-22; 1245b 14=rg-and F. Dirlmeier,
op.cit., note 180, 3, pp. 520-521; cf. Plato, Lysis, 214e215c; Euthyphro, 14e 9-15a 10.
34. cf. B.M.W. Knox, op.cit., p.31. "The play ends with a
human act which is at last a free and meaningful choice, a
choice made for the first time in full knowledge of the nature
of human life and divine government, an act which does not
frustrate its purpose. It is an act of forgiveness, something
possible only for human beings, not for gods but for their
tragic victims. It is man's noblest declaration of independence
and it is made possible by man's tragic position in the world.
Hippolytos' forgiveness of his father is an affirmation of
purely human values in an inhuman universe."
35. cf. Leo Strauss, op.cit., pp. 151-153.
36. cf. Leo Strauss, op cit., p. 145. "In the language of
Aristotle, one could say that the relation of virtue to human
nature is comparable to that of act and potency, and the act
cannot be determined by starting from the potency, but, on
the contrary, the potency becomes known by looking back to it
from the act."
37. cf. G.E. Lessing' s remark in the "4.9·th-· piece of.. the
"Hamburgische Dramaturgie": "Aristoteles hatte unstreitig
mehrere Eigenschaf ten im Sinne, welchen zu Folqe er ihm
diesen Charakter erteilte", and his speculations about the
passage in question.
�
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Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
Title
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
Identifier
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formallectureseriesannapolis
Text
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Page numeration
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42 pages
Original Format
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paper
Dublin Core
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Creator
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Berns, Gisela N.
Title
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Nomos and physis: an interpretation of Euripides' Hippolytus
Date
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1971-03-05
Description
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Typescript of a lecture delivered on March 5, 1971 by Gisela Berns as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
Identifier
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Bib # 52998
Coverage
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Annapolis, MD
Publisher
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St. John's College
Language
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English
Type
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text
Rights
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St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online.
Format
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pdf
Friday night lecture
Tutors
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https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/87b35e3d407c47ade3299c81cfc53b01.mp3
bb9a2fd63fb225d5e3928df7584f14a4
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
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formallectureseriesannapolis
Sound
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Original Format
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audio cassette
Duration
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00:55:01
Dublin Core
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Title
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"I think, therefore I am"
Description
An account of the resource
Audio recording of a lecture delivered on October 22, 1971 by Samuel S. Kutler as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
Creator
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Kutler, Samuel S.
Publisher
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St. John's College
Coverage
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Annapolis, MD
Date
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1971-10-22
Rights
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A signed permission form has been received stating: "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to: Make an audiovisual recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make an audiovisual recording of my lecture available online. Make a typescript copy of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make a typescript of my lecture available online."
Type
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sound
Format
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mp3
Language
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English
Identifier
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Kutler_Samuel_1971-10-22
Subject
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Descartes, René, 1596-1650
Philosophy, Modern
Friday night lecture
Tutors
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/269004295dbe7f27049d70b983ac342e.pdf
19563fc4c6600b43002737c8218f4421
PDF Text
Text
Annapolis, Maryland
St. John's College
LECTURE AND CONCERT SCHEDULE
1971-72
Friday, Oct. 1
Jacob Klein
"P'lato's Ion"
Friday, Oct. 8
Burton Blistein
"The Quest for the Grail: Structure and Symbolism in
Prufrock, lb.!! Waste .!Ji!!!!!, and fE.!d!: Quartets"
Tuesday, Oct. 12
Juilliard String Quartet
/'J 'J L
Friday, Oct. 15
friday, Oct. 22
Samuel Kutler ...H . Jok'J Loll~~
"I Think, Therefore I Am"
friday, Oct. 29
Erwin Straus
"Body Schema"
Friday, Nov. 5
-AM'
A"'lf\At'()l.~
~~~l.,.wt l:h\c.:.\w.·""'
"The Mixed Kind of life and the Combining Kind of Mind"
friday, Nov. 12
Harford Opera Society
concert
Friday, Nov. 19
Mortimer Adler
"Language, Meaning, and Thought,"
�St. John's College
Annapolis , Maryland
1
5
iJ'i.-0 .;
'f Uda¥, Mer. 49
Friday, Apr. 7
Lecture and Concert Schedule, 1971- 72
Page 3
Charles Bell s:::rc. _a.~k F(__
"Blake: The Dance of Eternal Death"
Roland Frye U~o·ll v .{ Pevlltuy Jv ....V\.,;._ 1 tJJ.,.I~oo,l~fp~ f"A
"The D
evil in Milton and the Visual Arts: An Approach
to Understanding Milton's Attractive Satan"
I
~
Friday, Apr. 14
. oV'
I
I
J
I
(The Anti-Federalis~and the
Bill of Rights)
Herbert Storing
v/ ....j. ~i, U1;u,jO
(.."·~j .. !L-
J-~, Afv· / (,
C..,.vl/lyv-. I ioF~"'>
Friday, Apr. 21
Bernard Kruysen
baritone
NY'-
Friday, Apr. 28
Friday, May 5
Eva Brann J ,J L 11"'~/'o},_i
Friday, May 12
Eugene Thaw
(Visual Arts and Liberal Arts)
"The Problem of the Fine Arts a nd the Liberal A
rts"
{!"'ore's Utopia)
Friday, May 19
u~ .. , \
aLJ·
Friday, May 26
Winfree Smi th
(Aristotle's Ethics)
Erwin Straus
{on Hamlet)
a'
J ,,'-{
,
}
�St. John's College
Annapolis,Maryland
lecture and Concert Schedule, 1971-72
Page 2
Friday, Dec. 3
Robart Hazo
f. ft;\1,,v5k, I"A
"Political Decentralization"
Friday, Dec. 10
King William Players
Friday, Jan. 7
Marcus Berquist
(Euclid)
/J
·'"iv.M<'/"'1'~
Friday, Jan. 14
Douglas Allanbrook J
concert - harpsichord
Friday, Jan. 21
Bernard M. w. Knox (.,"),., J;,, 11<1/,.~,;~ Sh,J"~·. iAJ, )"'":)'f." D
"Medea, Hero, Goddess, Woman" (Euripides' Medea)
(Friday, Jan. 28)
(Great Hall)
friday, Feb. 4
C
(Starabin - Elizabethan Trio)
l~al ter Barns
0'""' ''i, lw""-1-t /wMI. o"+ c,,",l,_
"The Constitution and Threats to liberty"
Friday, feb. 11
Woodwind Quintet
concert
Friday, Feb. 18
Beata Ruhm von Oppen
_\J?~ A,·•·•"p;,),;
"Student Rebellion and the Nazis: I. The
Rise and Rule of Hitler"
),, ..
)
J\ '
i
friday, Feb. 25
Seats Ruhm von Oppan
)
L AvtktAfl~i,j
the Nazis: II. The
"Student Rebellion and
Case of the White Rose"
friday, Mar. 3
Matitiahu Braun
/1/ '/(
violin concert
''
�Annapolis, Maryland
St. John's College
NOTICE
The lecture schedule for the remainder of the year is as follows:
friday, April 21
Bernard Kruysen
friday, April 28
no lecture
friday, May 5
Eva Brann 5 S'L A~'!" I'~ on More 1 s Utopia
friday, May 12
Eugene Thaw
-*Wednesday, May 17- friday, May 26
concert
"The Problem of the fine
Arts and the Visual Arts"
Hi-la±-1-G-±ldin - - -en- ~ousseau's political philosophy
Winfree Smith J rc... A~111·bn Aristotle 1 s Ethics
- fr~day, June 2 -----c: :...~at:t-----~oiifln'l--£l:i!!:a!!!]ml~at..~
~
* Note-that
Prof~~r Gildin~s
lecture will be held Wednesday evening, not friday.
The Dean's Office
April 19, 1972
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
Contributor
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
Title
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
Identifier
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formallectureseriesannapolis
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Page numeration
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4 pages
Original Format
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paper
Dublin Core
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Creator
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Office of the Dean
Title
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Lecture and Concert Schedule 1971-72 (with written notes)
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1971-1972
Description
An account of the resource
Schedule of lectures and concerts for the 1971-1972 Academic Year.
Identifier
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Lecture Schedule 1971-1972
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Publisher
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St. John's College
Language
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English
Type
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text
Rights
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Format
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pdf
Relation
A related resource
February 18, 1972. Ruhm von Oppen, Beate. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3598" title="Student rebellion and the Nazis">Student rebellion and the Nazis (part one)</a> (audio)
February 25, 1972. Ruhm von Oppen, Beate. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3590" title="Student rebellion and the Nazis">Student rebellion and the Nazis (part two)</a> (audio)
February 18, 1972. Ruhm von Oppen, Beate. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3589" title="Student rebellion and the Nazis">Student rebellion and the Nazis (part one and two)</a> (text)
May 05, 1972. Brann, Eva. <a title="Utopia" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/260">On Thomas More's Utopia</a> (audio)
May 05, 1972. Brann, Eva. <a title="Utopia" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/1236">On Thomas More's Utopia</a> (text)
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Klein, Jacob
Blistein, Burton
Kutler, Samuel
Straus, Erwin
Goldwin, Robert A., 1922-2010
Adler, Mortimer Jerome, 1902-2001
Bell, Charles
Frye, Roland Mushat
Storing, Herbert
Kruysen, Bernard
Brann, Eva T. H.
Thaw, Eugene Victor
Smith, J. Winfree
Hazo, Robert G.
Berquist, Marcus
Allanbrook, Douglas
Knox, Bernard M. W.
Berns, Walter, 1919-2015
Ruhm von Oppen, Beate
Braun, Matitiahu, 1940-
Kruysen, Bernard
Gildin, Hilail
King William Players
Friday night lecture
Lecture schedule
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/ef3f7b57808aa8eac5f6a1b0ef5f62ff.pdf
a98918a3c590427f4323a4f0b93edb48
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
Contributor
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
Title
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
Identifier
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formallectureseriesannapolis
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Page numeration
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8 pages
Original Format
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paper
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
The Venetian Phaedrus
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1972
Description
An account of the resource
Typescript of a lecture delivered in the Spring of 1972 by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
Identifier
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lec Brann 1972
Relation
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The College, July 1972
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Publisher
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St. John's College
Language
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English
Type
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text
Rights
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St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online.
Format
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pdf
Creator
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Brann, Eva T. H.
Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/177e96e8e312e1b0be5818798ff44bc1.pdf
5be9cb22af5eded8bcce8798e36275e6
PDF Text
Text
.
-D.t~
This matenaI may be prot .
·
C
opyright law (Title
11 u ·s·~a by
· Oda)
STUDERT REBELLION .AID TSE NAZIS
Two lee tu ...es
given by
Beate Ruhla von Oppen
at St. John's College, Annapolis,
on 18 and 25 Feb ~a ry 1972
..,...,..
�STUDENT REBELLION AND THE NAZIS
Two lectures·. given by·.-Beat~· Ruhm von Oppen
at st. JbhnAs College, Annapolis, 18 and
25 February, 1972
I.
The Rise and Rule of Hitler
If someone were to ask why I am giving two lectures in
a row instead of the traditional single lecture, I might
give as reason an experience I had about a couple of years
agoo
It was at a university specializing in theology -- one
that had theology as one of ·its three main divisions.
It
was in May 1970, just after the American incursion into Cambodia.
There was student unrest all over the country and
talk of "revolution."
There was something like that going
on at that university on the day I spoke there.
My subject
was the relationship of the Nazis and the churches, a subject,
I had been ~old~ of spec~al interest to the people there.
But perhaps not on that disturbed .day.
period was dismal, discussion i~possible.
The question
One questioner got
up and asked1
""What about studen_t protest?••
sly question;
it was quite innocent and.proceeded from pure
It was not a
ignorance, such ignoranc·e as I was totally unprepared for .in
a middle-aged questioner.
So I gave' a brief and brutal answer
on the history of stu~ent prot~st in Germanya
that loud and
massive and effective protest existed in the period before the
Nazis came to power and the protesters ·were Nazis, or at any
rate mil.itant natioJ'.lalists, who exercised considerable pressure· on the academic establishment of the Weimar Republic -and even more, incidentally, in the Austrian Republicr
that
�-2-
once the Nazis were in power, there was hardly any open protest a
and that the first three of the famous group of Munich
students who protested in pubiic against the Nazi regime and
its war, were dead within a few days .of being caught, in 194Ja
the rest following a few months later.
A helpful colleague, a theologian and church historian.
then jumped into the breach and explained that Nazi Germany
was a police state and what that meanto
taken that as read.
I must confess I had
But the incident ·showed me that one can-
not take it as read any longer and that any description of
resistance must start wiih that which is resisted.
Also it could be that a term like "police state," being
misused too much, has lost .its meaning and like other such
terms -- "genocide," for instance, or "fascism•• or "totali tarianism," no
1ong~r
conveys anything precise or ·distinct.
But
meanings and distinctions have to be kept' clear, or, if they
have been blurred, have to be
m~de
clear again, not ·just for
love of pedantry, but for the, sake of liberty, indeed of life
itself.
Lies work best when there .is a· grain of truth in them.
The best precaution against being taken in, is the cultivation
of the habit of looking for that grain of truth and trying to
see what has been done with it.
of truth or the
fa~ts
Denying or ignoring the grain
of a matter may be magnificent ideology
and rousing rhetoric, but it is no defense against the better
liar.
Hitler was probably _the best liar there ever was.
That is one reason why we are having 1!!Q lectures, the
�-3first on the police state or whatever other name we may find
more proper for Nazi Germany, and the second on a group of
students who opposed it .and a professor who opposed and died
with them.
Two lectures are a risk, on two counts.
St. John's does not .[Q ''history."
arts.
It is not one of our liberal
We read Homer and Herodotus and Thucydidesr
Tacitus1
Plutarch and Gibbon;
~
Vergil and
Toqueville and Marx and Tolstoi
We read quite a lot of political philosophy.
that
Firstly because
We read much
.
history, from the Bible to the church fathers to the
ref.armers tci the debunkers r
.
.from Aristotle to Rousseau and
Kant to.Hegel and Darwin to the Documents of American political
history,
Yet we do not have "history" as a subject, or a
discipline.
The s·e·cond risk is rather peculiar to our moment in history, now;
but it is probably the lesser of the two risks,
here. at St. John's.
The temper of m•ny of the more vocal,
more audible and visible of our contemporaries is
or anti-historical.
is regarded as
~-historical
There is no patience with history.
"irrelevant~
-- unless, of
cou~se,
It
disjointed
bits of it can be used, torn· from their context, as ammunition
in some campaign.
The two risks may, to some extent, cancel each other out.
We cultivate, perhaps over-cultivate, rationality hereo
By
"over-cultivate" I mean a development of' the reasoning faculty
at the expense of other faculties.
increasingly, anti-rational
The temper of our time is,
and one can see what has brought
�-4-
about this reaction1
the rebellion against the shallow,
"functional" rationalism of the mechanised, mass-educating,.
manipulative age.
Our rationalism here, at
st.
John'~,
is
different -- more comprehensive -- and therefore few of us
are driven into this reactive irrationalism, in fact most of
us are quite good at resisting it.
But I often sense a divorce from reality, human reality,
psychological, political, historical reality.
For instance,
seminar discussions of Thucydides on the revolution in Corcyra and the attendant linguistic revolution in which "words
had to
chan~e
their usual meanings" tend to be perfunctory1
a few contemporary examples of the misuse of words by lying
politicians or commercial salesmen will be mentioned, but the
discussion. lacks feeling, passion, lacks, apparently, experience;
I mean1
lacks the quality of talk about something one
has really experienced;
it lacks the conviction that this is
something really evil and dangerous -- and should be resisted
or
count~racted
to the best of our ability.
of experience abounds,
The raw material
But the mental, including the emotional;
engagement rarely seems to take place.
I cannot here go into
the question of what the reasons for this inattention may
be.
Quantity of comment on the phenomenon of misused language
proves nothing -- certainly does not prove a realization of ·
the seriousness of the matter.
Neither does a concern for the purity and impeccability
of language necessarily ensure the best politics and the most
just and decent polity.
But certain peccabilities are more
�.. · ...
-5dangerous, some more insidious in their effects, than others.
The more serious linguistic sins seem to me to be very closely
related to the subject at the core of these two lecturesa
slavery and freedom, the manipulation of men (and women, and
childr~n)
and the resistance to manipulation -- a resistance
that is needed at all times and is always fraught with risks
and renunciations, but which in bad times may involve the
readiness to stake one's life.
Does that sound somewhat exaggerated?
I do not think it
is -- but perhaps we can discuss that later.
Now I must try and describe the indescribable and explain the inexplicable.
The simplest procedure may be to
mention the ways in which politics began to impinge on me at
the time when times were bad and getting worse.
The students
I am going·to talk about next week were roughly my vintage,
or belonged to the same "cohort," as, I believe, the trade
.
1.
now calls 1t. ·
They grew up at. the same time in more or less
the same country.
But I left when I was 16.
I was born in Switzerland at th·e end of the first world
war and grew up, or started to grow up, in Germany.
I cannot
think back to a time when politics was not in the air.
I re-
member ·the evidence of food shortages in my kindergarten and
elementary school days.
I remember the feeling of insecurity
communicated by all around me when the currency collapsed,
that is, when there was not just the sort of inflation we have
now, but something that gall.opped away in geometric or exponential progression, so that, for instance, a lawyer's or doc-
�-6-
tor's earnings of one day might not be enough to buy a loaf
of bread the next day.
Not long ago you could see, in the window of an antique
shop in our Main Street,.an old German 50,000 Mark note, said
to have been "used in Hitler's Germany."
as wall-paper.
Perhaps it was used
It might be more accurate to say that it was
used -- as money -- in pre-Hitler Germany, though I'd hate to
refer to the Weimar Republic as just that.
It was a specimen
of the kind of money that helped to bring abou_t Hitler's Ger-·
many.
50,000 Marks !1Q!!. would be worth about $13,000.
mal" times,
In "nor-
the dollar has recently been devalued a bit --
4 Marks were a dollar.
The date of issue on that 50,000 Mark
note was 19 November 1922.
The very fact that such a note was
printed and,:put into 'circulation was, of course, a sign that
inflat.ion had got out of hand.
In the summer of 1922 the dol-
lar was worth not 4 Marks, but over 400.
The next summer it
And by 15 November 192) it was 4 trillion
was over 4 million.
(4,000,000,000,000).
If my reckoning is right -- but you'd
better check it -- that 50,000 Mark note issued in November
1922 was worth one-eighty-millionth of a dollar a year latera
$
1.
or
1
of a cent.
-
80,000~000
800,000
pape~.
But expensive, too.
That was very cheap wall-
What it all meant, among other things, was the
pauperi~a
tion and demoralization of the middle class and the partial
destrucfion of the social fabric.
It was in that month, November 192), that Hitler, the
�-7leader of ·a tiny party •. staged his abortive putsch or coup
time,
d',tat in Munich, when he tried for the first
failed, to seize power.
That year had also se.en communist
attempts to seize power, in central Germanys
foiled.
Hitler was
sent
and
they too were
to a comfortable prison for a while
and used his leisure to write his book, Mein
Kampf.
When he
got out again, he adopted a policy of legality and with that
he eventually prevailed •
.By the time I entered elementary school, ·in 1924, a new
c.tirrency had been established and money once more was money,
tho~gh
scar.ce.
.But I noticed that
my t~achers
were not en-
thusiastic about the political system, though we dutifully and
decorously celebrated the BOth birthday of our President.
His
name was Hindenburg and he had been a famous· field marshal:.:.
in the world war, halting the Russian advance in East Prussia.
Being, as it were, a personal link. between the old, pre-war
empire and the new, post-war
re~ublic,
and loyal to the new
constitution, he was a national figure acceptable to the moderate right and moderate left and lasted a decade as head
of state, while chancellors, or heads of government, succeeded.
each other at a breathtaking rate.
The country had many po-
litical· parties. and an election system based on proportional
representation, so that votes were distributed across a wide
spectrum and large number of parties, and governments had to
be formed out of coalitions of several of them and were correspondingly shaky and shortlived•
I also remember many
elections during my school iia.ys and reports of violent rhetoric
�-8-
from left and right, as well as physical violence, street
fights, murders, assassinations.
Then, after the Wall Street crash of 1929-with its worldwide repercussion·s, there was another economic crisis a mere
six years after the beginning of the recovery from the earlier
one, with a growing, an intolerable, rate of unemployment.
It grew from 1.J million in September 1929 to J million a year
later, to ove·r 6 million in 1931.
With a total population of
about 65·million, this meant that one in every two .families
was hit.
affected.
It was not only working class families that were so
There was for instance, much unemployment among
academics too.
The.•xtremist parties. the communists and Nazis,
made great gains and .finally occupied more than half the seats
in the national parliament, where they were now able to para-·
lyze the democratic procews.
They also joined, for instance,
in a strike to paralyze the transport. system of Berlin.. Other/wise they could fight each other to the death, and did, with
casualties on both sides, despite the general strategy of the
communists at that time to treat the Social Democrats as their
enemy No. 1 -- whom they called "social fascists" for the
purpose -- and to flirt with the possibility of a Nazi
as a promising prelude to a communist takeover.
pinged of course, on a Berlin school childr
vic~ory
All this im-
the transport
strike, the posters, the polarization, the cQabination of both
extremes against the middle, and the weakness and apparent
helplessness of the middle.
When President Hindenburg appointed Hitler Reich Chancellor
�-9on JO January 19JJ, he was acting ln accordance with the letter and perhaps even the spirit of the constitution.
Hitler's
party, the National Socialist German Workers' Party (or "Mar.is"
for short, to distin&ulsl'I them from the "Sozis," or Social
Democrats), was by then the strongest party in the country,
with about one-third of the vote;
the Soc'ial Democrats had
only one-fifths ·the communists one•sixths
the Catholic Gen~
ter Party, together with its Bavarian affiliate, about the
same.
And there were many_gthers, but all of them had less
than 10% of the vote, the largest of them the Nationalists, 8.8%
Hitler became the head of a coalition government.
I still re-
member seeing the faces of these gentlemen in an evening paper that carried the announcement.
No-one.knew wha:t it meant.
had read Hitler's book.
I was somewhat scared, for I
I had had to do it secretly, at night,
with a flashlight under the bedclothes, for my parents, like
many other respectable people,
~egarded
it as pornographic --
which indeed in a manner of speaking it was.
longs
Also it was very
and that was probably why very few people read it,
though once its author had become the ruler of the land, it
wa~
widely and compulsorily distributed, for instance, as;presen.t
to newly-weds, bound like a bible.
But that did not, of
course, ensure its perusal.
Before saying anything about what I had found in that
book, let me, quickly, give you an account of the rest of my.
Berlin schooldays, to show how life at school changed in the
17 months ·before I left.
There was much talk of national
�-10-
solidarity and the Community of the People.
in personnel and in the curriculum.
rate of attrition.
half
There were changes
And there was a dramatic
My own class was reduced by more than
.
probably because girls (it was a girls' school I went
to) or their parents thought that since the new regime had set
its face against too much academic education for women (who
were not to exceed 10% of university enrolment), it was hardly
worth struggling through more Latin and trigonometry and the
rest •. up to the rather stiff school leaving exam which was
normally taken at tB •
. The teaching personnel changed in two waysa
there were a
few dismissals, of Jews -- we had very few Jews at my schoola
and our English teacher, who was a Jew, was at first said not
to be subje.ct to dismissal because he had not only served in
the war but had even been shot in the heada
but eventually he
left all the same and the next English teacher was
and that one was in due course
a teacher trainee.
r~placed
~ess
good1
by an even worse one,
The other change among the teachers was a
change of tone and colour.
A very few revealed themselves as
Nazis which, they said, they had been all along but could only .
now, at last, openly avow to be.
(On the whole the school had
been vaguely nationalistic, but far from Nazi.)
Others toed
the new line as best they could and exhibited varying degrees
of cravenness or caution or dignity, enthusiasm or moderation
or reserve.
