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Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 1
“Everyone Sees How You Appear; Few Touch What You Are”:
Machiavelli on Human Nature
How do the writings of Niccolò Machiavelli appear to us today? There is no small risk
that, whenever we crack the spines of The Prince or the Discourses on Livy, we will find these
books to be boring. Full of historical details, full of admittedly colorful and even shocking
anecdotes, they nonetheless appear to teach us only what we already know: the maxims of
amoral, or immoral, prudence, that ‘the end justifies the means,’ or that ‘might makes right.’ To
say that we already know such things does not mean that we believe them, of course. Perhaps in
extreme circumstances, with lives at stake, we might grant that it is necessary to be
Machiavellian; but who really expects to find himself in extreme circumstances? Most of the
time, among family, friends, and fellow citizens, we try to be good, to do what is right. We
might grant, while smothering a yawn, that we sometimes need to be Machiavellians. But we
would not say that we are Machiavellians.
And yet Machiavelli’s books are not just full of striking maxims about how we should
live, like “men should either be caressed or eliminated” [P 3:10].1 They are also full of striking
claims about how we do live, claims that Machiavelli offers in support of these maxims. “[M]en
should either be caressed or eliminated, because they avenge themselves for slight offenses but
cannot do so for grave ones” [P 3:10] – because, that is, only death can stop a human being from
seeking revenge, even for a slight injury. Behind or beneath the Machiavellian maxims about
how we should live, there appears to be a Machiavellian account of how we do live – an account
of what human beings are, an account of human nature. Could this account be true? And if we
find it to be so, are we compelled to be, not just rainy day Machiavellians, but Machiavellians
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 2
through and through? These questions, it seems to me, run a lesser risk of being boring.
Tonight I will sketch this Machiavellian account of human nature, chiefly as it is found in
The Prince, but with some reference to the Discourses on Livy. In concentrating on these two
books, I will be following Machiavelli’s advice, at least to some extent. In the Dedicatory Letter
of The Prince, he suggests that it contains all that he has learned and understood; while in the
Dedicatory Letter of the Discourses he writes that it contains as much as he knows and has
learned [P DL:3-4; D DL:3; compare TM, 17]. Either book on its own would presumably suffice
for the experienced student of Machiavelli. But for relative beginners like ourselves, it is helpful
to have the same matter given two different forms. What I hope to show by this sketch is that we
underestimate Machiavelli if we consider him simply as a teacher of amoral or immoral practices
that we can take or leave as we conduct our lives. To the extent that Machiavelli’s account of
human nature is shared by his successors, Hobbes, Locke, Montesquieu, and Rousseau – to
whose thought we trace our political institutions and our understanding of ourselves – we may be
forced to acknowledge his account of human nature as our own. It may turn out that deep down,
where it counts, we are Machiavellians, even though we do not appear to be so, even to
ourselves.
This lecture will have three parts. In the first, I will offer the desire to acquire as the
main element of human nature as Machiavelli depicts it, and show how in a political setting this
desire ramifies into two humors, that of the great and that of the people. In the second I will
sketch goodness as the excellence of the popular humor and virtue as the excellence of the humor
of the great, and I will connect Machiavelli’s distinction between goodness and virtue to the
famous ‘turn’ in Chapter Fifteen of The Prince from the imagination of a thing to its effectual
truth [P 15:51]. In the final part I will suggest that Machiavelli’s view of human nature points to
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 3
a science of human nature without a distinctively human element – what Machiavelli calls a
“science of sites” – and I will raise some difficulties with this science, difficulties that originate
in Machiavelli’s own writings.
I
Readers who leaf through the pages of The Prince or the Discourses in search of the
phrase ‘human nature’ are bound, at first, to be disappointed. As far as I can tell, Machiavelli
never uses the phrase in either work. Mentions of nature, by contrast, are easy to find. In The
Prince, for example, Machiavelli writes of the natures of nonliving things, like sites, mountains,
low places, rivers, and marshes [P DL:4, 14:59]. He writes of the natures of living things, like
beasts, foxes, and lions [P 18:69, 70; 19:78]. He writes of the natures of particular human
beings, alone or in groups, like peoples, governments, ministers, emperors, princes, and cautious
men [P DL:4; 6:24; 4:18; 7:30; 17:68; 19:76; 23:95; 25:99, 100]. He even writes of nature in
general as something that contains things [P 7:26], and that causes particular men to incline in a
certain way [P 25:100].2 But each time he writes about nature, Machiavelli sidesteps the phrase
‘human nature.’ He is willing to write as if particular beings have natures, he is willing to
include particular human beings among these beings, and he is willing to imply that all beings
fall within nature in some general sense; but nature in each of these cases is subhuman or
superhuman – that is, not specifically human. The closest Machiavelli comes to writing about
human nature in The Prince is a single claim he makes about the “nature of men” – that they are
“obligated as much by benefits they give as by benefits they receive” [P 10:44]. Even there, he
does not dignify the nature of men with the specific adjective ‘human.’
Nonetheless, there are plenty of hints in The Prince that Machiavelli thinks that human
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 4
beings do have a nature, if only in the sense of an abiding character. Early in the work, for
example, he considers “a natural difficulty” and “another natural and ordinary necessity” that
confront a new prince: that “men willingly change their masters in the belief that they will fare
better,” but that “one must always offend those over whom he becomes a new prince” [P 3:8].3
In the immediate sequel Machiavelli treats these natural necessities that follow from the
character of men as “universal causes” [P 3:9],4 and suggests that they contribute to an
apparently permanent “order of things” [P 3:11] that endures despite the changes brought by
time [P 3:13; 10:44].5 Later in The Prince he invokes “human conditions” in much the same
way, to explain why a prince cannot have, nor wholly observe, all of the qualities that are held
good [P 15:62]. The conditions in question can be summarized in a single phrase: men are
wicked unless necessity makes them good.6 As with the other natural necessities felt by a new
prince, Machiavelli implies that these conditions will never change, as long as there are human
beings. If they did change, his description of the situation of the new prince, and of the political
situation more generally, would cease to be true.
Similar claims about the abiding character of human beings can be found in the
Discourses, in a somewhat more explicit form. In that work Machiavelli warns early on against
the error of thinking that men, among other things, have “varied in motion, order, and power
from what they were in antiquity” [D I.P.2:6]. To the contrary, “[w]hoever considers present and
ancient things easily knows that in all cities and in all peoples there are the same desires and the
same humors, and there always have been” [D I.39.1:83].7 Not just human beings but human
things have a permanent character: they “are always in motion, either they ascend or they
descend” [D II.P.2:123]. Perhaps as a result, the world has a permanent character too: “I judge
the world always to have been in the same mode,” Machiavelli writes, “and there to have been as
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 5
much good as wicked in it” [D II.P.2:124]. He even flirts, indirectly, with the idea that the world
is eternal. “To those philosophers who would have it that the world is eternal,” he writes, “I
believe that one could reply that if so much antiquity were true it would be reasonable that there
be memory of more than five thousand years – if it were not seen how the memories of times are
eliminated by diverse causes, of which part come from men, part from heaven” [D II.5.1:138139]. It is reasonable, then, that there be no memory of more than five thousand years, even if
the world is eternal. So is the world eternal? However this may be, Machiavelli regards the
world as lasting enough that he can claim that human things have an abiding character. “It has
always been, and will always be,” he announces, “that great and rare men are neglected in a
republic in peaceful times” [D III.16.1:254]. Men “have and always had the same passions, and
they must of necessity result in the same effect” [D III.43.1:302]. If it were to turn out that the
abiding character of human beings included an element specific to human beings, an element that
was a cause or principle of human motion and rest, then despite his avoidance of the term,
Machiavelli could be said to have an account of a specifically human nature.
The best candidate for such an element, in The Prince and the Discourses, is the desire to
acquire. In The Prince this desire sets the tone for the whole book. Machiavelli mentions it in
the first sentence of the Dedicatory Letter, writing “[i]t is customary most of the time for those
who desire to acquire favor with a Prince to come to meet him with things that they care most for
among their own or with things that they see please him most” [P DL:3]. In the particular form
of the desire to acquire a principality, this desire dictates the concerns of the first half of the
work, and is mentioned in three of the first fourteen chapter titles;8 while the second half, which
examines “what the modes and government of a prince should be with subjects and with friends”
[P 15:61], can be understood as containing advice about how to keep an acquisition. But when
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 6
Machiavelli formulates this desire as a principle, he writes, “truly it is a very natural and ordinary
thing to desire to acquire” [P 3:14], without saying for whom, or for what, this is very natural
and ordinary. He does continue, in the immediate sequel, “and when men do it who can, they
will be praised or not blamed; but when they cannot, and want to do it anyway, here lie the error
and the blame” [P 3:14-15], but this amounts to saying that praise and blame are specifically
human, not that the desire to acquire is.9 In the Discourses Machiavelli elaborates: “nature has
created men so that they are able to desire everything and are unable to attain everything” [D
I.37.1:78]. As a result, “human appetites are insatiable, for since from nature they have the
ability and the wish to desire all things and from fortune the ability to achieve few of them, there
continually results from this a discontent in human minds and a disgust with the things they
possess” [D II.P.3:125]. While Machiavelli says that the insatiable appetites and the discontent
and disgust that they produce are specifically human, they are also effects of a cause that is not
specifically human: nature in general.
Not only does Machiavelli fail to insist that the desire to acquire is specifically human; he
also fails to assign the desire a specific end. In The Prince and the Discourses he depicts human
beings who desire to acquire material things like cities and provinces, states and kingdoms,
friends and partisans, and spiritual things like reputation, glory, and knowledge. But he never
argues that these are the proper objects of the desire to acquire. Instead, he asserts in the
Discourses, “each willingly multiplies that thing and seeks to acquire those goods he believes he
can enjoy once acquired” [D II.2.3:132; compare II.4.2:137]. The desire to acquire can have
anything as its object, then, so long as the one who acquires it believes he will enjoy it. But the
omnivorousness of the desire points again to its insatiability. Since the object of the desire is
nothing in particular, but rather acquisition for the sake of enjoying possession, and since
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 7
possession inspires only disgust and discontentment, the acquiring being goes from expecting
future enjoyment to feeling present dissatisfaction, and the desire to acquire must seek a new
object. Machiavelli is right, then, to call this desire a desire to acquire, since it aims at no object
in particular, but rather at acquisition, which is to say the feeling of acquisition, in general.
Human beings feel discontent and disgust with what they have; they enjoy only when they feel
that what they have is increasing.10 The desire to acquire thus resembles a drive to grow, since
its end is an increase in one’s own, without any intrinsic concern about whether one’s own is also
good.11
Understood in this way, the desire to acquire has both external and internal consequences.
Externally, this desire drives isolated human beings to acquire without limit and without
exclusion – in the Discourses Machiavelli mentions that it is even possible to “acquire the
world” [D I.20.1:54]. It follows from this that isolated human beings are almost entirely
formless.12 Perhaps this is one reason for Machiavelli’s practice of using “matter” as a term for
the human beings who are potential subjects of a prince [P 6:23; 26:102, 104]. But in a political
setting, when human beings live together, their desires to acquire interfere with one another, and
form arises. In The Prince, Machiavelli proclaims that in every city and every principality, “two
diverse humors are found” [P 9:39; compare 19:7613]: the people and the great. These humors
are defined by their characteristic appetites: “the people desire neither to be commanded nor
oppressed by the great, and the great desire to command and oppress the people” [P 9:39].14 In
the Discourses, Machiavelli calls these humors the nobles and the ignobles, and writes,
“[w]ithout doubt, if one considers the end of the nobles and of the ignobles, one will see great
desire to dominate in the former, and in the latter only desire not to be dominated; and in
consequence, a greater will to live free, being less able to hope to usurp it” – that is, to usurp
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 8
freedom – “than are the great” [D I.5.2:18].15
Lest we think that Machiavelli means that the people or the ignobles do not desire to
acquire, and that his two humors are therefore different natures,16 rather than ramifications of the
desire to acquire, Machiavelli points in the Discourses to their common source. Having just
characterized the difference between the nobles and the ignobles, he restates it paragraphs later
as the difference between “those who desire to acquire” and “those who fear to lose what they
have acquired,” and then explains that tumults are most frequently generated by those who
possess, because “the fear of losing generates in [them] the same wishes that are in those who
desire to acquire; for it does not appear to men that they possess securely what a man has unless
he acquires something else new” [D I.5.4:19].17 Machiavelli thereby blurs the difference
between the people and the great: fearing to lose has the same effects as desiring to acquire.
Later in the Discourses he makes much the same point, insisting that the difference between a
prince’s and a people’s way of proceeding “arises not from a diverse nature – because it is in one
mode in all” [D I.58.3:117], and that the popular desire for freedom is an effect of the desire to
acquire [D II.2.1:129].18 If these assertions are not enough, Machiavelli also tells a characteristic
story in the Discourses about Clearchus, the tyrant of Heraclea, who, finding himself caught
“between the insolence of the aristocrats… and the rage of the people,” “decided to free himself
at one stroke from the vexation of the great and to win over the people to himself.” By having
all the aristocrats cut to pieces, “he satisfied one of the wishes that peoples have – that is, to be
avenged. But as to the other popular desire,” Machiavelli continues, “to recover freedom, since
the prince cannot satisfy it, he should examine what causes are those that make [peoples] desire
to be free. He will find that a small part of them desires to be free so as to command, but all the
others, who are infinite, desire freedom so as to live secure” [D I.16.5:46]. Even if the humor of
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 9
the great is eliminated from a city or a principality, the remaining popular humor reforms itself
into two humors: the people, and the great.
These Machiavellian indications that the humors of the people and the great are
ramifications of the more fundamental desire to acquire also indicate that it is political life that
chiefly causes these ramifications. In isolation the desire to acquire knows only the feelings of
pleasurable increase or disgusting stasis; the desire to oppress, on the one hand, and the fear of
oppression on the other arise only in the political encounter with other more or less powerful
desires to acquire. Machiavelli acknowledges this in his brief account of the origins of political
life in the Discourses. “[S]ince the inhabitants were sparse in the beginning of the world,” he
writes, “they lived dispersed for a time like beasts; then, as generations multiplied, they gathered
together, and to be able to defend themselves better, they began to look to whoever among them
was more robust and of greater heart, and they made him a head, as it were, and obeyed him” [D
I.2.3:11].19 Thus arose the universal political struggle between the two humors, in which the
great give reputation to one of their number “so that they can satisfy their appetite under his
shadow,” while the people give reputation to one of the great “so as to be defended with his
authority” [P 9:39].20
The desire to acquire also has internal consequences: namely, the ramification of the
present into the past and the future. Like any desire, the desire to acquire involves opposing a
painful, factual present to a pleasant, counterfactual future. A being animated by such a desire
must be able to distinguish what it actually possesses from what it might possess, in order to
direct itself away from the former and toward the latter. So a being who desires to acquire, in
particular, must have memory, a continuing sense of its possessions, and foresight, a sense of
what its possessions might become. In the healthy case, its memory will be the basis of its
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 10
dissatisfaction with the present, and its foresight, the basis of its hope for the future. As
Machiavelli puts it in the Discourses, the insatiability of human appetites makes men “blame the
present times, praise the past, and desire the future, even if they are not moved to do this by any
reasonable cause” [D II.P.3:125].
It is the people or the ignobles in particular who blame the present and praise the past,
since their knowledge of the past is less accurate than their knowledge of the present, and past
things in general are neither feared nor envied [D II.P.1:123]. Moreover, memory supports the
popular form of the desire to acquire – the fear of loss – by preserving an inaccurate but
venerable past, and arguing that excellence consists in this preservation [D I.10.2:31]. Memory
encourages men to honor the past and obey the present, and thereby discourages conspiracies [D
III.6.1:218]. And when it involves fearsome events, memory can bring a state back to its
beginnings, and so preserve it [D III.1.3:211]. Perhaps unsurprisingly, memory is therefore also
an obstacle to the great or the nobles’ desire to acquire, especially when acquisition brings
innovation [P 2:7, 4:19, 5:21]. It is the first concern of new sects to eliminate the memory of
their predecessors, for example [D II.5.1:139]. But memory can also serve the foresight of the
great: if it helps to maintain a nation in the same customs for a long time, it makes it easy for
human beings to know future things by past ones [D III.43.1:302; compare I.39.1:83-84].21
Since the future is on this account the realm of hoped-for acquisition by the great, or
feared loss by the people, while the present is the realm of real possession, whether unsatisfying
to the great or satisfying to the people, the ramification of the present into the past and the future
is also a differentiation between the factual and counterfactual worlds, or between the real and
the imaginary. Taken together, the humors of the people and the great and the ramification of
the present into the past and the future explain the typical progressivism of the great, who want
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 11
to live in the future that their desire to acquire foresees, and the typical conservatism of the
people, who want to remain free of this future.22 Taken together, these forms of the desire to
acquire explain why each of Machiavelli’s humors has its corresponding understanding of human
excellence.
II
So far we have considered the desire to acquire as the core of human nature, according to
Machiavelli. We have also sketched the chief implications of this desire, showing how in
political settings it issues in a progressive great and a conservative people. Each of these
humors, it turns out, also has a characteristic understanding of human excellence: for the people
excellence is goodness, and for the great, excellence is virtue [D I.17.1-3:47-48; compare MV,
24-25]. We will discover, as we try next to fill in the content of goodness and virtue according
to Machiavelli, that the difference between goodness and virtue is also connected to his famous
distinction, made in The Prince, between the “effectual truth” and “imagined republics and
principalities” [P 15:61].
Perhaps because of its focus on the perspective of the great, goodness is only mentioned
twice in The Prince, both times in an ironic and disparaging way. Having begun his
consideration of ecclesiastical principalities with the claim that they are maintained without
virtue or fortune, Machiavelli concludes with the pious hope that “with his goodness and infinite
other virtues” Pope Leo X will make the pontificate “very great and venerable” [P 11:47]. In a
likeminded remark later in the book, during his survey of the fates of the Roman emperors,
Machiavelli notes that Emperor Alexander was of such goodness that he never made use of
summary execution. But he was also held to be effeminate, for which he was despised,
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 12
conspired against, and assassinated [P 19:77]. These examples distinguish goodness from virtue,
and can hardly be said to recommend goodness to a prince. In the Discourses, by contrast, there
is a fuller and less dismissive discussion of goodness. Machiavelli claims that it is the
characteristic excellence of peoples, as opposed to princes, writing that if the glories and the
disorders of princes be reviewed, “the people will be seen to be by far superior in goodness and
glory.” Princes, he explains, are superior to peoples in ordering, but peoples are superior to
princes in maintaining the things ordered – which is why they attain the glory of those who order
[D I.58.3:118]. Despite having characteristically retracted half of his praise of peoples,
Machiavelli leaves them with their superiority in goodness.
This excellence consists, then, in maintaining what is ordered at the founding of a sect, a
republic, or a kingdom, and promulgated by education [D III.1.2:209; III.30.1:280]: namely, the
laws, which are maintained by being obeyed by the people. Both peoples and princes show
goodness when they obey, and so are restrained by, the laws [D I.58.2:116; compare
III.24.1:270, III.46.1:307]. Indeed, early in the Discourses Machiavelli asserts, “the knowledge
of things honest and good” first arose out of the people’s obedience to the great. “[S]eeing that if
one individual hurt his benefactor,” he explains,
hatred and compassion among men came from it, and as they blamed the
ungrateful and honored those who were grateful, and thought too that those same
injuries could be done to them, to escape like evil they were reduced to making
laws and ordering punishments for whoever acted against them: hence came the
knowledge of justice [D I.2.3:11-12].
Now because goodness consists chiefly in obedience to the laws, it is closely connected
to religion as the basis of the laws [D I.11.3:35; I.55.2:110, 111], and to conscience as their
internal enforcement [D I.27.1:62; I.55.2:110]. Through obedience to the laws, goodness
procures and defends freedom [D I.17.1:47], which as we have seen is the goal of the people’s
modified desire to acquire. Lest we think that goodness consists solely in obedience to the laws,
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 13
Machiavelli mentions one example that “shows how much goodness and how much religion”
were in the Roman people. When the Senate issued an unpopular edict that required the plebs to
sacrifice to Apollo a tenth of the booty taken in a recent victory, “the plebs thought not of
defrauding the edict in any part by giving less than it owed, but of freeing itself from it by
showing open indignation” [D I.55.1:110]. Goodness consists chiefly in obedience to the laws,
but perhaps more importantly, in the refusal to use fraud even when one disobeys. It is almost
the same thing as honesty.
Machiavelli signals, in several places, that the opposite of goodness is corruption [D
I.17.1:47; I.55.1:110; III.1.2:209; III.30.1:280]. But there is reason to think that a more
thoroughgoing opposite to this excellence of the people is the excellence of the great, virtue.