Many new things were reguired1
the Hitler salute
at the beginning of classes, attendance at new·national celebrations that prol:iferated and at which you had, _of course,
�-11-
to stand at attention (with upraised arm) when the new national
anthem was played and sung, the old marching song of the Nazi
movement, with text by one Horst Wessel, sayings
"Raise the
flag, close the ranks, we stormtroopers march in firm and ·) "
1
steady tread.
Comrades shot by the Reds and Reactionaries are
marching on with us."
It was the battle song of the new revo-
lution.
So there was all that.
And there were changes in such
subject.s as history and science.
Let me take biology, for
that is where I had my brief hour of glory.
I had not done
well with the dissection of tulips and the like.
once biology was converted into race biology.
But I shone
Not only was
there Mendel's law, about which my father had told me before
(only that its implications and application were now rather
different from what I had gathered from him) --
~.
and this
is where the real fun came in, we now learnt about the German
races -- "Aryan," of course, all of them.
There were six, .if
I remember correctly, ranging in excellence from the Nordic
to the East Baltic.
Nordic was best because Nordic man had
created almost all the culture there was and he had qualities
. of leadership.
The Mediterranean race was also quite good
(for after all there had been ancient Greeks and Romans and
there were modern Italians, good fascists, full of leadership.)
The Mediterranean race could most easily be memorized as a
smaller, lightweight, and darker version of the Nordic&
what
they had in common were the proportions of their skulls and
faces '(long, narrow skull, long face) and the characteristic
�-12-
way of standing on one leg, with no weight on the other,
one standing and one playing
l~g,
as a literal translation
of the German. names for them would have it.
Such legs could
be seen in Greek statues and such were the legs of Nordic
man.
Now the Falic race was the next best.
It shared many
·,
of the sterling qualities of the Nordic -- highmindedness and
the rest -- but could be distinguished from it by the fact
that it stood, squarely, on two legs.
Also its face was a bit broader.
No playleg there.
That race lacked, somewhat,
the fire of Nordic man, or let us say the thumos, but made
up for it by solidity and staying power.
was fairly nordic, blond .hair, blue eyes.
The colour scheme
So was that of the
East Baltic race whose virtues were less marked that those of
the Nordic and the Falic and whose features were less distinguished, ·including a broader skull· and a broadish nose.
I
could not quite make out the use of this race, unless it was,
perhaps, territorial, to keep
not a German race.
th~
Slavs out.
The Slavs were
Then there was a German race that looked,
one mi:ght say, a bit Jewish, or perhaps Armenian, but it was
neither.
It was Dinaric and seemed to be much the same as
what earlier classifications had called Alpine.
race dwelt in the mountains.
Indeed this
It looked sturdy enough, but
not as prepossessing as the Nordics. and its head had awkward
mea::rnrernt~rrt~u
Di.n:lr.i.c ma.n had
back to his head o
'.i
prominent
nos·~ .~nd
But he had a redeeming feature 1
·
not much
he was
musical.
Now all this, of course, was good clean fun and easy to
�-1J'
visualize and memorize.
tures of well-known
rization•
pic-
Indeed there were visual aids1
personag~s
Hindenburg for
th~
to help recognition and memoFalic race, somebody like Haydn
for the Dinaric, Caesar for the Mediterranean.
Then there
was a picture of Martin Luth$r. the great Germ.an Reformer. and
I forget now what race he wa$ said to represent.
looked Slavic.
To me he
But.that, of course, could not be.
I suppose
he was declared a darker type of East Bal tic or Falic·.
All
this was child's play, and this child played it with zest and
success•
History was harder..
You could not inwardly laugh
off and outwardly play it as a parlor game.
~
You had to learn,
".
or appear to learn, appear to make your own
to some
e~tent,
in some way; at least -- you had to read, say, and write the
things that
:h~d ~een
neglected .or "falsified" in the Weimar
Republic of evil memory, under "the System• {"in der
as the Nazis referred to it).
brought out overnight.
N~w
Systemzeit.~
textbooks could not be
So we were all given a short brochure
on contemporary history, the.recent and most "relevant" .period
of Germ&ln and European. and world history.
It started ,with the
German surrender at the end of the world war {there was.only
one then; so it needed no number), a surrender brought about
by trickery
ab~oad
and treason at home, by President Wilson's
14-point peace proposal and the stab in the back of the un- .
defeated German army, a piece of treachery committed by Jews.
Marxists, and Catholics
ties.
feckless folk, with international
These traitors then set up their system of abject sur-
�-14-
render abroad and iniquity and immorality at home.
They ac-
cepted the shame:f'Ul peace treaty of Y.ersailles. which not only
saddled Ge.rmany with sole responsibility for the war. (in
Article 231, which Germ.ans called the "war guilt clause• or
"war guilt lie") 2 but also provided for the payment -- virtually
in perpetuity -- of quite crippling
reparation~ •.
Germany was
-unilaterally disarmed (whereas Wilson had envisaged universal
disarmament) and was f~rst blockaded by the British -- after
the ces·sation of hostilities -- to enforce submission, and
then, in 192J, invaded by the French, who marched into the
Ruhr. valley to seize German coal and steel production as re.
.
~
paration payments were 111 arrears. '·It was reparations that
caused the economic misery during the republican 14 years of
shame.
Attempts to revise the reparations schedule to make
it more tolerable were fruitless and fraudulent.
The last
revision provided for the.spreading of payments until 1988
'
'
and the country was dying in the. attempt to do the· victors'
'
bidding,
.
The nation would have t·o stand together and rally
round the Buehrer -- or the •people's Chancellor,• as he was
then still called
to throw off the shackles of Versailles.
The cover of this brochure had a muscular worker on it,
stripped to the waist and bursting his chains.
We also learnt about the parts of Germany that had been
taken away by the Treaty of Versailles. that dictated peace,
and about the Germans that languished under foreign domination.
We learnt that German defencelessness .was further aggravated
by the geographic position of the country•
surrounded by hos-
�-15tile powers.
Thus a bombing plane could take off from France
and fly right across Germany and land in Czechoslovakia, without
refuellin~.
. ercises.
tive.
The lesson was brought home by air raid ex-
They were not very realistic, but they were educa-
I stili
~emember
leading my little troop of classmates
to their several homes, staying close to
th~.houses,
as in-
structed, to avoid exposure to imagined falling shrapnell and
flying glass.
That was in the first.year or so of Hitler's
power, five or six years before his war.
It was useless, of
course, as an exercise in air raid precautionsr
but it was
useful for ·romenting fear and a spirit of national defence.
It also showed. that the Czechoslovak Republic, even if militarily it amounted to no more than an aircraft base, was the
power that enabled France -- or plane& based in France .-- to
bomb the wl)ole of Germany.
And in addition.-- but this point
was not given too much prominence until four years later, in
the crisis leading up to the
M~ich
settlement that dismem-
bered the Czechoslovak Republic -- in addition the country was
a political entity in which six-and-a-half million Czechs held
over ) million Germans in subjection, as second-class citizens.
Cl.early the Sudeten region had to be united with Germany.
so·much for what was taught in class and done in extramural exercises under the responsibility of the school.
there was one .other thing I should mention.
But
Schools were o-
bliged to take their pupils to certain films, propaganda films
that were being shown commercially.
So, obediently, our class
went to see the movie "Hitlerjunge Quex," the story of a Hit-
�-t6-
ler Youth of th.e working class whose father was a communist
and whose mother was long-suffering and tried to cope with
conditions and her husband, but in the end attempted suicide,
by gas, from misery and despair.
Quex (who was a very idea-
lized version of an actual Hitler Y.outh who had been killed)
first belonged to· a communist youth group, as was natural in
view of his home background.
But on one occasion, one excur-
sion, he was so revolted by their beastly ways, that he ran
away, ran through the woods, and came upon
t~e
camp of a Nazi
youth group which instantly and deeply impressed him as his
own and the country's salvation.
{It was a sunrise scene,
to make sure we all got the point.)
clean limbs, real
and hope.
c~mradeship,
Here were shining faces,
purpose, discipline, dedication,
So he jolned the Hitler Youth and·was active, devo-
tedly active· in the distribution of leaflets. and all. that.
He continued, of course to live with his parents in the working class district of Berlin.
And one day, at dawn, the
communists took their revenge and. his particular personal
en~
emy, a brute of a man, pursued him· throiigh the deserted
streets -- also through the maze. of an an"aa~ment park, a very
effective, macabre, cinematic touch
that~
and long be:f'ore ..:lU
Third Man -- and finally caught up with him and knifed him.
But Quex died for the cause, and when his friends found him,
on the point of death, and propped him up, he raised his right
arm in a salute to the German future and the camera swung up
~o
the clouds and the sound track into the- marching song of
Hitler Youth, with the lines •the ·flag leads us into eternity,
�-11-
the flag is more than death ...
The trouble was twofolds
that the film was most effec-
tive and affecting (however corny it may sound as I now tell
it) and it was made with terrific competence and with the
participation of some very good actorsr
and secondly that
,the school was under an obligation not only to take us to it,
but also to discuss it with us.
sion.
So we had our class discus-
I do riot remember much about
it except for the fact
that I decided.to play the part of aesthetic
~nd
dramatic
critic, arguing that, powerful though the movie was, it could
have been even better if it had been less black and white
(metaphorically speaking), if it had had more nuances, more
human diversity and verisimilitude.
Why did i take that line?
In order not to embarrass or endanger our teacher who was
leading the· ··discussion, who, I had reason to. believe, was
very unhappy ab9ut the Nazis, and who was.a .widow with two
children for whom she had to provide.
Then there was a film about -Joan of Arc, replete with
horrors of the Hundred Years' War.
It exposed the sadism of
the British and the brutality of the Catholic clergy.
On
that occasion I objected to the screening of atrocities; and
that was· about as far as one could go and get away with it.
Soon after, I got out of the country and cannot speak
any further from personal experience about what subsequently··
became pos.sible and impossible.
Now "impossible" is a term that strictly speaking brooks
no· comparison.
So let us look at some of the laws that·
�existed and were passed l.ater, which limited the freedom of
expression and of assembly and of organization and action.
Whatever laws may exist, and be enforced, it is, of course,
still possible to do some of the things that are forbidden1
but it becomes less likely that people will do them,
the penalties are painful.
are
-
inflicted.
becau~e
In a police state they really
Actually, Nazi Germany became something even
worse than a police stateJ
because Hitler's shock troops,,
the SS, not only permeated and took charge of the police,
but came to have a whole empire and fields of activity to
themselves, outside the reach and control of the police, and
the army.
It was the SS that ran the concentration
camp~
and extermination camps and the campaign to improve the health
of the nation (or the national economy) by k.illlng the in...
curable.
f-hey were not hampered by the law but acted di·
rectly on Fuehrer•s Oi'ders, something beyond:the law.
But I am anticipating.
Let me mention some of the lawa
that were passed and enforced.
The first and most fundamental of them was .the Decree
of the Reich President for the Protection of the People and
the State.
It was promulgated on 28 Pebruary 19JJ, four
weeks after Hitler had become Chancellor and the day after the
burning of the Reichstag building by arson.
A young Dutch
anarchist boasted of the deed and was eventually sentenced
to death by the Supreme Court.
Ostensibly
rected against communist acts of violence.
th~
decree was di-
In fact it was
used against all who could be said to be endangering the State,
�-19including, for instance, members of the
cler~
who made bold
It ltOt
to continue to preach and practise Christianity.
only tightened up· provisions or increased penalties under
the criminal code for such offences as treason, arson, the
use of explosives, and the taking of
But it alsQ.
hosta~es.
suspended "until further notice" a number of basic rights --
,
.
and it remained in .effect until the end of Hitler's rule.
Three weeks later, on 21 March t93J, there was a Decree
"for the defence of the government of national resurgence ..
against malicious attacks."
(It is the word Ernebung I am
translating here as "resurgence.•
The word can also mean
uprising, but also uplift and elevation.
T.
s.
Eliot found
it untranslatable or c·hose to treat it as such in "Burnt
Norton," the first of the Four Quariets, published, l think_,
in 19J5 1 an:d showing an amazing
remote~ess
or
from_
tivity to the world and language of pc;>lit,ics.
insensi-
I am sure he
neither meant harm nor intended a sinister joke.when he
wrote the passage about
E~heb~ng
without motion, _ concentration
without elimination ••• J · ,,
and this at a time when the strongest connotation of Erhtl!mg
• f
was not· elation or elevation. but the revolution enacted by
the Nazi Movements
and when concentration camps had been
instituted by that Movement -- the first of them in March
19:33 ·- precisely for the elimination ot undesirables.
London Times had a very
goo~ co~responde~t
The
in Germany and
Mr. Eliot must surely have read that paper occasionally.)
�-20-
So the Decree ·of 21 March t93J was to protect the government "of national resurgence1" and what the word Erhebung in
the title meant and the text of the decree spelt out was that
this protection of the law was not only for the government
but also for the "organizations supportiqg it."
protection of government and party
organ~zations
It was the
against •mal•.
ice" -- and "malice" was construed to include factual statements that were false or badly distorted.
This decree was
very effective·in silencing criticism.
The Nazis even tried to sile·nce foreign critic ism -- and
to some extent succeeded.
suasion even abroad.
They had means of pressure and per-
They had hostages at home -- for instance
the half million German Jews.
The one-day boycott of Jewish
shops and businesses on 1 April 19J) was presented as an act
of retalia'tion and warning against Jewish-insti.gated atrocity
propaganda abroad.
(Where sensationalism had, indeed, occa-
sionally got the be.tter ot factual reporting.)
On 24 March 193J there
parliament and limiting its
·~·
the Enabling Bill,· passed by
r~ghta
in favor of the executive.
This was the "Law to alleviate the sufferings of the People
and State."
I am translating the title
or
the law as best I
can -- though the word ".f!2!," here rendered as "sufferings,"
or perhaps I should say "plight?"• is another of those many-
facetted and multi-level German words, with meanings ranging
from "misery" to
use of the word.)
"em~rgency."
(I won't here go into Wagne.r's
This Behebung (literally•
I
lifting1 or al-
leviation) Behebung der ttot· yon Volk UQd Staat demanded·
�.-21-
stro11g measures and the government's hand was to be strengthened against potential paralysis by parliament.
There were
still parties in that parliament, though the communists, after
having done quite well in the elections of 5 March, were prevented from taking their'seats,
These elections, now far from
free.though they were, still only gave the Nazis
44~
of the
But by mid-July all other parties were aboliahed and it
vote,
may have had symbolic signiticance that the "Law against the
formation of new parties." the law instituting the one-party
state, was promulgated on t4 July ,19J).
On the same day there
was a law on·plebiscites, which could now be coupled with elections,
The one-party rule was further buttressed by a law,
of 1 December 19)J,. "to safeguard the unit.Y
party an4 State,
o~
Meanwhile there were also certain administrative measures
and reorganizations,
l!ll!& -- a term.taken
There was something called Gleichschal~rom
mechanics and meaning synchroni-
zation or co-ordination, or bringing into line.
Gleichschal-
. tung was applied to constitutional and administrative streamlining, as in the laws of March and April 1933, for the
Gleichschaltung der Laender mit dem Reich, that is, the co-.
ordination of the Laender, or States, with the Reich, or national ·government and administration.
It was aimed at
cent~al~
ization and the weakening or abolition of powers enjoyed by
the states constituting Bismarck's Reich and the Weimar Republic.
Perhaps I should add another word to our glossary1
Reich.
It means realm or kingdom or empire.
The Holy Roman
�-22-
Empire was, in German, Das Heilige Roemische Reich.
It was
finally and officially abolished by Napoleon, in 1806.
When
Bismarck united Germany in 18?1, he founded the second German Reich,
or
empire.
The official name of the Weimar Repub-
lic wa.s also Deutsches Reich, but the Nazis did not count
that and adopted the name Third Reich to describe their own
though not officially, not in international discourse.
But Reich, as I said, could also mean "kingdoa," as in
Reich Gottes "the kingdom of God" -- and it was this over-
tone that Hitler played on when he ended a long speech at nis
first big public appearance after his inauguration as Reich
· Chancellor with a long sentence affirming his faith in the
German people and the resurrection of the nation and "the
new German Reich of greatness and honour and power and glory.
and righteousne~s. Amen." 4 Yes, he saids "Amen." It wa~
an allusion to, and a secular usurpation
ending of the Lord's prayer.
or,· the Protestant
Compare this tastelessness and
blasphemy with the editing of a ·sentence in John Kennedy's
inaugural address, which went through many drafts.
draft had a sentence that rans
"We celebrate today not a
victory of party, but the sacrament of democracJ•"
final text this becamea
The fir,st
In the
i
"We observe today not a victory of
party but a celebration of freedom." 5 The blasphemy was
edited out.
Hitler, unlike Kennedy a lapsed Catholic, pro-
bably thought references to nationai resurrection and invocations of power and glory (of the German Reich, not the
Reich Gottes) would appeal to the Protesiant majority of the
�-2Jcountry -- which was much more nationalist than the Catholics and whose support he needed.
But to return to Gleichschaltung for a moment1
it was
not only L1ender that were being co-ordinated with the Reich,
but other organizations were also brought into line, and
th~
.
term was also used for the change of orientation or thinking,
certainly of all expression of thinking (though this meaning
was not in official use, only inofficiala
it often cropped.
up in -private comment .by critics of the regime).
Not only
were laws passed for the rigid control of all cultural
acti~
vities and the press and radio, not only-was there a law a-,
gainst "malice," but all language bacame subject to "regulation" -- explicit in the ministries and in instructions to
editors, but conveyed quite clearly by implication to the
general public too.
This Sprachregelung was extremely ef-
:fecti ve and of a thoroughness now almost unimaginable.
Even
George Orwell can hardly give one an idea ·or the pervasiveness of it or of the feel of a linguistic universe in which
things could no longer be called by their proper names.
This
was why all :forms of non-verbal communication became so very
important.
Let me give you two examples to illustrate this.
Let us take the word "murder."
of the government.
It was taboo for actions
When,iin the bloody purge of the summer
of 1934, the Nazis murdered Erich Klausener, the head of the
Catholic Action, they announced it as suicide.
Mr. Klein
recently gave me the issue of the paper of the Diocese of
B.erlin reporting Klausener•s death. 6
The front cover is oc-
�-24cupied by his picture under the title of the paper and its
emblem, a lamb with the inscription "Behold the Lamb of God,"
in Latin.
On the next page there is the announcement of his
unexpected death on JO June 1934 (and everyone knew the meaning of that date), the requiem mass for him in the
~resence
of the Bishop and all the members of the chapter of the Cathedral of
st.
an
Hedwig,
address by the Bishop, anm the bur-
ial of the ashes -- (ashes) --, with all liturgical observances, in consecrated ground.
The page after that carries
the Bishop's last salute to t·he deceased, and then there are
five more pages of obituaries.
Not a word about suicide.
Not a word about murder,
But the fact that the ashes -- the
Nazis had evidently thought it wiser.to cremate the body -were given· Christian burial and that the funeral was a
event in the
Ca~holic
gr~at
diaspora of Berlin, gave the lie to the
Nazi version of his death.
But such publicity was not to be
possible much longer. ·
Ten years later, after the .failure of the attempt of 20
July 1944 to kill Hitler and oust the Nazis, there were series of secret show trials of the conspirators.
a contradiction in terms, but I can explain•
This may be
admission to the
trials·and reports on them were completely controlled.
The
"show" aspect is harder to explain, but it was real enougha
those trials
were filmed and the film was !ntended to be
shown after suitable editing.
Very little of it survives
after editing by Goebbels and the Allies,
The most moving
moment in what those two sets of censors and the vicissitudes
�-25of war spared, comes in a sequence when one of the defendants,
in order to ·explain why he took part in the conspiracy,
re~
ferred to "the many murders" -- only·to be instantly interrupted by the presiding judge, yelling, with pretended incredulity (or perhaps .he could really not believe his ears)a,
"Murders?"
He then subjedted the defendant to screaming a-
buse and asked him whether he was not breaking down under
weight of his villainy.
~he
The accused, as far as I could tell
from the film, wanted .to.treat this as a rhetorical questions
but when the judge insisted on an answer, yes or no, paused
for.a moment and then,
quietly~
"No."
saids
After which
there was further loud invective· from the judge.7
dant was sentenced to death and hanged.
to death· and hanged in those trials.
The defen-
Many were sentenced
But ve.ry few were able
to say $.nything. so clear and unsettling to the regime as this
man with his explicit mention of murders and· his final .lie•
So there was this careful regulation of language and
there were laws circumscribing people's freedom ot action and
of expression.
All the laws I mentioned before were enacted
in Hitler's first year of power.
that came later.
I shall just mention a few
President Hindenburg finally died, having
been very doddery .before, in early August 1934.
On 1 August
19J4 there was a law on the office of Head of State and it
united the offices of President and Chancellor.
had them both.
Hitler now
On the next day a new oath was administered
to the armed forces, sworn personally to the new Commanderin-Chief, "the Fuehrer of the German Reich and People, Adolf
�-26Hitler."
In March 1935 there was an armed forces law, intro-
ducing conscription.
The Treaty of Versailles had limited
the size of the German army to 100,000 men and
sti~ulated
long periods of service in order to prevent the training of
large numbers of short-term recruits.
It was that small and
highly professio.nal army that now served as nucleus of the
new.
In September of that same year, 1935, the so-called
Nuernberg Laws were passed by the Reichstag which was meet-.
ing not in Berlin but in the city where the annual party
ral.lies were held.
'£hese laws, one relating to citizenship
and one to·::the protection of German bl.ood and honour (this
was the wording of the title) deprived Jews of certain civil
and social right.a, including the right to marry anyone but
J.ews or to· have extramarital intercourse with gentiles.
Jews
(and other undesirables) had already been.eliminated from the
civil service by·the law for the "restoration ·or the
sional civil service" passed in ·April 1933.
profes~
By the way1 in
1935 it was still possible for Jews to leave the country ..
But there was the problem of where to go and how to find a
livelihood.
This may illustrate it1
the American immigration
quota for Germany was not fully taken up until 19J8.
After
the pogrom of November t9J8, that German quota had a waiting
list.
Professional discrimination and economic
disabili~ies
had been increasing before, but i t:··,was only the excesses of .
November 1938 -- staged after the fatal shooting of a German
diplomat in Paris by a y-oung Polish Jew -- that made it clear
�-2?"that worse might be in store.
There was a policy of mounting
discrimination, then of segregation, finally, during the war,
of deportation to the East, and of extermination.
was .!l.Q! promulgated in a law.
state secret and carried out
But that
On the contrary, it was a
administr~tivaly,
th~
Most of
.
victims of that last phase were not German.:Jews, but Palisi\,
Russian, and other Jews from all over Hitler's Europe,
The expansion of the Reich began with the annexation of
Austria in March 1938 and the law bearing the curious title
"Law on the reunification of Austria with the Reich,"
Wha'f; .
was being united was the country of Hitler's birth and the
country he adopted and which adopted him with such catastrophic
consequences for itself and for. the world.
Hitler actually
·became a.German citizen less than a year before he became .. ·
German Chancellor,
The dodge to get· him naturalized was his
appointment by some of his sympathizers and purely on paper •..
of course, as a civil servant of the litt·le sta·te of Brunswick, in order to enable him to run in the Presidential election of March 1932, a few days later.
The American consti-
tut1on seems a' bit more careful in that respect.
There were many Austrians and many Germans who wanted
the Anschlus§, the joining of the two countries.
peace· treaties after the world war forbade it.
had wanted itr
But the
Many liberals
but perhaps the conditions of 1938 were
the most propitious.
~ot.
Propitious or no, they brought about
the Greater German Reich (as distinct from Bismarck's Lesser
Germany that had excluded Austria) and a flanking threat to
�-28-
Czechoslovakia.
That country was dismembered a few months
after.
All this happened in a state of peace,
The state of war
did not come about until September 1939 when Hitler, having
made a pact with Stalin, marched into Poland. without a declaration of war,, but •returning (Polish) fire,• as the offi-
cial German communique had it.
Poland was subdued and par-,,,
titioned between the Germans and the Russians.
France fell
the following summer, after neutral Denmark, Norway, Holland,
Belgium, and Luxembo'l,lrg,
ally Mussolini joined in.
That was the stage at which
Hitle~'s
Hitler failed to invade Britain
but instead invaded Russia in June 1941.