This is not just because, as we have seen, Machiavelli is contemptuous of goodness in his book
on princes, nor just because the superiority of princes to peoples in ordering means that they
must destroy a prior order that others are trying to maintain. It is not just because virtue is
inimical to goodness. Rather, it is because goodness can also be inimical to virtue. We see how
so in one of the examples Machiavelli gives to illustrate the goodness of the matter and the
orders of Rome: that of Manlius Capitolinus, who found no one to support his rebellion against
the Senate and laws, and was condemned by the Roman people to death. “I do not believe that
there is an example in this history more apt to show the goodness of all the orders of that
republic than this,” Machiavelli concludes, “seeing that no one in that city moved to defend a
citizen full of every virtue, who publicly and privately had performed very many praiseworthy
works” [D III.8.1:238].23
In contrast to his account of goodness, Machiavelli’s account of virtue is developed more
fully in The Prince, and in particular in the book’s second half, Chapters Fifteen and following,
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 14
where he turns to consider “what the modes and government of a prince should be with subjects
and with friends” [P 15:61]. This statement of what remains of his project implies that the first
half of the book considered what the modes and government of a prince should be with
foreigners and with enemies; and when we see that the explicit subject of the first half of The
Prince is “How Many Are the Kinds of Principalities and in What Modes They Are Acquired”
[P 1.T:5] – that is acquisition – this implication is confirmed. We seem to be on a firm
Machiavellian footing: with foreigners and enemies the prince follows the desire to acquire,
while with subjects and friends he practices virtue. The generality of Machiavelli’s opening
statement on virtue might therefore come as a surprise. “A man who wants to make a profession
of good in all regards must come to ruin among so many who are not good,” he writes. “Hence it
is necessary to a prince, if he wants to maintain himself, to learn to be able not to be good, and to
use this and not use it according to necessity” [P 15:61]. Necessity, and not the difference
between friend and enemy, or subject and foreigner, determines whether the prince should be
good or wicked. The “so many who are not good” include friend and foe alike. To be able to act
as necessity demands, we will learn, is virtue.
Machiavelli connects his new account of virtue to his famous move from the imagination
of a thing to its effectual truth, or from how one should live to how one lives [P 15:61]. Before
considering this connection, though, let’s follow his development of this account of virtue in the
chapter of The Prince devoted to whether a prince should be honest. Since combat with laws –
what we might call the combat of the good – is often not enough, one must have recourse to
combat with arms: so “it is necessary for a prince to know well how to use the beast and the
man” [P 18:69]. The ancients understood this necessity, and communicated it by depicting the
centaur Chiron as the teacher of Achilles. “To have as a teacher a half-beast, half-man,”
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 15
Machiavelli writes, “means nothing other than that a prince needs to know how to use both
natures” [P 18.69]. We have mentioned that Machiavelli is willing to say that there is a nature of
princes [P ED:4]: this nature now seems to be something more comprehensive than the nature of
a man or the nature of a beast, if it is capable of using, or imitating [P 19:78], both of these
natures. “Thus, since a prince is compelled of necessity to know well how to use the beast,”
Machiavelli continues, “he should pick the fox and the lion, because the lion does not defend
itself from snares and the fox does not defend itself from wolves. So one needs to be a fox to
recognize snares and a lion to frighten the wolves” [P 18:69]. Each animal, then, has a single
defect that is remedied by the other: the fox’s astuteness remedies the lion’s gullibility, while the
lion’s fierceness remedies the fox’s contemptibility [compare P 19:79].
But if each of the two bestial natures that the prince should use has a single defect that is
remedied by the other, what use does the prince have for the other component of the centaur: the
nature of a man? Machiavelli has implied that this nature is needed for combat with laws, since
this is “proper to man” [P 18:69]; but we would be forgiven for doubting him, since he has also
claimed, six chapters earlier, that good arms are the necessary and sufficient condition of good
laws [P 12:48]. We might begin to suspect that combat with arms is also sufficient, and that the
prince who knows well how to use the nature of the fox and the lion has no need of the nature of
man in addition – that he could be entirely inhuman, all beast. But Machiavelli has more to say.
“[I]f all men were good, this teaching would not be good,” – if all men were honest, that is, there
would be no snares, and it would suffice for a prince to be a lion – “but because they are wicked
and do not observe faith with you, you also do not have to observe it with them” [P 18:69].
There are infinite modern examples, he claims, in which “the one who has known best how to
use the fox has come out best,” because a faithless prince has ensnared the gullible. “But it is
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 16
necessary,” Machiavelli continues, “to know well how to color this nature, and to be a great
pretender and dissembler; and men are so simple and so obedient to present necessities that he
who deceives will always find someone who will let himself be deceived” [P 18:70]. The nature
of the fox needs to be colored because its astuteness is limited to recognizing snares, as opposed
to setting them. There is a use for the nature of man after all: it equips an otherwise brutish
virtue with the specifically human ability to lie.
In restating his conclusion, Machiavelli makes it clear that his discussion of “In What
Mode Faith Should Be Kept by Princes” [P 18.T:68] is really a discussion of his account of all
virtue, which is to say a discussion “Of Those Things for Which Men And Especially Princes
Are Praised or Blamed” [P 15.T:61], or a discussion of human excellence in general. “[I]t is not
necessary,” he writes, “for a prince to have all the above-mentioned qualities [the traditional
virtues and vices] in fact, but it is indeed necessary to appear to have them” [P 18:70; compare
15:62]. Lest we infer that it is necessary to have some of these qualities, he then sharpens his
restatement: since “by having them and always observing them, they are harmful; and by
appearing to have them, they are useful,” it is necessary to “remain with a spirit built [edificato]
so that, if you need not to be those things, you are able and know how to change to the contrary”
[P 18:70]. To use a nature, or to imitate a nature, turns out to mean not to have but to appear to
have that nature. But to appear to have a nature one does not have is to lie. So the specifically
human ability to lie seems sufficient to generate the appearance of, and therefore sufficient to
make use of, all the other natures a virtuous prince might need.
This reading is supported by the discussion of Severus in the next chapter of The Prince.
Since Severus was a new prince whose actions were great and notable, Machiavelli wants “to
show briefly how well he knew to use the persons of the fox and the lion, whose natures I say
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 17
above are necessary for a prince to imitate” [P 19:78]. These natures are now persons, things
that can be impersonated. “[W]hoever examines minutely the actions of this man will find him a
very fierce lion and a very astute fox” [P 19:79], Machiavelli continues, again omitting to
mention the person or nature of a man. But it turns out that being like Severus is not sufficient
for the best kind of prince: “a new prince in a new principality… should take from Severus those
parts which are necessary to found his state and from Marcus [Aurelius] those which are fitting
and glorious to conserve a state that is already established and firm” [P 19:82]. Since we know
from the Discourses that those parts are called goodness, we might conclude that this is the use
of the nature of a man. But Marcus was an enemy of cruelty [P 19:76], whereas Severus was
very cruel [P 19:78], so the new prince who combines their parts will be neither, though he will
know how to appear to be both. In other words, the virtuous desire to acquire uses the
specifically human ability to lie to impersonate a man, just as much as to impersonate a lion or a
fox.
Understood in this way, the nature of the prince is something built, rather than something
grown. But this is also true of the nature of peoples. Recall Machiavelli’s practice of referring
to the people as “matter” to be formed by the prince [P 6:23; 26:102, 104], and his claims that
knowledge of goodness arises from obedient gratitude to the great, and knowledge of justice
from laws to protect against ingratitude [D I.2.3:11-12]. If the excellence of the people is
goodness, the maintenance of orders founded by the great, then the nature of peoples is
something built by the great, just as the nature of the great is something built by the great
themselves. The great, we might say, and especially the prince, give form both to their own
formless desire to acquire, and to that of the human beings around them. And they are guided in
this formation by necessity.
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Machiavelli means this foundation on necessity to justify his claim in The Prince that by
departing from the orders of others in his discussion of virtue and goodness, and focusing on “the
effectual truth of the thing” rather than on the imagination of it, he is writing something “useful
to whoever understands it” [P 15:61]. Imaginary republics like Plato’s and imaginary
principalities like Christ’s, which “have never been seen or known to exist in truth,” are used to
illustrate how one should live – that is, they are used to support goodness. Real republics and
principalities, by contrast, are used by Machiavelli to illustrate how one does live. That there is a
difference between how one should live and how one does live is a sign of the failure of the
imaginary realm to make human beings completely good, and a sign of the need to turn to the
real. “Hence it is necessary for a prince,” Machiavelli concludes, “if he wants to maintain
himself, to learn to be able not to be good, and to use this and not use it according to necessity”
[P 15:61].
So the virtuous live in the realm of the real, according to Machiavelli, while the good live
for the most part in the realm of the imaginary, or the counterfactual. The virtuous live in the
present, which exists, while the good live mostly in the future, which does not. What is
surprising about this conclusion is that it exactly contraries the conclusion we came to in our
analysis of the desire to acquire, which had the humor of the people seeking to maintain present
possessions, and the humor of the great hoping for future acquisitions. In other words, each
humor of human nature, each way that the desire to acquire expresses itself in a political setting,
must need the native realm of the other. The good people need an imaginary future because their
desire to acquire, frustrated by the competing desires of the great, is limited in the real world to a
hope for maintenance; only in another world, or in a city in speech, can they hope to avenge their
subordination and become great. The virtuous great, by contrast, need the present because their
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 19
practice of lying – that is, their construction of imaginary worlds – for the sake of future
acquisition needs to be informed by present necessities imposed by the people they are lying to;
in other words, they require goodness for their virtue to be effectual. The difference between
goodness and virtue, we could say, is the difference between an ignorant self-deception and a
knowing deception of others.
III
Having concluded our sketch of Machiavelli’s view of human nature, understood as the
desire to acquire, with its two humors and their corresponding excellences, we might begin to
wonder whether this view is true. This is too big a question to explore in the final part of this
lecture, though Machiavelli’s view does have the merit of explaining a common moral
phenomenon: the concern of those who are trying to be good, that they might be the dupes of
those who are not. Instead, this final part is devoted to a narrower, though related, question: does
Machiavelli think that his account of human nature is true?
Recall that in the fifteenth chapter of The Prince Machiavelli claims to turn from the
imagination of a thing to its effectual truth, and from how one should live to how one lives [P
15:61]. He makes these claims right after announcing his turn to “what the modes and
government of a prince should be with subjects and with friends” [P 15:61], and presumably
away from what his modes and government should be with foreigners and with enemies. The
first chapter of The Prince, by contrast, refers in its title to the modes in which principalities are
acquired [P I.T:5], and so announces the subject of the first part of the work. The suggestion in
both parts of The Prince, then, is that what human beings should do follows directly from what
they in fact do. What human beings in fact do provides the content of necessity, on the basis of
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 20
which virtue acts. Moreover, Machiavelli’s distinctions between foreigners and subjects, or
between foes and friends, vanish from the perspective of necessity. The first part of The Prince
focuses on acquisition, and so on foreigners and foes, but it treats in the same spirit how
acquisitions are maintained, and so mentions subjects and friends [for example, P 7:29-30].
Similarly, the second part focuses on how the prince should treat subjects and friends, but the
virtues that Machiavelli discusses in this part are needed also for dealing with foreigners and foes
[for example, P 17:67-68]. Perhaps the clearest indication that these divisions vanish from the
perspective of necessity is the title of the fifteenth chapter of The Prince, “Of Those Things for
Which Men and Especially Princes Are Praised or Blamed” [P 15.T:61]. Attentive readers will
remember that Machiavelli has already, much earlier in the work, said what these things are:
“truly it is a very natural and ordinary thing to desire to acquire, and when men do it who can,
they will be praised or not blamed; but when they cannot, and want to do it anyway, here lie the
error and the blame” [P 3:14-15]. The difference between the first and the second parts of The
Prince is the difference between what human beings do to acquire, and what they ought to do.
The first part of the work is chiefly descriptive, the second chiefly hortatory; and Machiavelli’s
exhortation is based on his description: men should learn not to be good – that is, to be virtuous –
because men are not good – that is, they are corrupt. In other words, Machiavelli’s exhortation
to virtue requires two things to be true: that men are corrupt, and that there is a difference
between corruption and virtue. Let’s look at each of these criteria in turn.
One objection to Machiavelli’s claim that men are corrupt is that this may accidentally be
so, but it is not so necessarily. As we have seen, human nature, according to Machiavelli,
consists of a matter that is not specifically human, the desire to acquire, that can be formed to
have specifically human excellences, goodness and virtue. In other words, human nature is
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 21
malleable. (Moreover, Machiavelli is evasive about what is specifically human in goodness and
virtue: in The Prince, as we have seen, he guardedly identifies fraud, which uses or imitates
brutish natures, as specifically human; but since fraud merely serves the desire to acquire, it does
not serve a specifically human end.) In the Discourses Machiavelli makes this malleability more
explicit when commenting on Livy’s disparaging claim that the French begin battles as more
than men, but end them as less than women. “Thinking over whence this arises,” he writes, “it is
believed by many that their nature is made so, which I believe is true; but because of this it is not
that their nature, which makes them ferocious at the beginning, cannot be ordered with art, so
that it maintains them ferocious to the last” [D III.36.1:292]. To be precise, the nature of the
French makes them ferocious at the beginning of battles; it is the failure of this nature that makes
their ferocity lapse. This failure can be avoided, and their nature maintained, by the order
imparted by art. The Roman army, Machiavelli indicates later in the same chapter, exemplifies
such ordering. Nothing its soldiers did was not regulated: “they did not eat, they did not sleep,
they did not go whoring, they did not perform any action either military or domestic without the
order of the consul” [D III.36.2:292]. Not only can the difference between male and female be
maintained by art; art can also constrain the natural movements of growth and reproduction.
This artful ordering of nature produces the excellences that Machiavelli names goodness and
virtue.
But Machiavelli also admits in the Discourses that there are limits to what art can achieve
with its human material. He mentions two reasons why we are unable to change our natures as
necessity demands: “one, that we are unable to oppose that to which nature inclines us; the other,
that when one individual has prospered very much with one mode of proceeding, it is not
possible to persuade him that he can do well to proceed otherwise” [D III.9.3:240]. These
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reasons, which correspond to Machiavelli’s injunction in The Prince that one must both be able
to change one’s nature, and know how to do so [P 18:70], suggest that the limits to malleability
are imposed by the energy and the opinions of each human being.24 Since there will not always
be a human being available with the needed energy and opinions to do what necessity demands
in each case – and this is especially so if, as Machiavelli implies, success renders one’s opinions
inflexible – art will eventually fail to order nature, with a consequent failure of virtue and of the
goodness it orders. A permanently good human order, then, is not to be hoped for, despite the
malleability of human nature. Corruption is necessary, and so virtue is needed.
The requirement that virtue be different from corruption is trickier to establish. We have
seen that both of these forms of human nature are opposed to goodness; they differ because
virtue in departing from goodness looks to a different standard, necessity, whereas corruption in
departing from goodness does not. The difference between virtue and corruption depends, then,
on the existence of knowable necessities in human life. Now we have seen Machiavelli write as
though necessities are knowable by human beings; this is what he seems to mean when he urges
princes to “learn to be able not to be good, and to use this and not use it according to necessity”
[P 15:61].25 In other words, Machiavelli seems to think that there is a science of necessities. But
in The Prince and the Discourses taken together, Machiavelli mentions science only twice: both
times in a chapter late in the Discourses that asserts that a captain must be a knower of sites, or
of “the nature of countries” [D III.39.T:297; III.39.2:299]. The argument of this chapter closely
parallels that of a similar chapter in The Prince, titled “What a Prince Should Do Regarding the
Military” [P 14.T:58] – a chapter where, admittedly, science is not mentioned. In these two
places, Machiavelli advises that princes, captains, and the great should train in hunting, part of
the practical mode of the peaceful exercise of the art of war [P 14:59].26 Hunting yields
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particular knowledge of the country in which one trains. “First,” Machiavelli writes in The
Prince, “one learns to know one’s own country, and one can better understand its defense; then,
through the knowledge of and experience with those sites, one can comprehend with ease every
other site that it may be necessary to explore as new” [P 14:59]. Particular knowledge becomes
general knowledge, and defensive ability becomes offensive ability, because of a “certain
similarity” between the corresponding features in every country, “so that from the knowledge of
a site in one province one can easily come to the knowledge of others” [P 14:59].27 Machiavelli
makes sweeping claims for his science of sites. Not only is it necessary for a captain to have this
“general and particular knowledge” of “sites and countries” if he wants to work anything well [D
III.39.1:297-298], but it will allow a prince to know “all the chances that can occur to an army”
[P 14:60]. While Philopoemen, Machiavelli’s example of a possessor of this science, led his
army, “there could never arise any unforeseen event for which he did not have the remedy” [P
14:60]. As long as we have the energy to be able to act as necessity demands, the science of sites
guarantees that we will know how to do so.
We might grant Machiavelli’s claim that there are no supernatural kingdoms: that
because all countries are alike in nature, knowledge of one leads to knowledge of all. But why
does he think that a perfected science of sites allows a prince to overcome fortune? A sentence
from the Discourses is helpful here. “Whoever has this practice,” Machiavelli writes, “knows
with one glance of his eye how that plain lies, how that mountain rises, where this valley reaches,
and all other things of which he has in the past made a firm science” [D III.39.2.298]. This talk
of plains, mountains, and valleys should remind us of the comparison in the Dedicatory Letter of
The Prince, between the natures of peoples and of princes, on the one hand, and the natures of
mountains or high places and of low places, on the other [P DL:4]. By limiting his use of the
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word “science” in The Prince and the Discourses to the science of sites, Machiavelli indicates
that there is no science specific to human beings, nor even one specific to living beings. Human
nature and living nature are continuous with nonliving nature, and psychology is continuous with
geography – or better, with physics. The malleability of human nature, then, is great enough that
nonhuman and nonliving phenomena are imitable by human beings, but not so great that human
beings become incalculable as a result.28 Just as there are no superhuman kingdoms, there are no
supermen – though as we have seen there are centaurs.
This understanding of Machiavelli’s science of sites is puzzling, though, because it seems
to require a descriptive treatment of virtue, rather than the hortatory one that we find in the
second part of The Prince. If human beings are as determined and predictable as nonhuman
bodies, why not describe what they do, rather than fruitlessly exhorting them to behave otherwise
than they do? In particular, we would expect Machiavelli to insist that princes do learn to be
able not to be good, and to use it according to necessity, to the extent that they have the most
excellent form of the desire to acquire. Instead, as we have seen, he insists, “it is necessary for a
prince, if he wants to maintain himself, to learn to be able not to be good, and to use this and not
use it according to necessity” [P 15:61; emphasis added]. Now what sense does this condition,
“if he wants to maintain himself,” make in the light of Machiavelli’s claim that all human beings,
and the great above all, are driven by the desire to acquire? Since acquisition presupposes the
persistence of the acquiring being, how could a prince not want to maintain himself?29
In the chapter of The Prince devoted to conspiracies, Machiavelli admits that there exist
very rare human beings with “an obstinate spirit,” who do not care about death. A prince cannot
avoid death at the hands of such a conspirator, because “anyone who does not care about death
can harm him” [P 19:79]. Since the threat of death and the consequent loss of all one’s
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 25
acquisitions – the threat of ruin, as Machiavelli puts it – is the paramount necessity faced by
human beings [for example, P 15:61], these very rare human beings apparently fall outside the
scope of this necessity, and therefore outside the scope of the science of sites.30 There is no
remedy available to princes for such unforeseen events. We might expect Machiavelli to try to
account for the existence of such human beings by tracing their obstinacy back to the desire to
acquire, saying, for example, that they do not care about death because they hope for an afterlife
in which they will be rewarded. But he does not do so; instead, he says only that they are
motivated by the desire to avenge a “grave injury” [P 19:79-80; see also D III.6.11:227] – a
desire that can be satisfied in this life, even if one does not long survive its satisfaction.
In the Discourses Machiavelli claims, “private men enter upon no enterprise more
dangerous or more bold” than a conspiracy against a prince [D III.6.1:218; see also III.6.4:223].
In The Prince, by contrast, he writes, “nothing is more difficult to handle, more doubtful of
success, nor more dangerous to manage, than to put oneself at the head of new orders” [P 6:23].
The obstinate spirit one needs to brave the greatest danger in a conspiracy is presumably also
needed to brave the greatest danger in founding something entirely new, for every new
foundation begins as a conspiracy against the old. We might wonder, then, whether this account
of human nature is adequate to explain the activity of the new prince, or even Machiavelli’s own
activity. Is Machiavelli himself motivated by the desire to acquire? We cannot seriously believe
that a virtuous possessor of the science of sites, for whom, as long as he is armed, no accident
can arise for which he does not have the remedy [P 14:60], could be compelled to endure a
“great and continuous malignity of fortune” [P DL:4]. Machiavelli does make it seem, at the
beginning of the Dedicatory Letter of The Prince, that he desires “to acquire favor with a Prince”
[P DL:3]; but in the Preface to the first book of the Discourses he claims instead that he has
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 26
always had a “natural desire… to work, without any respect, for those things I believe will bring
common benefit to everyone” [D I.P.1:5].
These doubts about Machiavelli’s science of sites – that it ought to preclude the hortatory
character of the second part of The Prince, and that it cannot account for human beings who are
contemptuous of death – suggest that the account of human nature in The Prince and the
Discourses is partial, and that Machiavelli knows it.31 Through these works he means to shape
human nature, to the extent that it can be shaped, by an education that claims that human nature
is more malleable and more predictable than Machiavelli really thinks it is. For the sake of the
common benefit, he means to persuade the great to act as if they are acting only according to
necessity. This project would amount to nothing more than a curiosity in the history of political
thought were it not for its remarkable success. We are the indirect beneficiaries of Machiavelli’s
questionable attempt: we who believe that our natures are malleable, especially by technology;
we who believe in rights founded only on necessities; we who believe ourselves great because of
the dream of acquisition without limit; we who believe in progress, and in the necessity of a
better future; and we who believe ourselves to be the people whose acquisitions the laws of
nature and of nature’s God secure. Without attention to Machiavelli’s account of human nature
we run the risk of remaining the unconscious inheritors at third hand of a partial account, of a
project, posing as a science, to narrow human possibilities through education. We risk being
Machiavellians without knowing it. How is this to the common benefit of everyone?
Jeff J.S. Black
Annapolis, Maryland
20 June 2012
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Notes
1
References to The Prince and to the Discourses will be given in the text, in the forms [P Chapter:page] and [D
Book.chapter.paragraph:page], respectively. In these references, DL stands for dedicatory letter, P for preface, and
T for title. The editions used are Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince. A New Translation with an Introduction, by
Harvey C. Mansfield, Jr. (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1985), and Niccolò Machiavelli,
Discourses on Livy. Translated by Harvey C. Mansfield and Nathan Tarcov. (Chicago and London: The University
of Chicago Press, 1996). I also refer to Harvey C. Mansfield, Machiavelli's New Modes and Orders: A Study of the
Discourses on Livy. (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 2001) in the form [MNMO, page]; to
Harvey C. Mansfield, Machiavelli's Virtue. (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1996) in the
form [MV, page]; and to Leo Strauss, Thoughts on Machiavelli. (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago
Press, 1958) in the form [TM, page].
2
In the former passage, Machiavelli writes, “states that come to be suddenly, like all other things in nature that are
born and grow quickly, cannot have roots and branches” [P 7:26], while in the latter he writes that a man cannot be
found who is so prudent to accommodate himself to changes in fortune, in part “because he cannot deviate from
what nature inclines him to” [P 25:100]. In two passages in the Discourses analogous to the latter passage in The
Prince, Machiavelli writes that we are unable to change in part because “we are unable to oppose that to which
nature inclines us” [D III.9.3:240], and “it is given by nature to men to take sides in any divided thing whatever, and
for this to please them more than that” [D III.27.3:275]. In these last three passages we might expect Machiavelli to
write “his nature” or “our nature,” but he does not. There is one passage in the Discourses where he refers to “the
wicked nature of men” [D III.29.1:277], but he makes the reference while quoting a view with which he does not
agree.
3
In nearby chapters at the beginning of The Prince, Machiavelli uses the phrases “natural prince” [P 2:7] and
“natural affection” [P 4:17] to refer to the prince who inherits a principality and the affection felt for him. The
natural and the ordinary are closely connected at this point in the work, and they both refer primarily to the sequence
of human generation. The new prince is opposed to the natural or ordinary prince in Machiavelli’s argument, and
the natural and ordinary is both an obstacle and an opportunity for him.
4
Machiavelli may mean to contrast these “universal causes” with the “superior causes” that he mentions in his
discussion of ecclesiastical principalities [P 11:45].
5
“[T]ime sweeps everything before it and can bring with it good as well as evil and evil as well as good” [P 3:13],
according to Machiavelli, and “worldly things are so variable that it is next to impossible for one to stand with his
armies idle in a siege for a year” [P 10:44]. There is another reference to an “order of things” much later in The
Prince: “in the order of things it is found that one never seeks to avoid one inconvenience without running into
another; but prudence consists in knowing how to recognize the qualities of inconveniences, and in picking the less
bad as good” [P 21:91].
6
“[O]ne can say this generally of men,” Machiavelli writes, “that they are ungrateful, fickle, pretenders and
dissemblers, evaders of danger, eager for gain. While you do them good, they are yours, offering you their blood,
property, lives, and children… when the need for them is far away; but, when it is close to you, they revolt” [P
17:66]. Having taught his reader later in The Prince that a prudent lord cannot observe faith, he continues, “if all
men were good, this teaching would not be good; but because they are wicked and do not observe faith with you,
you also do not have to observe it with them” [P 18:69]. Indeed, “men will always turn out bad for you unless they
have been made good by a necessity” [P 23:95]. Machiavelli’s other claims about the apparently abiding character
of men include, “men in general judge more by their eyes than by their hands, because seeing is given to everyone,
touching to a few” [P 18:71], and, “men are much more taken by present things than by past ones, and when they
find good in the present, they enjoy it and do not seek elsewhere” [P 24:96].
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7
Machiavelli repeats this claim much later in the Discourses, in a way that suggests an amendment. “Prudent men
are accustomed to say,” he writes, “and not by chance or without merit, that whoever wishes to see what has to be
considers what has been; for all worldly things in every time have their own counterpart in ancient times. That
arises because these are the work of men, who have and always had the same passions, and they must of necessity
result in the same effect” [D III.43.1:302]. What prudent men say by custom rather than by chance, and not without
merit, is then corrected by what Machiavelli says in the immediate sequel: that it is true that the works of men “are
more virtuous now in this province than in that, and in that more than in this, according to the form of education in
which those people have taken their mode of life” [D III.43.1:302]. Education can shape nature, such that “Men
Who Are Born in One Province Observe Almost the Same Nature for All Times” [D III.43.T:302; emphasis added].
Similarly, when investigating “Whence It Arises That One Family in One City Keeps the Same Customs for a Time”
[D III.46.T:306], Machiavelli argues that this “cannot arise solely from the bloodline, because that must vary
through the diversity of marriages, but it necessarily comes from the diverse education of one family from another”
[D III.46.1:306].
8
“How Many Are the Kinds of Principalities and in What Modes They Are Acquired” [P 1.T:5]; “Of New
Principalities That Are Acquired through One’s Own Arms and Virtue” [P 6.T:21]; “Of New Principalities That are
Acquired by Others’ Arms and Fortune” [P 7.T:25].
9
This suggests another reason why Chapter XV, titled “Of Those Things for Which Men And Especially Princes are
Praised or Blamed” [P 15.T:61] is also about acquisition.
10
The desire to acquire thus amounts to a desire for novelty. Later in the Discourses Machiavelli writes “men are
desirous of new things, so much that most often those who are well off desire newness as much as those who are
badly off. For, as was said another time [at D I.37.1:78], and it is true, men get bored with the good and grieve in
the ill” [D III.21.2:263].
11
And just as reproduction is growth by other means, so are one’s offspring and their acquisitions one’s own
acquisitions, by other means. Consider Machiavelli’s hints about how Alexander VI used Cesare Borgia [P 11:46].
Death is not simply a limit of the desire to acquire. But compare note 27, below.
Machiavelli does occasionally refer to a good that is the goal of acquisition. For example, in the
Discourses he writes,
[i]t appears that in the actions of men, as we have discoursed of another time [D I.6.3:21-22,
where he wrote of “inconveniences”], besides the other difficulties in wishing to bring a thing to
its perfection, one finds that close to the good there is always some evil that arises with that good
so easily that it appears impossible to be able to miss the one if one wishes for the other. One sees
this in all the things that men work on. So the good is acquired only with difficulty unless you are
aided by fortune, so that with its force it conquers this ordinary and natural inconvenience” [D
III.37.1:294].
But it is not clear that by “the good” here Machiavelli means anything other than any acquisition that can be felt and
so enjoyed.
Also, there are occasional hints in The Prince and the Discourses that some acquisitions can be harmful to
the body that acquires them. In The Prince Machiavelli first raises the possibility of such acquisitions when he tells
his reader that to keep an acquisition the prince must ensure that the acquired body becomes “one whole body” with
the acquiring body [P 3:9]. If the new acquisition instead remains disparate with respect to the prince’s other
possessions, then he runs the risk of losing it. A powerful foreigner can easily gain the lesser powers in a disparate
province, since the lesser powers, moved by their envy of their rulers, quickly and willingly make “one mass” with
the foreign invader [P 3:11]. A prince who rules a disparate state, and who fails to prevent powerful foreigners from
taking advantage of this disparity, will soon lose his new acquisition, and “while he holds it, [he] will have infinite
difficulties and vexations within it” [P 3:11]. So acquisitions can be harmful to the prince and his state as long as
they remain disparate with his other possessions; in general, Machiavelli claims, “the disparity in the subject”
explains why some conquerors hold their acquisitions while others lose them [P 4:19]. This disparity can be
eliminated, and the new acquisition made into one whole body with the acquiring state, by eliminating the new
acquisition’s memory of its previous way of life [P 4:19] – that is, by making the acquisition more complete.
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 29
Acquisition in Machiavelli’s account thus resembles nutrition, in that the acquired body must become like
the acquiring body before it can be good for the acquiring body. As long as an acquisition remains disparate, it
remains undigested, and a cause of “difficulties and vexations.” But it is not until he considers cities and
principalities that live under their own laws before they are acquired that Machiavelli suggests that some
acquisitions are by their nature indigestible. Considering the case of a city, he claims at first that “a city used to
living free may be held more easily by means of its own citizens than in any other mode, if one wants to preserve it
[P 5:20]. But Machiavelli soon admits that this is impossible: “in truth there is no secure mode to possess them
other than to ruin them” [P 5:20]. The acquisition of a free city is necessarily harmful: “whoever becomes patron of
a city accustomed to living free and does not destroy it, should expect to be destroyed by it” [P 5:20-21]. The
indigestibility of such a city results, as we might expect, from the persistence of the memory of its way of life,
despite length of time, benefits received, and anything short of destruction [P 5:21]. So the only secure way for a
prince to keep such an acquisition is to eliminate it, or to live in it – that is, rather than digesting it, to be digested by
it [P 5:21].
This marks the extent of Machiavelli’s admission in The Prince that some acquisitions are not good for the
acquiring body. In the Discourses he writes that “[t]he intention of whoever makes war through choice – or, in
truth, ambition – is to acquire and maintain the acquisition, and to proceed with it so that it enriches and does not
impoverish the country and his fatherland” [D II.6.1:140]. Machiavelli thereby admits that there can be acquisitions
that are not good. A later chapter title, “That Acquisition by Republics That Are Not Well Ordered and That Do Not
Proceed According to Roman Virtue Are for Their Ruin, Not Their Exaltation” [D II.19.T:172], suggests that virtue
might be the necessary and sufficient condition that makes acquisitions good, though Machiavelli ends the chapter
by suggesting that “acquiring was about to be pernicious for the Romans in the times when they proceeded with so
much prudence and so much virtue” [D II.19.2:175]. His most general remark about the goodness of acquisition in
the Discourses comes in a chapter whose title proclaims its concern in part with the causes that eliminate the
memories of things, where Machiavelli asserts in passing that “in simple bodies, when very much superfluous matter
has gathered together there, nature many times moves by itself and produces a purge that is the health of that body”
[D II.5.2:140]. But this remark about the goodness of acquisition, like the analogous discussion in The Prince,
reduces goodness to similarity to the acquiring body: that is, it reduces the good to what is one’s own. It does not
point to the an account in terms of a good that is independent of one’s own.
12
Almost, because the presence of other competing desires to acquire is likely not the only source of formative
effects on the desire to acquire. To the extent that circumstances resist acquisition – one is not strong enough, for
example, to climb the tree to reach the desired apple – the desire to acquire is also given form. But these formative
effects are presumably not as lasting as political ones. If they were, then our common experience of infantile
weakness would yield in everyone the humor of the people.
13
Here Machiavelli writes, “in other principalities” than the Roman empire, “one has to contend only with the
ambition of the great and the insolence of the people” [P 19:76]. In the Roman empire one had to contend as well
with the cruelty and avarice of the soldiers.
14
Later in the same chapter Machiavelli will reformulate this distinction, writing, “the great want to oppress and the
people want not to be oppressed” [P 9:39]. The disappearance of command from his formulation calls for an
explanation, and Machiavelli provides one in the sequel when he claims, “when a prince who founds on the people
knows how to command,” among other things, “he will see he has laid his foundations well” [P 9:41], since
“citizens and subjects” can become “accustomed to receive commands” [P 9:42]. Where oppression is concerned,
the great and the people have nothing in common; but they do have something in common where command that is
not oppressive is concerned. Command is thus the closest thing to a political solution to the existence of two
humors.
15
One difference between the perspectives of The Prince and the Discourses is signaled by Machiavelli’s different
description of the desires of the two humors in the two works. ‘Command and oppress’ in The Prince becomes
‘dominate’ in the Discourses. In the former work Machiavelli distinguishes between kinds of domination; in the
latter he does not.
16
Mansfield writes that according to Machiavelli, morality
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 30
is controlled by natural temperament, by the two humors that divide all mankind and underlie all
moral behavior and opinion. By speaking of humors Machiavelli indicates that they are not habits
of the mind nor mental in origin but prerational dispositions. Not being rational in nature, they
cannot be reconciled by speech or argument. These are two human types who do not understand
each other – the one preferring security and comfort, suspicious of anyone who desires more, the
other seeking risk and demanding honor, unbelieving that anyone could be satisfied with less [MV,
24].
17
Machiavelli’s sudden shift from the plural to the singular in the course of this passage is both striking and
puzzling. Could he mean to imply that men can be made to feel secure in their possession if only one man among
them – their prince, for example, who in a sense has what they have – acquires something new?
18
“It is an easy thing to know whence arises among peoples this affection for a free way of life for it is seen through
experience that cities have never expanded either in dominion or in riches if they have not been in freedom” [D
II.2.1:129]. Moreover, if a republic “will not molest others, it will be molested, and from being molested will arise
the wish and the necessity to acquire” [D II.19.1:173]. The desire to acquire is also an effect of the desire for
freedom.
19
There is a similar but less detailed account in the previous and first chapter of the Discourses. Since all cities are
either founded by natives or by foreigners, and all foreigners were natives elsewhere, then the original foundation of
cities
occurs when it does not appear, to inhabitants dispersed in many small parts, that they live
securely, since each part by itself, both because of the site and because of the small number,
cannot resist the thrust of whoever assaults it; and when the enemy comes, they do not have time
to unite for their defense. Or if they did, they would be required to leave many of their
strongholds abandoned; and so they would come at once to be the prey of their enemies. So to
flee these dangers, moved either by themselves or by someone among them of greater authority,
they are restrained to inhabit together a place elected by them, more advantageous to live in and
easier to defend [D I.1.1:7].
20
That the command of one of the great produces a political struggle between the two humors indicates that this
command is not a perfect solution to the existence of the two humors. This is partly because the great continue to
desire to acquire by oppressing the people. But it is also because the satisfaction of the people’s desire to be free of
oppression cannot amount to a satisfaction of their more fundamental desire to acquire. Even a free people is
compelled to recognize the superiority of the great, whose fundamental desire they share, and to see this superiority
as an obstacle to the satisfaction of their desire to acquire. The result is envy: the desire that the great be deprived of
their superiority. Machiavelli acknowledges this difficulty early in The Prince, when he considers the challenges a
prince faces in holding a recently-acquired province that is disparate from those he already holds. “[T]he order of
things is such that as soon as a powerful foreigner enters a province, all those in it who are less powerful adhere to
him, moved by the envy they have against whoever has held power over them” [P 3:11]. Even or especially
founders face envy [P 6:25], though Machiavelli conceals this difficulty in his concluding exhortation of a prince to
seize Italy and free her from the barbarians [P 26:105]. Since envy persists among the people even when they are
free from oppression by the great, and arises among the great when they elevate one of their number to command the
people, Machiavelli distinguishes envy from fear [P 7:31; D II.P.1:123] and elevates it to a characteristic of human
beings in the Discourses. “[T]he envious nature of men,” he writes there, “has always made it no less dangerous to
find new modes and orders than to seek unknown waters and lands, because men are more ready to blame than to
praise the actions of others” [D I.P.1:15]. The political solution to the existence of the two humors is not just
command, but hidden command.
21
According to Machiavelli, there may be airborne intelligences, by contrast, who foresee future things by “natural
virtue” [D I.56.1:114].
22
This is not to deny that the people, and especially an oppressed people, might long for a future in which they are
free from oppression. But such a future would require that the great be deprived of their superiority. The people are
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 31
typically conservative as long as they cannot imagine a satisfaction for their envy. In a chapter titled “The Multitude
is Wiser and More Constant than a Prince,” Machiavelli admits that under a corrupt prince the people fear the
present more than the future, while under a corrupt people they fear the future more than the present, because in the
future a tyrant might emerge [D I.58.4:119]. But the corrupt case is not the typical one. Similarly, circumstances
might require the great to fear the loss of their acquisitions, rather than to desire further acquisitions – for example,
when threatened by a superior desire to acquire. But this is also an atypical case for the great.
23
Manlius’ fate points to another of Machiavelli’s remarks about goodness. Later in the Discourses, in a chapter
partly titled “For One Citizen Who Wishes to Do Any Good Work in His Republic by His Authority, It Is Necessary
First to Eliminate Envy” [D III.30.T:278], Machiavelli suggests first that “virtue and goodness” can eliminate envy,
and then characteristically revises his claim by adding that “goodness is not enough” [D III.30.1:279, 280] –
implying that virtue, if not sufficient, is at least necessary.
24
Extraordinary energy is needed for a prince to avoid the dangers of either being loved or being feared, according
to the Discourses. “One cannot hold exactly to the middle way,” Machiavelli writes, for our nature does not consent
to it, but it is necessary to mitigate those things that exceed with an excessive virtue” [D III.21.3:263; compare
22.3:266]. Perhaps most difficult is the apparently miraculous feat of ordering virtue and goodness in the same
human being. In the same work Machiavelli praises
the generosity of spirit of those [Roman] citizens whom, when put in charge of an army, the
greatness of their spirit lifted above every prince. They did not esteem kings, or republics; nothing
terrified or frightened them. When they later returned to private status, they became frugal,
humble, careful of their small competencies, obedient to the magistrates, reverent to their
superiors, so that it appears impossible that one and the same spirit underwent such change [D
III.25.1:272].
25
In a later formulation, Machiavelli writes that the prince “needs to have a spirit disposed to change as the winds of
fortune and variations of things command him” [P 18:70].
26
The theoretical mode of the peaceful exercise of the art of war involves reading histories and imitating some
excellent man in the past [P 14:60]. The practical and theoretical modes of the peaceful exercise of the art of war,
added to the wartime exercise of this art, make up the whole art of war, which Machiavelli says should be the only
art of the prince, because many times it enables men to acquire states, and it helps them to maintain them [P 14:58].
Machiavelli wrote a book called The Art of War.
27
Machiavelli repeats this reasoning in the Discourses. “Once one individual has made himself very familiar with a
region, he then understands with ease all new countries; for every country and every member of the latter have some
conformity together, so that one passes easily from the knowledge of one to the knowledge of the other” [D
III.39.2:298]. Without this familiarization with one’s own country, one comes to know new countries either never,
or only after a long time and with difficulty.
28
As Mansfield puts it,
Machiavelli adumbrates the modern scientific understanding of nature that, with Bacon, abandons
natural beings and begins the search for natural laws, but he does no more than adumbrate. Since
he approaches the question of the nature of nature from the standpoint of what is good for human
beings, he remains faithful to the fact that in morals and politics, different natures appear distinct
to us, above all the difference between good and evil [MV, 21].
I mean here to fill out the content of Machiavelli’s adumbration with respect to human nature, and to point out the
resulting tension between his abandonment of natural beings and his fidelity to the natural difference between good
and evil. One sign of this tension is that while the science of sites seems to entail a mechanical or hydrodynamic
account in which lifeless nature is primary [see, for example, P 25:98-99], the examples that Machiavelli offers for
the excellent human being to imitate are chiefly living beings [compare P 25:100-101]. It is not clear whether the
living or the nonliving is the primary category for Machiavelli’s comprehensive science.
�Black, Machiavelli on Human Nature, Page 32
29
A reader who remembers the example of Pope Alexander VI from The Prince might object at this point that
Alexander hoped to continue acquiring after his death, using his son Cesare Borgia as “his instrument” [P 11:46].
But acquisitions made through one’s offspring can be lost to death just as well as one’s own acquisitions, as long as
one’s offspring are also mortal [P 7:31-32]. Also, it may necessarily be the case that a prince’s instruments are
always inferior to him; had he lived, Alexander VI might not have made the errors that Cesare Borgia made
[compare P 7:32-33 with 18:70]. Lastly, the pleasure of an predicted acquisition might necessarily be poorer than
the pleasure of a real acquisition, if one has doubts about the possibility of enjoying it.
30
We learn by Machiavelli’s treatment of the same episode in the Discourses that the centurion with the “obstinate
spirit” was not in fact the initiator of the successful conspiracy. Rather, he was the instrument of a prefect, who was
himself driven to conspire against his emperor by the necessity imposed by the prefect’s fear of death [D
III.6.11:227]. This elaboration does not detract from Machiavelli’s admission that some human beings cannot be
compelled by the threat of death, and so his admission that his science of sites is not comprehensive.
31
There are other details in The Prince that raise similar doubts about the science of sites. For example, Machiavelli
suggests that “obedience to present necessities” is what makes human beings vulnerable to being deceived [P
18:70]. He seems to mean not just that necessities can be manipulated [compare D III.12.1:247], since a human
being would be no less excellent were he to be responsive to artificial necessities as well as to natural ones, nor just
that necessities can be apparent rather than real, since a science of sites would distinguish only real necessities.