Japan and America
, entered the war in December of that year, over two years
ter its
b~ginning,
It did not end in Europe, until the
a~
Amer~
icans and t:he Russians met in the middle of Germany in May
1945, and in Asia until two atom bombs had been dropped on,
Japan, in August 1945.
Did all this happen because .people had not taken the precaution of reading Hitler's book?
Not solely1 though it
might have helped with some of their decisions if they had
done so.
Hitler's strongest card was the Treaty of Ver~ailies. ,_
His initial strength and his support in the period of con•
solidation.of power came from the German sense of national
injury and the real grievances.
So long as he was just seen
as the man who was working, by hook or by crook, for the revision or abolition of that treaty, he had support for his
�-29foreign policy far beyond the ranks of his own party.
Peo-
ple were willing to . .allow some of the more distasteful
components of his domestic policy for the sake of the liberation of the country from the shackles of Versailles.
The first move in that direction came during Hitler's
first year in power, in October 19JJ, when he took Germany
out of the League of Nations as a protest against continued
discrimination against Germany in the disarmament negotiations.
He got this step endorsed by a plebiscite combined
with new elections (only one party now to choose from)
and.the result was indeed more favourable than the 44% of the
previous March, more than twice as good.
Before the
voting~
to show the people and the world that Hitler had the backing
of the greatest sages in the land and of the academic establishment, there were declarations of support (entitled, ..
"Bekenntnisse," or confessions of faith) from representatives
of that establishment, including, for instance, the theologian Hirsch at Goettingen and the philosopher Heidegger at
Freiburg, both Rectors of their universities. 8
The declara-
tions were enthusiastic, bo•bastic, and.nauseating.
The
language in which they were couched was very German and v-irtually untranslatable.
The "official" translations appended
for foreign readers cannot have impressed the world with the
efficiency of the German translation industry.
I shall not
try now to improve on them but content myself with saying
that when I made Miss Brann read the German text to me while
I checked the official translation, she lost her customary
�-JOcomposure and delicacy forbids mention of the number of letters in the word she used to give utterance to her reaction.
Actually I did not think the word either appropriate or adequate and shall refer to the matter as the Hirsch-Heidegger
syndrome.
By that I denote the abdication of political re- .
sponsibility and the intoxication with high-sounding and
meaningless words1
the use of language not in an attempt to
get at the truth of a political matter, but to glorify the
winds of change or the march of history or the peoplehood of
a people or the leadership of such· a leader.
When this is
done by a Heidegger in somewhat substandard heideggerian German, it is a very, very bad thing.
He soon relented, of courses
he may even have
repente~.
As Ernst .Nolte, one of his students, later turned historian
and a great .. authority on fascism, put it in an essay on the.
types of behaviour among academic teachers in the Third Reioha
"It was not long before Heidegger, with his turn T.o Hoelderlin,
joined the widespread tend~.ncy to retreat from t;
Socialist reality ••• " 9
.:r
National
Nolte, incidentally, dOe$ not think
that Heidegger was so lamentably subject to the
mental climate because of his philosophy.
~revailing
.
He does not consi-
der the· possibility, which I regard as a probability, that
Heidegger's lack of mental resistance may have been due to
his relationship with language.
have been his linguistic tin
e~r
It is my feeling that it must
that failed to warn n,im of . .
people who spoke Hitler's language.
And the students?
One m·ust not and one cannot
general~
�ize -- but they were, on the whole, well ahead of the general
development, in the vanguard.
Nazi students took the lead
and won the votes in the elections to student organizations
long before Hitler seized power aad Professor Heidegger saids
"Let not theses and ideas be the rules of your beingl
The
Fuehrer himself and he alone is the German reality and law,
.
today and in the future." 10
To some extent it
1.!
true to say
that "National Socialism came to power as the party of you~n.• 11
But it is not the whole truth.
I shall try to go into that
a little more next time.
I am sorry to end on such a negative note today.
the
~irsch-Heidegger
But .
syndrome was, unfortunately, significant,
and fairly widespread, and Nazi student activism not only
followed and accompanied. but preceded it.
Youth was in the.
· vanguard of'.-the Nazi movement and revolution.
Also the
average age of the representatives and leaders of that party_
was well below that of other parties, a fact.from which the
Social Democrats, in particular,,suffered acutely•
lacked dynamisms
They
the Nazis had it.
Next Friday I shall try to show how six members of the,
universtty of Munich. five students and one professor, thought
and felt and acted in the midst·of that dynamism •
•
�-32II.
':.:!·:;;~
The Case of the White Rose
The negative note I finished on last Friday concerned
the German universities, whose student organizations were
captured by Nazi activists long before Hitler and his party
captured the chancellorship and command posts of the country
and established a police state 1 or rather something even beyond a police state.
There was also that rather appalling
phenomenon I called the "Hirsch-Heidegger syndrome," an intoxication1 a passing intoxication, perhaps, certainly in
the case of Heidegger~ but none the less real and productive
.of real con$equences
~t
the time.
In Heidegger's case I
suggested that the loss of sobriety may have been due to the
patient's relationship with language, that is, not with h. is
1
philosophy,· but with his failure to test words used in the
political context for their meaning
.
.
~nd
implications.
The appeals ,·by prominent representatives. of the academic
'
,
:
estabiishment to the German electorate to vote for Hitler
after his first significant step.in foreign affairs, leaving
the League of Nations, . were, as I mentioned, printed and
.
.
translated and also disseminated abroad, as "Bekenntnisse,"
confessions of faith, in the new Germany and its leader
Adolf Hitler.
Let me quote you the official preface to thls collection
of "confessions" by leading academics.
I shall quote it in
the official translation, for that, after all, was what the
wider world read,
It is a bit
roughly what it meant.
t~nny,
but I shall then say
It was headed "An Appeal to the In-
telligentsia of the World" and ran1
�-3~
All science is inextricably linked with the mental
character of the nation whence it arises. The
stipulation for the successful scientific work,i8•
therefore, an unlimited scope of mental development and the cultural freedom of the nations. Only
from t.he co-operation of the scientific culture of
all nations -- such as is born from and peculiar
to each individual nation -- there will spring the
nation-uniting power of science. Unlimited mental
development and cultural freedom of the nations
can only thrive on the basis of equal rights, equal
honour, equal political freedom, that is to say,
in an atmosphere of genuine, universal peace, On
the basis of this conviction German science appeals
to the intelligentsia of the whole world to cede
their understanding to the striving German nation -united by Adolf Hitler -- for freedom, honour,
~tistice and peace, to the same extent as they would
for their own.12
There are troubles with the translation of this document,
of course.
It is not very English.
For "science," for
instance, read scholarship, or learning.
For other words it
is harder. to substitute English equivalents, for in some
cases there-are none.
~ental
The German original of what became the
character of the nation" was something called
"geistige Art des Volkes,tt and that bristles with difficulties
and booby-traps.
Not only because the word
"~"
had on the
one hand its denotation of "people" (and there was and is no
other word
of
!•rac~."
for~),
on the other hand it had connotations
-·
But also a once harmless word like ttArt " meaning
"kind" (or perhaps even "character" as the official translation put it) had ceased being harmless and now had a racial
overtone as well, a matter later made quite clear in racial
legislation which used the term "artfremd,• or alien, to refer to alien blood •
.But the gentle reader abroa¢l could not know this and was
�probably no more than slightly bemused by the language
served.u~
to him in this document and others.
What did get
across, though, was the plea for equal rights, egµal honour,.
equal freedom -- that is•
tion against Germany.
the plea for an end to discrimina-
(It was over the matter of persistent
discrimination in the disarmament negotiations that Hitler
had taken Germany out of the League of Nations.)
for "equality" had a tremendous effect abroad,
This plea
It really
did seem no more than fair, and perhaps even aiming at a more
properly balanced international stabilit_y (the ngenuine, unitiii
versal peace". of the translation).
But also equal rights, honour, and freedom meant allowing Germany
to
conduct her domestic affairs her own way.
That, too, co.uld be presented and seen as no more than the
right that ·91 ther was or should be the right of !!lI country.
The nation state
~·
after all
effective political unit.
a_nd it still is -- the
And it was only a country consti-
tuted or re-constituted after the first world war, like Poland, that had
speci~l
clauses on the protection of minori-
ties, notably Jews, written into its peace treaty. 13
But
then Poland was a country with a large Jewish population and
a bad history of· anti-Semitism.
Germany's Jewish population
was small and German anti-Semitism no worse than anybody
else's
indeed until the 1920s Germany attracted Jews from
Poland and Russia, because it was such a civilised country.
Let me here interpolate something that is in a curious,
a mysterious way both central
~nd
peripheral to the story of
�Nazi Germany•
the part the Jews played in that story.
it should have been peripheral may strik~ you as odd.
on the practical plane it really was1
That
But
the other nations did
not go to war with Hitler or fight the Germans to save the
Jews.
And it is a mistake •. a serious mistake, to concentrate
on the fate of the Jews in that drama to the exclusion of
all else.
It is an understandable m~stake, because regarded
-as a people the Jews did have the heaviest losses proportionately to their number.
The ·Poles were only decimated,
that is, they lost about one-tenth of their population.
.
The
.
··Russians, even by their own accounts, only lost 20 million
people.
But of the -roughly 11 ·mill.ion European Jews between
·four-and-a-half and 6 million -- about half -- were done to
death by the Nazis. 14
The exact figure is hard to establish.
And it is not the thing that matters most.
-
What ·does is th•
Jewish experience of forsakenness -- and that can never be
brought home to non-Jews by numbers.
But neither must it be allowed to perpetuate Hitler's
heresy.
What was that heresy?
true theologya
That genealogy is the only
that it is by the blood of a "race" that we
are saved or damned.
That whole sad ·chapter of ·history has been vulgarized in
a number of ways.
The saddest of them is the vulgarization
that falls into Hitler's own trap, his own way of publicly
presenting or misrepresenting what he was really afters
the
vulgarization that sees that conflict as one of Jews and gentiles, or •Aryans .. as the Nazis called them•
or as one of
�Jews and Christians.
That last mistake even the Nazis did
not make1. on the contrary, they.were so concerned to deChristianize the gentiles -- with Hitler, of course, as the
saviour of the gentiles -- that one of the forms t·heir attack
on 'Christianity took was to treat it as a Jewish thing and
therefore to be rejected by the Germans.
One can even take this further.
Hitler, the great liber-
ator, once said to one of his followers who later left him,.
perhaps because of this dictum and all it stood fora
"Con-
science is ~-Jewish invention. 015 Hitler was out to remove·
the .invention and.its inventors.·
This makes it clear, or at least;·;;strongly suggests, that
behind the "racial" struggle stood a more.fundamental onea
war of religions
a
not of Christianity versus· Judaism, but ot
a new heathenism against the Jewish
~
Christian faith and
tradition.
!h!!1
was the central significance of the Jews in that
drama, as central as that of the.relationship of Jews and
Christians1
and of Christians -- the nominal and the other
kind -- to Christianity and to humanity,
But now I must get down to the White Rose, the rose that
bloomed· despite the dynamism of 'the destroyers to which r·referred last week.
The Nazis undoubtedly were dynamic.
"The White Rose" was the name chosen by a group of Munich
students and a professor and friend of theirs when they
launched a campaign of leaflets against the Nazis.
called them "Leaves
They
or leaflets -- of ·the White Rose."
�-37Its blooming was brief., . its
p:r;ep~ration
long.
As for its
after-effects -- who is :to ... say what they were or may be?
The one woman among them, a girl of 21, her name was
Sophie Scholl, had a dream the night before her execution a.nd
told it to her cell-matea
It was a sunny day, and i was ca;rrying a little
child, dressed in a long white gown to be baptized•
The path to the church led up a steep hill. But I
was holding the child safely and surely in my arms.
All of a sudden I ·found myself at the brink of ~
crevasse. I had just enough time to set the child
down on the other side before I plunged into the
abyss.16
·
Willi Graf was the last of the six,to die. 17
says that he "was not a dynamic person."
His sister
That is probably
what makes him the most impressive of the six to me.
Let me
give you her phrase in its context, and in her words•
Willi was not a political type of person in the superficial sense. He had no natural inclination to
revolutionary action. But when intellectual freedQm.
of choice is not guaranteed, or development in accordance with his own inner law, or simply being
human, when a regime on the contrary negates all
this and enforces.forms of thinking and of life
which keep violating human dignity most deeplya
then a young person with sound in·stincts and a sense
of watchfulness and faith will rebel, If he is
moreover plucky·and prepared for sacrifice and is
confirmed and encouraged by likeminded tttends,
then he must ~ctively resist such enslavement and
finally become an antagonist of the spirit of the
times. Thus Willi was driven to the role of having
to rebel quite against his own disposition.
And then she quotes the sentence which stands as motto over
the whole short memoir of her brother.
(
First Epistle of James, verse 22.
It is taken from the
She found it in a diary
her brother had kept in 1933 -- the first year of Hitler's
power, when Willi was 15 -- where it stood
s~ddenly,
all by
�-)8-
itself, in the midst of boyish descriptions of group meetings
and excuraions1
It was this sentence•
"But be ye doers of
the word, and not hearers only,"
She then goes on•·
Ever since 19)4 the .conflict with National Social~
ism had been. a burning problem for Willi and his
friend~.
The question 'What should we J!2 against
it?• became the cardinal point of their thinking,
.Even the question of tyrannicide was discussed one
night at their Easter meeting in i934,.,Tha friends
were agreed that it was not enough to he indignant
in small closed circles. ("They discuss." she
quotes Willi on a visit by relatives, "the usual
stuff, see the dangers, but think they.have to stick
it out1" and mhe then continuesa) ·He wrestled with'
these problems, just because he inclined far more
to a contemplative life and habitually subordinated
politics to metaphysical values. He was not a dy~
namic person1 on the contrary, he liked to keep
hie reserve and loved order. But the constant occupation of his thoughts with "our situation" (as.
he called the definition of his own and his friends'
attitude to their time) finally put him on the path
that seemed to him inevitable. The determination
to let his im~er attitude become daed grew slowly
but steadily. When the war starte 1 Willi said f~om
the outset that it must and that it would be lost.
This conviction separated.him from many.people, even
from some of .the friends of his youth who believed
they had to defend their fatherland at all costs.
His inner loneliness increased more and more and
especially when he was drafted in January 19 0 and
started training in a medical unit in· Munich,18
4
After his final arrest, Graf himself was asked by the
Gestapo•. the secret police, to give them an account of his
life,
-
And this is what he told.them•
-
He was born in 1918, in the Rhineland,
In 1922 his
family moved to the Saar.
His father became a manager in a
firm of wine wholesalers.
Willi
h~d
two sisters, · The family
led a co•fortable, though frugal, life.
Religion was the center of the children•s education and
�they were taught
to
respect parents and superiors.
Willj's
father was a man of probity in his professional and private
life and demanded the same of his children.
He was severe
when Willy showed signs.of dishonesty or disobedience.
Willy's mother was affectionate and totally dedicated
children and the welfare of her family.
~o
her
Willy was initiated
into the observances apd life of the church at an early age.
and .tne seasons were filled with the spirit of religion,
(By that. I suppose. he meant that he experienced the seasons
conaciously
a~
parts of the church year.)
At the age of 10
Will~
was sent to what the Germans call .
a humanistisehes Gvmnasium• that is, a high school teaching
Greek and Latin.
His special inte·rests were German literature,
religion,. and later Greek and music1
tory.
also geography and his-·
He liked to construct things in his free time, worked
on light and bell systems. and tried to understand the mysteries of radio.
He liked to go walking, especially in the summer vacations,
came to know and love his country and became a lover of nature.
During his last years at school, he had a chance to visit faraway places in Germany, Italy, and Yugoslavia, and he relished
the experience of dista.nt lands· and of different people with
other customs.
The precious memories of these walking tours
sustained him throughout the rest of the year.
His mother opened the eyes of her children, when they
were still quite young. to the social and economic sufferings
·of others.
He was taught to.do without certain things so
�-41>-.
that a poorer child could benefit.
He occasionally accompanied his mother on charitable missions, 19
The actual phrase Graf used in his draft autobiography
"Thus I learnt the significance ot per-
for the Gestapo wasa
sonal charity."
He was clearly trying to stress the contrast
to the welfare state approach of the Nazis.
The document --
his police autobiography -- is characterized throughout by
!!!2 thingsa
the judicious omission of certain incriminating
features of his
bi~graphy
of which I $hall speak later1
and
the equally judicious inclusion of statements intended to educate his enemies or at least to put on record the convictions
that animated him.
By "omissions .. I mean, for instance, the
discretion observed on the precise nature and circumstances
of those walking tours1
they were undertaken.-- at some risk
by a very c··lose-knit illegal youth group.·
By the attempt to
educate -his enemies I. mean references t.o "p-ersonal charity,"
or religion -- even the appreciation of strange peoples and
their ways.
This brief life then continuesa
Will~
said of himself
that he always had a great need for attachment and had close
frJiandships with playmates and schoolmates.
This was the way
that led him to the Catholic youth organizations to which.he
belonged for many years and where his interest in religious
and literary questions was further developed by likeminded
companions.
His religious and "ideological"· development was
fairly unproblematic.
He grew from the childlike notions
·formed at home and in his first religious instruction into
�the big world of faith, in whoa• docttlnes he felt secure
and protect•d•
Even violent and long di•cusaions with boys
who thought differently could only endanger this security
temporarily, but.not in the long run.2~
L•t me here mention something not altogether irrelevant.
Hia trienda'
famous
nicknam~
tor
Will.~
Pi~niah long-dist~nce
was
11
111.lrmi."
Nurmi was a
runner -- actually he ran what
would now be called middle distances -- and a hero of the
Olympic gamea of 1920, 1924 1 and 1928 especially Amsterdam,
1928, where he won ) medals,
Clearly Willj's friends
pi~k•d
on this name because of .Willi's tenacity and his capacity for
independence, even loneliaees.
Mr, Crockett says that one
ot the most interesting things about Nurmi wae that he would
warm up for two. hour.a be tore a· run.
He was a th&Qldng run-
ner.
Willt'• (police)
aut.ob~ography
continues•
In November
1937 he went to the university of Bonn to study medicine.
Since the au11laer of 1.935.he had
~ee~.determined
to become a
~ .;
doctor, because, he said, he thought that would give him th·e
beet opportunity to help others.
"This seemed to me," I am
quoting him verbatim now, •the most beautiful task, giving,
as it does, a chance to put into· practice the commandment
which to me is the moat compelling of all, to love my neighbour.
But I also worked on philosophical and literary ques-
tions in order to
con~inue
my intellectual education and to
make finner th• ~truc~ure of my religious viewa.• 21
(Actually hia sister says that if it had not been fqr
�-42the Nazis, Willi would have gone into philosophy or theology, not into medicinea
and that he only chose that sub-
ject of study because it was relatively free from ideological interferences
yet that does not make Willi's statement
to the Gestapo a lies
truth,
it was merely less than the whole
and it gave him a chance to remind his captors of a
commandment they also learnt as children, only perhaps less ·
well.
Even the mention of the year 1935 as the year in which
he decided to study medicine in order to help his.fellow-men
may have been deliberate•
that was the year in which the
Saar. territory,· deta.ched from Germany by the
Tr(!a~y.
of Ver-
sailles, had the plebiscite envisaged by th•t treaty and voted
~o
rejoin Germany.
Willi and his friends had observed devel-
opments in Germany with
grow~ng
but until 1935 they
alarms
had been rr·ee from the pressures to which the inhabitants'
not to say the inmates, of the Reich were subjected.)
He read a lot, Willi continued his official autobiography, especially modern German ·writers and
philosophical works.
He had time
fo~
theologic~l·
and
active sports and the
enjoyment of music.
I shall quote the end verbatim tooa
•ouring these years
'
I experienced the smaller and larger conflicts between the
church and offices of the state and party and could not understand them, because no state can have permanence -without religion ••• All order is from God, be it the family, the state,
or the people,n22
This young man of 25 knew more clearly and firmly what
�even the boy of 15 had known when Hitler began to destroy
the old order to build his own . New Order. an order without
God ... but with the. new idols of race· and people, and with
the divine Fuehrer himself ·something between prophet and
deity.
Lutherans had greater trouble discerning and opposing
·the ungodly nature of this new civil authority.
They did
not discuss tyrannicide in.t9J4, and ~ery few of them even
later.
Incidentally•
I did not mean to advocate tyrannicide
in the discussion the other day.
I merely
~eant
that it was
a thing that might be considered in the face of murderous
fanaticism.
However, let us have a few more facts of Will;O;. Graf 's
life.-
T~eY com~
from his surviving sister, from friends,
from letters and diaries.
He belonged to a Catholic youth
organization until it was suppressed, and then he belonged to
an
illegal successor organiza,ion.
He made not concessions
to associates he co~sidered faithless.
When he was 15, in 1.9331
ije struck off from his address book names of boys who had belonged to his group and who were now in the Hitler Youth.
He
refused to join the Hitler Youth, although he was threateded
with non-admission to the school leaving exam, the precondition ot university entrance, unless he became a member.
early arrest in January 19)8
An
there were numbers of arrests
for activities in.· illegal youth groups -- was terminated by
an amnesty to
CE!'l
.
.2)
ebrate the annexat i on of Austria •.
�The autobiography he wrote for the Gestapo after his
later arrest was, of course, not only aimed at not incriminating himself, but also at not incriminating family and friends•
Those ;vears of semi-illegality were a good training in careful formulation,
~itude.
And his qircumspection was combined with for~
Although he was kept alive for months after
t~e
execution of the ·others, bec•use the investigating authorities.
hoped to get more facts and names and leads from him, with
all kinds of threats, he did not.oblige.
cut off his head
too~on
He had also been
a
So in the end they
12 October 1943.
careful reader and given to writing
things down that impressed him.
With friends he trusted he
loved to discuss the most serious" questions passionately and
thoroughly, and preferably by night.
The le.gal and later l.llegal youth groups also gave their
members much training in the endurance of physical hardship
and developed their resourcefulness and stamina.
In fact
Willj became exactly what Hitler wanted his boys, the Hitler
Youth, to bes
and he had put it in a winged word that Nazi
youth leaders were forever quoting•
swift as greyhounds, hard as steel."
said "Krupp steel.")
"Tough as leather,
(Well -- Hitler actually
But there was one vital differencea
that w111i Graf combined these qualities with a mind of his
own and an unshakable faith.
A greyhound actually is a dog, though a very noble kind
of dog,
?ou can condition the reflexes of a dog.
condition the reflexes of human beings too.
You can
But you should
�_45...
not try to make men into nothing but conditioned reflexes.
And these are the chief lessons of the Nazi period to me1
how terribly manipulable people are, especially in our twentieth centurys
pulability.
-
but also that there are· limits to this mani-
And there is a ridera
we must help to set the
limits and defend them.
Back to Willj Graf, though.
in 19.37.
He began his medical .studies
In January 1940 he was called ··up and trained in a
medical unit in ·Munich.
his old friends.
This transfer separated him from
He served in Germany, on the Channel Coast,,
in Belgium and france, Croatia and Serbia1
finally in Po-
land and Russia.
In April 1942 he.got study leave and returned to-Munich.
Apart tram his m•dical studies, he worked in philosophy and
theology· and took an increasing interest in liturgical ques,.
tions and in psychology.
fencing.
When there ·was time, he did some
He joined the Bach Choir and went to concerts
whenever he could.
It was then, looking for·new friends, that he got to
know a brother and sister, Hans.and Sophie Scholl, and their
friends Christoph Probst and Alexander
Sch~orell.
With them
-- the .men were all medical students on leave from the army
and Sophie a student of biology and philosophy and·musical
psychology.
They were all agreed in their opposition to the
Nazis and shared many interests, chiefly in writing that
mattered .and -- despite their different denominations, they were.
united by shared Christian convictions.
Jointly they came to
�the conclusion that they ought to engage in active propaganda
against the Nazis and that this should now take. the form of
24
leaflets.
This may be the moment to describe the very different
route by which Hans Scholl reached that point·.
had a ringleader, it was Hans Scholl.
scribed as
a "dynamic"
.!!! ma what is delllf!
per$on.