Instead, he seems to mean to qualify his claim that it is sufficient for virtue to orient itself by necessity. In the same
chapter Machiavelli also warns that “the vulgar are taken in by the appearance and the outcome of a thing”; and
there is a similar passage in the Discourses where he writes, “all men are blind in this, in judging good or bad
counsel by the end” [D III.35.2:291]. Again, if necessity were as knowable as Machiavelli elsewhere claims that it
is, judging by the end would not be an instance of blindness or gullibility.
�
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Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series
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The Wednesday Night Lecture Series, hosted during the summer term by the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College in Annapolis, is a less-formal version of the college’s formal Friday Night Lectures. The Wednesday Night lectures are an opportunity for tutors and for graduates of the college who are pursuing academic careers to present the first fruits of their thinking to an attentive and inquisitive audience. The lectures, held in the King William Room of the Barr-Buchanan Center at 7:30 p.m., with a question period afterward in a neighboring classroom, are free and open to the public.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a title="Summer lecture series" href="https://www.sjc.edu/annapolis/events/lectures/summer-wednesday-night-lecture-series" target="_blank">St. John's College website</a></strong>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=31">Items in the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
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"Everyone Sees How You Appear; Few Touch What You Are": Machiavelli on Human Nature
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Black, Jeff J. S., 1970-
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2012-06-20
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Machiavelli, Niccolò, 1469-1527
Philosophy, Renaissance
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English
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Bib # 80134
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Typescript of a lecture delivered on June 20, 2012 by Jeff Black as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series.
Mr. Black is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis. His talk is on exactly what constitutes human nature in the work of Machiavelli. In particular, he considers how this view has affected the way we see Machiavelli's works and what it has to teach us about his writings.
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�����
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Speeches, presentations, and other lectures
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Speeches, presentations, and other lectures given at St. John's College. These include convocation addresses delivered in both Annapolis, MD and Santa Fe, NM.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Speeches, presentations, and other lectures" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=15">Items in the Speeches, presentations, and other lectures Collection</a></strong> to <span>view and sort all items in the collection.</span>
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"I hate books" or making room for learning
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Transcript of the Graduate Institute convocation address given on June 15, 1997 by David Levine in Santa Fe, NM.
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Levine, David Lawrence
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1997-06-15
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Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 1712-1778. Emile.
Education
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English
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24000406
Convocation
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St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe
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"The tutor and the feeder of my riots" : the problem of friendship in Shakespeare's treatment of Falstaff and Prince Hal
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Sterling, J. Walter
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2017-07-19
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Audio recording of a lecture given on July 19, 2017 by J. Walter Sterling as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series.
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Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616--Criticism and interpretation
Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616--Characters
Friendship in literature
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Graduate Institute
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A commentary on motherhood as presented in Simone de Beauvoir's The second sex
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Audio recording of a lecture given on July 27, 2016 by Jay Smith as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series.
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Beauvoir, Simone de, 1908-1986.
Motherhood
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English
Graduate Institute
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A defense of Aristotle's Art of Rhetoric III.13-19
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Audio recording of a lecture given on June 18, 2019 by April Olsen as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series.
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sound
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
mp3
Subject
The topic of the resource
Aristotle. Rhetoric
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SF_OlsenA_A_Defense_of_Aristotle's_Art_of_Rhetoric_III_13-19_2019-06-18
Graduate Institute
Summer lecture series
-
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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/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series
Description
An account of the resource
The Wednesday Night Lecture Series, hosted during the summer term by the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College in Annapolis, is a less-formal version of the college’s formal Friday Night Lectures. The Wednesday Night lectures are an opportunity for tutors and for graduates of the college who are pursuing academic careers to present the first fruits of their thinking to an attentive and inquisitive audience. The lectures, held in the King William Room of the Barr-Buchanan Center at 7:30 p.m., with a question period afterward in a neighboring classroom, are free and open to the public.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a title="Summer lecture series" href="https://www.sjc.edu/annapolis/events/lectures/summer-wednesday-night-lecture-series" target="_blank">St. John's College website</a></strong>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=31">Items in the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Sound
A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
mp3
Duration
Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.)
00:44:27
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
A Tale of Two Theodicies: Kant and the Self-Contradictions of Leibnizian Theodicy
Description
An account of the resource
Audio recording of a lecture delivered on June 28, 2017 by Joseph Trullinger as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series.
Trullinger, an assistant professor at George Washington University, examines Leibniz, Kant and the philosophers’ emblematic responses to the problem of evil. He also explores Kant’s critique of his predecessor and discusses what he calls “contradictions” in Kant’s arguments.
Trullinger received his bachelor’s degree in philosophy from Bucknell University in 2003; his master’s in philosophy from the University of Kentucky in 2006; and his PhD in philosophy from Kentucky in 2010. His dissertation was titled, The Hidden Life of God: Kant and the German Idealists on Ethical Purity.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Trullinger, Joseph
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
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
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2017-06-28
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Permission has been received stating, "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to: Make an audio recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make an audio 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 copy of my typescript available online."
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
sound
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
mp3
Subject
The topic of the resource
Kant, Immanuel, 1724-1804
Theodicy
Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm, Freiherr von, 1646-1716
Good and evil
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Trullinger_Joseph_2017-06-28
Graduate Institute
Summer lecture series
-
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bd4ddef05ddd3ff3ed86938c6600092b
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
College Catalogs and Statements of the Program
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
St. John's College
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Description
An account of the resource
Statements of the Program are published each Academic Year. They provide an overview of the program and historical information about the college. <br /><br />The titles of these publications have changed over the course of the College's history. From the 19th century through 1971 they were titled Catalogue. During this period, some Catalogues were distributed as issues of <em>The Bulletin of St. John's College</em>. The title changed from Catalogues to Statement of the Program with the 1972-1973 publication. <br /><br />Also included in this collection are Graduate Institute catalogs and promotional publications about the St. John's program. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="College Catalogues" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=10">Items in the College Catalogs and Statements of the Program Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
collegecatalogs
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.
12 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/.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
GI Catalog 1967
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
St. John's College
Title
A name given to the resource
A Unique Opportunity for Summer Graduate Study
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1967
Description
An account of the resource
GI college catalog for summer 1967.
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
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
Information about rights held in and over the resource
St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Catalog
Catalogue
Graduate Institute
-
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9607d49df8e6014c20d286131b0ed886
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
College Catalogs and Statements of the Program
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
St. John's College
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Description
An account of the resource
Statements of the Program are published each Academic Year. They provide an overview of the program and historical information about the college. <br /><br />The titles of these publications have changed over the course of the College's history. From the 19th century through 1971 they were titled Catalogue. During this period, some Catalogues were distributed as issues of <em>The Bulletin of St. John's College</em>. The title changed from Catalogues to Statement of the Program with the 1972-1973 publication. <br /><br />Also included in this collection are Graduate Institute catalogs and promotional publications about the St. John's program. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="College Catalogues" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=10">Items in the College Catalogs and Statements of the Program Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
collegecatalogs
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.
12 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/.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
GI Catalog 1968
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
St. John's College
Title
A name given to the resource
A Unique Opportunity for Summer Graduate Study
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1968
Description
An account of the resource
GI college catalog for summer 1968.
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
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
Information about rights held in and over the resource
St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Catalog
Catalogue
Graduate Institute
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/c03377a141baddbe91eb9196f92e2a1b.pdf
b7c337356fea8f2e9e6d72a59f84dfd4
PDF Text
Text
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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/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Speeches, presentations, and other lectures
Description
An account of the resource
Speeches, presentations, and other lectures given at St. John's College. These include convocation addresses delivered in both Annapolis, MD and Santa Fe, NM.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Speeches, presentations, and other lectures" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=15">Items in the Speeches, presentations, and other lectures Collection</a></strong> to <span>view and sort all items in the collection.</span>
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
speechespresentationsotherlectures
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.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
12 pages
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
A world of worldless truths, an invitation to philosophy
Description
An account of the resource
Transcript of the Graduate Institute convocation address given on June 20, 1999 by David Levine in Santa Fe, NM.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Levine, David Lawrence
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1999-06-20
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
text
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Subject
The topic of the resource
Philosophy
Learning and scholarship
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
24003175
Convocation
Graduate Institute
-
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cfb73e60ce93e47a92a41c846b77efaf
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
St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Meem Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Sound
A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
mp3
Duration
Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.)
00:41:57
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
Alexis de Tocqueville on American liberty : ancient or modern?
Description
An account of the resource
Audio recording of a lecture given on July 16, 2019 by Steven Forde as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Forde, Steven, 1954-
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2019-07-16
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
sound
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
mp3
Subject
The topic of the resource
Tocqueville, Alexis de, 1805-1859. De la démocratie en Amérique
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SF_FordeS_Alexis_de_Toqueville_on_American_Liberty_Ancient_or_Modern_2019-07-16
Graduate Institute
Summer lecture series
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/a4275500f36cd16d9b13e585a2305b37.pdf
4c9baf08af78bec734de11f3240a685c
PDF Text
Text
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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/.
Title
A name given to the resource
St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—Santa Fe
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Meem Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
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 at the Santa Fe, NM campus.
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.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
16 pages
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
An ennobling innocence : the founding of Socrates' Republic
Description
An account of the resource
Transcript of a lecture given on August 2, 1995 by David Levine as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Levine, David Lawrence
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1995-08-02
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
text
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Subject
The topic of the resource
Plato. Republic
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
24000405
Graduate Institute
-
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c4818f37d03c782cb7ddcf7ecb9a2fac
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
St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Meem Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Sound
A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
wav
Duration
Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.)
00:49:50
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
Aristotle, thinking with images
Description
An account of the resource
Audio recording of a lecture given on August 1, 2018 by Ed Sarkis as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Sarkis, Ed
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018-08-01
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
sound
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
mp3
Subject
The topic of the resource
Aristotle. De anima
Language
A language of the resource
English
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Sarkis, 2018-08
Graduate Institute
Summer lecture series
-
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f975eba75aba0ebffdbabb9fb863c842
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
College Catalogs and Statements of the Program
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
St. John's College
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Description
An account of the resource
Statements of the Program are published each Academic Year. They provide an overview of the program and historical information about the college. <br /><br />The titles of these publications have changed over the course of the College's history. From the 19th century through 1971 they were titled Catalogue. During this period, some Catalogues were distributed as issues of <em>The Bulletin of St. John's College</em>. The title changed from Catalogues to Statement of the Program with the 1972-1973 publication. <br /><br />Also included in this collection are Graduate Institute catalogs and promotional publications about the St. John's program. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="College Catalogues" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=10">Items in the College Catalogs and Statements of the Program Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
collegecatalogs
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.
ii, 18 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/.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
GI Catalog 1988-1989
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
St. John's College
Title
A name given to the resource
Bulletin of the Graduate Institute in Liberal Education, St. John's College 1988-89
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1988-1989
Description
An account of the resource
GI college catalog for the years 1988 to 1989.
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
Santa Fe, NM
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
Information about rights held in and over the resource
St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Catalog
Catalogue
Graduate Institute
-
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c488ca067e025c05291ad1fa56bb28fd
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
College Catalogs and Statements of the Program
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
St. John's College
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Description
An account of the resource
Statements of the Program are published each Academic Year. They provide an overview of the program and historical information about the college. <br /><br />The titles of these publications have changed over the course of the College's history. From the 19th century through 1971 they were titled Catalogue. During this period, some Catalogues were distributed as issues of <em>The Bulletin of St. John's College</em>. The title changed from Catalogues to Statement of the Program with the 1972-1973 publication. <br /><br />Also included in this collection are Graduate Institute catalogs and promotional publications about the St. John's program. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="College Catalogues" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=10">Items in the College Catalogs and Statements of the Program Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
collegecatalogs
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.
ii, 18 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/.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
GI Catalog 1991-1992
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
St. John's College
Title
A name given to the resource
Bulletin of the Graduate Institute in Liberal Education, St. John's College 1991-1992
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1992-1992
Description
An account of the resource
GI college catalog for the years 1991 to 1992.
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
Santa Fe, NM
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
Information about rights held in and over the resource
St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
pdf
Catalog
Catalogue
Graduate Institute
-
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9721a2d348d4071a83882ff5c7705678
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
St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Meem Library
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Sound
A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
CD
Duration
Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.)
01:06:15
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
Cide Hamete Benengeli, author of Don Quixote
Description
An account of the resource
Audio recording of a lecture given on June 29, 2016 by Michael Wolfe as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Wolfe, Michael W.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Santa Fe, NM
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2016-06-29
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
sound
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
mp3
Subject
The topic of the resource
Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de, 1547-1616. Don Quixote.
Language
A language of the resource
English
Graduate Institute
-
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continuing the conversation
A Journal of the St. John’s College Annapolis Graduate Institute
Volume II: Fall 2017
�Table of Contents
Letter from the Editors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Moments of Realization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Eva Brann: Tips on Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Reflections from Deans on the 50th Anniversary of the GI
Geoffrey Comber on the Beginning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18
Emily Langston on the Present . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21
Interview with President Kanelos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Staci Hill (AGI ‘17): Toast to the Tutors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33
Colloquy Editorial Board
Damon Hatheway, AGI ‘18
Joseph Keegin, AGI ‘18
Toni Lambert, AGI ‘20
Photo by Teresa Krone, AGI ‘20
�Note from the Editors
Dear Reader,
Thank you for picking up a copy of the Fall 2017 edition of Colloquy! Our second
issue has two major themes: first, a moment of realization that speaks to the essence of
the Graduate Institute. We are grateful to all the GIs present and past who submitted
stories of their time in Annapolis. The second theme is a celebration of the 50th
anniversary of the GI. We are honored to include the eloquent addresses of Associate
Dean Emily Langston and former Director Jeffrey Comber. We also owe an enormous
debt of gratitude to President Pano Kanelos and Ms. Eva Brann for sitting down
with the editors of Colloquy and sharing their wisdom with us. Finally, we are deeply
indebted to the work of the journal’s founding editor, Ms. Bonnie Naradzay, whose
tireless commitment and inexhaustible creative energy made this issue and all future
issues possible, as well as to the GI graduate council for graciously agreeing to provide
funding.
We hope that Colloquy accurately reflects some part of our wondrous experience in
Annapolis. The strength of the journal lies in the input and submissions we receive
from students and in the support and participation of the faculty and administration.
We eagerly anticipate publishing our third edition during the spring 2018 semester.
We will be accepting suggestions about the theme of the next edition over the winter
break—please address all comments and suggestions for future issues to colloquy@
sjc.edu.
Sincerely,
The Colloquy Editors
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�Moments of Realization
Toni Lambert (AGI ‘20)
School was not easy for me; I found school fun, but never easy. I loved learning new
things, but from as early as I can remember, I never liked reading. I was told the speed
with which I read dictated how good of a reader I was, rather than the questions
and ideas I developed. This idea convinced me that I hated to read; however, I never
doubted my love of learning.
When the time came, I searched for a college or university that would allow me to
learn the most and grow into my adult self. What qualities in a school was I looking
for? My main priorities for a school were that it would be large (more students to learn
from) and be in a different part of the country, so I could find new environments and
political ideas to engage with. I followed neither of those things, but with much luck
ended up at a small liberal arts college not far from where I grew up.
It took less than a week for me to discover that I do in fact love to read. How so? I
encountered great books for the first time. I was reading Plato, Aristotle, Nietzsche,
Marx, Weber, Durkheim, Mark Twain, and others. It was thrilling. I wanted to read,
think, and discuss this way for the rest of my life. I took my education head-on. I never
took a second to breathe, I wanted to keep learning, keep gaining experiences. Every
course, discussion group, research opportunity, leadership position I came across I
took on.
This drive led me to St. John’s. It is the GI, however, that has taught me the importance
of leisure, of taking my time with a text, of resting, and attending Friday night lectures.
Knowing exactly what I want to do left the idea of slowing down completely foreign to
me. I so pleasantly and gratefully learned that the best way to spend my life with these
great books is to do just that, spend my life with them. There is no rush.
Brandon Wasicsko (AGI ‘20)
I felt more relieved than accomplished when I graduated high school, but the thought
of four more years of formal schooling was a storm cloud casting a shadow on my
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�future. All of life had been preparatory: do well in primary school to get into a good
high school; do well in high school to get into a good college; do well in college to get
a “good” job. Usually that’s where it stopped, that funnel we toss children into and
wonder why they come out listless on the other end.
Schooling was never conceived of in a broader sense than this, and there wasn’t
anything after getting the “good” job that one had to prepare for—except, perhaps, a
promotion. Marriage and children just sort of happened for some, and it was equally
fine if they didn’t.
Reaching the end of that fixed funnel, in nearly unrestrained freedom, I found myself
asking, “What now?” Up until that point, everything had been constructed for me
in a sort of system. The goal of high school, for example, was set by others: get good
grades. To do so, one simply had to follow the rules of the internal logic of the system.
There was no room to think about our own ends. We weren’t taught that we should
want to think of such things, nor had we been equipped with tools to do so. The
plethora of choice encountered on leaving that system was therefore overwhelming
without a why to guide us.
Sophomore year of college, after I’d reluctantly decided to enroll in school rather than
enlist in the military, I wrote that I felt I had lost something I once had. Something
like a passion, a zest for life, motivation—something I couldn’t quite put my finger
on, let alone figure out where it went and why. I could plot out an infinite number of
paths forward—I’d always been a planner—but I had no desire to follow any of them
in particular.
When I came to read the chapter on “Eros” in Allan Bloom’s The Closing of the American
Mind in a study group this semester, I finally found a name, robustly considered—and
perhaps even a hint at a cause!—for that something that was missing. The chapter
read like a diagnosis of the modern soul and its frustrated longings, our current crisis
of purpose that is widely felt yet rarely discussed. Recognizing, if only tacitly, that
something is missing, we grasp at anything to fill the void: militant politics, will-o’the-wisp fads, raves and their drugs—all of which fade, until another placebo can be
substituted in.
It’s especially heartbreaking to see the fire die out in the eyes of the young as they come
to maturity, those same eyes that just years before were so bright and so wide when
they got something, when something clicked. Any parent or teacher knows that spark.
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�I wonder if it is too late to repair the broken eros of my generation, one so heavily
dampened by years of the wrong sorts of experiences. Even here, enrolled in a program
that speaks to the best and the highest in man, there are still mornings when returning
to the world of dreams appeals more to me than waking to do what I know in my
mind I love, but struggle sometimes to feel. Are we too far gone?
Nevertheless, there is joy in striving, and in those rare and beautiful (if fleeting)
moments of communion with the gods. And there’s cause for hope: that we may
constitute a new wave of teachers who, by grit and will, can nurture the souls of the
next generation with the knowledge and experience we gain at St. John’s, that they
might regain the promise of humanity and live fully and deeply.
Julia Shiller (AGI ‘17)
Each of us, Graduate Institute students and alumni, has our own way of arriving, but
our roads have intersected in one place—St. John’s College. Were we attracted by the
charm of the library, or by the curriculum that resonated in our hearts? Perhaps it
was the authentic spirit that original texts can reveal to seekers. What is the hidden
essence of this magical place? My moment of truth here emerges from my personal
transformation and from reevaluating my fundamental views. The Graduate Institute
symbolically introduces us to Meno, who is in search of defining virtue. I thought
I could tackle the questions about the nature of knowledge and truth with ease. I
retrieved all information from the assigned readings, including the Merriam-Webster
definitions of virtue, truth and knowledge; I simply memorized them. My strategy had
never failed before—the more I memorized, the better my test score. After a few more
classes at the Graduate Institute, though, I realized my strategy would not work—
there were no tests!
Swamped by anxiety, I shuffled files with information like a “dumb” file clerk, who
was Richard Feynman’s metaphor for a basic computer system. I learned that only my
own reflection glided over the surface of this ocean of information. Before St. John’s,
I related my life to a chess game; it was composed of a multitude of possibilities that
I compiled from past experiences. I would then project these experiences into the
future to achieve a result in a system of established rules. I never tried to step out of
the system even after my first encounter with Wittgenstein’s fly that has been shown
the way out of the bottle. I instantly reached for the fly-trap but never thought to
recycle the bottle.
Alas, I felt threatened that the reexamination of my fundamental views could destroy
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�who I really was. But the collaborative atmosphere among students and tutors gave
me courage to overcome my fears and to embrace this program. At first I was deaf to
the abundance of opinions of my fellow graduate students, who added the richness
of color to my black and white systematic world. I was thrown into a new, unfamiliar
place in which creativity can comfort the anxiety of the uncertain. I learned to listen,
to hear, and to unchain my cognitive thinking.
My GI experience gave me the wholesomeness of Socratic irony. Didn’t Socrates warn
that we easily can turn into a non-thinking but fast computing “file clerk” that pulls
files from one shelf to put into another without any understanding of content? This
file clerk can pull the meaning of virtue from Merriam Webster in no time; however, it
might be not be the definition that Meno should look for, but the process of becoming
virtuous. Could this process of becoming endow meaning to the limited time we have
before us? Or would we instead choose to quickly pull someone’s answers to someone’s
questions that were saved for us in the “dumb” clerk’s file? Maybe Socrates was wrong
to say he knew nothing but the unknown.
Hailey Prickett (AGI ‘18)
This past summer, I was having a conversation with my dear friend Mr. Bukheister
at ASG (After Seminar Gathering) one night. He had been reading the Phaedrus in
his preceptorial. We were talking about the metaphor Plato gives for the soul, of the
charioteer and two horses: the dark, impulsive horse seeks its own pleasure, and the
light, obedient horse seeks to please the charioteer, which is reason. Mr. Bukheister
shared with me his mid-class realization: that he had a soul. He wonderfully reenacted his internal monologue: “I was sitting there and thought, ‘Oh my god, I have
a soul!’ Then I started looking around the table: ‘He has a soul! She has a soul! I have
a soul!’” It was one of those really wonderful conversations at ASG that you wished
could continue forever, but alas! There will always be more things to wonder about—
like the cicadas, for instance! After I returned to my dorm room that warm summer
evening, I found myself unable to fall asleep. Naturally, I turned to my dear love and
friend, Plato.
One thing I’ve decided in my relationship with Plato is not to be in a hurry. I have still
so many dialogues to read and re-read, and I know they’re going to be there waiting
for me throughout life. It was much to my delight that I chose to turn to the Apology
that evening. In one sitting, I devoured it—flipping the pages quickly and impulsively,
unable to slow down. I was so struck by many of his thoughts that I wanted to pause
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�and let myself process them, but I suppose my dark horse was pulling more strongly
than the white. Anyway, the true moment of realization was when I finished, noticed
the tears streaming down my face, and knew (maybe felt) the soul was immortal. I was
changed by the words I had read; that, for me, is what the GI is about. We can read
and discuss books that are unchanged, and in turn be changed by them. That’s pretty
awesome, in the real sense of the word: awe-inspiring.
Staci Hill (AGI ‘17)
I must give credit to Euclid.
In classes other than the mathematics tutorial, it is difficult for me to see the trajectory
of a conversation. How did comment X relate to comment Y, and how did we get here
from the opening question?...What was the opening question? I often feel like I’m
missing the rational thread. Nonetheless, I am along for the ride.
When I took the math tutorial, the meanderings of a conversation and their value
became more clear. The standard question remained: How did comment Z relate
to comment Y, etc. As I would begin to piece together the chain of reason, another
peer would react to the seemingly irrelevant comment with a moment of realization
or a clarifying question. I could see the class trying to piece together our individual
understandings, trying to create one conversation.
This might sound trivial to those of you avoiding or awaiting the math tutorial. Perhaps
you think the Elements does not lend itself to the same kind of conversational trails
as a work of prose. That may be true, but the conversations are no easier; they are just
as indefinite as the conversations you have had to date. But I found that conversations
grounded in something I could (maybe) see also illuminated the conversation
itself. What I saw is one of the greatest achievements of a St. John’s conversation:
communication.
It’s ironic, but true, that seemingly peripheral and unrelated comments—i.e., the signs
of a lack of communication—are the steps to achieving true communication. The
math tutorial gave me faith in the musings of my peers and gave me the courage to
sometimes utter my own. I realized this thanks to Euclid and my other friends in Ms.
Langston’s math tutorial the Summer of 2016.
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�Joey Keegin (AGI ‘18)
When seen from afar as a dim light on the horizon of my future, the GI seemed
like a boot-camp version of a Classics program. This excited me. Trimmed of all
the dull scholasticism and unnecessary proceduralism of your average university
Master’s program, the Graduate Institute—so I thought, or at least so I think now
that I thought then—would educate us in the tradition of Western thought through
a direct encounter with its most venerable and significant texts. We would start in
the ancient world and crawl our way toward the present, holding seminars along the
way to pool our collective brain-power and figure out what all of these smart people
were saying. The sayings of the smart people being, of course, the primary focus of
our education. However, though the method may be different, the end goal would
be—I thought—roughly the same as other higher-level philosophy programs: figure
out what Aristotle (or whoever) says about such-and-such, how Kant (or whoever)
later overturns what the ancients said, learn an intellectual history of our world by
memorizing the succession of ideas that has gotten us to where we are, and then pick
one of the characters in the story and insist that they got it all right and nobody should
have ever disagreed.
I thought these things because I came to St. John’s from a rather typical academic
philosophy program, and typical academic philosophy programs train people to think
in these ways. Expecting the unexpected is extremely difficult. In order to survive at
all in this world we have made, we must make plans. And in making plans we tend
to build ourselves an image of the future that looks roughly like the present but with
a few exaggerated features (maybe more people, differently-shaped cars, larger hard
drives on our computers, and so forth). Developing a truly historical habit of mind
that is open to completely new things and surprises is a challenge that is rarely met.
Regardless, all of these presuppositions were obliterated my first day of class.
Completely oblivious about what was in store, I had signed up for a preceptorial with
Mr. Zeiderman billed as an exploration of Heraclitus, Parmenides, and the supposed
“ancient struggle” between philosophy and poetry. I assumed my undergrad class on
“pre-Socratic” philosophy had prepared me sufficiently for this exploration. I was
wrong. One of my classmates—Mr. Von Kerczek—offered an opening question that
utterly baffled me: “Do we think in words?” Mr. Zeiderman later suggested that our
obsession with logic has nothing to do with an interest in “truth” but an interest in
being right and asked us whether it was possible to find a way around the principle of
non-contradiction, to find a way of thinking that sidesteps it. I was in over my head. I
felt crazy, scared, excited. In my natural science seminar I read Aristotle’s concession
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�that nature was not provable but rather must be believed, and I felt my thinking
blossom like a rare flower.
Phil Richmond (AGI ‘17)
In May 1974, I was doing research in grad school at the University of Maryland—and
not liking it very much, either. I was meeting with my professor one morning when
one of the Zoology professors in our building barged in. He interrupted our meeting
to bemoan that his summer research mission to Norway had just lost a team member
due to a family emergency. He was at a loss to fill the position. It was a fully funded
trip to the northern reaches of Norway. I volunteered. Ten days later I found myself
on a month-long camping trip in the outback of a Norwegian national park and up
beyond my ankles in tundra foliage, miles from nowhere, studying certain features
of the Norwegian lemming. Masses of these furry little miscreants emerge from the
snow in the millions, often eating the surrounding tundra bare and generally making
a howling nuisance of themselves. Only the arctic foxes appreciate them—and then,
only as a food source.
In any case, our encampment of six researchers turned out to be about only four
to five kilometers away from another group from England, who were there to study
aspects of the tundra flora. Since we were each other’s only company for miles, we
sometimes trudged the distance to enjoy meals and camaraderie together at night.
(Night is another relative term, since at our latitude at that time of the year, we didn’t
really get any—the sky just goes gray for a few hours.)
On one evening’s excursion, I happened to be conversing with one of my English
counterparts and we both lamented a lack of fresh reading material. I traded him my
copy of Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? for his well-worn and
dog-eared copy of the Odyssey. He had received it as a bon voyage present from a
fellow graduate student. The book was filled with underlines and margin notes from
its original owner, which were a bit annoying to contend with at first. But as time went
on, the notes became fascinating to me: I began to feel as if I was reading a “book
within the book” and regularly experiencing the thoughts of the initial reader. In the
inside cover of the book was an illegible name. Underneath it was the reference to
Saint John’s College and the number—presumably the year—1969.
I spent the next several weeks reveling in the adventures of Odysseus while trapped
in my tent, surrounded by hordes of vermin. After returning to the University of
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�Maryland, I decided to leave the program and move to Annapolis to start a business
in financial services. I did not think of St. John’s until decades later when I was
encouraged to sit in on an Executive Seminar session. I liked it, so I signed up for
a full year’s session. When we read the Odyssey, I remembered my first experience
with the book—and rediscovered on my bookshelf the dusty copy that I had read
decades before in the chilly outback of Lapland while trying to endure my weeks with
the indigent rodent population, unaware of the enduring Siren song of our academic
enclave and its own love of the Odyssey. Such was the beginning of my own odyssey
to St. John’s. Sometimes our experiences feel less the result of a chance epiphany and
more like the relentless rotations of the wheel of fate.
Maxwell Anthony (AGI ‘15)
The last day of class, fall semester 2014, two friends and I wanted to reminisce about
our time together. It was a chilly late afternoon. We got some drinks and went to
the Octagon room of McDowell Hall—the highest point on campus. We sat up in
McDowell and started talking. And at some point in our discussion the room flooded
with a deep purple-red. The walls seemed to have been painted without our noticing.
We got up and looked out of the windows at the horizon draped with red. We had to
get going so we drew ourselves away. When we got to the quad the three of us looked
up expecting to see that same red. But we couldn’t see the sunset. The sky was grey
and dull. We were too low.
Terry Walman (AGI ‘16)
It was the morning after a seminar I had attended at the Annapolis campus. I had only
recently become aware that reunions at St. John’s College were different than other
experiences from my past. It seems old habits die hard. When Johnnies get together
for something like Homecoming, we don’t hang out at tailgate parties before the big
game. Instead, a reading is chosen, and a time and place agreed upon. About ten of us
recent grads and current GI students, together with a tutor, gathered in the Graduate
Institute to share in conversation a reading from Going to Meet the Man by James
Baldwin.
We had read a short story entitled “Sonny’s Blues” about two brothers who had
travelled very separate paths after growing up together in Harlem. Over the years they
had enjoyed little contact with each other, ultimately becoming distant and estranged.
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�Each had experienced devastating loss in their lives, and their individual suffering had
brought them back together as adults. It was a powerful story by an author previously
unfamiliar to me, but his writing was vivid and alive, and the theme deeply captured
my imagination.
So there I was the morning after seminar, reading the Sunday newspaper about the
previous day’s Grand Opening of the new Smithsonian Museum of African American
History and Culture. The unique architecture of the building and its many thoughtful
exhibits were described in glowing detail. I was drawn into the building and the story
of its conception, when suddenly what I read moved me to burst out in a combination
of hearty laughter and streaming tears. In large letters spread out in an open three
story stairwell of this beautiful new monument to our nation’s complex past appears
the quotation:
“The great force of history comes from the fact that we carry it within us, are
unconsciously controlled by it in many ways, and history is literally present in all that
we do.” -James Baldwin, “The Price of the Ticket”
Cynthia Barry (AGI ‘05)
When I was considering whether or not to apply to the GI, I sat in on a class on Descartes
taught by Ms. Brann. I had read the assignment, but as I entered the classroom to
listen to the discussion, I had not the slightest idea of what I had read. I was feeling
very glum and hopeless. But then the most amazing thing happened: In the course of
that two-hour discussion, listening to the conversation as led by Ms. Brann, I began
to get an inkling of what Descartes was on about. Also, there was somehow created
in the room a feeling of kindness and encouragement. In that two-hour time frame, a
metamorphosis occurred. I realized that people could learn—I could learn—through
close reading and thoughtful conversation. Learning wasn’t like a telegram: send
and receive; learning was more like an adventurous expedition—moving forward,
sometimes retreating, poking around, and happening upon something new and
wonderful, at once intricate and expansive. I signed on for the adventure, and the
quest for knowledge has been a thrill ever since. Wherever I go now, the Graduate
Institute is in my backpack.
Andrew McIntire (AGI ‘17)
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�Rather than describe a single moment of realization, I’d like to characterize a series of
moments of realization that I experienced in many classes. These were moments when
I was pushed up against the boundary of my way of thinking. Often it was something
said by a classmate—an interpretation of the text that was very different from my
own—that came into friction with my patterns of thought and ideas. I discovered
in exploring these moments of friction that it seemed best to remain kind to oneself
and also to one’s classmates. The boundaries that have limited me will remain mine
unless I am generous to the texts and the author and remain open to the alternative
interpretations of my classmates. The recurring challenge I face in these moments—
and something it seems I constantly have to re-realize—is to remain humble yet
confident in my preparation.
Bonnie Naradzay (AGI ‘17)
During my first semester in the GI program, I learned that Mr. Nelson and Ms.
Axelrod’s study group—which met around noon on Mondays, and was almost
entirely made up of a pantheon of current and retired tutors—was considering all
of Plutarch’s Lives, one by one. That semester my preceptorial was on Shakespeare’s
Roman plays, in conjunction with the Lives that gave Shakespeare his material. This
was my introduction to the fascinating Lives, and I wanted more—so I inserted myself
into their weekly study group.
Being an uninitiated first semester student, I knew not the St. John’s way. That is, I had
always been most comfortable taking copious notes, pen in hand. During the study
group, while I was bent over my notebook writing as fast as I could to preserve what
everyone was saying, something caused me to glance up at those luminaries sitting
around the Hodson Room seminar table. Nobody was taking notes. Nobody had a
pencil in hand. What’s more, with few exceptions, nobody’s book was open. People
had read the material enough times to know what was there. They were paying full
attention to the lively conversation involving the text. Note-taking was distracting me
and cutting me off from this opportunity. I put down my pen and shut the Moleskin,
edging it off the table onto my lap. Thus began my journey towards being more
attentive and fully present.
I’ve tried to take note of the ways that tutors and fellow students take notes. Increasingly,
I’ve tried jotting notes and indecipherable codes in pencil in the margins of the texts (a
reason for owning the texts, as Ms. Brann has suggested). One day, when feeling bold,
I will ask certain tutors (after class) what they are doing when they write something
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�tiny in their tell-tale green Loebs or in the ancient, yellowing, paperback texts that
they hold together with rubber bands.
One night, a year after my “Plutarch Moment,” I looked over notes I’d written during
that evening’s preceptorial on the Pre-Socratics. Wanting to capture an ineffable
moment in time, or perhaps to better understand the readings (or myself), I arranged
those provocative comments into a poem titled “Heraclitus Mon Amour,” and chose
an epigraph from Parmenides that seemed to fit.
Heraclitus Mon Amour
“And it is all one to me where I am to begin;
for I shall return there again.”
Parmenides, Fragment 5
Why can’t we uneat the apple or reinvent the wheel?
Forget about the fifth postulate.
Lobachevsky discovered a different way of seeing space.
There are benefits in fragments.
Should the analysis of error?
What resides within
makes the connection between Priam and Achilles possible.
Am I closer to the person or the logos?
My paper will address the shortcomings of this approach.
I want to keep the thread of metaphor alive –
It’s wrapped up in the thunderbolt.
Is fire a metaphor for Heraclitus or for us?
Yes. Just don’t get trapped in it.
Do I read Heraclitus differently now,
for instance what he says about reflection?
How do we bring Heraclitus to life and still remain alive ourselves?
What happens to Aristotle’s Principle of Non-Contradiction?
Courage is not just taking a risk.
It’s performing an action while knowing its inherent goodness.
Achilles is an uprooted sapling destined to die.
Write about how quoting others makes you feel safer.
Then give it up.
Hume says…. I will walk out of my study.
Can we do this?
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�Eva Brann: Tips on Writing
(Excerpts from the Fall 2017 Colloquy Symposium)
1. I can’t resist this, though it is not to the point exactly. It’s something more about
how to read than how to write. How many of you have read the Republic? Those
who have read it and those who expect to do it, do the following. The numbers in
the margin are called Stephanus numbers. First calculate how many Stephanus
pages the Republic has, then find the middle page, which you can do by a little
arithmetic. Then open to the middle page. Look at where you are and marvel at
how this book is written.
2. There is only one moral injunction, one might say, about writing: The way to write
a paper is to sit down and write it.
3. Don’t drivel. What do I mean by driveling? Freshmen will write a paper that says,
“Euclid was the greatest mathematician that ever was.” That’s drivel. If you’re
inclined to write a sentence that’s bombastic or too general, don’t use it. Throw it
out.
4. Have a colleague or friend read your paper. Let that person correct your spelling
and your punctuation, as long as you do the following thing: if there is a correction
which you accept, think about it. This is a great way to learn to spell and punctuate
correctly.
5. Use the word “I.” I used to startle students in paper conferences by saying, “Did you
write this paper?” They’d look at me as if I were accusing them of something. I’d say,
“It’s all in the passive, there aren’t any personal pronouns. You don’t take charge.”
Use the word “I.” You are writing the paper, and it engages you in the writing in a
very immediate way. Your personal experience should appear. You don’t have to
give it in personal terms. You could fictionalize it, or you can give it as an anecdote,
but there’s no reason why you and what you’ve learned in life shouldn’t appear.
It seems to me a good paper will often show that our personal experience bears
on what we are thinking about. One can have personal experiences that bear on
Lobachevsky. I know that for a fact, and it takes imagination to discover that.
6. Here is a practical thing to do: Make an outline. Outlines are good not because
you’re going to use it as a constraint—you can throw your outline out before you’re
finished—but because it means when you get up in the morning or sit down in the
evening or in the afternoon or whenever you have time to work, you know what to
do next. And in writing a paper, it’s very important to know what to do next.
7. Never finish writing completely. If you’re working late at night, when you find that
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�you’re one paragraph before having said all you mean to say, stop. That means when
you next get to it, you know how to start. And you know how difficult starting is,
even if going on isn’t all that difficult.
8. When you’ve completed the paper, whatever the outline may have been, use its
parts as subheadings. Papers with subheadings are just easier to read, and clearer
for you to see whether you’ve written something reasonable.
9. If you can, wait for the Muse to descend and welcome it. In other words, wait eagerly
for the Muse to descend—and it will come—to give you the opening sentence. Find
a really good opening sentence, not: “Euclid was the greatest mathematician, but
Lobechevski showed that he was wrong”—which is of course nonsense in any case,
but find something that will capture the reader’s attention right away.
10.Here is something I believe in, but this may not work for you. I think you should
be absolutely preoccupied by the paper you’re writing. Think about it wherever you
happen to be. That way it gets a certain ripeness, and when you sit down you know
what you’re going to be doing. So it really makes sense to devote yourself to this
task, on the one hand. On the other hand, don’t make too much of it. This is kind
of tricky, and most advice of this sort has two sides to it. One the one hand, I’ve just
said, “really concentrate, spend the week devoted to this.” On the other hand, “don’t
let it overwhelm you or scare you. After all, it’s only an exercise.” Find some way to
combine being involved and not being overwhelmed. You could say to yourself: “I
really want to do this well, but if it doesn’t work out—next time.”
11.Start early. If the paper assignment was made today, start thinking about it tonight.
Don’t do anything at the last moment. Writing is not something you can do quickly.
People think they can, but it takes time. It’s got to ripen. So give it time, start right
off, and be finished sometime before the thing is due, so you have it in front of you.
By giving it a last reading, you make it perfect. Another way to put it: trying for
perfection simply takes time.
12.And now, the most important tip: write on something you care about. It could
be a problem or a question. A problem is something you can solve; a question is
something you can clarify. It could be a book you love; it could be a book you hate;
it could be a passage you don’t understand. But whatever it is, try to find something
that grips you. Don’t do it in a bureaucratic sort of way. Do it with passion. And
I think most of you probably know this, but passion doesn’t have to be first. You
can rouse it in yourself. When you’ve got something that interests you, you need
to focus on it. And if you don’t care about it after dwelling on it for awhile, chuck
it out and try again. Choosing something that is of personal interest to you is the
most important kind of advice one can give.
16
�Geoffrey Comber: on the Early Years of
the Annapolis Graduate Institute
First, I want to thank Emily Langston for inviting me to speak on this 40th anniversary
of the Graduate Institute on this campus of St. John’s College. As I’m sure you all know
the GI began 50 years ago on the Santa Fe campus in the summer of 1967. Since then,
a large number of you have attended the GI at one or both campuses, often against a
lot of adversity—some of you against financial problems, some who’ve had to make
major readjustments to your family schedules, and all for some gruelling reading
assignments.
It is now clear to everyone that the GI is alive and thriving. But, as you might expect,
it was not always so. I believe it is important for all of us to have a sense of our various
kinds of histories—personal, national, ethnic, and also the history of the institutions
that have formed us.
I want to tell you just two vignettes from the early formative years of the GI so you
will see how far we have traveled. We started the GI on this campus in 1977 after a
tough two-year struggle with some of our more conservative colleagues here who
were not sure whether to undertake an exciting and radical change on this campus.
As you know, change of any sort in either people or institutions is often viewed as a
threat or painful or both. But after a two-year struggle, the great adventure of the GI in
Annapolis was undertaken with excitement and a degree of trepidation: 17 students,
four tutors, the brand new History segment, and no air conditioning during a hot,
humid summer.
Well, from 17 students in 1977, we went to 35 in 1978 and to 51 the next year—but still
no air conditioning. In 1979, our third year, we enrolled a student who had been living
in Mexico for a while. He had several diplomas and certificates of study from several
places in the U.S. and in Latin America, but no standard BS or BA degree. I noted on
his application form that he was 84 years old. So I certainly didn’t want to insist he
take two or three more years to complete his undergraduate degree. I felt time was not
an ally in this case, so we accepted him as is.
He arrived in Annapolis a day or two late, having driven from Mexico to us in five
days. He mixed well with everyone here, and added a richness to his classes.
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�But I was told that he often looked tired, and that he dozed off in some classes.
Knowing he was 84, I looked on him as elderly and needing special dispensations. I
was only a youngster in my forties at that time. But after two weeks, I found out that
the poor man was sleeping at night in his ancient car, because he didn’t have enough
money for a room on campus. Suddenly, my whole view of him changed. I saw him
as resourceful and younger. He didn’t seem a day over 65. So of course, we gave him a
special “room” scholarship, and I’m sure he slept much better after that. Certainly, his
grades were good.