Born in 1918, the same year as
son of .a small town mayor.
~igger town, Ulm.
If the group
Will~
Graf, he was the
But later the family moved to a
They had three daughters and two sons, of
whom Hans was the elder.
They were Protestants, the mother
probably more pious than the father.
I am not sure what their politics were, only that the
father was .opposed to the Nazis from the outset.
also spent :time in jail for this opposition.
what form this opposition took.
Hitler •tthe scourge of God."
Later he
I do not know
I only know that he called
That may have been what did it.
But it was long before, at the very beginning, that Hans
Scholl, finding his father's disapproval of this great new
llbvement reactionary, decided to join the Hitler Youth, and
his brother and sisters followed him. 2 5
·Ten
ye~rs
after Hitler nad come .to power, Dietrich Bon-
hoeffer, a Protestant theologian opposed to the Nazis -- he
later died on the gallows -- wrote of the great masquerade of
evil.
He said1
"For evil to appear disguised as light, be-
neficence, historical necessity; and social justice, is sinp~y
bewildering to anyone bro\Jght up in the world of our
�traditional ethical conc.epts1
but for the Christian who
bases his life on the Bible, it precisely confirms the radical malice of evi1.• 26 .
It may seem strange now.
effective,
And the
youn~er
But the masquerade
I
~
very
Schells were swept away by·the
idea of a real people's community, the social justice and
equality promised by Hitler, and they joined the march of
history.
In doing that, Hans Scholl was not unlike many of'
·other young Germans opposing their hidebound parents.
It was not the Bible that showed Ha.:i~ Sc.holl the error
of his way.
To that he only came much later.
What first
put him off was the fact that the fellowship of the Hitler
Youth had an element of regimentation -- something of the
Gleichschaltung I mentioned last time.
His surviving elder sister mentions an incident that
gave !l!£
momentarily -- to thinks
but the.moment passed.
She writes1
We were taken seriously -- taken seriously in a
quite remarkable way -- and.that.aroused our enthusiasm, We felt we belonged to a large, wellorganised body that honoured and embraced everyone. from the ten year old to the grown mano We
sensed that there was a· role for us in the historic process, in a movement that was transforming
the masses into a Volk. We believed that.whatever
bored us or gave us a feeling o~ distaste, would
disappear of its~lf. Once a fifteen year old girl,
after we had. gone to lie down under the wide,
starry sky at the end of a long cycling tour, said
in our tent, quite suddenly and out. of the blue,
"Everything would be fine. but this thing about the
Jews I just can't swallow." The troop leader assured us that Hitler knew what he was doing and for
the sake of the greater good we would have to accept certain difficult and incomprehensible things.
But the girl was not satisfied with this answer,
�-48-
Others took her side, and suddenly the attitudes in
our varying home backgrounds were reflected in the
conversation. I spent a restless night an that tent,
but in the end w.e:.··were just too tired, and the next
day was inexpressively splendid and filled with new
experiences~
The conversation of the night before
was for the moment forgotten. In our group there
developed a sense of belonging that car~ied us safe~
ly through the difficulties and loneliness of adolescence, or at least ·gave us that illusion.
The maddening.thing about Inge Scholl's book, if I may
say so, is that she hardly ever gives a
~
fQr anything.
But this sounds like an early incident to me, earlier than
the·Nuernberg Laws ~ven -- let alone the pogrom of 19J8 or
the deportations that started in the war.
It probably took
place about the time when nothing much was being done yet about the Jews,- apart from verbal an.d pictorial vilification
and the removal from the civil service.
But it is another.matter she mentions as an early cause
of her brother's discontent,
He liked to sing.and ne sang
to his.troop, accompanying himself on the guitar.
he sing?
What did
The songs of the Hitler Youth -- and I have studied
their official song book (edition· of 1_941) and was amazed to
find many good songs in it.
But Hans also sang foreign
songs -- Norwegian or Russian, or something like that.
leaders forbade it.
He disregarded the prohibition.
threaten·ed punishment.
His
They
He got depressed,
But there was a great experience in store for him.
He
was to be the flag bearer for his troop at the big a_nnual
Party Rally in Nuernberg.
back disillusioned.
He went with high hopes.J. and came
The full implications of the regimentation
-- not only of the Hitler Youth, but of the whole show, all
�- 49 -
or
Get'man life as the Party clearly intended to fol'lll it in
1 ts own image -- ·al.1 this had now come home to him •.
And there was the odd book his leaders would not let him
read, because the author was a Jew, or a pacifist.
But the final break came after a promotion:
had the rank
or
Fll).nlei~tflhrer
150 or so boys.}
for itself and
Hans now
(which meant being in charge
or
His troop had designed and made a banner
sh~wed
up with it at a parade before some
higher-ups of the ff1tler Youth.
A boy of twelve carried it.
A superior Hitler Youth leader demanded its surrender.
There
The boy stood firm.
were to be no private flags or emblems.
He stood a bit less tinn when the surrender order was given
for the third time..
Hans intervened.
slapped the Hitler Youth superior.
care·er in
th~
Ri tler Youth.
Be stepped forward_ and
-
That was the end of his
.
His subsequent membeieship in an
illegal youth group ended in arrest and some weeks in
But he too, like Willi
G~ar,
jail~
benefited from the post-AnschlU§.!
amnesty.
Gttadually all the young Scholls heard
things that happened to people they knew.
or
disturbing events
They now asked thei
rather about the meaning or some of this and it seems that old
Scholl did call things by their proper names and even disabused
his offspring of the notion -- very widespread in all those
dreadful twelve years -- that whatever horrible things might
be happening, they were the doing of wild or mean or sadistic
subordinates or loeal potentates or tough men -- and that the
Ffth re r did not know about them.
�-soFather Scholl explained to his children that this really was
unlikely,
Hitler knew.
Fatner Scholl also tried to exp!ain
how such a man could come to power.
found it any easier than·I do.)
(I don ··t suppose he
Finally it seems that he
told his children that he wanted them to be free and upstanding, whatever the difficulties,
That, at last, bridged the generation gap whiqh -- like
many another gap -- Hitler had exploited so skillfully.
I~ al:so
Rilke was not
sent Hans back· to the sources. the fowida.tions.
m~oh
poet, Hoelde.rlin 1
Plato and Socrates,
and Pascals
help, neither was Stefan George. or another
nor was Nietzsche.
th~
Hans finally found
early Christian authors, Augustine,
and the Bible, whose words, as his sister says,
now acquired for him a new and surprising significance, an
overwhelm~ng
relevance and immediacy, and an undreamt of
splendour •
. He was a student of medicine now.
And the war came.
After a while he was drafted for a medical unit and served
in the French
campaign~
Then he was sent to Munich as a
soldier-student, a member of a military student unit.
It
was a strange ·1ife, commuting between barracks and the university. and the clinic.
And all this in a steadily worsenlng
political climate, with oppression growing harsher every day
and-more and more becoming known -- piecemeal and not always
reliably
about the crimes of the regime.
It was mimeographed copies of
a ·sermon
of the Bishop of
Muenster against e·uthanasia, the secret killing
or
incura~le~
�which,, h.owever, cquld not be ·kept altogether secret, siaee
'
I
•
~
'
•'
•: _
~
':
'L
•
••
it ~~s C:l~.r:r;,ie,d on ipside Germany -- it was Bishop Galen• s
pq'Q+~9 ~~~P\90 ~bo~t
this crime, his denunciation of it as
not- ori,+y ilQlllsnral but also illegal, a sermon· preached in a re·I.
1i
., ': ·~::·
•
mote part of q,rmany, but disseminated throughout Germany in
mimeographed copiell
-~
secretly, of course -- that made Hans
Soholl.thihk of leaflets as a possibility.
He was relieved
that someone, at last, had spoken, ope.nly.
And, it seemed,
such open speech cobld be spread.
He
was not alone.
In
partic'ul~r,
he had a fatherly
friend and mentor, Carl Muth, the former editor of a Catholic
monthly, Hoch.}.and, now suppressed -"'." whom he had met in an
almo•t accidental way and whom he thenceforth saw almost
daily, learning all the while, and growing
There were others too.
~learer
and stronger.
The underground intellectuals of
Munich -- middle-aged or older men most of them, whom the
Nazis had eliminated from public life -- were an impressive
bunch.
They
included such pe.ople. as Theodor Haecker, trans-
lator and exponent of Newman and Kierkegaard. 27
•.•'
Arid there w.ere friends among the· students, especially
... m9ng
th~
military-medical students•
The closest among them
was -was-·Alexander Schmorell, son of a Russian mother whom ·
~~'los~ ••~
an infant and who was brought up by a Russian
nurse after the family's flight to Germany, where his father
married again and became
great
an~
friends.
a well-known
physician.
Alex had a
romantic love tor Russia, which he shared with his
Then there was Christoph Probst, the only one of
�them to be married, a very young father of two children, with
a third on the way.
And finally there was Willi Graf.
Sophie Scholl came to Munich to study biology and philosophy in the spring of t942, when she had just turned 21,
She was three years younge:ti than her brother Hans.
She had
had to do her labor yg war service before being allowed to
become a student.
Kurt Huber.
Her philosophy professor was a man called
He was a somewhat strange man, but, as far as
the Scholle and their friends were concerned, the best man in.
the university.
his Theodicy.
university.too.
They all went to his lectures on Leibniz and
And they got to know him better outside the
And he introduced them to other people.
They met for readings and discussions.
In· the early summer of t 942 the. first leaflets turned up.
Hans Scholl:·. had started them, and he had been so discreet
that even his sister at first did not know he was connected
with them until she saw a marked passage in a book he had.
It was a passage in Schiller's es.say on the legislation of
Lycurgus and Solon and was clearly the source of the first
l.eaflet.
This had had long quotations from the essaya
Considered in.the light of what he wished to accomplish, the legislation of Lycurgus is a masterpiece
of ·political science and human psychology. He wanted to establish a powerful, self-sustaining, indestructible state. Political strength and durability
were his aim, and this aim he accomplished insofar
as circumstances permitted. The admiration aroused
by a superficial glance at· his achieveme.nt must give
way to strong condemnation when his aims are compared with those of humanity. Everything may be
sacrificed to the best interests of the state ex·. oept the end ·which the state· itself is designed to
serve. The state is not.an end in itself. It is
�important only as a means to the realization of an
end which is no other than the development of all
the faculties of man and cultural progress. If a
constitution hinders this development, if it hinders
intellectual progress, it is harmful. and worthless,
no matter how ingeniously it is conceived and how
perfectly it may function in its own way. Its durability is to be regretted rather than admired. It
is only a prolongation of evil. The longer such a
state exists, the more detrimental it becomes •••
Political service was achieved and the ability to
perform it was developed by sacrificing all moral
sensibilities. Sparta knew nothing of conjugal
love, maternal affection, filial piety, friendship.
·It recognized only citizens and civil virtues •••
A state law required the inhuman treatment of
slaves. In these hapless victims mankind itself
was insulted and maltreated. In the Spartan code
the dangerous principle was laid down that men were
to be considered as a means, not as an end, thus
· abolishing by law the foundations of natural rights
and morality. All morality was sacrificed to achieve an end which can be valuable only as a means
to the establishment of this morality •••
How much more beautiful is the spectacle of the
rough warrior, Caius Marius, in his camp before
Rome who sacrifices vengeance and victory because
he cannot bear the sight of a mother's tears •••
The republic of Lycurgus could endure only if the
mental development of the people was arrested, and
thus it could maintain its existence only if it
failed to fulfill the highest and only true purpose
of political government.
This firsi5 leat.fl(tt b.ad · lMqun w;t:bb the wends t
Nothing is so unworthy of a civilized nation as allowing itself to be "governed" without opposition
by an irresponsible clique subject to base inatincts.
It is surely a fact that to-day every honest German
is ashamed of his government. Who among us has any
conception of the dimensions of the shame that will
befall us and our children when one day the veil
has fallen from our eyes and the most horrible of
crimes -- crimes that infinitely exceed all measure
-- reach the light of day? If the German people are
already so corrupted and decayed in thair iniost
being that they do not raise a hand and,frivolously
trusting. in a questionable law of history,yield up
�·~
--
..
'1l"'f."'
----------------
-
#.
-~·
''
'
-54man•s highest possession, that which raises man above alllother creatures, if they surrender free
will, the freedom of man to seize and turn the
wheel of history in accordance with rational decisions1 if they are so devoid of all individuality,
have already gave so far along the road toward becoming a spiritless and cowardly mass - - then, then
8
indeed they deserve their downfall ••• 2
To anticipate, let me say that there were six leaflets
in all, in thousands of copies.
mously and secretly.
They were distributed
anony~
Those, many of them, that were sent
through the mails, were mostly posted in the cities to which
they were sent, in order to avoid any hint to the police that
Munich was the headquarters of this activity.
Risky train
journeys were undertaken by several members of the group to
take leaflets to cities like Stuttgart, Augsburg, Vienna,
Salzburg.
Willy Graf even took a duplicating machine to a
friend in the West and recruited friends and sympathizers and
collaborators where he could.
Recipients were assured that
their names had simply been taken from telephone directories
to free them of the fear that they might be on some list and
thus exposed to punishment.
The leaflets usually had quotations towards the end of
their text, as this first one used Schiller on the lawgivers.
The second leaflet begana
It is impossible to engage in intellectual discussion with National Socialism because there is nothing intellectual about it. It is false to speak of
a National Socialist philosophy (Weltanschauung)
for if there were such a thing, one world have to
try by means of analysis and discussion either to
prove its validity or to fight it. In reality,
however, we have a totally different picturea even
in its first beginnings this movement depended on
the deception of one's fellowman, even then it was
�-55rotten to the core and could save itself only by
constant lies, After all, Hitler states in an early edition of "his" boo)c.{a book written in the
worst German I have ever read, and yet it has been
el.evated to the rank of a Bible in this nation of
poets and thinkers)• 'It is unbelievable to what
extent one must deceive a people in order to rule
it.• If at the start this cancerous growth in the
nation was not too noticeable, .it was only because
there were still enough forces at work that operated for the good, so that it was kept at bay, As
it grew larger, however, and finally attained power •••
the tumor broke open, as it were ••• The ma.jori ty of
former opponents went into hiding, the German intelligentsia fled to a dark cellar, there, like
night-shades away from light and sun, gradually to
choke to death~ Now the end is at hand. Now it is
our task to find one another again, to enlighten
each other, never to forget and never to rest until
even the last man is persuaded of the urgent need
of his struggle· against this system. When thus a
wave of rebellion goes through the land, when 'it
is in the air,• when many join the cause, then in
a last mighty effort this system can be shaken off.
After all an end in terror is preferable to an endless terror.
The leaflet went on to speak of the murder of Jews ·-,.
J00,000 in Poland -- and of Poles, and of the need for more
than compassion.
Doing noth.ing constituted complicity.
they tolerated these things, Germans were guilty.
Now that
they had recognised the Na,zis in ·their true colours,
had the duty to destroy them.
If
G~rmans
This leaflet ended with quo-
tat ions from Lao-Tse.29
The third discussed forms of government and utopias
the highest of them, it said, being the City of God.
present state was a dictatorship of evil.
--
The
Something had to
be done about it and cowardice must not hide behind·a cloak
of prudence.
Only passive resistance could be offered, but
that must be offered wherever possible.
Military victory
over Bolshevism must not be the prime concern of Germans, but
�-56on the contrary the defeat of the Nazis.
There were sugges-
tions for various forms of sabotage, though no blueprint for
general action could be given and everyone should use what
opportunities offered in whatever way seemed best.
This leaf-
let concluded with a quotation from Aristotle's Politics, a
passage
on
tyranny.JO
The fourth leaflet had an appeal to Christians to attack evil where it was strongest.
It was strongest in the
power of Hitler • . It had a quotation from Ecclesiastes and
one from the German poet Novalis on Christianity as the
foundation of peace.
It also had a postscript, assuring the
reader that The White Rose was not in the pay of any foreign
power, addingi
"Though we know that National
Soci~list
pow-
er must be broken by military means, we are trying to achieve a renewal from ~ithin."Jt
Then there was a long hiatus1
for the men were sent to
Russia during the long vacations between
semesters~
they saw in the East confirmed them in their resolve.
saw Jews in labor gangs.
prevailing in Poland.
What
Hans
All saw the miserable conditions
All fell in love with the Russians.
When they returned to Munich in November, they resumed
their secret work with redoubled energy and it became quite
feverish.
There were two more leaflets, the last a special
appeal to students and it began with the· shock
the staggering German defeat at Stalingrad.
the "intellectual
w~rkers,"
prod~ced by
The students,
should not allow themselves to
become the tools .of the regime, but put an end to it.
A re-
�-57cent incident at Munich university had shown that the students
could stand up to the Party.
stud.ents.
The nation was looking to the
It ended "Our people are rising up against the
National Socialist enslavement of Europe in a fervent new
breal(through of freedom and honor,"3 2
spec~acular
The incident referred to had in fact been
and encouragings
but it had also been unique.
The Nazis saw
to it that it remained unique.
At the 470th anniversary celebrations of the university.
the Bavarian Gauleiter had addressed a crowd
students, many of them in uniform, on the
of
abQut JOOO
mea~ing q:f
the e-
vent and of the place of students in the German struggle.
As for women students, he had no
objec~ion
to their occupying
places at the university,· but he did not see. why th.ey should
not present the Fuehrer.with children, for
for every year at the universitya
instanc~
a son
if they were not attrac-
tive enough to get a man by their own efforts, he'd be glad
to send one of his adjutants to,.·each one of them and they
could be assured of an enjoyable experience.
At this there was unrest in the auditorium.
Women stu-
dents in the gallery stood up, prepared to'.leave.
stopped.
They were
The other students, especially those in qniform on
the ground floor booed so much that the Gauleiter had to interrupt his speech.
Later he did speak on, but
broken and he kept being interrupted.
th~
spell was
He was furious and
gave the order for the women students to be held in custody.
The leader of the Nazi
studen~
organization demanded a volun-
�-58tary identification of the women protesters upstairs.
24
identified themselves and were arrested at once.
The SS
pushed the other students out of the auditorium.
When they
emerged from the building they found all the rest of the men
students standing outside, like a wall, and giving them an ovation.
they
They had stood there for over an
~roke
stude~t
hou~.
In groups
through the cordon, got inside, seized the Nazi
leader, beat him up and held him as hostage until
the women were set free.
At that moment the police arrived.
The students also turned on the police and fought their way
through into the city.
But some of them were
atmosphere, however, was electric.
The
arre~ted.
Students of the most di-
vers,e disciplines suddenly found themselves acting together.
And suddenly all were friends1 and the population qf Munich
was on their" side.
The Gauleiter called another meeting a couple of weeks
la.ter and threatened to close the university if peace and
order were not restored.
The men·would be seQt to.the front,
the women into the factories.
his earlier speech.
set free.
But he also, apologized for
Those who had been arrested had been
Clearly the students had won, this round.
But it
was to be the only round.
It may even have led to the end of the White Rqse.
The
Scholls and their friends were, of course·, immensely. heartened by this experience of spontaneous solidarity against a
foulmouthed party functionary.
But they may have overesti-
mated the permanent potential that could be mobilized against
�-59the Party.
In any case they. now became bolder.
things on the walls of Munich in the night•
ler," and "Freedom."
this.
They wrote
"Down with Hit-
They managed not to get caught doing
They were armed to shoot their way out if necessary.33
But on 18 February 1943 Hans and Sophie took a suitcase
full of eopies of the last leaflet to the university, spread
them about in corridors and on the stairs while lectures were
in progress and doors closed, and finally threw the rest down
the central
lightsh~ft
from an upper floor.
The janitor saw
them and took instant action to apprehend them.
They were
arrested and taken away.
That was on a Thursday.
Their trial, together with
Christoph Probst, was on the following Monday.
It was conai..
ducted by the People's Court and they were sentenced to
death and beheaded the same day.34
week between
th~ir
There was less than a
being caught and being dead.
Graf, Schmorell and Huber were also arrested and tried,
together with eleven other defendants, in mid-April•
sentences ranged from acquittal to death.
The
Three women stu-
dents, for instance, got prison sentences for failing to report treasonable activities,35
Graf, Huber, and Schmorell were sentenced to death, Huber having already been expelled from the Faculty of the university by his colleagues.
doctorate,36
He had also been deprived of his
'
.
In the case of.the first three, incidentally,
the Schells and Probst, there had been an assembly of the
student body, called by the Nazi student organization, in the
�-60evening of the day on which the three were executed, to denounce them and to declare the loyalty of the student body
to the Fuehrer and the National Socialist Movement·.
dance, again, at least according to the report of the
Atten:..
Dis~
trict Student Leader, was about 3000,37
The parents of Graf and Schmorell asked for clemency.
Hitler personally turned down the request,38
Huber's pub-
lisher asked for a stay of execution, to enable his· author
to finish his book on Leibniz, arguing that it would redound
to the greater glory of German culture.
He was allowed to
work on it in his; -pr1son cell until July, b_ut he did not
finish his book before they took him to the guillotine,39
There were about twenty of them in-use in Germany at that
time,
Willi Oraf died last, in October of that year, 1.94J.
Before asking for your ·permission to add a postlude and
a:.·postscript to our discussion on rhetoric in politics and
the di.fference between manipulation and persuasion, I should
like· to sum up in two sentences what the story of these students seems to me to shows
In order to recognize manipula-
tion and to think not only analytically but also constructively about politics, they needed Plato and Aristotle _and
suchlike authors.
To find the courage and strength needed
to stand up to the power of the manipulators, they
~eeded
faith,
But here is a postlude, on a matter closely connected
with the subject of rhetoric and persuasion.
�-61~he
five students of the White Rose all sang in the Munich
Bach Choir, until the end.
out .!h!!. they sang.
was.
One day I hope to be able to find
But I can imagine what kind of thing it
It was not all Bach but it was all serious music, I am
sure, music whose words mattered.
What you let out of your mouth always matters, of course.
At a time when language has become debased, corrupted, mean-.
ingless or prohibited, what you sing matters even more.
It
would be interesting to know what the Nazis allowed to be
sung (and perhaps I shall have a chance to find out some time).
I know that Haendel was censored -- some of Haendel.
Willi
Graf went to two performances of the Messiah in December 1942,
his last advent season.
After the first occasion he wrote in
his diary that it was an indescribable experience.
What
pressed him ..were the faith and piety behind the work.
•
im~
He
went again, though the second time there was standing room
only.
Again he was deeply impressed, especially by the
ari~
"I know that my Redeemer liveth.". He mentioned it again in
a letter to his sister -- they had heard it together -- his
\_,
last letter, dictated to the prison chaplain before his
execution. 40
But Bach is much more powerful with his words than Haendel and I just w.onder what the Nazis did with cantatas and
J.
motets, or, for that matter, with the Magnificat --
- ...
~usicr
.
that, for instance, mentions God's son or servant Israel.
Could they allow it to be sung when they had decided to
force
'-I;
every male Jew to have the middle name "Israel" on his pap(:!rs?
1"'.
�(
\
-62This was for purposes of identification and segregation, like
the later edict forcing all Jews to wear the yellow Star of
David on their clothes.
Could the
Na~is
allow choirs to sing
"Sing unto the Lord a new song, and his praise in the congregation of saints.
h~m1
Let Israel rejoice in him that made
let the children of Zion be joyful in their King ••• ?"
That
is Psalm 149, verse 1 and 2, which Bach set in his motet
"Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied.•
Or could they permit, even
in Latinif: the singing of Luke 1, v. 54-55•
11
He has helped
his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy1
as he
spoke to our fathers·, to Abraham and to his seed forever,"
seeing how .Bach hammers home the "Abraham" in his Magnificat ..
and spreads the seed throughout the ages?
Could the Nazis
allow such words to be sung, especially when they were set in
such persuasive and memorable ways?
Or did they insist that
only songs to the !l!U! lord or idol should be sung and those
that did not too explicitly conflict with the new idolatry?
I do not know all the relevant deliberations of the
Ministry
or
Propagan.da or the Ministry of Education or the
Reich Chamber of Music.
that kind of thing.