My second story concerns age differences. Again, in this third year of the GI one of the
students was a 16-year-old boy whom I admitted as a fully qualified student, though
not as a student for the Master’s degree. He and his mother made an appointment
with me a few months before classes began. The boy spoke well and clearly, and he
had several excellent comments from his teachers here at Annapolis High School, so
I admitted him.
That same year, there was a 72-year-old man who had been a federal bureaucrat and
later a successful businessman. Within two weeks, tutors and students noted with
admiration that these two argued with mutual respect, each gradually seeing more
value in the unique viewpoints youth and age bring to a subject. They learned and
demonstrated how to cooperate and found that discussions—properly conducted—
don’t produce winners and losers, but only winners. The very act of discussing makes
you see other points of view more sympathetically and your own more clearly.
But of equal importance is the skill you can learn here to ignore or translate the
enormous difference in time between us and the authors we read, bridging hundreds
and thousands of years. Whereas in most other institutes of learning, those differences
would be stressed and pointed out with some arrogance, here you have learned to
treat them with respect, and above all, to bring their way of looking at the world into
the orbit of your experience.
I happened to meet the 16-year-old boy about eight years later in a supermarket and
he remembered his GI experience with great appreciation. By then, he had a PhD
from the University of Pennsylvania.
Between 1979 and 1985, we offered a number of what were called Middle East
Fellowships, sponsored by grants from the U.S. State Department. We acquired these
largely by the help of Burch Ault, vice president of this college for several years. He
helped a great deal by putting me in touch with many of his wealthy contacts (and he
18
�had many). This took me to several countries in the Near & Middle East to recruit
students. The scholarships came for one or two summers from Syria, Iraq, Morocco,
Turkey, Jordan, Egypt, Israel, and Palestine. To say their presence on campus disturbed
our Western complacency is a wild understatement. But I believe both they and we
found it an enriching experience—socially and academically.
So, my friends, I hope these little tales from the past and the start of the Graduate
Institute have given you a glimpse of how we started, and what we regard as success.
Now, 40 years old, with a regular year-round program, a smart, permanent office,
and a fairly steady enrollment of students—not very young nor very old as in our
formative years—the GI can look forward to a steady future. The GI aims to give a set
of discerning skills which I hope we can take into the world outside St. John’s College.
There is still a danger of becoming insular, coming from this college. Recently, a
graduate from here told me that a friend of his was critical of our students, saying,
“You people only seem to be able to talk to each other.” I believe that is a sad and
unnecessary accusation—even though it’s sometimes true. But we have the ability of
saying we we believe—translating what you learn here—into a language familiar to
your listeners wherever they come from.
So I give you my final recommendation: Go forth, speak the language available to the
company you are in, and may all the discussion you have in the future, wherever and
with whomsoever you find yourself, bear the imprint of all you have learned here.
Thank you.
19
�Emily Langston: Convocation
Address (Spring 2017)
Living in the In-Between
The year 2017 marks the 50th year of the GI. We’ll be celebrating this anniversary
at events through the year, so it seems appropriate to say something today, at the
beginning of this year of celebration, about the beginnings of the institute, especially
as its beginnings reveal something of the community you are about to join.
As those of you doing the mental math have figured out by now, the first GI classes
were held in 1967. To be precise, the Institute came into being in the summer of 1967,
on St. John’s brand new campus in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Then-president Richard
Weigle obtained a grant from the Carnegie Foundation offering support for five
summers to found a summer graduate program in the liberal arts. The initial sketch
of the curriculum was drawn up by Lawrence Berns, in consultation with many of
the members of the Santa Fe faculty at the time, for a program originally called the
“Teachers Institute in Liberal Education.” That initial summer saw an enrollment of 33
students. It wasn’t as many as the founders had hoped to attract (though it seems to me
like an impressive accomplishment!). But aside from that the program was regarded
by all as a great success and every student who enrolled for that first summer elected
to return in subsequent summers, there was no attrition. To quote a report by Robert
Goldwin, the Institute’s first director, students were: “Like [people] too long in the
desert suddenly transported to an oasis. This was just what they had always hoped for
but had never really seen.”
Even in that first year, there was some surprise at the variety of students to whom the
program appealed. At the end of that first summer, Goldwin suggested changing the
name from the “Teachers’ Institute” to the “Graduate Institute,” to make it clear that
this education was for anyone who desired to undertake it. That first diverse group
of 33 did include a number of teachers: nine from inner-city schools in Baltimore, as
well as various residents of Santa Fe, Los Alamos, and places further afield. Some came
straight from college, but most already had some graduate work in their backgrounds;
many even had advanced degrees. Which is to say, that the first GI student body looked
in many ways like the student body we have today—a substantial number of teachers,
but also retirees, recent college graduates, people working in other professions, in the
military, government agencies, and NGOs. They were also like current GI students
20
�in another, more significant, way: they, like you here today, were willing to make a
deliberate and unusual educational choice at a time of life when it is neither expected
nor convenient.
Such a choice must arise from a real and serious desire for the activity we engage in
together at the college. At its core, this activity is the same in the Graduate Institute
as in the undergraduate program. We are all engaged in liberal education, in an
education that we believe will render us more free. But making the choice to undertake
this education—in medias res as it were—necessitates a different relationship with
or stance toward your studies than that of the typical St. John’s undergraduate. Very
few undergraduates here attend part-time, and most of them live on or very close to
campus. They are able to separate themselves, not entirely but somewhat, from the
world—forming a tight-knit community in what you will sometimes hear called the
“Johnnie Bubble.” But members of the Graduate Institute can’t live in a bubble. (No
matter how much some of us might wish to from time to time!) Whether you come in
the summer or during the academic year, you have commitments—careers, families,
the multitudes of obligations of adulthood—that can’t and shouldn’t simply be put
aside. Of necessity you find yourself living in the in-between, engaging with these
texts and this community as you remain engaged also with what is called, with greater
or lesser degrees of irony, the “Real World.”
This in-between-ness puts demands on you, and in turn on the educational program.
Some of the differences between the forms the program takes at the undergraduate and
graduate levels—such as the ability of GI students to take a preceptorial, which is to say
an “elective,” every semester—I think can be simply put down to a sense that students
who are older and more experienced may be offered a modicum more choice. Other
differences, though, were originally the result of rethinking the program in light of
what it meant to offer a program of liberal education, that would be rigorous and true
to the mission of the college, to students with unavoidable ongoing commitments.
A couple of these differences have become defining features of the Graduate Institute
program today. The most significant is certainly the division of the program into
segments. The founders of the GI considered this a concession—not so much to an
academic culture obsessed with marking out territories of expertise, as to the fact
that they needed to divide the program into coherent chunks that could be offered
in eight weeks of intensive summer study to students who would have a substantial
break between terms. Evidence that it is a concession is found in the very term we
use for each of these chunks; we call them “segments.” The word segment comes from
the Latin, secare, to cut; a segment is something cut off. So “Politics and Society”
21
�for example, the segment that some of you will be taking this semester and that was
offered during the first GI summer, is not considered to be a subject-area unto itself
but instead something cut off from a larger, integrated whole.
The fact, again, that although we adhere to a strict order within the segments, the
segments themselves may be taken in almost any order was also a concession—this
time to the fact that we can’t offer every segment every term, but we need to bring
in new students every term, and so students need to be able to start with whatever
segments are being offered. And this again has necessitated that we focus less on
technical subjects such as mathematics and foreign language study where a certain
amount of expertise must be developed cumulatively and in order. The majority of
our students earn the Master of Arts in Liberal Arts degree without engaging in any
foreign language study—and it is possible to do so without taking any mathematics.
(Although I urge you not to! Many GI students, and especially those who were most
hesitant to take it, find the Math and Natural Sciences segment the most freeing of all.)
What emerged from all this necessary adjustment, however, was not simply a cut-up,
truncated version of the undergraduate program; rather, as my predecessor in this
role Jeff Black made clear in an address entitled “Liberal Education for Adults,” it is a
version of the St. John’s program with its own integrity and distinctive features. For
instance, reading the books organized into segments means that certain questions
arise more persistently over the course of a semester, and it is easier to trace a strand
of thought or a question from an ancient to a modern thinker. The fact that both new
and returning students are likely to be present in any class means that the discussion
of the class remains more focused on the books in that particular segment, rather than
ranging widely over a long list of books that everyone can be presumed to have read.
The fact that we do less math, science, and foreign language study means that we have
more time in tutorial to devote to a close reading of key texts within a segment. These
differences help make a program in the liberal arts that is particularly appropriate for
older students living between worlds.
Finally, though, no educational program—however well-conceived—could ensure the
success of this endeavor. What sustains the community of learning in the Graduate
Institute year after year, as students and faculty alike negotiate the tension between
engagement in liberal education and engagement with the world? It’s a pressing question
not only for students of the Graduate Institute, but for all of us. For (assuming that we
remain engaged in learning at all after leaving school) the space within this tension
is where most of us spend our lives. I won’t attempt to answer this question fully in
my remaining few minutes, but I think even to begin to answer I must return to what
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�I was saying about you, the students of the GI, and the unusual choice that brought
you here. As I said earlier, it is a choice that evidences a strong desire to undertake
the project of liberal education. What can we say about such a desire? The desire
to become more free through learning already requires both the self-knowledge to
admit that we are less than fully free and at least the hope that we might become more
free by pursuing knowledge about essential things. We admit that there is something
about this undertaking of being human in the world that we don’t fully grasp. But of
course, realizing that there is something we don’t grasp is only the first step. To know
that we only have to look at Meno—rich, good-looking and well-connected, certainly
engaged with his contemporary world—who, when his ignorance about virtue is
exposed, responds with bluster and threats, then throws up his hands as he makes
the debater’s argument that it is not even worth trying to know such things. I think
I can safely say that most of you, unlike Meno, at some level already believe that it is
worthwhile to seek what we do not know. But the task is not easy. It requires that we
be, in the words of Socrates to Meno, “energetic and keen on the search.” Without a
continual recommitment to the search this life in-between would be impossible. We
rely on this quality in you, this resolve to resist the claims of the immediate and return
again and again to search with us for what we do not know; we rely on it, and I think
as a community we can encourage it in one another—but as the example of Meno
again makes clear we can’t simply instill it where it isn’t present. Socrates tells us that
this belief and this search will make us “better, braver and less idle.” It is something
very close to virtue; and as with virtue, it is hard to say where it comes from. Maybe,
as is suggested regarding virtue in the second half of the dialogue, it is a gift from the
gods.
May we for the next 50 years continue to be blessed with students so gifted.
23
�Conversation with President Kanelos
on the Graduate Institute
C: You said in a recent interview with Historia that the telos of education should be
education of the soul. Given that, do you see a difference between the GI and the
undergraduate program?
PK: Yes, I think there is a difference between undergraduate education and graduate
education by definition. Graduate education presumes a kind of preparatory experience
at the undergraduate level—it presumes that it’s building upon a foundation that’s been
laid, but that foundation is different for every person. Many people enter the GI in the
same position that they would have were they to have come here as an undergraduate—
kind of new to this world, this particular approach to liberal education. So it’s different
than if you’re, let’s say, an English major and then you go on to get a Masters or a
PhD in English. What that does is presume that you’ve done these 12 classes and now
you’re going to do the next set at the graduate level.
We don’t make that presumption in the GI. We presume that the kind of experience
that you’re going to have may align with experience you’ve had in the past or it may
be totally new to you. Liberal education is evergreen: if you’ve already read Plato as
an undergraduate, several times over on your own, or in many different contexts, you
can come to it again at the Graduate Institute and it still has all this stuff to teach you.
And that’s I think what allows the Graduate Institute to be appropriate for so many
different people at different points in their life. You could parachute into the Graduate
Institute at 22 or at 92—and that’s wonderful because I don’t think most graduate
programs offer the same kind of riches across generations. But the point of education
is the education of the soul, and as far as I know we have souls the entirety of our lives,
maybe even after—but that’s a different question.
C: In your inauguration speech you made a note that there’s no liberal art in the
singular—there are liberal arts in the plural. Can you say more about this?
PK: The fundamental point that I was trying to make was that human beings are so
complex and the world is so complex that there is no singular body of knowledge that
can stand in for the whole. If you just study biology you could learn a heck of a lot
about certain things, but it could never give you access to the total meaning of human
experience—it just can’t. And neither can some disciplines that seem to some people
24
�to give that access.
For example, some people feel like if you study literature you have access to lived human
experience in a way that creates wisdom, but I think you still only have a partial view.
I still think you need to understand the world as a biologist, a physicist, or a musician
would. It’s important to realize that our experience of the world is prismatic, that there
are all these different angles that we can see the world through, and we need to see it
through as many angles as possible. Even then we’ll never have a full understanding of
the human experience. But we have a human drive to understand as much as we can,
and that’s education for the sake of education.
The prisms we have in the undergraduate experience and the graduate experience
are parallel, but there are differences. The undergraduate experience is set up as a
four-year block of time where most undergraduates are essentially sealed off from the
world. Each body of knowledge has a kind of throughline, most of them a four-year
throughline: the study of languages, the study of sciences, mathematics, great texts. The
image I would use for that is we’re weaving those together over four years. A student
can study Euclid and think about geometric concepts and then study Aristotle and
somehow those things start to weave together. The Graduate Institute is not constructed
in that way: it’s constructed in sequential way. Each student goes through the GI in a
different pattern depending upon how the segments move around together. It’s like a
kaleidoscope—you can shift the thing and get different patterns. This compels our GIs
to relate to the material a little bit differently than the undergraduates. We understand
that the educational experience is blended together with life itself in a different way
for GIs than it is at the undergraduate level. For most GIs—even GIs who are full time
and going straight through—you are living your life more in the world and of the
world than you would as an undergraduate.
C: If you were to enroll in the GI, is there a particular segment you would start with?
PK: I think I would roll the dice, I really do! Because I would be afraid of my own
impulses. One of the things you need to do if you’re really going to educate yourself is
to move outside your comfort zone. You can start with the things you’re most familiar
with—my background, literature, theater, the arts, philosophy, politics, that’s my
comfort zone—I would be drawn in that direction. On the other hand, I don’t know
that it would be the best thing for me to just go the opposite way and start with all
the things that I’m shamefully ignorant of. I honestly think I would just roll the dice
and give the fickle finger of fate a chance. And the GI is constituted in a way that that
would actually makes sense. The vicissitudes of fortune—sometimes you just need to
25
�jump in the river and let it take you. I think that kind of surrendering is really the first
step in education, and that’s why I’d be reticent to engineer my own experience. I’d
just say, “I’m letting go, I’m giving in, I’m not going to try to control this”—at least this
kind of education. You’re not going to do that if you’re becoming an engineer—there
are certain things that you need to do in a certain sequence. But in the liberal arts, you
can just let it go.
C: What ideas do you have for the future of the GI?
PK: I think the GI is in many ways the future of St. John’s. Not that we would ever
divest ourselves of the undergraduate program—I think our undergraduate program
is the essential undergraduate program in the country, but we’re committed at the
undergraduate level to staying exactly where we are in terms of size and format. But
St. John’s should reach many, many more lives than it does and I think the Graduate
Institute is the place that’s almost infinitely expandable. When you think about the
flexibility of the program, the nimbleness of the program, the fact that there are so
many different people it can appeal to in so many different ways—then we have to
think about how we can multiply access to the GI without losing stability.
One of the questions that I have is: How dependent is the GI upon the foundational
undergraduate experience for ballast? Is part of the GI experience the fact that you
come to Annapolis or Santa Fe and you’re plugged into this community that is there
and thriving and you are a subset of that community? I think that’s important. But
could we do the GI in New York, for example, separate from the campus? We’re looking
at some options like that now, and I think there’s a lot of potential there for delivering
the same academic experience with the same intellectual rigor while not necessarily
being tethered to a home campus in the same way.
C: Are there more places where the undergraduates and the GIs can meet where the
two groups can come together and learn from one another?
PK: My graduate experience was at the University of Chicago, and there are a lot of
affinities between the two institutions: this program was largely inspired by educational
movements out of the University of Chicago; quite a number of people in my graduate
program were Johnnies; and quite a number of people from the University of Chicago
end up teaching here—so there’s a kind of interpenetration of the institutions.
Chicago is a very graduate student-heavy place. I may be wrong, but I think there are
more graduate students than undergraduates at the institution—it really feels that
26
�way. And there were a lot of classes that were simply intermingled. I would need to
take a class and often I would be in a class that was mixed graduate students and
undergraduates—and there was no attempt to distinguish between the two—this is
what was brilliant about it—you actually sometimes didn’t know who was a graduate
student and who was an undergrad. And it was wonderful for the undergrads because
the undergrads were really pressed. Here these are mostly PhD students in that setting
who are studying things very seriously and want to talk very seriously about stuff and
the undergrads were expected to keep up. And similarly, for the graduate students,
the kind of freshness, the openness, the earnestness of undergraduates was really
stimulating.
So I would love to see more intermingling around the table. Could we do it in a
curricular fashion? Maybe. Could we—I’m going to say this and then somebody’s
going to hear this somewhere and then I’m going to hear about it—could we embed
GIs in undergraduate seminars as a teaching assistant or something like that? Maybe
that’s not the right word for it here, but as a kind of participant, an assistant to the
process in some way? That’s something that we could at least think about. We would
be doing it for very different reasons than most schools—most schools do that because
they get cheap labor. Our motivation would just be adding another layer of complexity
to the intellectual experience. I would welcome these kinds of things. My experience
of having undergrads and graduates together was really, really rich. One of the things
that was brilliant about it was it just broke what’s really an artificial mold, and this
goes back to the original question—what’s the purpose of education? If the purpose of
education is to do this thing called “an undergraduate degree” and then some people
go on and do a PhD for a different purpose—the instrumentalized vision in each of
those cases, that you get this credential to go on and do X, is kind of broken down
when you have many people together doing it for very different reasons.
C: What were the things that you were looking for in your education?
PK: I was raised by wolves [laughs] so I didn’t have much direction when it came to
undergraduate education. That’s a very ungenerous way to put my upbringing—but
what I meant was my parents were immigrants and not educated people, and not
wolfish anyways, but had no experience with education themselves. I was the oldest
in the family and I knew I needed to do this thing called “college,” but I really didn’t
know what that meant or how to discern the best possible path other than things
people would say to me in arbitrary fashion about what a good college was or where
you should go. I stumbled into my undergraduate education. I went to Northwestern,
and in hindsight, I don’t think I had a particularly fantastic education there. I think it
27
�was mixed, even though it was a very so-called “prestigious” school. It taught me that
prestige and quality of education don’t always match up.
When I got to graduate school, at that point I was a little more attended to what I was
looking for. My first graduate experience was at Boston University. I entered a program
called the University Professors Program, which was an interdisciplinary graduate
program. It is not around anymore; they pulled the plug on it a couple years ago. But
it was the kind of program where the faculty were from a broad range of fields, but
tended to be really high profile. The idea at BU was to get the Mount Rushmore effect:
get really big important people in the world and put them into a graduate program and
see what happens. And that really appealed to me, but I had had a relatively rigid and
narrow undergraduate experience: pick a major, stick with it, pick a couple electives.
So when I went to graduate school I wanted to be more free-ranging. St. John’s was
not on my radar for graduate school—I had not heard of it at that point. But I thought
[BU] was really great, I could take classes and study with these wonderful people, and
I could read literature, and do philosophy and aesthetics, and all these sorts of things.
It was fantastic, I loved every minute of it, probably for the same reasons you all love
what you’re doing. It felt like an intellectual adventure. It was a PhD program, but
towards the end of my first year there, I had lunch with Saul Bellow, and he and I
were chatting about what I was doing. I said I was getting ready to write my Master’s
thesis on Hobbes, and he said: “Why are you here? You should be at the University
of Chicago in the Committee on Social Thought,” where he had spent most of his
career teaching. To be frank, I had never dreamed I could get into the University of
Chicago for a PhD—that seemed beyond my capacity—but he was persuasive. He
made a phone call to the University of Chicago and said, “you should take a look at
this kid.” I finished up my MA thesis at BU and then went on to the Committee on
Social Thought for the PhD program.
What I found there was something like that University Professors experience; the
Committee of Social Thought is another interdisciplinary graduate program populated
with high-powered faculty. You can take it in many different directions. I had been
leaning towards the study of political philosophy, which is why I had written on
Hobbes. In my heart of hearts, I was really most interested in language, aesthetics, and
literature. Luckily, I landed in a program that let me move in any direction I wanted. I
ended up focusing on Shakespeare, writing my dissertation on Shakespeare, and then
going on to teach in English and theatre departments.
There has been a lot of dice-rolling in my life where I think, “There is an appeal here—I
28
�don’t know where it is going to go or how it is going to end, but I feel drawn to this
kind of intellectual adventure, to this particular kind of experience.” So I jump in the
stream and see what happens.
C: Is there a reason why so many tutors come from the Committee on Social Thought?
PK: I think philosophically, the programs are in line with each other. In many ways
the Committee on Social thought is the PhD version of the St. John’s program. It’s not
structured in the same way, but the spirit of it is. You have to read broadly and synthesize.