They were the.controlling bodies for
But I know, for instance, that at one of
his staff conferences in April 1942, Dr. Joseph Goebbels, ·the
Minister of Popular Enlightenment and Propaganda, explained
that he prohibited a broadcast of the
Mo~art Reguie~
the pre-
vious December because, and I quote, "its very sombre and
.
,. _·;
' .
world-negating text would have had a bad effect on moraleln ..
...
:.
•
•
:'"~·
• ·-·1-':·.
the exceptionally serious situation then preva1l1ng1" adding"
�-6Jthat this was, however, an exceptional case.
One could not,
hesa1d, "destroy or regard as non-existent the earlier cultural achievements of a people just because· the content of
these cultural achievements .. ·ran "counter to a new ideology•
and he explained "that a distinction must be made between a.
historical approach and enjoyment of the cultural achievements or earlier periods on the one side and the development
of one's own ideology on the other.• 41
The bodies charged with ideological control must have
weighed the risk of dangerous Christian indoctrination on
the one side against the risk, on the other side, not. only of
jettisoning the German cultural heritage, but also of making
the anti-Christian character of the. regime too clear.
With the churches under pressure and severely circumscribed in 'what.they were permitted to do and say, and persecuted, and prosecuted, when they exceeded those limits, concert halls and choral societies were obvious places where the
old creed might still be fostered surreptitiously.
Lest you· think t.hat I overestimate this factor, .let me
give you three examples, two on the Christian side, one on
the Nazi side.
A brother of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, not a par-
ticularly churchy man, was in a Berlin jail under sentence of
death.
When the only surviving brother who was still at li-
berty {Dietrich, too, was in prison) vis'ited his br.other
Klaus and said how nice it was that Klaus could hear, in his
mind·' s ear, the music of the Matthew Passion when he read the
score he had in his pri.son cell, Klaus said a
"But the words
�-64also!
The words!"42
Willi Graf recorded in his diary on ? December 1942 (the
day, incidentally, after that first Messiah) that he spent
the first part of the evening singing in the Bach Choir.
thought it went quite well and addeda
He
"The words of the
Christmas songs and of the Schuetz motet have their special
meaning.
It is good to be able to do such things."4J
Another
thing he did right up to the end was to prepare and perform
church litargies with his friends.44
Despite the soldiering
and the medical stud.ies !!ll! the secret political work, he
found time and clearly felt a need for it.
The Nazis, on the other hand, made children, and grownups, sing songs .for their Movement and for Germany, and
dinned into all the doctrine that there was arid would be no
Germany but-.Hitler's Gerll8.ny.
And the boys who had innumerable
times sung the words -Germany, here we are1
we consecrate
our death to thee as our smallest deeds
when death comes to
our ranks, we shall be the great .seed."
were, of course,
singing something plagiarized from Tertullian, a perversion
of Tertullian, who said that the blood of the martyrs is the
seed of Christians.
These phild martyrs were sacrificed,
and sacrificed themselves, !or the fatherland up to the last
minutes of the war, manning the anti-aircraft guns and fighting the Russians at the approaches and in the streets of Berlin
-- 15 and 16 year olds formed into local battalions. As a
surviving female Hitler Youth leader put ita
make true the vows of their songs."45
"They wanted to
�-65However relaxed Goebbels may have sounded in that
Propaganda .Miniatry conference in t942, the internal intelligence network .of the SS never relaxed its vigilance where
the church.es were conce·rned and kept complai,ning about "church
music as a means of denominational propaganda.•
"Denomina-
tional" meant roughly what in America is sometimes called
Sectarian,"
The word was used instead of "Christian," which
was what was reall;t: meant.
The fiction, which was very.
strenuously maintained, was that the Nazi Party and Movement
-- which in its official Party Program, promulgated in 1922
and.never carried out, had subscribed to something nebuloua
called
11
Positive Christianity"46 (a matter I shall be glad
to enlarge upon if asked) -- the fiction was that the Nas1•
wanted abo"-9.
all to untte all Germans and therefore had to
fight the divisive activities of the Protestant and Catholic
11
denominationa."
But in thls Security Service report from
which I have quoted, as in others, -it is crystal clear that
what they were in tact fighting was the Christian faith itself, and any attempt to foster it,
This report, in October
1940, complained of the systematic expansion of performances
of church music all over the Reich, both in churches and in
concert halls.
These events, the report said, were of high
quality and very popular, made most effective propaganda for
the churches, and were apt to call forth' ovations from the
audiences that amounted to demonstrations.4?
In April 194J, a long report on church influence on the
young had a special section on the dastardly use the churches
�-66were making of singing as a vehicle of Christian education. 48
In January 1944, another long report on liturgical reform and
the extra-mural promotion of church music, mentioned the fact
that in Alsace, for instance, the Protestant church was sys-
' tematically replacing sentimental hymns of the 19th century
by musically more valuable chorales of the
mation.
time of the Refo·r-
Even brass music was being revived in the reform
movement.49
All this caused. great and, I think, ·justified c·oncern to
the watchdogs of the regime.
did not even
realit~
What they did not say, perhaps
(like the deaf adder that stoppeth her
ear)50 was that brass in church music did not just add to the
fun (or, as we might say here, enjoyment, as of cheese cake
with. cherries) but has a rousing and invigorating effects
they may not have known that the chorales of the time of the
Reformation were not just musically superior to the soppy
stuff of the Romantic era, but textually too.
The Germans had begun before ·any other people to sing
hymns in their own language.
translated the Bible,
creatin~
When Luther came, he not only
something .that is worthy to
stand beside the English Authorized Version (the American
"King James Bible") but also, being very musi.cal, made the
chorale into a most important and powerful vehicle of the new
persuasion, making congregations sing.
He put a
lo~
lic Latin hymns into German and wrote more himself.
of CathoSince
!h!D, the Protestants in Germany have always had the better
hymns than the Catholics -- until both declined in the cen-
�-67tury of Beethoven, Schubert, and Wagner.
When the crucial
contlict W:ith the neo-pagan movement approached and during
the crisis itself, most musical Christians, but especially
the Protestants, realized they needed more to sustain them
than the spineless songs of the t9th century, the needed
words and music that really meant something.
And whereas
the Catholics were largely preserved from apostasy by the
clarity of their doctrine and the prescribed observances of
their faith, Protestants may be said, I think, to have been
pulled out of their.initial confusion.not only by some of the
more clearheaded and courageous parsons.and. laymen and laywomen, but also by a return to the truths proclaimed in Bible
and Hymnal.
And perhaps even wordless music, provided it is pure,
has some such power.51
Kurt Huber, this professor of philosophy, also taught -and wrote on -- music, both the physiology and psychology of
hearing and music, and, his special love, .!2.!!! music, the
real rooted stuff - ... that was in fact being rooted out,
trampled underfoot, by "the march of history," by this mass
movement that called itself "voelkisch."
Though physically.
somewhat handicapped -- he had. had infantile paralysis --· he ·
went to great lengths to hear and preserve what still existed ·
of such music.
A companion he once took on a musical moun-
tain trip to a rather inaccessible part of the Bavarian Alps,
to hear the yodelling.of the dairymaids there, reports that
�-68•he·n they left and had already gone a certain distance, these
wpmen sent a kind of farewell yodel after them.
Huber stopped
in his tracks, asked his companion for writing material, and
jotted down the yodel in figured bass notation,
so, tears· of emotion streamed down his face,52
know.what that emotion was.
As he did
I th,ink I
It was the emotion that. made
Victor Zuckerkandl speak· of "the miracle of the octave• and
on which, if I understand him aright,
st. Thomas (Aquinas)
bases one of his proofs of God, the one from·"governance.•
That may be an odd one to think of when the world was -- and
still is
so visibly out 9f joint.
All the more moving, I
would say, to hear or see an ex·ample, a representation, or
· symbol of that governance.
harmony,
To hear the pre-established
�-------------..
-69Notes
t,
See, for instance, Peter Loewenberg, "The psychohistoric.al origins of the Nazi youth cohort," The American Historical Review, volume 76, No. 5 (December 19?t),
PP• t4S?-1502,
2.
The Treat of Peace Between the Allied and Associated
Powers and German
with amendments and Other Treat
En a ements si ned at Versailles June 2
Part VIII was on Reparation. Its Section I General
Provisions) started with Article 231 which read1 "The
Allied and Associated Governments affirm and Germany
accepts the responsibility of Germany and her allies
for causing all the loss and damage to which the Allied
and Associated Governments and their nationals have .been
subjecte4 as a consequence of the war imposed upon them
by the aggression of Germany and her allies ...
J. T.S, Eliot, Four Quartets (London 1944), P•
9~
4.
Max Domarus, ed., Hitler.
5.
Theodore
6.
Katholisches Kirchenblatt fur das Bistum Berlin, XXX, No.
28 (15 July 1934).
Reden und Proklamationen 1 2t enossen.,.
1 4 • Kommentiert von einem deutschen Ze
Munich 19 5 , p. 20 •
c.
So~ensen,
Kennedy (New York 1966), P• 271.
A copy of the film, what remains of it, can be seen and
heard at the National Archives in Washington. A parti•l
transcript of the trial also. survived. For one relevant
fragment see Volksgerichtshofs-Prozesse zum 20,. Juli 1944 1 .
Transkri~te von Tonbandfunden. Herausgegeben vom
Lautarchiv des Deutschen Rundfunks (April 1961), p. 1221
for another see Gert Buchheit, Richter in roter Robe,
Preisler, Prlsident des Volksgerichtshofes (Munich 1968),
P• 24?.
a.
_
Bekenntnis der Professoren an den deutschen Universitaten
und Hochschulen zu Adolf Hitler und dem.nationalsozialistischen Staat, tJberreicht vom Nationalsozialistischen
Lehrerbund Deutschland / Sachsen (Dresden, n.d.), PP• 1Jt4 and J6-37 (Heidegger) and 15-17 and 38-40 (Hirsch).
Ernst Nolte, "Zur Typologie des Verhal tens der H.ocnschullehrer im Dritten Reich," Aus Politik und Geschichte,
Beilage. zur Wochenzeitung "Das Parlament," B 46/65
(17 November 1965), P• 11, For a series of lectures on
the subject of the Germari universities in the Third Reich,
�-10given at the University of Munich, see Die deutsche Universitat im Dritten Reich., Acht Beitr•ge (Munich 1966).
Fritz Leist, one of ·the contributors, who discusses pos~ibilities and limits of resistance at universities,
knew Willi Graf well and helped him and the White Rose
group.
10.
Karl Dietrich Bracher, The German Dictatorship.· The oriins structure and effects of National Socialism
Translated from the German by Jean Steinberg ••• New York
1970), P• 268r it is a quotation from ·Heidegger's Rec.:.
toral Address, Die Selbstbehauptung der deutschen Universi tit. ( Breslau 19J4), J>P• 22 ff •. ·
11.
Walter z. Laqueur, Young German*. A history of the German youth movement {New York 19 2), p. 191.
12.
Bekenntnis der Professoren (see note 8), P• 29, and for
the original "Ein Ruf an die Gebildeten der Welt," P• 5.
.
.
.
.
1 J.
Treaty of Peace .between the United Statee of America, the
British Empire, France, Italy and Japan, and Poland,
signed at Versailles, June 28, 1919 -- especially Articles
2,J, · a.nd 7-12. Also the letter, dated June 24, 1919,
addressed to M. Paderewski by the Presiden~ of the Conference transmitting to him the Treaty to be signed by
Poland under Article 93 of the Treaty of Peace with Ger-·
many.
14.
For the most comprehensive treatment of the subject see
Raul Hilberg, The Destruction of the European Jews
(Chicago t 961).
15.
Hermann Rauschning, H"tler s eaks. A series of Conversations with Adolf Hitler on.his Real Aims London 1939),
p. 220. The quotation went on1 ttlt is a blemish, like
circumcision."
16. · Inge Scholl, Die Weisse Rose (Frankfurt 1955), PP•. 101-102.
For an American version see Inge Scholl, Students Against
T rann a The Resistance of the White Rose Munich 1 4219 3. Tran lated ••• by Arthur R. Schultz Middletown,
Connecticut 19?0).
·
17.
This account of his life is largely based on Gewalt und
Gewissen. Willi Graf und die "Weisse Rose." Eine
Dokumentation von Klaus Yielhaber in· Zusammenarbeit mit
Hubert Hanisch und Anneliese Knoop-Graf (Freiburg 1964).
18.
Ibid,, PP• 24-25.
19 • .!ill•• PP• 37-JB.
20.
!bid., P• JS.
�-?1-
22,
Ibid.,
Ibid.,
2,'.l.
llll·. PP• 18-19.
24.
Ibid.• PP• 25-27.
21.
PP• .38..; 39.
P• 39.
..
l;
What follows is largely based on the bo.ok by his surviving sister, Inge Scholl, Die Weisse Rose (see note 16).
Dietricb· Bonhoeffer, Widerstand und Ergebung, Aufzeichnt!!ABlll
aus der Haft. H.e.rausgegeben. von Eberhard Bethge
{Munich 1964) 1 p. 1.0. cf.· :L'etters and Papers from Prison.
Revised edition,
1967), P• 2.
Edited by Eberhard Bethge {New York
.
Christian Petry, Studenten aufs Schafott. Die Weisse Rose
und .ihr Scheitern (Munich t 968). PP• 36~42 •
28. . Ibid., pp. 1,5)-155. Translation of Schiller taken from
Frederick Ungar, ed., Friedrich Schiller. An Anthology
f'or our Tim.e. In new En lish tra.nsla.tions an the ori:-.
gi.nal' German, • ,
New York 19 59 , pp.' 21 J-219,
.29~
Ibid., PP• 156-158 •
30.
Ibid., .l'P• 159-161,
31.
Ibid., PP• 162-164,,
'.32.
Ibid.,
-
JJ.
Ibid., PP• 98-101.
PP• 164-167,
J4 • .!£.!.g., PP• 175-183 for text of indictment arid press notice about tria~ and execution. Also Students against
Tyranny (see note 16), PP• 105-118 and 148, for translation of indictment, se~tence, and press notice.
(n~te 27)t
PP•
195~211.
for
JS.
Ibid., PP• 119-13? and Petry
text of sentence.
J6.
~., PP•· 219-220,
J?,
Ibid., PP• 220-221.
JB..
~.,
J9.
Clara Huber, ed., Kurt Huber zum GedAchtnis. Bildnis
eines Menschen,·Denkers und Forschers, dargestellt voo
sei_nen Freunden (Regensburg 1947), PP• JO-J2.
4o.
Gewalt und Gewissen (see note t?}, PP• 87, 89, and 12J •.
p. 21 t.
�ST. JOHN"S COLLEGE LIBRARY
-'\#]£~ HUI lll 1
-72-
_
41.
Willi A, Boelcke, ed., The Secret Conferences of Dr.
Goebbels. The Nazi Pro a anda War 1
-1
• Transla.ted ••• by Ewald Osers
:ew York 1970 • P• 234.
42.
Eberhard Bethge, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Man of Vision.
Man of Courage. Translated from the German by Eric
Mosbacher, Peter and Betty Ross, Frank Clarke, William
Glen-Doepel. Under the editorship of Edwin Robertson
(New York 1970), p~ 8)2.
43.
Gewalt und Gewissen (see note 17), P• 87.
44 • .!.!?.!9,., PP•
89~93
and
95.
45.
Meli ta Maschmann·, Fazi t. Kein Rechtfertigungsversuch,.,
(Stuttgart 1963), p. 159.
46,
Walther Hofer, e"d,, Der Nationalsazialisrnu,.c;;.
1933-1945~
(Frankfurt 1960), pp. JO-J1.
Dokumente
Heinz Boberach, ~d., Berichte des SD und der Gestapo
ttber Kirchen und Kirchenvolk in Deutschland 1 4-1 44
Mainz 1971 , PP•
8,
48.
.I.hi2·' p. 801.
49.
.!.Q!g., PP• 877-880,
50 •
Psalm 58.(57), verse 4.
.51
I
Willi Graf clearly felt something of the sort when he
made the following entry in his diary, on 21 January
194), after hearing two cello suites by Bacha "This
music has a tremendous seriousness and with it a
structure of a kind rarely encountered elsewhere. It
tells of an order of which at one time a man was capaple.
We can only receive it for a future which is going to
be quite different." (Gewalt und Gewissen -- see note
17 -- po 94.) Compare what Stravinsky wrote when he
attacked the notion of music as "expression1" "The
phenomenon of music is given to us with the sole purpose of establishing an order in things, including, and
particularly, the coordination between .!!lfill and ~.
·
To be put into practice, its indispensable and single
requirement is construction. Construction once completed;
this order has been attained, and· there is nothing more
to be said. It would be futile to look for, or expect
anything else from it. It is precisely this con~truction,
this achieved order, which produces in us a unique emotion having nothing in comm'On with our ordinary sensations and our responses to the impressions of daily
life." (Igor Stravinsky, An Autobiography -- New York
1 962 -- p. 54. )
Kurt Huber (see note 39). P• 113,
�
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Student rebellion and the Nazis (two parts)
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Typescript of a lecture delivered on in two parts on February 18 and 25, 1972 by Beate Ruhm von Oppen as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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Annapolis, MD
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1972-02-18
1972-02-25
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lec Ruhm von Oppen 1972-02-18, 25
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Sound recording: <a title="Part One (Audio)" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3598">Part one</a>
Sound recording: <a title="Part Two (Audio)" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3590">Part two</a>
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Student rebellion and the Nazis (part one)
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Audio recording of part one of a lecture delivered on in two parts on February 18 and 25, 1972 by Beate Ruhm von Oppen as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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Annapolis, MD
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1972-02-18
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sound
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Sound Recording: <a title="Part Two (Audio)" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3590">Part two<br /></a>
Typescript: <a title="Typescript" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3589">Part one and two</a>
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lec Ruhm von Oppen 1972-02 (Part I of II)
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Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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01:10:44
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Student rebellion and the Nazis (part two)
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Audio recording of part two of a lecture delivered on in two parts on February 18 and 25, 1972 by Beate Ruhm von Oppen as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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Annapolis, MD
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1972-02-25
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Audio recording: <a title="Part One (Audio)" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3598">Part one</a>
Typscript: <a title="Typescript" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3589">Part one and two</a>
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lec Ruhm von Oppen 1972-02 (Part II of II)
Friday night lecture
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Text
Ev!I Brenn
..
St. John's Callega, Mey 1972
An Appreciation of K•nt 'e Critigue ~
.!:!:!!!..
Reason ..
for Students
An Introduction
·Pert I. · THE CRITICAL ENTERPRISE
a. Tha Problems
b. Tha
c.
Gr~tique
The System
Part II. THE CRITiCAL HAN
11.
b.
Tha Pradlc21ta
c:: ~
Th• Object ·
d.
(Exp1rience)
11.
The Cri tigup
The Subject
Tha
£!! f!.!!!.
MQ~rli,,g
R!t!!pn in 1ts final f'orm hes 884 pegaa.
Of these
tho l••t. five ara clevotad tn • history of metephysice. . In 1t Kent c'eete en
aya aver ell the efforts prec1ding
and eaea·them ell ae structures
his~
Then ha cla1ee with these words (my italics):
in ruine (8 BBO).
critic'l way elone 1e still ap11n.
11
The
If the randar hes be11n obliging end patient.
anough ta wander over it in mv company, he mev
now
judge whether, if he le
willing to contribute his part in order t _ meka this. foot-path a royal road,
a'
acmathing which meny centuries heve been unable to accomplish may not be
attained before
lb!. ct111pletian
.
gf !b.!, preeent century:
I
namely, thet human
raeson ehall, in thane matters which have et ell times, though before this
in vain, engaged ite desire ta know, be given c1311plate aatisfection."
The
vaer ie 1?87.
•A,S : pegin~tion of first end second editions; other works are cited
paragraph, where po1eible; P: Prolegcmap] !e, An~ Future Metaphysics.
by
�I have quoted this last paragraph to establish th·e full tremendousness
of this book.
It means revolution; more swift, radical, and complete than '
the two great political revolutions in France and Pmerica between which
it falls.
Kant himself emphasizes this revolutionary character, taking as
his paradigm the Copernican Revolution, that change of paint of view which
turns the human being from the quietly central spectator of the moving heavens
into the circulating observer who sees in nature only his awn restlessness
(8 XVI, XXIII, n.).
I shall try in this presentation to work out as exactly
as possible the effect of our acceptance of this reversal on our humanity,
but to do this it will be necessary to try to strip the Critique of those
defensive outworks which, while intended to make the newly established
position of liberation secure, really turn it into a new orthodoxy •. For
like all radical positions, the Critique is meant to be completely and
irresistibly compelling, which means that those who yield to its compulsion
and join, so ta speak, the party, must come to see their position as given and
obvious and in no way wonderful.
This lack of wonder is just what Kant
aims at when he says that within the next two decades human reason phall have
its desire to know completely satisfied.
The compulsion of the Critique is expressed by Kant in the sentence:
critical way alone is still open.''
"The
Therefore, if we want to remain open to
the impact of the book, we must refuse to be herded along this road, though
we must follow it.
We shall try to look at the Cri tigue not "critically",
that is, as insiders, but appreciatively, .as outsiders.
This has one immediate
consequence for our reading of the text -- those compelled to live within
the system must tinker with it constantly to make it livable, but an outsider
can afford to take it in its integrity.
I shall, thGrefore, accept Kant's
clear statements to the effect that his system was in every part complete
2
�in the first edition of 1781 and ·that he made no change or addition when he
revised the text for the secoAd edition, and desired none to be made subsequently (8 XXXVIII).
To avoid the compul_ion of the "critical way" we must see what it i!'>, and
s
there is only one way to do that, which is to regard the Critigue, as Kant
himself does, as a great dwelling, an architectural work (B 736), erected on
the ruins of preceding structures, through which we allow ourselves to be led
as prospective inhabitants, the while seeing_ more and different matters than
our guide intended and thus preserving our inner independence.
Let me
i~lustrate
what I mean by simply launching into . this brief liberating tour of the Critigue.
The first part of this presentation will, then, deal with the Critical
Enterprise as a whole, under three headings:
the Problems, the Critique, the
System.
Part I
THE CRITICAL ENTERPRISE
a. . The Problems
The outworks and forecourts of the Critigue are the problems through
which Kant compelS .: everyone to enter his book.
Let me first road them off
(B 20 ff.):
How is pure mathematics possible?
How is pure natural science possible?
How is metaphysics possible?,
and finally, the translation into Kant's technical language of these three
I
together (8 19):
How are a priori synthetic judgments possible?
The first three questions express Kant's two mpin preoccupations for many
years before the critical answer came to him, namely the value and trustworthiness of Newton's mathematical · science of moving bodies on the one hand,
3
�en.cf the self'-coritradictoriness ·and uncertainty of metephyai.c s on the other.
Vet they constitute not so much the opening of en inquiry as the gates to
the straight end nerraw path of a eoiution.
unwitting captives of
Kant'~
cestle, we must
If we ere not to become the
~ecoma
·thoroughly E;11Jere of the
constraints the formulations of these .problems impose on our· way.
First of ell, whet does Kant imply by asking how such kntldledge is
possible? In the case of m~themetics end mathematical physics (Which is
sO'iance only as fer as it is
methemetic~l
(Metaphysical . Principles
.E! Ne1turel .
Science; Intro.)) the question expresses no doubt whatavar about ite actuality
nothing is more
cert~in,
and requires the reader's assent more es a matter
of course, then that methemat1c·a1 ecienca exists end contains binding lewe
(8 X ff., 20). What it does express is e· very peculiar Kantian approach
to what is actual, namely that precisely bec115uea.iit exists . it must be given
a foundation, that we must find the grounds upon which
t~et
which is actually
known can be ours, not only in th13 sense of being ·eveileble ·but else es a
firm and certain poe•eaaion (Pra·kegmiena 5). Metephyeics, on the other hand,
is not en actual science at ell CB 21), since up tc ' the time of the Critigue
there has been, depressingly, no metaphysical ·1ew proved fer whose contradictory an equally convincing proof cannot be constructed; for instance, it
can be equally convincingly demonstrated that the world muet have a beginning
in time and also that it cannot have such a beginning.
Kant calls such
parallel opposing proofs "antinomies" or 11 counter-l&.1e" (8 434), and he hed
been occupied with the devastating pbssibili ty of ccn_ tructing them long
e
before he wrote the Critique.
Therefore the project of finding the grounde
of the poeeibility of metephysice will imply bringing it into being; Kant
will have to find the first uneeseilable metaphysics.
4
�:. •
. Secondly, what doee Kl!lnt 1mpl'y in using the word "pure" in th11 f'1ret
three questions? We must f'iret attand to tha 'vary fact that there.!!,
'
'
'
"pure" -- in contrl!et to ca~teminst•d ""... khlJldledge.
"Pure" is clear_y a
l
key concept of the. Cri tigue E!,. f!:!!:!. Reeeon , er:id it does , indeed, es we shall
see, meen · 11 uncont$nineted by anything alien" (A 11). · We must expect the
irrmsculateness of our conceiving to play a central role in the book. There
·is a further implication: Since pure mathematics and· pure naturel science
have indeed long been actual, while msta_ hVsics, by which Kent st this point
p
understands merely the knabiledge obtained by the pure intellect
not yet in ex1etence _
among men, the former
mu~t
CB XIV), is
represent knowledge which .
is on the one . hand unconteminat.ed by alien ·eeneation, and on the other
altogether inteilectual:
!!.2!.
the implication is that . there muet be a pure !!2!?,-
intellectual knowledge; and indeed, the discovery of a second. faculty of knruledge,
tn every way apposed· to the intellect, a nicul ty capable of pure sensing, wee
Kant• s first cri ticel find CQ!l !t!!..F~m !!29_ Princlplee
Ef. ~. S!npible and
Intellectual World, 1770).
And finally, what does the juxtaposition of the three questions imply
concerning their interrelations? Kant, in
expl~ining
how he came to the
critical enterprise, attributed his awakening frc:m his "dogmatic .slumber", that
is, his faith in the traditional metaphysics, to David Hume (P, Intra.). What
Kant had learned from Hl.llle was precisely · that his own two orig.inal p;reoccupetione (the success of mathematical phy?ics and the natural human predisposition
toward metaphysics) were deeply involved with eech other.
For Hume had pointed
out that a type of connection between ideas, central to all metaphye1ca,
I
.
namely that of cause .lf'ld effect, could be made neither by mere reasoning, nor
by observing events in nature.
For no one has ever seen a cause act ar an
effect ensue·. · If, for instance, one billiard ball hits enother, which thereupon
5
�begins to. mpve, ·a sequence .of distinct events can be obsar\ied, but no element
in this sequence clearly bears any mark of being the "cause" of another which
appears as its "effect"; in Hume'e werda:
nno object ever discovers, by the
qualities which appear to the senses, either
the effects which will arise from
standing IV, 1).
ti
it;~··
~he
causes which produced it, or
(Er!, Enquiry. Concerning Human Under-
But if Hume had thus ·showed that the · central notion of meta-
. physics is unknowable, he had showed as well that ths central notions of
Newtonian physics are superedded to ita observations;. ail our sense experience
can give us is that nature seems to be in the habit (Enquiry V, 1) of following
certain sequences,
b~t
that same of the events of such a
seq~ence
ere the ceusei
af others is not an assertion capable pf experimental verification , e,t ell.
Hume's attack on metaphysics is also an attack an the certainty and
· of science.
But because Hume's
~ssault
Ttiur
aignificenc~
was made with a tw.o-edged &'-'ord, Kent
conceived, and so his questions, taken together, imply, that t .he. defense might
also secure both metaphysics and experimental science et once; this would be the
case
if. !t!!!, former
physi~were
~nothing
.!!!!, .lh!, g_round £!. ~ letter, if the n8W meta-
to be pre-eminently what is nbepind physics", its ground (B 8?3).
Furthennore, Ht.1ne's peculiar proceeding of elevating experience by
attacking its conclueiveneas, conf1:nned Kent in the assumption that there is
only one criterion of certainty and that is purity -- nothing that comes to us
adventitiously, nothing that is given to us by sense experience from the outsidE
can be guaranteed, far yet another observation might reveal an 'alternete eaquenc
which will prove our first conclusions to be neither always nor inevitably
true, net ther universal !1!-J.r. necessary.
certain, then it must
procee~ . fran
If observational science is to be
propositions which are dependent on nothing ·
alien, which ere pure of aensation, Which is to say : . ~ .!:!!!. !.!:!!!!.
first.
!!:!! very
The Latin phrase fer "fran the very first 11 is "a priori" (8 2-3).
6
�We may now recapitulate the assumptions to which Kant's introductory
problems co1T1Tiit us by studying their final enunciation:
"How are a priori
synthetic judgments possible?" (8 19). We see that this formulaion assumes
that
there~
a priori judgments, that is, propositions which arise purely
out of our own faculties .of knowledge.
"synthetic",
It assumes also that these are
"Synthetic" means "put together".
Synthetic judgments are
propositions in which, as opposed to analytic ones, the predicate does not
merely make explicit what is already thought in the subject, but in which truly
different things are put together; we might say simply:
new or interesting
judgments, precisely of the sort science is expected to contain (8 14).
shall leave for later the reason why Kant calls propositions judgments.)
(We
And
finally the enunciation of the problem, in asking about possibility, commits
us to the grounding enterprise.
This means that we accept in fundamental
questions the necessity of perfectly circular argument (8 765).
For as Kant
explicitly shows, to ground the actual means first to find those elements
which make it possible; and when we have, with the aid of a lucky clue,
found such grounding elements, to show that on these and only on these grounds
we can get what we already consider ourselves actually to possess.
Critical
grounds are therefore in some sense like the hypotheses, rationalizirg constructs,
of astronomy (A XVII) • Here, however, the peculiar aptness of .t he Copernican
paradigm begins to come out; just as Copernicus differs from Ptolemy in
refusirig to regard his theory as merely another hypothesis but thinks of
it as revealing the true nature of the heavens, so those grounds are not
intended as mere constructs but as truths (8 800).
Thus aware of the constraints under ·which we enter, let us pass straight
to the central court deer within the dwelling.
on here goes under the name of:
7
The enterprise carried
�b. ·.J.b2. Critique
E! ~
Reason.
Kant uses the word "critique" in a general way to mesn a radical review
of knowledge in terms of its grounds (which, it turns out, ere the faculties of
.
.
.,
'
knowledge), but in its central use the word
h~s
precisely the aggressive
meaning 1t appears to have. ·. Far in the largest middle section of the Cri tigue,
Kant undertakes the negative work which gives the book its nE111e, theexppsure
£!:pure reason·, of reeson on its
(Hence the title of Kant's book has
CliJn.
two meanings -- · 1t refers bath to the destruc.t ion of the pretensions of a
higher faculty, specifically called the reason, anclthe establishment es a
ground of kncwledg. of a lowa1· faculty properly called the ·understanding, though
e
sometimes cCJnprehended under the general term reason.)
The center of the book is, then,
~ha·
scene of devastation.
Here
we
sea
the ruins of all farmer metaphysical enterprises about which .the new edifice
is built. We know fran K nt•e early notee that preeminently this central
·
a
portion .·was called "Critique" and that a suggested title for the whole . work
.
was "On ·the Limits of Senee and Reason".
The critique here practiced is no
longer a search for the ground of knowledge but the annihilating criticism of
any previous metaphysics.
Kant is very explicit about . the centrally negative and destructive ·
character of the Critique (8 23); it is because of this that Moses Mendelssohn
called him the "universal pulverizer".
He regards it es a great purification
which must precede the new era, as e profound reinterpretation of the Socratic
knowledge of ignorance, for while the latter intends to prepare a way into
the apparently unkn0bl1, the critical revelation of the impotence of reason
is intended to prevent for ever· any venture into the provably unknowable
(B 786).
In his Philosophy
E! History,
Hegel, in a penetrating f1 fty page
review, calis Kantian philosophy "enlightenment .made methodical" -- the
8
1
�the central Critique is methodical enlightenment.
In order to understand why the critique of metaphysics is cast in the
f orm of an attack on pure. r e ason it is necessary for a moment to look at the form
of the book itself.
l ooi c ~
text book of
on logic.
All but the first part of it is cast in the form of a
o vg2~ 1 zed
in part like the manual for Kant's own lectures
In fact it rec apitu l a t es, with some signifi cant s hifts, the
parts of Aristotle's Or !=] c:m-- .. or
on
- ~·
-~ ~
11
J1
1strument 11 for the acquisition of knowledge.
i',s such it deals in orde r with the elements of the fcrms of thought, namely
concepts, t heir combinat i on j n ..judgmonts, and finally with inforences, and
t he art of argument.
Categories, _ On
uses the nam 2
(The cDrrr::sporiding Ar :.stotelian treati ses are the
Inter' prot a tiL~ ,
~} v!J c
j: he A
nalytics_ and the I_opics ( B 324).)
Kant
fo:c t\":E! fi rs t two of thes e s ub j Gct matters (which we
th c t is, of syllogisns and t h2 c:1 1 of argume nt, in to ;:.he huge middle section
-i
r .:
c1 ? his book which he calls ':Dialectic", or better, wrranscendental Dialectic".
The u rd "transcendental " literally mea ns noth i ng more than "going
1n
beyond 11 •
Jn the language of thE! s chools those terms CJ re called transcendent
which intend something bByonci s ens o experience, such as the One, the True, the
Good (B 113).
Kant chooses
t he tradi ti cm;
tiJh8t8 11er
lJ
form of this Lc1ord to ma r k his overcoming of
goes beyond experience is transcendent and without
r:redi t unl ess it is ;:; trc:msc r:: nd1:2nta l anst<Jer to the c r i t ical question:
CJ:., 2
the gro unds of s e:nse exporfo nc e ?" (B 25 , 80).
11
What
The opposite of "trans-
c i:mdental 11 is "immanont 11 or dtt.1elling "within 11 experience.
The critical logic
i s therefo re a trans cendental logic, a logic not of the world itself but
o f the conditions of knowing it; as Kant says, a logic of truth (B 87).
f or the word
11
dialec t ic 11 , Kant completes the degradation which Socratic
9
As
�"conversation" had begun ta undergo in Aristotle's Topics (VIII, 1).
There
the dialectic method of argument is that which addresses itself to the
convincing tha interlocutor by likelihoods rather than to the production of ·
truth.
Kant goes further -- dialectic is .simply the logic af illusion (8 349)
end transcendental dialectic is the critique cf the production of illusory .
argt.nnents in the realm beyond sense experience.
We possess, it tums out, a special faculty of deluding ourselves (8 353 ff.).
This faculty is "pure reason", reason by itself, without any alien additions:
human reason on ite q.m is a faculty for -- illusion.
The problems with which
the Critique begins, you will remember, could not i~clude th~ fon:nulation
"How is metaphysics asa science possible" since no one could exhibit such
e science. What I omitted so aay then was that Kant had substituted an
alternate formulation based on the human fact that metaphysics has Qlwaya
been attempted. Kant therefore regards metaphysics as a universal human
activity and asks:
"Hru is metaphysics as a natural disposition possible?••
I had in the last section md.tted the very last statement of one of the
problems of the introduction, which
ia~precisely:
"How is metaphysics as B natural disposition possible?" (8. 22).
Human beings, this question assumes,· do actually have such an inescapable
disposition, for, in the face of never-ending failure, they never cease to
attempt to gain purely intellectual knowledge.
(I might interject here . the
observation that it is a consequence of making a science of the grounds end
faculties of human knC1&Jlec1ge that they all become universal; no hunan soul
can have a nature basically different in constitution from any other -- this
might be
c~lled
the scientific republicanism of the Kantian revolution (8 859).)
We are naturally disposed toward
operation of our reason (8 355 ff.).
metaphysi~s
because of the peculiar
The reason, a dubious English substitute
10
�for the German word
11
Vemunft 11 , which originally means a faculty .for "taking
in", is traditionally that highest knowing faculty, which sees directly into
things.
Kant retains its position as the higher of two cognitive faculties,
but this ranking is now degraded
~higher
means farther removed from experience,
from the illll1ediate production of truth -- secondary (8 362).
this, its tradition al Latin name,
11
As a token of
intellect", is taken from reason and
attached to that primary faculty of thought called the understanding which
we shall look at later.
Reason does no original work of understanding, it
merely uses the concepts and judgments which the logic supplied to it and
combines them into derivative ones called syllogisms or inferences.
This
dependent faculty is, however, by its very nature not content to collect and
combine the matter supplied but insists an exceeding itself.
The Transcendental Dialectic shows haw the faculty of reason, which is
beyond experience, is irresistably, by its very ·nature, compelled to lase
itself in a definite number of definite fundamental logical illusions of the
type of the antinomies I mentioned before.
It does this in the fallowing
way: . it notices that its chains of inferences seem to run backwards in three
ways (B 379):
In the first of these, the premises run backward in such a way
that each prior premise has a more inclusive subject, as in the syllogism
"All men are mortal, Socrates is a man, Socrates is mortal • in which the
i,
subject of the minor premise, Socrates, is narrower than_that of the major,
man.
So also syllogisms regress from consequences to conditions as in
"if-then" syllogisms, and from a disjunctions to a collection of possibilities
as in "either-or" syllogisms.
Now reason is inevitably driven by its own
"interest" to do what it is not fit ta
~o;
ta originate concepts and
judgments which it posits as the principles or absolutely first premises of
each of the three types of chain.
Thus it creates the concept and posits the
11
�existence of 1• . a vary first and all-inclusive subject, 2. every first;
unconditional or fraa condition end 3. a being in which all pose1b1lit1as are
contained. Such illegitimBte creations ere called 1deas of reason, after
the Platonic ideas CB 370). · Different prcceeeesof illusion ere eaeociated .
with each of the three ideea; among them ere those antimonies of metaphysice
which had early disturbed Kant.
Now the ideas of r'aeon are only the logical f01111Ulatiane
.
.
thraa human
.
concerns which . together exhaust
which itself is
or
.
neve~8'11Bra
th~
field of philosophy.
For th•t subject
predicate belonging to another subject but Which
--
rather itself supports ell predicates. is the soul, which belongs only to itself
.
.
while
an· knowledge
but moves
unmo~ed,
belongs to it; end the condition which itself has no cause
spontaneously, describes freedan; and that being
perfect in containing all possibilities is God.
wh~ch
is ·
In questions concerning God,
freedom · and the soul Kant recognizes the totel content of all previ[Jus
metaphysics (8 ·? ,826). He has · just eha.iln that substantial en1111ers to such·
questions ere beyond our cOD1petence.
lie
in
All the old constl'llctions .of metaphysics
ruins within his a.11 . edifice.
Thie;than, le the anewar to the problem: Holil is it possible that we
have a natural
dispositia~
.t werd a study which . brings us nothing .but
undemonetrable, contradictory fictions?
as naturally . . to lead to excesses:
Uur highest faculty is so constituted
lt is the business of
B
critique
of.cur
reaeon(a way to eelf-knDldledga which gives us a radically new version oT'
Socratic ignorance, nemely certified ignorance (A XI, B 22)), to discipline
this prapeneitv by .displaying it clearly • .Kant's promise ti1atour desire to
kn°"' will
c.
~hQrtly
be laid t1:1. ,rest is hence fulfilled.
The Sy1tBll)
· \iav\\ng .briefly surveyed:. the very beginning al")d the middle . of . the Critigue
12
�the time has now come to look at the blueprint of the whole critical edifice,
as set out in the last part of the Cri tigue, which, '. Still in accordance with
its presentation as a logic, is called the Transcendental Doctrine
In his own manual of logic, Kant says:
.E! Method.
"Just as the Doctrine of Elements in
logic has as its content the conditions of the completeness of a knowledge,
so an the other hand the General Doctrine of Method, as the other part of
logic, must treat of the form of a science in general or of the way and the
manner in which the manifold of knowledge is connected ta make a science."
(Loeic 96).
A doctrine of method therefore teaches how to handle and how to
put together the elements or building blocks of a science, how to make them
the mutyally supporting parts of a systematic edifice.
logic is in a special position.
But a transcendental
In mathematics and natural science, as
Kant observes in a work which is the precursor of the Critigue, the method is
the result of investigations in progress and follows upon the science; in
-
pure philosophy alone "the method anticipates every science" (Sensible and
'
.
Intelli51ible World 23).
the method" (B XXII).
And so Kant calls the whole Critique a "treatise on
For the transcendental ' philosophy, defined as the
of the system of principles discovered in the critical enterprise
"id~a"
(B 27), is to serve to mark out and secure the paths of inquiry in all the
sciem;:es, to be a Prc.Legomena, or preface,
.!£.
Any Future Metaphysics Which
.-------
Can Assume the Part of a Science, and this is precisely what a method is.
~
.
'
But the critical investigation itself must also be somehow directed, and this
is what the Transcendental Method does; it is a method of method.
Vet there
is something strange about it, for what trustworthy method can show one the
way to the grounds of trust? Note, too, that Kant calls the critical system
an "ipea", almost suggesting that it is itself one of those dubious constr<
Licts
of reason. The art -- note, not the science -- of systems is called, in
13
�keeping with Kent's edifice metaphor, "Architectonic", or ~th• master-builder's
art 11 , the neme of the next to lest .section of the book.
But
be~ore
Kant can treat the system of knowledge tie muat complate lt;
for an ele""\'t is m1~1lng. This ia done in a prior section .called the "canon
liilike Bacon •e
of Pure Reason".
~
OrQanon ·or science•:
wh~ch
is qu. ted at'. the
o
beginning of the Critique, Kant's new organon of pure raeson ie no~ •n inatrum11nt
for positive discovery but for the cure end prevention of error, e negative or~~...,o
(8 25) or 0discipline" (8 737), ee the first section of the Transcendental
Method, which demands that reason be shown ta have. no iegitimete theorsUcel
use, is called.
But amewhare, K18nt says, reason must be. a sourca of positive
knowledge CB 823).
A method for rightly using e faculty, 8uch as the reason,
is called e "Canon" (8 8241; the section so named ln the Critique d•1covere the
positive use of the reeacn, which is the missing element in
"precticel" reelm, 1n morality.
in the Critique
Critique
2!,~
E!. Ptacticel
t~e
eyst.-, in the
It .is therefore, ea it were, e claaring meda
fi!asan for the purpose of laying the foundations of the
Ra!!Jln.
The possibilities of pure reason era now ca111pletely exµaunded end
~ant
.
.
can give t11a legi timete table of retionel hLltll!ln knowledge or ph1loaophy1 (8 869)1
the transcendental counterpert of the Catalogue or histories Bacon had appended ,
to hie O:menon, which ie intended ta direct empirical inquiry.
I shall recount
it only fer enough to reveal eClll'lething significant about the Crit1gue ea a whale.
All retional knowledge has aither
!!p1r1~1l
roots, which mB&tna that it is based
on the trial and error cf sanes experience, or it la purely rational; only the
letter is considered in the Critique.
It is to be noted
ff. :L~~· ; ~ { .r : r : r.~ ;- 1 1 '. '
that thia
fundamental division is entecadsnt .to the inquiry itself. The philosophy of
pure reason in its preparatory or "prc:>paedeutic" stage is celled •critiqua!' The
principles there d1acovered, when presented completely and eyetewieticelly, ·
14
�may then be called •1metpphyeice". Metaphysics hes tMICJ br8'"1chea, the metaphysics
of thaoreticel reason which i .a ~ ea we shall sae, . the sane. as the metaphysics
of natyra and the
of practical reason, or of morale • . The meta-
mataph~eics
physics of nature· 18 in tum d1v1dad into two parts, one r:tealing with the .
sum Qf all obJect19 given to our faculty of knowledge.
Thi~ · part Kant cel;J,11
"physiology", the ac. ount of nature. The other part deals with those faculties
c
themselves, apart from th•i~ ob.jact. Kant calls it "ontology", the acc~t of
being.
Hera, in the ~h!.~~*~-~' . KB"lt· in the elmoat ·iranically unobtru'eivt
traditional ta?me
r&\l&Bl.9
.
th• t'ull t'o:rca of his revolution; th• quaation of.
'
.
.
Aristotle's, Metaphvaice (VJI, i) Which has
well as nru ever pursued end ever lftiaeed:
answered by pointing et the queaticner.
but
bes~,
Jl dhet
,
say~; '~n
es he
thtl past
is being?•· ~ is now
!!:!!. science · E!
beinQ
1111
to be
!!. Ea."!!!. neth1ng
!tl! science g! 1n;Jlliring !!!!!!!.•
Tli1s brings us ta the ~~.~!f E.~r~. at' this praeantat1an blhich da-.la witli ·
the Critical
MBn
under four mo.tinge:
the Subject, th11 Predicate, the Object,
and the Meaning.
Pert . II:
THE CRITICAL
M~
·
The order of presentation will have the farm of en experi91811t in reconstructing the Cr1tigue which is suggested by· the Prolqganana; Kent's introductory
sketch of the Cri tigua , which he wrote between 1ts two editions. .In . thie
short book Kant pretends to present .analytically, that
.
.
is
by reducing the given
~
problems to the conditions they implf, the same material presented in the
Critique synthetically, th11t is by starting with the first and highest. principle,
and deducing the consequancaa.
( P, Intro; this use of .these
·ilrme
must not
be confused with that 1) by which judgments are called synthetic or analytic,
as described above, (P 5 n.)
or 2) by 11.Jhich
the dissection of e faculty is
is called an analytic, as seen belCl.il.) ·Now everyone who has read both works
15
�1a perfectly ewe're that they are both equally analytic or '*regressive", as !lny
work af discovery would be. My experiment will therefore consist af presenting ·
the elements cf the fLritigue in that ~ynthatic ar progressive order which Kent
I
.
..
never actually followed,
I !dill etternµt, es it were ·, tc reed · the C:ritigue
backwards, ta derive critical men from hie
principle~
The matters I em about to take up ere drawn mostly from those earlier
.
.
' •
sections of t ·ha Critique which I have bypassed so far and which are generally
IlllnBdiately after the Introduction
end rightly the object of most intense study.
comes, es the first part of the
"iranacendentel Aesthetic".
.
~EP.!r..1~,! P.~. 9..1!.!!?!l~~..
a section entitled
•Aesthetic" caries rrm the Greek. bJDrd eistheeie,
.
.
.
.
sense, end meeris the exposition of the hunem capability for
s~aing.
.
(B 35
n.)~
"Transcendental", you 111111 remember, means •beyond manse experience". ·The
Transcendental Aesthetic therefore tl'9•t1 mf our cepllcity
fo~ sensing
without
sensation. The poethunously published work of Kl!lnt ehawa that tha diacavary
of this strange capecity came to dminate hie attention.
And well it might,
for it .holds the key to his peculiar view of human nature. The ·second part in
question, the beginning of the logical Critique (which i11111edietely precedes the
Dialectic, the "discipline · of reeeon" discussed above) is called the "Transcendental Analytic".
It is a "canon of tha Wd1retendiog" (8 ??)and contains
the analysis of the grounds of our capacity rar a priori thinking • . The first
book of this is called the· "Analytic of Conc•pt•"· In it is found that
investigation in the Cri tigua, designed, aa
~ant
says, ·•with soma depth" which
cast him the most labor (A 98), tha notorious "Trenscendantel Deduction of the
pure a priori concepts of the
undarstendin~"
used above but a grounding ,procedure in
~hich
(not a deduction in tha sense
certain· critical .discoveries are
justified by being ehcui to be the neQsseery .conditioris of the possibility of
science (8 11?)). Considered apart fri:Jn its systematic context, it cen ·be
16.
�aaid to establish the nature of the transcendental self, the highaat, or
perhaps better, the deepest point of the Critigue. I now ctr&.it lerg11ly upon
it for my synthetic .beginning.
a.
~
The nane for thet which underliee all alee ie
Subject
In the beginning there is the "I", and the "l" is by 1.teelf.
lt is the
highest point of . the Critique ( B 134 n .) ; ell else is founded upon . 1t ..
In ·
English we help ourselves over the enormity of such a reference.to the,!. by
eeying !b!_ !!!!!,! er
~
ego, but Kant uses no such eubeti tutes. Were in exactly
llea this enormity of the highest critical concept?