I’ll give you an example. The typical PhD program has you take exams before you go
on to write your dissertation. Let’s say you’re doing your PhD in English—you would
pick three areas of knowledge. So you’d say: “I’m going to do restoration literature,
early modern drama, and philosophy of language.” Then you would create a reading
list of 50 important secondary works in all of these fields. So you’d read and read and
read and master the scholarly work on this, and then have an oral examination. When
the committee was convinced that you had mastered the scholarly apparatus, then
you would be permitted to write a dissertation.
At the Committee on Social Thought, the exams are radically different. They’re
called the Fundamentals exams. There are three broad areas: imaginative literature,
philosophy and theology, and social sciences. You have to pick four primary texts for
each of those categories, and they have to be divided so that there is at least one ancient
and one modern text in each category. Then your job is is to study these primary texts
as deeply as possible. And you have to take your list around to each member of the
faculty, not just members on a small committee. They would talk to you about it; they’d
say: “Why Genealogy of Morals? What do you want to do with it? What’s this about?”
Once the entire faculty had signed off on it, then you prepared for your exams. They
would give you a sealed envelope with three questions that had been composed for
you based upon your reading list. You would take it home and have five days to write
on two of the questions. You on average produce 50 to 100 pages of writing in those
five days. It was all primary-text-focused and the idea was that you had to read from
Plato to Nietzsche and beyond. So you can see how that is very Johnnie. It’s radically
different than the way any other graduate program is structured. The Committee on
Social Thought fosters an ability to see across boundaries, to accept different ways of
knowing, to be broad rather than narrow.
C: Which 12 books did you choose?
PK: In literature it was Euripides’ Bacchae, Hamlet, Brothers Karamazov, and
29
�Gulliver’s Travels. In philosophy and theology, it was Cicero’s De Officiis, Aristotle’s
Poetics, Hobbes’ Leviathan, Nietzsche’s Genealogy of Morals. In social sciences, it was
Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France, the
speeches of Abraham Lincoln, and Freud’s Civilization and its Discontents. I mean,
come on: look at that list! It’s amazing to be able to study that way at the graduate level.
C: The story goes that when you first got to college for your undergrad, someone
asked you what your major was—and you responded, “What? What the heck is that?”
Many of us in the GI immediately thought, “This is the guy for the job.” So many of us
immediately recognized you as a Johnnie.
PK: That is another reason why I am evangelical about the GI. Because people who learn
to learn this way—whether they are directly involved in education or not—become
advocates for this form of education and the value of a real liberal arts education. Part
of the reason there is a crisis in the liberal arts is because there are very few schools
that actually are liberal arts schools—even though they call themselves that. So people
say that some squishy school somewhere is a “liberal arts” college, but it doesn’t really
look any different from a non-liberal arts college. Maybe it’s a little bit smaller, maybe
they don’t have a graduate school—but in terms of the core education, there isn’t much
of a difference between going to a “liberal arts college” like Williams and going to the
University of Michigan other than football teams and size. Both are great schools—
but in terms of the experience, they are not very different from each other.
St. John’s has not lost the sense of what liberal arts should be. In fact, St. John’s represents
that in its purest form, and that’s why I want as many people as possible to have this
sort of experience. I want there to be 1,000 people sitting around this table. So how
do we do that? We have to be careful—we don’t want to lose the essence of St. John’s.
C: So many GIs say they only heard about St. John’s by word of mouth. What kinds of
outreach initiatives do you have in mind for the Graduate Institute?
PK: Part of the outreach we’re working on is through established schools like Great
Hearts. I think that many of the people we encounter in our undergraduate outreach—
through classical and homeschool initiatives—are potentially GIs. You talk to someone
who’s been working in this area and they say, “Well gosh, that’d be great to go and
study there as a graduate student.” And I tell them, “Well, you can!” But I think we do
need to be more intentional about this. We have a lot of irons in the fire right now, and
they’re all really exciting.
30
�C: We are all thrilled to have someone with a clear vision of what liberal education
means.
PK: I still pinch myself every day. I mean really? I get to be president of St. John’s? This
is crazy talk. It is just a joy to be somewhere where your values and aspirations align
exactly with the institution. I have been a part of other colleges and universities and
I have had a really nice career with wonderful people and great students, but things
have always felt a little off-kilter to me. I was always trying to make every place a little
more like St. John’s. Talk to my colleagues back at Valparaiso where I was a dean. It
was a Great-Books-based honors program, but it didn’t have nearly the same kind of
focus or commitment to liberal education. One of the very first things I did at that
honors college was meet with Chris Nelson. I had never been on campus before, but
I happened to be in the area and thought, “Okay, I am going to St. John’s. I am going
to call up this Chris Nelson guy. He seems like he’s an advocate of liberal education at
St. John’s. I want to get a tour of the school, I want to sit in on classes, I want to speak
with the president.” I did all those things—Chris and I spoke about liberal education,
and my intention in doing that was to be able to learn more about the way this place
operated so I could bring those things back to my institution. I had no idea that the
guy I was having lunch with at Harry Brown’s—that four years later I would be taking
his desk. I didn’t even dream of that.
C: So, as a final question: do you have a piece of advice you’d give to a student in the
Graduate Institute?
PK: I would say: immerse yourself as deeply as possible into the experience. Don’t
do it part-time, half-hearted. I understand students in the graduate program have
lives that must go on—but immerse yourself as much as you possibly can in the text,
the discussion, and most importantly into a kind of shared intellectual life with your
peers. As I’m sure you guys know, it’s a privilege to take a slice of your life, read things
with others, read things in common, and talk about them. These are sacred moments
in one’s life. They’re especially sacred at the graduate level. You don’t have much
of a choice K through 12; you’re going to march along, that’s expected of you. An
undergraduate experience is kind of a rite of passage—but what you are doing now
is elective. You’ve selected to carve this space in your life, and remembering that this
is primarily for you…You might have some kind of practical reason in mind, maybe
you’re a teacher and you want to take some of this back, maybe you want to go on to
a PhD, and that’s fine. But this shouldn’t be an instrumental experience. This should
be an experience where you feel the muscles of your soul contracting and expanding
as you’re going through this. And the only way to do it is to do it with all your heart.
31
�Staci Hill: Toast to the Tutors
(Dean’s Reception, Summer 2017)
The instructions for this toast were just as open-ended as all assignments at St. John’s.
I am tasked with articulating what the program, classes, and tutors mean to us as
graduating students. And like all assignments at St. John’s, what follows will not convey
all that the question merits.
In leaving such a strong community and stepping toward something new, we should
ask what this education brings to what is next. I’m in the unique position of having
spent my last semester as a student mostly away from the college. And as a result, I’ve
already spent some time reflecting on what the GI has given me.
I think there are many answers to this question, but my answer begins with habits.
Many of you might have already had the weekly or daily habit of reading books. That
is a habit of action—and it is important. But what I have in mind is more of a habit of
temperament.
The program calls for us to think a lot about the most important things. Class is
where we examine those thoughts and where we have the discussions that help those
thoughts remain with us. It is between the program and classes that we’ve been asked
to develop a most important habit: the habit of listening both to the authors we read
and our peers in class. By listening, I do not mean just leaving the space for others to
speak, but the kind of listening that is demanding of the mind. The kind of listening
that makes another’s thoughts consume your own head space.
When we step off campus, we will all encounter people who have not been exposed to
these books and who do not think much about what we may call the most important
things. It will be easy to dismiss them. But St. John’s has showed me that listening
intently reveals the value in whoever is speaking. Every individual has a soul and
reason and experiences that speak to what we’re here for. Therefore, cultivating this
habit of listening, so that we may carry it forward, is one of the most important gifts
of the Graduate Institute.
32
�The tutors are models of worthy habits, but especially the habit of listening. The tutors
have the difficult and significant job of doing this kind of listening every class. They
have chosen to commit themselves to this habit. And they do so with the seriousness
and focus required. Their listening, on the rare occasion that it does not make us
feel understood, at the very least makes us feel valued and heard. This listening is an
essential ingredient to a life of inquiry.
Let us continue forward by emulating the tutors’ habit of listening—
TO
THE
TUTORS!
33
�“I grew up in the back of Greek diners; my parents worked in
the restaurant. I’d go to school, and home was this place where
you slept. But during the day I’d spend time in the back of the
restaurant because that was where my family was. We moved
from Chicago to Phoenix, Arizona when I was eight. My dad
bought a restaurant in Phoenix and moved us out there. It was
attached to this hotel—a kind of seedy place, to be honest with
you—in the run-down, old hotel strip in town. There was a coffee
shop/diner there and a hotel. It was like a David Lynch movie
The people who owned the hotel had a son named Frankie, who
was my age. Frankie and I would spend our time drawing and
coloring on restaurant placemats. I have such a vivid memory of
these paper placemats: that was where we’d draw spaceships, play
games. Here I am with this kid, in the back of a restaurant, and
every once in a while one of the short order cooks would show
up and give us a plate of French fries…such an unconventional
existence! That sort of thing does not prepare you for a top
20 college. In fact, I never visited a college before I went.”
President Pano Kanelos
34
�
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Colloquy
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An account of the resource
A journal for the Graduate Institute Community of St. John's College in Annapolis, MD.
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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34 pages
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Colloquy, Fall 2017
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Volume II of the Colloquy, published in Fall 2017.
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Hatheway, Damon (editor)
Keegin, Joseph (editor)
Lambert, Toni (editor)
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St. John's College
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2017-10
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Colloquy-VolumeII-Fall2017
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Colloquy
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A journal for the Graduate Institute Community of St. John's College in Annapolis, MD.
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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54 pages
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Colloquy, Fall 2018
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Volume IV of the Colloquy, published in Fall 2018.
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Dorchester, Andrew (editor)
Marquez, Jaime (editor)
Poyner, Jordan (editor)
Trovato, Jenifer (editor)
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2018-11
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Text
�Editor-in-Chief
Olivia Braley
Editorial Board
Leith Daghistani
Andrew Graney
Charles Green
Diana Villegas
�Table of Contents
Letter from the Editor
Olivia Braley, Annapolis
Purple Freckles
Toni Lambert, Annapolis
"I Feel, Therefore I Am?"
Kayleigh Steele, Annapolis - with artwork by Bucca, Annapolis
Toast to the GI Graduates
Louis Petrich, Annapolis Tutor
Annapolis Bells
Joshua Laperche, Annapolis - with artwork by Jesse Clagett, Annapolis
Genesis
William Braithwaite, Annapolis Tutor
Pap and Me
Judith Wrenn, Annapolis - with artwork by Bucca, Annapolis
A Conversation with Brandon Wasickso
Charles Green, Annapolis- with art by Bucca, Annapolis
“Equality” and the Tyranny of the Majority
Drew Maglio, Annapolis
The White Man Burdened
Dimple Kaul, Annapolis - with artwork by Jesse Clagett, Annapolis
Holy Sonnet XIV
Vita Kudryavtseva, Annapolis - with artwork by Jesse Clagett, Annapolis
About a Letter
Louis Petrich, Annapolis Tutor - with artwork by Bucca, Annapolis
Prize-winning Tutorial Essay: Meno
Andrew Graney, Annapolis
Prize-winning Preceptorial Essay: Thus Spoke Zarathustra
Anthony Meffe, Annapolis - with artwork by Jesse Clagett, Annapolis
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�Letter from the Editor
Olivia Braley
Dear Members of the Graduate Institute Community,
As another semester comes to a close, I reflect on these last sixteen weeks with
immense gratitude for our community. Thank you all for your dedication and
commitment to the unique work and relationships we cultivate around our seminar
tables, across our computer screens, and everywhere in between. Thank you
especially to my fellow Colloquy editors, our contributors, and all others who dedicate
their time and talents to helping this publication come to fruition each semester. Due
to your efforts, we can showcase the various perspectives and elements of our
community here. The issue you have in front of you today is a culmination of the
thoughts and efforts of many people and, in that way, I believe is in keeping with the
collaborative spirit of St. John’s college.
The magic of the St. John's seminar is not hindered by distance or time. That is
evident as we bring you an issue composed of past and present graduate students
from both the in-person and low-residency programs. The fact that Prize-winning
Tutorial and Preceptorial papers were awarded to an in-person and low-residency
student respectively is but one apt example of the rigor and integrity that the St.
John’s program requires of its students no matter the circumstances or platform.
This Fall 2021 issue is of particular personal import as it marks my last semester as
Editor-in-Chief of Colloquy and as a graduate student at St. John’s College. Neither
departure is without a bit of sadness— but I am filled with hope for the future of this
journal and the Graduate Institute. To have had the opportunity to integrate into this
community in my two years here is an honor and I know that the lessons,
connections, and questions that I developed during this time will be with me for
many years to come. Let Colloquy be a reminder of these connections and of the
diverse, attentive community in which each of us has a place.
As always, thank you all for your talent, trust, and time.
Sincerely,
Olivia Braley, Editor-in-Chief
1
�Purple Freckles
Toni Lambert
Debris.
Debris and remnants
Of the gentle and no-longer-tall giants, Everywhere.
The limbs of these strong beings Show the fresh flesh
Of where they were snapped and torn. They couldn’t stand,
So they flew.
And now they’ve been flung,
Pushed aside,
Out of the way of where people pass By foot or by car.
Inches from where we pass,
But consuming our sight
Of what happened just the night before. Did they catch our gaze,
Or even our glance,
When they remained attached In their proper place
At home in the horizon line?
Not in the same way.
When attached
They represented strength
And growth,
That we can stretch and reach To be just like the humble tree. Now, flung and
displaced,
They represent the terrific
And tragic strength
Of something harder to see.
But what’s that?
Underneath the carcasses
Of the brutal storm,
Purple freckles stand tall.
Mere inches tall,
But exactly as tall as they should be On a warm September day.
They hold strong,
Often over glanced in their simplicity.
These tiny purple freckles
Of flowers show us strength.
Unfazed and perfectly placed
Despite what the storm attempted to do.
Even those standing under
And holding the remains of gentle giants
Hold strong,
Their purple untouched.
2
�"I Feel, Therefore I Am?"
Kayleigh Steele
René Descartes, after having divested himself of his body and the sensible world in a
thought experiment in the first of his Meditations, famously declares in the Second
Meditation that he is merely a thinking thing, and that his thought alone can serve as
proof of his existence. He asserts, “It is thought; this alone cannot be stripped from
me. I am, I exist, this is certain” (27). In other writings, he states this central idea
aphoristically as: “I think, therefore I am.” By the end of the Meditations, though,
Descartes believes he has successfully proven the existence of the material world and
has restored his body to himself. This prompts the question of whether we can now
return to the Second Meditation and, with the body and access to sensation intact, ask
if there are other possible proofs of our existence to be found. Could “I feel,
therefore I am” be true?
Intuitively, it seems true that if there is a sensation being felt, that is proof that there
is something here existing to feel the sensation. The proposition does not feel so
different from Descartes’ basic assertion that if there is something here thinking,
there must be something here existing to think the thought. So now, stripped of our
reason and using only our sensations, we test “I feel, therefore I am." Immediately,
the question presents itself: is it possible for a merely perceiving being to form a
“therefore”? It seems impossible that a feeling being would be capable of taking in
sensory data and using it to form a conclusion; reason must be involved in this
process. However, Descartes identifies sensation and perception as a form of
thinking: “I seem to be seeing, hearing, getting hot. This cannot be false. This is what is
properly meant by speaking of myself as having sensations; and, understood in this
precise sense, it is nothing other than thinking” (29). To accord with his cogito
statement, he removes sensation from the body entirely and assigns it to the mind:
“Bodies themselves are perceived not, strictly speaking, by the senses or by the
imaginative faculty, but by the intellect alone, and... they are not perceived because
they are touched or seen, but only because they are understood” (34). With sensation
now subsumed by the understanding, the proposition of “I feel, therefore I am”
effectively becomes one and the same as “I think, therefore I am,” and must be true.
As he works to reestablish the body in the Sixth Meditation, though, Descartes
complicates his idea of sensation as a form of thinking:
I find in myself faculties of thinking in various specific ways – namely, the faculties of
imagination and sensation – without which I can understand myself clearly and distinctly as
a whole. But the converse is not true – I cannot understand them apart from an intelligent
substance in which they inhere (for they contain a certain degree of intellection in their formal
concept). Hence I perceive that they are to be distinguished from me as modes are from a
thing. (78)
3
�By identifying sensation as a mode or accident of thinking, he effectively separates it
and makes it nonessential from the business of thinking. He can conceive of a version
of himself existing purely as a mind without requiring the faculty of sensation, but not
as a feeling being without his intellect. After this development in his conception of
sensation, “I feel, therefore I am” cannot possibly be true. Or can it? In making an
argument for mind-body dualism later in the Sixth Meditation, Descartes states:
When I consider the mind, or myself in so far as I am purely a thinking thing, I can
distinguish no parts in myself but understand myself to be a thing that is entirely one and
complete. And although the whole mind appears to be united with the whole body, if the foot
is cut off, or the arm, or any other part of the body, I know that nothing is therefore subtracted
from the mind. Nor can the faculties of willing, perceiving by the senses, understanding, and
so forth be said to be parts of the mind, since it is one and the same mind that wills, that
senses, and that understands. (86)
Descartes contradicts himself here. Where before sensation was identified as
separable from his conception of the self, now it is contained absolutely within the
whole. For “I feel, therefore I am” to be true, it has become clear that both the
faculties of sensation and the understanding must be available to us: the former to
perceive the “I feel”, and the latter to form the “therefore”. Between these two
statements in the Sixth Meditation, Descartes has presented these faculties as either
entirely divisible or muddled together, and sometimes it seems that they may even be
the same faculty altogether. How is it possible to proceed in the face of a
contradiction that makes the proposition to be tested both true and false
simultaneously?
The imprecision of Descartes has revealed itself during this exploration. Because he
does not resolve the inconsistency in the Meditations, it appears we have encountered
an insurmountable obstacle. Perhaps we can look to another, more systematic,
thinker to resolve the confusion: namely, Immanuel Kant. In the Prolegomena to Any
Future Metaphysics, Kant details his conception of the mind and its innate faculties: the
faculties of sensibility, the understanding, and reason. He defines the faculty of
sensibility as responsible for giving form to our perceptions through pure intuitions,
transforming the raw data from sensation into empirical intuitions we understand in
time and space. The faculty of the understanding then uses the pure concepts of the
understanding to form our empirical intuitions into appearances, allowing us to make
inferences and conclusions about the things that affect our senses. Reason, finally, is
the faculty by which it is possible to know a priori, apart from any experience.
4
�Artwork by Bucca
Now the roles and limitations of our various faculties are clearly defined. In the
proposition of “I feel, therefore I am,” the “I feel” is now easily understood to
pertain to the faculty of sensibility, and it seems the faculty of the understanding can
use that information to craft a “therefore”. When Descartes states, “I am therefore,
speaking precisely, only a thinking thing...” (27), he declares sensation to be
completely separable from his conception of the self. This prompts the question of
what the newly separated merely sensing self is capable of, and, with only Descartes
to look to, led to the confusion above. In Kant, the question of whether a perceiving
being can form a conclusion never arises because a merely perceiving being cannot
exist within his system. The innate structure of our minds makes it impossible to
separate sensation from the understanding. Nature has implanted within us the pure
intuitions and pure concepts of the understanding. They exist in us prior to sensation;
therefore if we feel, we are able to form an understanding from that sensation.
But can this understanding form a conclusion of “I am”? Kant identifies the
conception of the self, or the soul, as a transcendental idea, or a pure concept of the
reason. These transcendental ideas, he says, cannot be understood empirically; they
exist outside of all experience. “The transcendent cognitions of reason neither allow
what relates to their ideas to be given in experience, nor their theses ever to be
confirmed or refuted through experience; hence only pure reason itself can detect the
5
�error that perhaps creeps into them...” (4:329). The idea of the soul, like the pure
concepts and intuitions, exists in us intuitively and innately. Kant states, “Now it does
appear as if we have something substantial in the consciousness of our self (the
thinking subject), and indeed have it in immediate intuition; for all the predicates of
inner sense are referred to the I as subject, and this I cannot again be thought as the
predicate of some other subject” (4:334). This “I am” can be concluded, but never
through sensation or experience. For Kant, “I feel, therefore I am” is, consequently,
impossible.
Kant has proven, through this exercise, the immense value of the precision in his
system for answering the metaphysical questions. When Descartes’ ideas became
hopelessly entangled in the attempt to prove or disprove our proposition, Kant’s
system provided a clear and firm groundwork for continuing the process of thought.
In exploring this question, the ideas of Descartes quickly became a quagmire that one
could not navigate safely out of without the use of interpretation or opinion, which
are far too fickle for good metaphysics. Through Kant, it appears something rare and
unexpected, and welcome, has occurred: we have seemingly discovered a certain
conclusion to our question. While Descartes prompted only more questions, Kant
provided what was sought: an answer.
6
�Toast to the GI Graduates
Mr. Louis Petrich
Delivered Spring Semester 2021
Socrates says, some place or other, that it’s good to be refuted--to suffer refutation-because then we cease to think that we know what we do not know. For that’s a
troublesome condition, sometimes dangerous, even over elementary, physical matters.
Let’s say you have to prepare the table for guests, and you think you know how to
size it up or down to fit the occasion. But the table turns out too big or little—once
the guests have come—and then, too late for proper hospitality, Zeus is angry. . .
unless, perhaps, there’s a Socrates among the guests, persuasively game to undertake a
second or third measuring, ever another round of getting to know us things and gods.