The pronoun which we very aptly call "of the first person" (a parson
being defined by Kant. es something conscious of the . numerical identity of
its I (A 361)) is precisely of such a nature that no one else, no outsider, can
say "l" for or of another. The word "l" is the pure expression of inwardness
which cannot become cur
D\IJT1
or another's object (8 .321); thus 1n .. ettamptlng
to use the noun for which the "pronoun" I stands, cur name, we are constrained
to shift to another "person•, the third, just es
say "he" or "it".
-
Ide
Hew then can Kant make the I en object of investigation? For
Descartes in hie incubator, such a study was still
--------
examination (Discourse on Method IV, 8 422 n.).
is, as
blS
must, in speaking of another
si~ply
and frankly
!!!!-
One of Kant's greet innovations
shall see, preciee'iy to show in whet respects we can and cannot
observe ourselves, in what way the I can become its own object (8 155 ff.).
But because the I of the Critique is always presented as any I in general (8
~O~O,
a tremendous fact beccanes blurred: there is !!E,WBY the Kantian self can cane
to know of another self (B 405).
It is explicitly disbarred by its very·
firstness, its radical self-sufficiency, from sharing.in the inwardness of
another or even receiving immediate evidence of another's depth, hie soul.
(Kant ventures the hypothesis that in the world of. ~ppearance inwardness asslll!es
. 17
�the fom cf pure' exte:rnality, that ·saule .when they appear to e:>ther souls do ac
as bodias (8 428) .) It is tharetare in the te:t111l!I af the Critique perfectly ·
indifferent
or~
whebr ·1ta ·1is151\e
or many; · whsthar Kent is exmdning himself
I; eech I is universal, all the world there ia. · (This absolute
isolation of the self is connacted with Kent's understanding of language,
~
subject which he neglects almost altogether. Souls can cCl!lnunicete with each
ether if language conveys beings of thought from one soul
Kent,
BS
we ' shell see, there is no .such being and no such
to
another, but for
convswing~
We can.
see et .once that .t his caste •n uncanny light on the book ltsfitlf -- for 1e it
nut conveying to us precisely Kant's thought? -- but for us it is at this
moment pl'Clfitable only to allow his thought to come to ue, even. if this very
ac~eptenc~
should imply
its - ref~tation.)
How then does the I, the original I, become knOU11 to itself? Kent points
out in the beginning of hie AnthroiJology (I, 1) that the original I is not the
first person known ta us in time, for children speak of themselves in the third
person .as if they . were one a1J1ong many before they oiecover that all their
.
judg.ments, no matter what ·they ere about , have one and the
verb.
s!lll~
subject end
For all judgments follow after the phrase •I think• (B 131-132, A 354-5).
Thia I which thinks is always present (A 117 n.) noting its
preserving its sameness .and
s\Y1~\t'1(SS
l'.ld"I
activity,
through all passions (A 108), e final
end universal subject which underlies all its awn predicates (B 407, P 46).
This universal and original person can be active only in self-concern. The
name which Kant borrowe from Leibnitz for "self-activity" (B 130), for selfattention, is "apperception•, or self-perception, self-consciousness.
This
epperception is transcendental, for in attending to myself as a thinking thing
I am studying the radically original iqlawin9 faculty (A 114).
(
At the same
time, if knowing requirea a attaking :i.n" ·of an object;, as the ,word "perception"
18
�implies, I cannot "take in" the vary •ourca end support of ell
except in a special way (8 429-30).
mv
knowing
In em anticipation of the methemet.4.cel
limit notion, Kent finds s·uch a way. The I which underlies
all
knwing is
itself. knClill as the limit of all kncwledge, as its pure containing form.
Hy
root faculty, my pure self, 1• planted in an unknDblable beyond and I can
-
-
know cf it only that it is, but never what it is (8 157). Kant smaewhere
calls the LD'lconditioned the "abyss cf reason". Since our
01&r1
original condition
is inaccessible to us we live over just such en abyss.
But if I cannot know whdt my ultimate nature is, I yet know_eomething of
its mode and effect • .. It ehOliJS itself as that absolute end pure original
ecti vi ty, lltlich !Aient cells spontaneity ( B 130, ·428) • Spon.tenei ty means
wilfulness, radical self-determinatiCYl.
The activity which has this character
is thought, which works its will according to none but its . own laws.
At the
root to think and to will are the sane, end it ia this identification which
makes the critical man bath the
th~orizer
of the Critique
.2!.~ Reason~~
the doer. of deeds of the second Critique, the Critique !!f. Practical Reason.
It is . evident ·by nCld that the I has an arena, a kind of theatre, in
which it works its effects. (Why this should be so, why there is a faculty
of thought is an unenswerable question (A XVII); exactly equivalent to the
question why God created for himself, and c0111nunicated with, a world.
go
further~
We may
the deep beginnings of modernity ere nearly all to be found in
bold perversions of Christianity -- the genesis of the critical man takes the
form of a \ages, a sentence such
118
that by which the
!!E£!. of the gospel of
John launches hi111Belf into a world; that is the very model we are using in this
develaJDent.) The I ie thus a universal subject in need of completion.
therefore
lllJBt
go on to
19 .
We
�b.
The Predicat'e s
-
............iiiioiiioi. . . . .
The subject and its
ve~b . in
the words "I think that ••• • danand a completion
of meaning, namely the thought which ·the 1· thinks. Whatever the I thinks is
~
thought end ·l:!e1ongs ta 1,t , but whi.le it 18 E.f_ the I it is eleo
!2!: 1t.
Our original I possesses a secret paiier, which distinguishes us frtlll the beasts,
of doubting i teel f, of holding 1ts
a.in
launches us on our career es knowers.
activity before ·. itself, and. this p0bl8r
Anything whetsoever ·which is there for
the I is celled its nrepresentetion" (8 376). The word; again borrowed frcwn
Leibni tz, is unfortunate slnt:e 1.t implies that emething present elsBaJhere,
outside, is imaged by us or in us.
But this is not whet
K~t
means.
Re-presen-
tations ere simply presentations, or what is present to us; there is no going
beyond them, and they represent nothing else. ·(Kant's Germen term, "Vorstallt11g•,
which means "something set before" 4.s more
adequl!!lt•~>
Thare ia nothing
.fE!.!:!!.
-
which is not our predicate. ·The trl!!lflacendantal I delimits an isll!llld realm
which hes only internal affairs.
The first of cur representetion, that is, those closest to the I beyond,
are its thoughts (8 42s..429). These come into the world of representations
as the effects of the transcendental I regarded as a root faculty of the soul,
of
---- - -
-----
as its nmodes of expression" (Battle
the Faculties, II, end) which Kant
calls the understanding (8 93 ff.).
It is that primary cognitive faculty upon
which the secondary faculty of reason depends, and which, as I mentioned before,
is for Kant the intellectual faculty.
of activity within its
a.in
world.
It is a faculty of representing representa-
tions, thet is, a reflecting faculty.
.
The understanding.is the I as a source
It carries forth the original unity
.
.
of the I into the multitude of .its representations (8 105).
It is the primary
faculty because it governs by establi!ihing relations among, by uniting, by
grasping, by "taking
together~',
that is, conceiving our many representations.
20
�Its primary and fundamental relating act is that which unites representations
by reason of their carranan relation to the thinking I; as Kant says, it is
an act "which brings the manifold (that is, the variegated field) of given ·
representations under the unity of apperceptian. 11 (8 135).
This unity :is
expressed .in "judgments" characterized by the copula "is" (8
142)~
When
I think that "this body!:!, heavy", I have performed an act by which the
singular and single empty representation which is expressed in "I think" has
become the vehicle or correlate of two other representations which are united
within it.
This primary relating function is called judging (8 141-142). There
is also a kind of incomplete judgment in which representations are related
not upward to the apperception, but downward only; so, for instance, "body"
comes under 11 heavy", and many mare representations came under "body 11 •
Such
incomplete judgments are called cpncepts; these are the isolated acts of the
und~rstanding
(8 94). ·
. There are a definite number of cefinite downward unifying functions, called
the pure concepts of the understanding (8 102). The fact that Kant will name
them must not deceive us about the nature of our reflecting faculty; it is
a mere or naked power of arranging multitude,.of operating or functioning; the
audible names of its products convey no real meaning (A 241).
(As Kant
observes in his Anthropology, (I, 18) it is precisely because wards in themselves mean nothing that they are apt far characterizing the results of
thinking.)
Thinking by itself is a mere functioning, an invisible empty ;
grasping (A 245); to~ is not to know (B 145-146). · Its grasp must be
filled.
At the lower end of the hierarchy of concepts there must be some
material, something to conceive.
And as the Transcendental Aesthetic, from
which the following is largely drawn, shows, there is.
We have a faculty
which supplies the material for the formulations of thinking.
21
�It la the eans1b111ty.
Kent opposes the faculties of thinking and
sensing ea "outermost extremes" (A 124). Thinking is active end spontaneous;
the sensibility is pessiva and receptive.
Thinking is an empty function; the
aaneibility hes a pure original anntent (8 160). Thinking runs through a
manifold, unifying it, and is discursive; the sensibility contains one singular
presentation which is ready to receive a manifold, a matrix of particularity
and variety. Kant cells this passive power, this faculty for reception,
"intuition" (8 33). The prefix "inll has here nothing to do with any
any "looking into" -- for that
i~
precisely whet the receptive capacity cannot
co -- but has the sense of "looking
Gemen ward "Anscheuung".
"inelght"~
!!l"
intently, a sense clearer in Kant's
Intuition is a faculty _or format1"• looking, a
f
capacity for taking in the alien and shaping it into sights for the soul.
Here·, at i ta lower limit, the isolation of the I gives way ta certain
intimations fram beyond, from'outeide~' It is an undeniable fact that we ere
aware of a multitude of alien and adventitious representations, end that there
are far. more i:Jf these then of those that we ourselves produce and control. How
can this came about? The sensibility is not an organ of sense rut a formative
capacity for receiving the given.
but
11
!!l the
Representations do not came to us through
intuition. The sights which occur in the intuition are called
appearancea 11 (B 34). In the cOlllllon understanding the appearance of a thing
belongs to
ll.;
hidden being.
it is the · appearenc_ E!, the thing and evidence concerning 1ts
e
But the appearances ln the intuition are famed and shaped by
the faculty itself, they belong altogether to us, are through and through
-
appearances within us, not from without, from another thing. What then does
coma .from the outsidel .
Just as the sensibility offers material
~o
the forming functions of the
understanding (8 87),. BO the eppearancee within the ·intuition are
22
89
forms
�for a material which Kant calls sensation (8 60, 207).
representation of the "thereness" of something alien.
I
Sensation is a
It is that in appear-
ances which gives them reality or "thinghood"~ whieh makes them capable of
confronting us as alien and independent
11
somethings" (8 375).
As our
representation, sensation is entirely and forcefully subjective, but it is
just thus that it impresses us with intimations of an otherness which is there,
outside. What does it tell us of things outside?
'i
Nothing whatsoever about their nature.
I.
;
~
'
For the appearances of these
i
things are not with ~' but with ~' so that these outer things have, insofar
as they are considered in themselves, no externality, no covering outer skin,
no dress,so ta speak, in which to present themselves to us.
Things in
themselves, outside of us and stript of their appearance, are pure naked
inwardness, as inaccessible by nature as our I (8 339).
Such pure inwardness,
like our apperceptian, is pure thought and Kant calls such things, things '
./
of thought, in Greek ,
amena" (8 306 ff.).
11
naumena" , while he calls the . appearances in us "phen- ,
- our two root faculties
And just as Kant conjectured that
Of the noumena we know only that they are, but not what
I
they are (8 XXVI).
might be at bottom one (8 29), ~so he conjectures that the I beyond our inner- .
mast limit and the things beyond our outermost ken are one and the same, that
we are surrounded by one and the same unknown ocean on all sides (A 379-380). :
Here is Kant's description of our inner island and the fate of him who tries
to take leave of himself (8 295-296):
"But this land is an island and
locked by nature herself within immutable boundaries.
It is the land of
truth, (a charming name), surrounded by a wild and stormy ocean, the true
seat of illusion, where many a fog ·. bank and much melting ice counterfeits ·
new lands, and by endlessly deceiving with empty hopes the sea-farer roving
about in search of discoveries, involves him in adventures which he can never
23
�forego and never break off. 11
Our inner island, the scene of appaaren.c e an the
----
ocean of darkness, is by nature the land of truth.
'·
.
.
What is that truth? Kant's definition of truth is perfectly traditional
in form and abeoiutely new in content (8 82 ff.).
.
Truth is
ned~uetio
'
intellectus rei", the approach or fitting of the understending to the thing.
A thing which presents itself for the understanding to fit itself about, to
grasp, is said to be "something throbin out before
it~ ·,
en "objectum" or object
Truth involving objects, or objective truth, is knowledge which matters,
mDterial .knowledge which is neither ~mpty
is_
that
nor blind (8 75). Empty knowledge
:tn: which thinking has no object other then itself, the empty catching
of thinking et thought~ blind knowledge is the mere unreflected sight of the
object.
Truth is therefore the · aecure acquisition of something ·worth having.
Kant's name for' the process of such acquisition is "experiencen (8 218), a
ward in Latin and English reminiscent of the devices for extracting such
knowledge, namely the experiments of science.
(Accordingly error is no longer, ae in the Theaetetus, the dapply
significant complement of truth, but a mere mismating which arises, together
with its pseudo-object, nothing (8 347 ff.),
on
the secondary level of
reflection, end for which the critical method can provide a radical cure.
For both Ln1derstending end intuition are in themselves infallible_,and error
arises only when the representations belonging to one faculty are interchanged
with those of another.
"amphiboly" (8 316 ff.).
Kent cells such an "interchange" by its Greek name,
It is particularly the concepts of reflection, the
concepts for thinking about thinking, which are prone to such C!lnphibolies,
for since our .-.nderstanding must always grasp something, it tends falsely,
to turn its own thoughts into objects.
The highest concept of reflection
is that of ·"something" in general, ·the others are exact! y those which have
24
�kept recurring in my deductive presei\tation:
unity, reality, cause, possi-
bility which are both names of categd;ries and of prior critical notions
(e.g., 8 131).
It is characteristic ;of critical thinking that these must
all be used on two levels, properly of true objects, and again improperly to
describe thinking itself.
But with the critical method to guard us against
their interchange the perfect truth of our knowledge is guaranteed.
For man
to know is to know completely and certainly; there is no place for opinion
(8 809), Socrates' human way station between exposed ignorance and hidden
knowledge.)
We see that if we are to be about anything, then at the center of our
soul there must stand
c.
~Object
We ere confronted with
appearance~
filled with the feeling of reality.
I
The German word for such a confrontation is "Gegenstand",
"stands up to'.' us · (8 242).
something which
Kant's usage is by no means rigorous, but he very
often uses this word for something given, which confronts the understanding,
just as he often uses "thing" for the hidden source of reality in appearances.
This confronting given something is there for the understanding; blind in
itself, it is the potential object of truth, that to which the understanding
equates its grasp (A 104).
And now the understanding shows itself to be functioning for a definite
end.
For in grasping the appearances, in conceiving them, thinking itself
makes objects £!:.
~·
The pure conqeiving fµnctions of the understanding
have no other purpose but to make the givens of our sensibility .into objects,
and since the grasp itself molds the thing, the fit cannot help but be an
adequate one; to be objectively valid and to be necessarily universal are
exchangeable notions (P 19). · our material knowledge is "objective", that is,
25
�both about something and also true, because we ourselves supply ' its material
as well as its form (8 137 ff.).
This form is imposed by the subjective
origin of the functions of .our understanding, which ensures that they cannot
bu dltered adventitiously, so that their enumeration is available to us and
can be once and for all completed. This is done in the "Analytic" (8 106 ff.),
or element-finding part, of the Transcendental Logic, which is therefore a
logic
Ef.
truth (8 87).
Using an Aristotelian term, Kant names the pure concepts
of the understanding categories.
Furthermore he gives names, taken from
traditional metaphysics, to exactly four groups of three of them, but it
is of the greatest importance to remember that these names carry no meanings
and are nothing but labelling characters.
We can know nothing objective of
our own thinking functions, for to do that would be to grasp our own conceiving,
to treat the categories as if they, by themselves, constituted an object,
though this "transcendental" object would be a mere something, really a nothing
of thought (A 250 ff.), an empty form.
Thus thinking would be attempting
to overleap itself, to transcend its own activity.
first and foremost;
But "critique" means
the willingness to forego the impossible.
And what is
impossible is precisely that we should view our own thoughts, which are mere
functions, or as Kant puts it, that we should have intellectual intuition (8 307).
The expression of legitimate, material knowledge is the judgment which
puts
t~gether
concepts in themselves disparate, on the baqis of an object in
which they are united, and . united
priori synthetic judgments.
from~
very first -- that is to say, a
And so we have come to that concluding point in
our deduction to which corresponds the Cri tigue 's introductory problem, "How :
are a priori synthetic judgments possible?"
It is by reason of our very
constitutions, now brought to light by the critical enterprise, that we
inevitably make
objectiv~
judgments,
judg~ents
26
which are both about something
�and also certain, judgments which
examples of such a judgment:
11
are~-
Here is one of Kant's own -
The sun warms the stone." (P 20 n.). Abstract
from all sensation, from the color of the sun, the
warmth of tne air.
~eight
of the stone, the
What "is left is the assertion that one object is related
to the other as cause.!£!. effect (P 29). "Cause and effect" is the name of
that, for Hume, most notorious of all metaphysical notions, the second of
Kant's three categories of relation.
The judgment asserts that this relation
is objectively the case, not merely seemingly so, as it would be if it
depended on sensations, which are empirical, that is, a matter of trial and
error, and therefore uncertain (B 142).
But all objects, not only sun and
stone, are related as causes and effects -- for that is precisely what we
I
~by
an abject.
So also all objects stand under the remaining categories
of relation, for all are permanent substances which have accidents or changing
states, as when the stone, though remaining a stone, grows
EE.!.£
at night,
and so also all abjects are related in a community of interactions, for sun
and stone attract
~
other.
In fact each abject stands under mast of the
remaining nine categories, far in Kant's favorite formula:
"the conditions of
the possibility of the sbjects of experience in general are at 'the same time
the conditions of the possibility of the objects of experience" (B 197),
which means:
we can have material knowledge or worth-while truth only insofar
as we have abjects to which to fit our thinking, and we have the latter since
our thinking itself ·constitutes them.
I have said that to come ynder the pure concepts of the understanding is
precisely what we mean by being an abject (B 125).
But we must recall that
the pure categories have no real meaning and that therefore the pure object
has no reality (A 250).
became embodied.
Dur final task will be to shaw haw the categories can
This will be the S?ffie as deducing our ability to learn by
experience, ta do experimental science or to be capable, as Kant says, of
27
�empirical thinking.
The deductive presentation will be drawn largely from
the second book of the Transcendental Analytic, which is called the "Analytic
of Principles 11 •
Every concept is a complex or cnaracterizing marks or "notes" canvnon
to many representations and may therefore be regarded as determining a
for putting these together under itself.
£!:!!!
If such a rule comes from the
highest concepts and is one of those by which objects themselves are constituted
it is called a "grounding sentence", that is, a ground or principle for
fo1111ulating laws (8 188). The categories thus furnish a matrix of laws governing
the constitution and power of abjects. The system so governed is called
nature (8 263), and the c.a tegories are the sources of the
~
Ef.
nature, and
these are the results of the legislative activity of the understanding.
Thus
the sentence "the sun warms the stone" is very aptly called a judgment, for all
of nature appears before the court ·of our understanding to be interrogated and
judged by its self-given laws (A
I
126)~
The highest principle of the understanding
is
that every object stands
under the necessary conditions of the synthetic unity of the manifold of
1
intuition in pos sible experience (8
1~6).
This means that we can have exper-
ience, namely pronounce objective synthetic judgments upon our sensationfilled appearances, only because the manyness in our intuition has already
been ' unified, has been put together in a ·synthesis. The necessary condition
for this synthesis which 'first makes synthetic judgments possible is furnished
by a mediating faculty whose very nature it is ta be a common ground (A 124).
For in order far a representation to fall under a concept it must be
somehow similar to the concept. · But the categories differ from the appearances which they are to organize as radically as do the two faculties of
understanding and intuition.
The "third faculty" is responsible for that
28
�interpenetration of these two which produces a synthesis, a ''structure of ,
unity".
In Kant's words it is "a blind but indispensable function of the
soul without which we wouid have no knowledge at all but of which we are,
seldom even as much as conscious" (8 103).
It is the imagination.
As the common ground of the other two faculties, imagination is the same
as understanding in being actively unfying (8 162 n.), and the same as
intuition in having a given multiplicity of material (8 164).
(Hegel,
intending to deliver a devastating criticism, describes it simply as Kant's
intuitive intellect or intellectual intuition (History of Philosophy XV, 570)).
This double character is evident in the fact that the imagination alone is
"productive", that is, while itself remaining hidden, it produces sdmething
compacted of form and matter, an appearing object.
"schemata" of the imagination (8 177).
Kant calls such objectsthe
Ta understand what a schema of the
imagination is, what that "mediating third" which is on the one hand similar
to the intellect, and on the other to intuition, is, we must briefly review
and complete the development of the other two faculties of the soul.
The tinderstanding, the faculty, so to speak, on the inner side of the
soul, had two aspects:
the transcendental apperception belonging to the
single I beyond all appearance and the understanding by which that I grasps
the many representations of sense.
Now it must be the case that the ·eensi-
bility at the other extreme also has two aspects.
One of these faces toward
the outer limit of the soul and is ready to receive ever new sensations
issuing from beyond, under the form of externality, which is, as we shall
see the triple extension of space; the other is turned toward the transcendental I and receives it as an appearance under that single intensive
. dimension which is most appropriate for its original unity, namely time.
The
intuition therefore has a form of outer sense (of which we shall say more soon),
29
�and a form of inner sense; the reflective concepts "inner" and "outer•i
--
describe both whence, in the topography of the soul, the two senses receive
--
sensation and also what form they give it (8 373); so
ou~er
sense both receives
what is alien to us (8 32) and also gives it that form which we call. "being
outside'', by which we mean that the parts of the object all lie stretched
out away from and outside of each other, that is,
.!!::!. spa.c s.
But it is the inner sense which is crucial at this juncture.
material self-knowledge first becomes possible, for
here~
In it
appear !E, ourselves;
here we can become . our own objects (8 156 f .). Kant regards this discovery of
the doubling of the l, .which enables the thinking I to come
I
appearance~
to
itself as an
•
both as a mystery and the fundamental fact of psychology (8 334),
';
since it accounts for the very possibility of such a science.
In self-attention
I affect myself and em revealed to myself in a sensual appercaption (8 68 ff.).
But such attention yields first of all. a representation of passing time.
My
inner appearances, my feelings, imaginings and thoughts, are borne along an
a steady . flux in one direction, from past through present to future.
This
is the form of every inner. representation and since all representations are to
begin
with~
representations, all appearances have first of all the form of
inner sense -- they are temporal (A 99).
nothing
b~t
As Augustine says:
11
•
.".time is
a stretching out, but of what thing I know not, and I marvel
if it be not of the mind itself'' (Confessions XI, 26).
In particular the
thinking l casts its timeless transcendental functions into the inner sense,
where they appear as our ordinary temporal thinking, that synoptic scanning,
comparing, reflecting by which we finally abstract from all the differences
of objects to obtain their common concept.
It is in temporal thinking alone
that· change can be grasped (8 48), for in successive times alone may contradictory predicates belong to a subject (providing they both obey the law of
30
�non-contradiction, the highest formal law of thought, which is that no
predicate must contradict the subject (8 189)).
Time is here not as for
Aristotle (Physics IV, 14), the soul's measure of motion, but its very
condition.
Now how can the thinking I be said to cast itslef into its inner sense?
Each of the forms of the intuition, as formative receptacles, contain a kind
of pure content, a pure single manifold which is nothing but their readiness
to be determined or conceived in a certain way, a material which is nothing but
a potential structure, a system of relations, not altogether unlike the contents ·
of the receptacle in the Timaeus (50 ff.).
Kant terms these contents "pure
intuitions 11 , using the name of the faculty for its material as well ( 8 160 n.) • .
In entering the pure manifold of outer sense, the faculty of conceiving
constructs the empty but determinate objects of geometry., as when we define
a triangle and then imagine it, intuiting properties additional ta those in
the mere concept (8 271).
Thus an a pr. ari synthetic mathematical science
i
becomes possible, and since in sense experience it is this very same geometrically
determinable manifold which is now also filled with sensation, pure geometry
is always empirically applicable (8 206).
But because the inner sense is the sense of senses, the first and crucial
interpenetration of the extreme faculties is that in which the pure concepts of
the understanding enter the inner sense, that is, when the categories determine
time, or, what is the same thing, when time determines the categories (8 177).
Just now it was natural to speak of imagining the construction of a concept
in space; similarly it is precisely the imagination which introduces concepts
into time, and its ,_schematic products are nothing
constructions of the pure concepts .!D_ pure
~·
~general
£!:.guiding
Clearly the imagination
is the central faculty of the soul, because it is nothing but the soul's
capacity for combining its extremes; it is the common ground of intellect
31
�and. intuition.
And since the inner sense is, as it were, at the topographical
center of the soul, it does its hidden first work deep within it (8 181) there
showing itself ee the ground and bedrock on which the. island of our awn
epiphany to ourselves, ·which l'Dl,lst precede all alien appearances, if founded.
The imagination .can introduce the pure conceiving functions into time .
.
'
•because the pure manifQld, being nothing but a eyetem of potential relations, .
is not, as Kant observes in a pre-critical work, so unsimiler to a concept
<Q!:!.:!l!:!.!. ~eneible
![!!!.Intelligible World 15).
In fact, since the imagination
i'e .understood es a faculty of representing in the intuition a confronting
a.bJect
w1-i~out
its confronting presence (a
~Gegenstand"
without "Gegenwart"
(8 151))t pure time es en ·intuition empty cf sensation, is the inrnediete "ens
imaginor°I.UTI" or imaginary being (8 347).
Hence, just as Kant calls the . schema
the mediating "third" between intellect and intuition (817?)
the "third" which, as the
beare~
so he calla tirrie
of all our representations is the medlun in
which they are put together or synthesized (B 194). Thie synthsaie is the
work of the
~magination,
and its products, the echemeta, , are those general
. constructions or pettems into which concepts organize time irrrnedietely and
space derivatively. Kant calls them "pheniJrnena" in a special sense (B 186),
because they are a kind cf pure appearance, a pure object, or rather object
structure, which although it is a no-thing of the imagination, "calling for
an object" to be realized in it by sensation, is yet distinguished from the
not
transcendental object by being en empty fabrication of mere thought, but the
"'
first ·step in the "realization" of the cataglldes. They are the mediating th~"'~ 'lo
which the synthesis of concepts in judgments can be referred, reminding us
that an abject is the necessary correlate of the truth seeking subject.
If
we have not listed the categories so far it was
were meaningless; they were mere concepts of reflection.
32
becaus~
their names
But by echematizing
�them, by steeping them in time, the imagination has endowed them with meaning
(8 185 ff.).
And now the principles of the understanding which give, as you
will remember, rules for using the categories to constitute the objects of
experience, can, by employing the schematized or temporalized ca.t egories, also
become meaningful ..
thinking"
We are therefore ready to show adequately how "empirical
arise~~or
the deductive presentation of its genesis requires only
that the transcendental elements already presented be worked out in detail.
The following section is therefore somewhat technical.
In order to bring
out the coherence and even elegance of the critical technique, I will conflate
and reverse the developments presented in the Analytic of Concepts and in the
Analytic of Principles.
The result should be a synthetic account of the
genesis of "empirical thought".
This is an .awkward phrase by which Kant
means that reflective employment of the understanding on appearances which is
called
d.
Experience
The genesis of experience has two sides:
synthesis of the object
by which experimental
EI. experience (A 115
s~ience
we may develop the step-wise
ff~),
or we may follow the stages
as a system of judgments arises (8 197 ff.).
Of
course, this does not mean that either the synthesis of the object of truth
or the formation of the corresponding principles of judgment is a psychological
process of the appearing I going on in time.
On the contrary, this synthesis ·
first makes the analytic work of temporal thinking possible (8 130); insofar
as temporal learning has discernable stages, their sequence is apt to be the
reverse of the transcendental order, for what is first for us is not first in
the order of nature.
The synthesis bf
t~e
object is thus rather a single
timeless product of the imagination which, because of the mediating nature of
the imagination, has a triple aspect corresponding to all three faculties:
33
�understanding, imagination, sensibility (A 99). The fundamental rM1"8 •f ·
judgment, that is, the principles of the understanding, themselveQ r1veal
these three aspects .,. to u_s, or we would never recognize them.
(This
correspondence between the genesis of the object and the rules far judging it
is to be expected since it is the imagination in fact which plays the role of
a faculty of judgment in the first Critigue (Critigue £!!Judgment 212)).
Now since the principles of judgment arise when the imagination introduces
the categories into time (since they are
:,-.> ic ,
:;
in fact nothing but rules for
. applying the schemata), their number and nature is determined by the categories.
Each qingle category is " a concept of something put tagehter", which means a
concept of something synthesized in a definite way, a concept of an object.•
But while with
~eference
to the sensibility the categories are object concepts,
by themselves they are also concepts of reflection.
This is indicated by the
fact that they come under four headings, which, now that the categories
. assumed a meaning, it first makes sense to name:
there are three categories
each of modality, relation, quality and quantity (8 106).
classes are no longer concepts
fa~
h~ve
These categortcal
constituting the object, but concepts for
refleftinQ on this cansti tution; they give the relation which the object.
has to the faculties of the soul insofar as the single categories in a ·
particular class have contributed to its constitution.
Accordingly there are
fol,.!r principles of true synthetic judgments (8 200) which say at the same
time what role each of the four categorical :classes plays with respect to
the faculties in constituting the whole of possible experience and haw the
single categories constitute aspects of objects.
reason of being
11
Therefore, precisely by
the source of all truth" (El 296) in the material or real
sense, these principles are also the transcendental truths, the metaphysical
principles of knowledge. Here then is· the new metaphysics, a metaphysics of
physics.
34
�Kant's names for the judgments following from the principles are, as we
shall see, carefully chosen to trace out the steps of the genesis.
It is
I
there f ore right ta · fallow the transcendental synthe.t ic act and its expression
as knowledge simultaneously, which means, as was said, reading the
.&\~!Y!!E.
qf Concepts, particularly the Transcendental Deducti_ in version A, together
an
with the
,Rn,C3J.Y.~i~ .
!2!. Principles.
.
I
;
In fact, this way brings cut something
I
fundamental about the critical man and his enterprise:
I
the constitutive 111ork
' of his soul. and his knowledge are ultimately indistinguishable
-~
the Critigue
cannot distinguish between a judgment as an act and as an expression, far in
view of the isolation of the self ta wham would what be expressed?
Let us, then, fallow the 9enesis of experience, ordering it from the
Subject outward to the
Object~
The I is the original source ' of unity in representations, since all
thinking
is~
thinking and belongs to one self.
identical . in origin.
All thinking is therefore
This identity or self-sameness first makes possible
those diverse unifying functions by which understanding conjoins the many
representations of the I, for self-consciousness, by acknowledging all
representations as its awn, gives them that vertical unity of which. the
categories are different horizontal aspects.
The unity of apperception is
what necessarily accompanies every synthesis, simply by reason of the selfconscicusness of .the intellect which enters into it.
Since it is contributed
by the thinking I, this aspect cf the synthetic product is called the intellectual synthesis (8 151, A 103).
And since an object is something in whose
concept a manifold of given representations is united, this synthesis, in
bringing unity into representations, first makes ' cognition of an object
possible.
Consonant with the transcendental nature of the I, this unity is
purely formal, and is therefore formally distinguishable from the synthesis
35
�~tself9
in which diverse concepts together with a sensible manifold constitute
a material object (8 131).
The intellectual synthesis yields the highest synthetic principle, which,
stated in terms of the apperception,is=: · all empirical consciousness, all my
appearing representations, must be conjoined in one self-consciousness (A 117 n.).
In terms of representations this means that there must be one which comprises
all others and that is the general one called "something";
we must first of
all know in what ways this something can be in self-consciousness, that
hqw a thing may be related to the unity of apperception.
i~,
These ways are known
through the last set of categories, those of modality, namely:
possibility,
actual existence, and necessity, and their schemata, which are:
something
consonant with time in general, something actually there at a definite time
anq something existing at all times (B 184).
The judgments employing these
schemata are called the "postulates of empirical thinking in general" (8 265 ff.).
They are these three: whatever corresponds to the fonnal C8nditions of
experience (namely concepts and intuitions) can exist at some time and is
possible; whatever is connected with the material conditions of experience
'
(namely sensation) exists at a definite time and is actual; whatever is
related to something actual by the general conditions of experience exists
at all times and is necessary.
The last refers only to relations of. appear•
ances according to the laws of causality, and means that if something is
actually there,
~we
can always make the hypothesis that there must be
something else actually existing which is its effect.
They are called
. •postulates" because they merely demand the genesis of something but do not
anticipate its nature.
Thus the postulates of modality add nothing to the
concept of the object itself but merely relate it to its generating faculty
of cognition, for each of my representations is in my self-consciousness in
36
�a different mode, depending on its source.
The contribution of the
postuia~es
is therefore entirely on the subjective side'; in particular, they guide us
in employing the most fundamental of all the concepts · for transcendental
reflection, form and material.
They are called postulates of "empirical ·
thinking" because they require that all faculties take part in the full .
theoretical activity of experiencing.
Thus if something is only of the under-
standing, it is merely possible; if it is connected with the material of sense,
sensation, it is merely actual; but if it is the result of the conjunction
of perceptions through concepts, and therefore attributable to the imagination,
it is necessary -- consequently the most complete kind of empirical judgment
is the necessary
hypo~hesis.
The second stage is that of the synthesis proper, where synthesis means
the product of the synthetic work of the imagination viewed not as the union
of the extreme faculties, but independently, on the ground of the imagination
itself.
This synthesis is distinguished from the foregoing as an objective result
from its subjective unifying act.
It is a determination of the whole manifold
of inner intuition considered as a given pure material, an original ordering
arising not so much in the pure intuition as along with it.
Kant calls it . the
figurative synthesis (8 151), for it consists in the schemata or time organizations
which together constitute the pure but sensible structure of objects, that
temporal form which relates appearances in a regulated time order; the imagination, in producing this structure of object relations, works that a thoroughgoing ''affinity" (A 122) of appearances which gives them their systematic
aspect and constitutes the "form of experience".
The categories involved
are therefore those of relation, namely substance and accident, cause and
effect, and community or interaction (action and passion).
37
Their schemata
�are organizations of time into detenninate pennanence, . succession, and
simultaneity (8 183). The principle according to which objects are judged
in this aspect is:
experience is possible only through the representation
of a necessary -conjunc.t ion of sense perceptions.
The judgments based an it
I
are called "analogi. s of
e
experience" ~
An
analogy, understood mathematically,
is a proportion, that is, a form for finding an unknown; · for instance,
a:b = c:x, so that x ~ ~ • Interpreted as a kind of metaphysical algebra,
.the sameness of the relations involved is not quantitative but qualitative,
hence the unknown term cannot be constructed from the analogy, but the latter
oan be regarded as giving a rule as well as a justification for seeking it
in experience and a mark for finding it (B 222). Clearly the analogies of
exper~ence
are really instructions for forcing unknowns to disclose themselves,
for experimenting.
(
There are three leading principles far making analogies,
incorporating the three schemata:
in
a~l
·'
changes of the appearances substance
is permanent and has a fixed quantity; all alterations occur according to the
law of connection of cause and effect; all substances, insofar as they are
perceived in space as simultaneous, stand in a
rela~ion
of thoroughgoing
interaction.
An example of an analogy based on the first · principle would be
the .judgment:
"As accident is to substance so is the altered form of burnt
matter to the matter itself" (8 228); this analogy therefore implies that the
quantity of matter is conserved in combustions and in general is the source
of all coriservation laws.
The second principle clearly yields, once matter ha:;i
been properly defined, the first two Newtonian laws of motion, th 0se of
_inertia and force, while the third yields the law of action and
reaction~
And indeed, once the critical grounding enterprise is completed, Kant w rks
o
out the deduction of the laws of motion in .Tb.§. Metaphysical Principles
Natural Science of 1786; the axioms of Newtonian science are thus mere
38
.Ef.
�theorems of the Kantian system!
The principles of modality and relation are only "regulative", _which
means that they rule the relation of objects to the subject and to each other,
while they .add nothing to the constitution of the objects themselves.
Kant
also calls them "dynamic", because they involve those powers and relations
which objects . must
h~ve
whenever they exist, but which, since their existence
is contingent, have no being apart from actual experience.
principles, on the other hand, are
11
The remaining
com;iti tutive 11 and "mathematical 11 , because
they do refer to the objects themselves, and because they apply to all possible
experience since they concern the pure and the affected material, that is, the
mathematical constitution of objects (8 199).
This brings us to the third
and last synthesis • .
This third synthesis, in which the objects of experience are, so to speak,
filled out, is the synthesis .Q.f apprehension (A 98 ff.).
As the imaginative
synthesis includes the .unifying act of the transcendental self-consciousness
as a separable prelude, so the imagination performs the concluding act of
"apprehending" or taking direct possession of intuitions, that is, of bringing
them into empirical consciousness (A 120).
Apprehending is the generation of original inner
mirror of 11 the action of the subject 11 •
motion~
the phenomenal
In "running through" and
11
taking up"
the manifold of the sensation-filled intuition, the imagination at once
activates it and gathers it into a unity of intuitions, a connected inner
experience.
The categories for this phase are those of the first set, of
quantity (unity, plurality, totality) and of quality (reality, negation,
limitation).
The categories of quantity have the schema of number (8 182), for
quantity in time is precisely such ordered succession as is apprehended
39
�in counting. °The apprehensive synthesis may .then be · understood as a connected
awareness of the pure manifold of time . and spi;ice, arising in the so1,Jl :'by a
kind of original counting. · The principle based on this schema is:
appearances are extensive magnitudes.
all
Extensive magnitudes are precisely
. those whose parts lie outside one another so ' that they can be counted.
This
principle governs the "axioms of intuition". They are called axioms not
only because they are the source of the axioms of mathematics (8 204), but
also because they apply directly to
intuit~ons
and are therefore immediately
evident, for the intuition is the place of evidence; what is "intuitive" is
patent to inner sight (8 762).
The combining activity is now complete.
There is no additional
synt~esis,
:·;·
but there is one more set of categories, those of quality, which make it
possible for the synthetic structure to be filled with sensation.
· is that of degree
Ef
reality (8 182).
Their schema
"Reality" is that which corresponds to
sense impressions, that in our consciousness which convinces us that we
against something alien of a definite sort; a "real" object.
a~e
up
"Degree" is the
quantity of influence which the outside exerts, a quantity not &uccessively
accumulated but all there at once as an intensity of awareness.· The principle .
' i
is:
I
in all appearances the real which is an object of sensation has an intensive
magnitude, that is, a degree (8 207).
"anticipations of perception".
The corresponding judgments are called
They are anticipations because of the remarkable
.fact that we can know!!. priori one aspect of something which by its .very nature
we must wait for and receive !!. posteriori, namely
sensation~
For example, when
I come on a body in the dark I can anticipate that its coloration will have
some degree of intensity although I can say nothing about its particular color
before I see it.
"Perception" is empirical awareness, that is, consciousness
attended by sensation. Sense perception therefore stands at the opposite extreme
40
�of pure apperception; but it is to the former alone that the name "perception"
(and Kant's German word "Wahrnehmung") properly applies, for it signifies
not an activity but a passive "taking in" (attended · b~ awareness),
corresponding ta the unpredictable givenness of sensation.
This is the threefold synthesis given in the order of transcendental
priority:
the apprehensive synthesis pre-supposes the imaginative synthesis as
a condition, and the latter, in turn, depends on the intellectual synthesis
(A 121-122).
Each of these transcendental aspects can now appear in time as
stages of empirical knowledge, namely knowledge which is
11
a posteriori", or
subsequent to, experience and which uses what is adventitiously given.
However,
the faculties come into empirical use in an order of imu1ediacy which is the
inverse of the transcendental priority:
In the learning process of children
for instance, sense perception precedes empirical thinking and the latter,
the power of making objective judgments, precedes full self-consciousness
(l~nthropology
c~itical
I, 1).
Hence arise the various versions of the universal pre-
illusion which took the child's course far the human way, and regarded
truth as somehow given 1E, rather than constituted
~the
soul.
To recapitulate the empirical syntheses in the order of temporal priority:
When possible experiences are, so to speak, activated, the empirical self
first becomes conscious of the synthesis of apprehension as a scanning process
consisting of a succession of instantaneous views by which it takes hold of
the manifold spatial scene and the sensations it brings with it; this means
quickly running over and picking up a series of aspects, for instance, of a
house, including its dimensions and colors, ta obtain a synopsis (A 97) of the
accessible whale.
The synthesis of the productive imagination appears as
memory in which past representations, connected by association, are related
to the present self, so that it can encompass stretches of time; Kant calls
this process imaginative
11
~production"
41
(A 100).
Finally . the intellectual
'
�. synthesis, the source of cognition, has its empirical counterpart in our
ordinary thinking process in which we scan our representations far what Kant
calls a "!£c6gnition" (A103) of their affinity.
But such recognition is
precisely the proces s of forming concepts on the basis of experience (B 134 n.).
~nd
so we.have fina l ly come to actual empirical thinking, which is the temporal
beginning of all our knowledge, though not, as we learn on the first page of
the Critique (A 1), its source.
Empirical thinl.ing is now fully grounded and we have come down to the
point where the first problems with which the C!'itigue begins can arise.
now we must ask:
Wh;L_ did Kant undertake this great grounding enterprise in
the course of which the critical man arose?
certainty of sciencE?
themselves.
Was it really to secure the
But that was assumed to begin with by the problems
Perhaps it is not the certainty but the significance of the new
science which is at stake.
~ri tigue
And
c:;nswers is ;
If thot is so, the ultimate question which the
"What is nature to us that 1i1e should need to know her?"
This is the very question whose answer Kant emphasizes in a short addition
he made in the second edition to the end of the section from which this
s ynthetic presentation is reconstructed, the Tran_s,c.erid.,ef!.t p l
~n-~~..Y.:P_c.
This
brings us to
~2.
The Meaning
Our inner sense is the sense of senses (8 50), but, as the steady unchanging
form of our flowing inner appearance, as
~ime,
it does not itself appear (8 219).
Our one-dimensional temporal self, ever slipping away, is by itself incapable
of duration; measurEd time,
detc~1inate
durations, can appear only against
m empirical representation ot' permanence.
;0
Ksnt remc:irks how empty a science
pure psychology mus t evor bs since in its singl o dimEnsion that which makes
;; science scientific , ths use of mathematics, is
42
im rP ~ sibl8
(A 381 ff;
�Metaphysical Principles of Natural Science, Intro.).
appearance is needed.
For that a substantial
The metaphysical place of "phenomenal substances" is
outer sense (8 291 ff.). The form in which we intui. otherness is that of
t
externality, of three-dimensional space.
It is crucial to understand that
things are not "outside" us because they have a place within space but that
they appear spatially because they appear in that sense which is receptive
to
othernes~
(A 385).
Nowhere does critical self-knowledge demand a more
dizzying revolution than in making us aware that we do not look out into the
outside because it is in itself and absolutely there (A 375), but that our
seeing is altogether an inner capacity for receiving unshaped sensations in
a spatial form (A 370), for we have the satisfying uncritical illusion that
appearances come to us
of sight.
.f!:E!!!.
things through our organs of sense, particularly
Our outer sensibility is no such organ but more like Newton's divine
sensorium (Optics, Quest. 31) in which the whole spatial world is at once
and present !£God, as h:iS self-created representation.
iu.
The critical man is
just such a divinity; a connection of which Kant shows himself aware in the
work which is the precursor of the Critique (On
World 23).
~Sensible ~
Intelligible
Kant's formulaic description, which draws attention to the full
force of his revolution, is that space is empirically
~,
for it contains
intimations of an outer reality in the form of definite given appearances, but
transcendentally ideal (8 44), . for it is a mere idea and, apart from being a
form of knowing, a nothing of thought.
Appearances in space have therefore a
certain structure merely by reason of the spatial form which received them,
first of all, of course, their three dimensions (8 41), a structure seen in
its pure form in the mathematical objects which the understanding functioning
with concepts such as "three-sided rectilinear figure" may "construct" in the
intuition (8 741 ff.).
And this solidifying dimensionality of space, though
43
�not the source, is yet the condition of possibility of a matter anchored in
the three extensions of space and pennanent in quantity, and therefore capable.
of appearing as a substance underlying all changes 1n state. · The system of all
.
.
such permanent things with their alterations, with their relations
of
c£Lsality and community is, as we have seen, precisely what Kant calls nature
(P 16, 8 263), while its delimitable parts, the things or objects of nature,
have the name of bodies. (A 106).
Bodies alone furnish us with that pennanence
against which we can measure our own duration and flux; bodies, again, teach
us all we can know of cause and community; !!:!_nature
(8
276).
alone . ~~
ourselves
Nor ought this to be very surprising, since pure nature herself was
constituted by the transcendental I functioning within itself, and is therefore nothing but the diversifying mirror of its unity.
Kant significantly uses
the same language in describing both the transcendental I and body , as
p8rmanent appearing substance, for he calls both the steady correlate of all my
appearances (A 123, 183).
So also the thin, flowing, appearing I seeks to
find itself in extensive solidity (A 381).
This is why Kant calls not only
the transcendental I but also the question concerning nature the "highest
point" of the Critique (P 36).
The true purpose of the Critique £!:.Pure Reason is therefore not ta
guarantee the certainty of science, for this certainty is itself its mast
certain assumption, but rather to insure that science be an ever-lasting
enterprise in
self-knowledge,~
never completed human activity (A 1), in
which alone the self can determine itself, can procure for itself the stuff
through which it feels itself to exist, the mirror in which it assumes a
shape.
For the enterprise of metaphysics is shortly to be completed, and
thereupon the human desire to know what is beyond nature will have been
completely satisfied by being shown its hopelessness • . There remains the
44
�inexhaustible indulgence of our curiosity, insatiable for that experience
which alone makes us appear to ourselves (8 255, 334).
This ia :tha final
significance of Kent's "Copernican Revolution": that men literally and
exactly finds himself in the bodies end their motions which constitute
nature, that neturel science alone provides a sort of self-knowledge.
fDr
in studying the world of nature man studies his own creature and image; here
he rinds whet he can
~PP.ropriete,
because it is his awn.-- In the poethumously
published notes for the work on the transition from the metaphysics of nature
to physics, which Kant, significantly, regarded as his most important and
final achievement, there,occurs an isolatedphrese, revealing and ' ewe-1nspir1ng.
It says simply:
"I, the proprietor of the world.''
Schriften, Preueeische Akademis, XXl, 45).
45
(Kent's Geeamialta
�
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Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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45 pages
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An appreciation of Kant's Critique of Pure Reason
Date
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1972-05
Description
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Typescript of a lecture delivered in May 1972 by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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lec Brann 1972-05
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College
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English
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text
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pdf
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Brann, Eva T. H.
Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/55e6aa8f496fa78a421d25bf54284ef0.mp3
d715f6cabf822c3afed8083364d2ef02
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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01:08:08
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LEC_Brann_Eva_1972-05-05_ac
Title
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On Thomas More's Utopia
Description
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Audio recording of a lecture delivered on May 5, 1972, by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series.
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Brann, Eva T. H.
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Annapolis, MD
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1972-05-05
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St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online.
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sound
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mp3
Subject
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More, Thomas, Saint, 1478-1535. Utopia
More, Thomas, Saint, 1478-1535
Deans
Friday night lecture
Tutors
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