Thus it’s fitting for Socrates to add that we should thank our refuters for delivering us
from the human propensity to think we know more than we do. For consider how
much that is, and how dear the objects, how costly the mistakes, when the
accommodation of bodies around the table is for the sake of souls, too.
Prompted by that word, “souls,” which is the real dynamite in our mining
conversations, I would now say “thank you” to the graduates for practicing with my
colleagues and me the soulful art of refutation for a few years, under physical
conditions that have sorely refuted us--I mean our bodies, mainly, less so our souls,
and not much your souls, for I’ve made particular comparisons. Yours have
continued, under mandated refutations, elsewhere debilitating, to take the measure of
things unknown in a spirit of wonder, and with an energy and commitment that
frankly, have refuted me of certain hard opinions I held of the mediating mechanisms
we have all had to depend upon for our fellowship.
The efficacy of your refutation surprised me, for you know how attached a man can
get to his own thoughts, as to his own hands. You got me wondering if, perhaps, I’ve
been wrong all these years about not handling a cell phone. Who knows what new
body parts I’ll acquire in future time, or what strange places we’ll occupy, in company
we never imagined to enjoy, or feared to miss? Life is full of surprises, Emerson
writes, and would not be worth the taking otherwise. Would it be to our present
purpose to recall some recent history of surprises and refutations? After all, they’ve
turned many lives, including mine, around and around again.
Who could have thought, thirty-five years ago, that European and Russian
communism would collapse in a heap, in a moment, with almost no violence? That
surprise led to a decade of newly opened borders, unforbidden books, high hopes,
dancing movements, and the liberalization of learning at much bigger, more inclusive
tables than anyone thought possible. Those closed regimes had been considered
permanent and inhospitable to us. Not so.
Who could have thought, twenty-five years ago, that our proud gleaming towers,
reaching to the heavens, uniting the world in awe, if not aspiration for like endeavors
7
�and rewards, could collapse in a heap, in a moment, not from earthquakes, but from
passenger planes, taken over by secreted enemies of our towering powers? That
refutation led to a mighty contraction of the tables of hospitality. Surveying the tables
thence are cameras, ubiquitous and seeming permanent. So it goes.
Who could have thought, two years ago, that we’d be measuring, painstakingly, our
own Johnnie tables, classrooms, this auditorium, fields of grass, body temperatures,
breath components, all that and more, to determine how many embodied souls can
investigate in person, through friendly refutation, the truth of tables?--I mean by that
what’s meet (as Hamlet says) to set down in our tables of memory (“there you are”)
for present and subsequent pursuit; what’s meet to co-discover that lies secretive
underneath the surfaces; what’s meet to venture jointly in towers of purpose that spy
into heavenly, unforbidden things; and what is meet to know that stirs across
continents and seas, around the tables of absent friends and plotting enemies. Our
surprising, painstaking measurements sting the awareness of how meet it is to be here
now, bridging the distances between us with words, gestures, and images, always
grateful for the help we get to cross the divide, by thoughts going out to listeners and
coming back home, never the same, like Odysseus when Athena brushes him up, to
become his best, god-intended, homecoming self.
Many American writers have admitted to doing their best work, going out dressed to
claw their way up cliffs, when life is especially hard, and coming back in a shining
guise. (Tennessee Williams wrote an excellent piece about clawing to success.) Ease
and comfort, as Moses told the Israelites, about to enter the Promised Land, would
make them go slack and forget God, who brought them there, thirsty. So let us cheer
those who are about to enter academic masterdom, for clawing their way up the cliff,
for life has been hard and deserted of late. But let us also charge them to refute those
of the ease and comfort school. For haven’t we learned, from our clawing, that the
convenience and resourcefulness of the medium of exchange is not the message?-For it does not dictate, as means, that mediation itself is to be learned as end. We
thirst for being there, where words and gestures issue ripe from their sources. For we
are proud to be a college of primary sources, and here’s to our looking now upon
some of them, I mean us, who are present, we sources, high on the cliffs!
I shall end my toast by looking to a source I mentioned earlier, on my mind because
of a preceptorial coming shortly, on Hamlet. Some of you have probably heard the
anecdote about the lady who went to see a production of Hamlet, which she had
never seen or read before. When asked at intermission, “Madam, how like you this
play?” she responded, “I’m so surprised at how many quotes it contains!” Yes, life is
full of surprises--and goodly refutations (in her case, let us imagine it kindly
postponed). Yet isn’t it good to know that the words we speak want to go
somewhere, and be recognized sometime and again, even if we don’t know where the
words originally come from? You graduates know a lot better than you did two years
8
�ago where many of our best words come from. Knowing that makes the question of
“to be or not to be” much less anxious. For we’ve learned to keep good company,
asking life’s questions, laying open the tables of the mind, expanding their contents
for feasting. Hamlet, as you know, is not given to feasting; he prefers to keep alone,
to talk to himself; in company, he almost always wears a mask (not this kind); for
there’s lots of poison in Denmark; it kills him in the end, leading that lady to report,
when asked what she thought of Hamlet the character, “During the play I kept
wanting him to get it over with, but now that it’s over, I miss him.” Another goodly
refutation there, about endings, after so many words along the way, alone or
accompanied, with still so much more to say, before the final arrest, always ready to
be surprised--by missing you. But there’s more to meet with in heaven and earth than
dreamt of in our seminars and tutorials, which means there’s more for us to
philosophize over at our tables round, and it’s a good thing the soul’s immortal, or
the missing would really be impossible to bear, the “not to be” at our throats.
Imagine our anecdotal lady attending a production of Hamlet knowing that it would
be the last time the play would ever be performed or read, because at the end, it must
all disappear, without a trace. What would that be like? She’d have to remember it,
write it down, talk about it, and make it come back. Remember your time as students
at St. John’s College, and make it come back, full face-to-face, to your unimpeded
liking.
To that end, I propose a toast to the graduates of the Graduate Institute, class of
2021, for the refutations they have turned to goodly account, able hereafter to profess
to the dire and dooming, the being of true minds, and the oneness that comes in
moments--the edges of eternity.
9
�Annapolis Bells
Joshua Laperche
Who installed these beckonersthese pardoners of the long day?
Saint Mary keeps continenceEvery hour,
The Prime Hour.
Our Liberty Bell,
Cracked as it is anchored.
It too tolls.
Saint John; his own tune plays.
7:22, he neglects the quarter hour.
In the dark I swear I heard this once.
To the hourTo the RepublicsTo the Soul.
Three Tolls to the regularity of experience.
Artwork by Jesse Clagett
10
�Genesis
Mr. Braithwaite
This paper was read September 7, 2021 to some students in my Sophomore Seminar.
The first two chapters of Genesis tell two stories about the origin of Man, humankind, and of the male and female sexes. The first story, in Chapter 1, describes the six
days of creation. The beginning of the second story, verses 4 through 7 of Chapter 2,
is the text for my present inquiry.
I have two questions. What is the relation between the first story and the second?
What do the two stories taken together suggest about the Biblical understanding of
the relation between the sexes?
In Chapter 1, verse 27, it is said: “So God created man in his own image, in the image
of God created he him; male and female created he them” (King James tr.). Is mankind, or humanity, as we might say, one or two; singular or plural? Are we human
beings first and foremost a unity, or a duality of male and female?
As a unity, we are one kind, one species, distinguished from other, different species.
As primarily a duality of male and female, we confront the question whether our
likenesses, as men and women, --or something in between, transcend our differences.
Could our potential for unity and co-operation get us beyond the abrasions among
the sexes which we know from experience? We can observe these problems every day
in the world around us. They spawn endless conflicts, some trivial, others deep and
wounding. Many of these conflicts seem irresolvable. Some are even violent. Very
often, it is women and children who suffer most, along with those who may not easily
fit our deeply-rooted traditional categories.
In Chapter 2, verse 18, it is said: “And the Lord God said, It is not good that man
should be alone; I will make a help meet for him.” In the following verses (19-23), we
are told that Woman was made from Adam’s rib. This account seems to say that
man/male preceded woman/female. But according to Chapter 1, male and female,
man and woman, were created at the same time. Are the two stories consistent?
Another question. In the first story, Man, human-kind, is “created,” as are the two
sexes, male and female (1.27). In the second, man is “formed,” of the dust of the
ground, and woman is “made” from one of Adam’s ribs (2.21). How does “create”
differ from “make”? What does “form” mean, different from “create” and “make”?
In the first story, what God creates, besides man/male, is “female,” not either “a
woman” or capital-W “Woman,” as Adam names her, saying, “This is now bone of
my bones, and flesh of my flesh.” Remembering Aristotle’s Physics—that a maker
needs material, we might wonder what material man and woman, as male and female,
were made from.
The first story does not say. Does this omission signify that the material is less
important than that both sexes are created in God’s image? Later events in Genesis
11
�suggest that woman’s god-likeness is shown in her power of giving birth. God
creates, woman pro-creates. In the stories of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the
emphasis on “seed” suggests that the god-likeness of man/male is shown in his
power to quicken woman’s fertility into a living soul.
In the second story, man/male is made from “the dust of the ground,” and
woman/female from a bone near Adam’s heart. Here the materials, earth and bone,
are ready at hand, and God is more an artificer, one who makes by art, than a creator,
who perhaps can bring material into being out of nothing (cf. Gen. 1.1-3).
Adam, the source of the material from which Woman is made, has a different
perception of his new “help meet,” or as we might say, a different experience, than
God, the artisan who “made” them both. To Adam, she is not only “bone of my
bones,” but also “flesh of my flesh” (2.23).
Together, bones and flesh constitute the living body, the primary habitation of every
human being, including each one of us. If our greatest blessing is that we have souls,
is it our greatest curse that our souls must dwell in a body? The question of how the
body and the soul are related, and therewith the question whether the soul survives
the death of the body, is grave enough to occupy the full attention of Socrates and his
companions in the final hours of his life.
The second story begins this way:
“These are the generations of the heavens and of the earth when they were created,
in the day that the Lord God made the earth and the heavens,
And every plant of the field before it was in the earth,
and every herb of the field before it grew:
for the Lord God had not caused it to rain upon the earth,
and there was not a man to till the ground.
But there were up a mist from the earth, and watered the face of the ground.
And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground,
and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life;
and man became a living soul.”
It is in this second creation story, in Chapter 2, verse 4, that the word “generation,”
which is related in its root to the word “genesis,” appears for the first time. There is
no reference to “generation” in Chapter 1.
Man, like God, is a “maker”: he makes cities, as we learn in Chapter 4 (v. 17) and tall
buildings, like the tower at Babel, as we learn in Chapter 11 (v. 9). Both God and Man
are also makers of images. Man makes images in stories, such as the Book of Genesis,
about how the world began. In doing this, he may, like Homer, call on divine
assistance or inspiration. Is the poet’s power to make stories that image people and
events akin to God’s power to make human beings in his own image?
Although both God and Man are makers, in Genesis 1 and 2 it is only God who
“creates,” and only Man is said to “generate,” although it is evidently implicit that
12
�many or most other living creatures do also. These first two chapters are about the
beginning of all things, but Creation, in Chapter 1, precedes Generation in Chapter 2.
There must first be a world before there are beings who will dwell in it. Some of
these beings are male and female, who by coupling will generate their own kind, “to
multiply, and replenish the earth” (1.28).
As Generation pre-supposes Creation, so Creation anticipates Generation. We see
this in Chapter 1’s references to “seed” and “kind.” “And God said, “Let the earth
bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind,
whose seed is in itself” (1.11). In Genesis, from not later than Chapter 4, “And Adam
knew Eve his wife; and she conceived,” the story begins to leave plants and animals
largely behind, and to focus on the generation of children, especially sons, through
the conjugal coupling that unites the Father’s seed with the Mother’s power of
procreation.
Only one creature, Man, is said to be both “created” and “made.” God’s creating
power is exercised through his speech. “And God said, Let there be light: and there
was light” (1.3). God speaks, and light is. The speech and deed are one with the being
of the thing. Is there some inner communion between divinity and speech and light?
Certainly we know from our own experience that human speech is not always
enlightening. Very often, it is intended to obscure, conceal, or mislead, like the speech
of the Serpent in Chapter 3.
The creation of man, on the sixth day, and the creation of light, on the first day, are
described differently. Light appears immediately upon God’s utterance, “Let there
be.” The creation of man, by contrast, happens in two stages. “And God said, Let us
make man in our own image” (1.26). How is “Let us make” different from “Let there
be”? Does “Let us make” suggest some sort of deliberation? Who is the “us” that
deliberates? Is it God as not “him” but “them,” the duality of male and female?
In bringing human-kind into being, God first announces his intention, “Let us
make,” and then acts, but his action does not exactly follow his announced intention.
“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male
and female created he them” (1.27). The announcement said “make,” what God did
was “create.” What was to be made was “man”; what God “created” was “male and
female.” The thing to be made was one, a unity, a singular; what God created was a
duality, whose coupling is necessary for generating its own kind. Can this unity be
reconciled with this duality?
With respect to other living beings, fish and birds, animals and insects, Man, humankind, is given “dominion” (1.26, 28). But if both male and female are in God’s image,
it would seem that man/male does not have dominion over woman/female. Rather,
the two sexes share “dominion” and are co-prime. Among human beings, among
their own kind, men and women are equals.
In the Biblical account, as in Diotima’s account of Eros in Plato’s Symposium, man and
woman, male and female, lover and beloved, are both needy and moveable. Each of
13
�them lacks, but also needs and desires, the other. “Therefore shall a man leave his
father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.”
This text, verse 24 of Chapter 2, appears very near the end of the second story, and
immediately after Adam has named his new helper “Woman,” observing that her
flesh is his own.
But Woman’s flesh, which in some way yet to be explained is also Man’s, is no longer
part of his body. His body was material for making her body. Is she some sort of
image of him, as Man-kind is an image of God? If a man must leave home in order to
cleave to his wife, it follows that man and woman are at first separate, at a distance
from one another, before, as husband and wife, he can “cleave” to her.
“Cleave” means “stick to,” but also “to cut in twain.” This is what a meat cleaver
does. This double meaning of “cleave” invites comparison of the Biblical account of
the origin of the sexes with the account given by Aristophanes. The least we can say
is that Plato thought the question of Eros weighty enough to compose two dialogues
about it. Is Genesis another account of how Eros shows itself in our lives?
What does Genesis say about how man and woman come together? One element of
this attraction we have already noticed: woman’s flesh beckons man because it is in
some way his own. There is another element, mentioned in the concluding verse of
Chapter 2. “And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not
ashamed.” The Biblical author is here preparing the reader for what happens in the
next chapter. We must begin, then, to parse out what is implicit in this nakedness that
is without shame.
In Chapter 1, God said several times of his work that it was good. The first mention
of any opposite or antithesis to “good” is in Chapter 2, verse 9, “And out of the
ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good
for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of
good and evil” (see also verse 17). What sort of knowledge this is, and of what, is a
question we can examine more fully when we take up Chapter 3.
It is immediately after he commands the man not to eat of this tree that God says, “It
is not good that the man should be alone” (2.18). What does God mean by “not
good”? Man’s solitariness is not said to be “evil,” but simply “not good.” Would
solitary man be neither good nor evil, but something in-between? Could he still be a
human being, yet unable to become fully what a human being can become if he has a
“help meet”?
God brings the beasts and birds to Adam, and Adam names them, but none of them
are found to be a “help meet” for him. In the King James translation I am quoting
throughout these remarks, “help” and “meet” are two separate words, and I take
“meet” to mean “fit.” Why are none of the beasts or birds a fit helper for Adam?
In Chapter 2, verse 5, the plants and herbs are in the earth, but not yet growing
because there has not been any rain, “and there was not a man to till the ground.”
14
�After forming man of the dust of the ground, verse 7, God puts him in the garden
“to dress and keep it” (2.15). The work of the first man is to till the soil. He is a
farmer, not a hunter, one who must shed blood in order to eat.
If man’s solitude, or solitariness, is the reason it is “not good” for him to be without a
fit helper, the help he needs isn’t an ox to pull a plow, or a falcon he can train to hunt
other birds. Not as a farmer is the man in need, but as a kind of being not made for
living alone. Man is a social animal, we might say; Aristotle says “political.” He needs
a being like himself, yet somehow also different.
The end of Chapter 2 spells out what sort of being this is. In three successive verses,
the meaning of “female” is transformed. In verse 22, God made “a woman” and
brought her to Adam. In verse 23, Adam names her “Woman, because she was taken
out of man.” In verses 24 and 25, Woman becomes “wife.” After they eat the apple,
“Adam called his wife’s name Eve; because she was the mother of all living” (3.20).
“Female” is shared by all animals that reproduce by copulating. “Woman” specifically
relates her to “man.” “Wife” relates her, in marriage, to “husband.” “Eve” specifies
her as a woman-become-mother, conjugally joined to a man-become-father, for the
sake of generating their own kind.
Thus begins to come into view the Biblical author’s reason for the phrase “these are
the generations of,” used for the first time at the beginning of the second story.
Thereafter we find the generations of Adam, Noah, of each of Noah’s three sons,
then again and separately, of Shem, the eldest down to Terah, the father of Abram,
who will become Abraham. Later the generations of Isaac and of Esau are given.
These lists are in Chapters 5, 6, 10, 25, and 36. In the Joseph chapters, there are
several different lists of the sons of Jacob.
With this clue, we are able to begin discerning one main thread of the Genesis story.
It is generation, the human act of procreation, the activity of multiplying our own
kind through the pairing of man and woman in the conjugal union of husband and
wife. The pairing of male and female changes us, successively, into man and woman,
husband and wife, father and mother. By duplicate ratio, mothers and fathers become
grandmothers and grandfathers. This continuity in generations, a geometric
progression, establishes the continuity of families, and so also of cities and nations.
From Chapter 4 forward, another main thread of the Genesis story is the murderous
jealousy and hatred between brothers—Cain and Abel, Esau and Jacob, Joseph and
his brethren. Does the sequence of events in Genesis suggest that the disobedience of
Adam and Eve is somehow the primal origin of the rivalries among brothers and
sisters? If the right ordering of the man-woman relation, as husband and wife, is
disturbed, is the right ordering of the next generation also likely to be deranged?
Because Adam and Eve could not restrain themselves, we, their descendants, are now
liberated—and cursed, with the knowledge of good and evil. If it is possible for men
and women to re-discover the innocent nakedness without shame our first Mother
15
�and first Father once had, then we will have to search for it ourselves. The search will
not be easy, or safe, since the place we must look into is that boiling cauldron of lust
and rage—the family.
Both the Hebrew and the Greek poets divined this truth, as we may see from
comparing the stories in Genesis with Aeschylus’ Oresteia. Plato suggests, at the
beginning of the Laws (626 D-E) that the conflicts in the family begin in the
individual soul. Freud proposes, echoing Plato, that the source of unhappiness is a
soul at war with itself. Might our dreams be one portal to this dividedness (see
Aeneid, VI.1211-18)?
16
�Pap and Me
Judith Wrenn
Huckleberry Finn eulogises his father
Pap warn’t much a man.
He’d hurt my mam
when I was young.
He’d hurt me too, plenty,
But what mattered
He was my Pap,
long and the short.
Betwixt a drinking and a whooping
showed me to borrow and cuss.
Reckon a man ain’t more or less
a man, we end up ware we ends.
All we are is what we been
Pap and me and everyman.
Artwork by Bucca
17
�A Conversation with Brandon Wasickso, Associate Director of the
Graduate Institute
Charles Green, Colloquy Editor
Colloquy: What brought you to St. John's?
Brandon Wasickso: I don't remember how I first learned about the college. Looking
back, did I get a mailer in high school? Did a professor mention it at some point? I
really can't remember how I first heard of it, but it was something that I was aware of,
and had always been floating around the periphery as an option, something that
resonated with me. I was working in the D.C. area for several years in kind of
ideological work. It was a very ideas-based sort of work, but at the same time, I felt
that it was not the extent of the world of ideas and that there was some constraint in
having that sort of bias toward action and a narrow, particular way of thinking about
things, and I decided I didn't want to do that anymore. I went to Vietnam and taught
for about a year and a half, and that's where I was when I applied to St. John's.
Something put it back on my radar again. I had this view of the great books as if they
had this kind of like mystical power. I didn't know what any of them said. Of course,
I'd heard of Plato, I’d heard of Aristotle, right? I'd probably come across different
excerpts here and there, maybe even read a few of the books on our list, but I really
had no sense of what they were and just how diverse the kinds of things I would be
reading would be. But anyway, I had this calling, this idea that drew me to the idea of
the great books without again really knowing what the content of them was. I had the
sense that by wrestling with these books I would find answers to some of the big
questions about meaning and purpose and the like. So, one day, I applied and said,
“You know, if I if I get in, great, the decision’s made, I'll move back and I'll do it.
And if not, I'm happy here teaching, eating great food, and riding around on a
motorcycle.”
CQ: It's interesting that you speak of it as kind of a calling, because that’s the feeling
I get when I talk with other Johnnies.
BW: I remember remarking to a friend at the time, or maybe I wrote it in an email,
that I both want to read the books and to be the kind of person who has read the books.
It’s that sense of both the activity and also some kind of transformation that was
supposed to come out of that activity, right?
CQ: Of course. That sounds like a good way to describe it. Can you talk about your
experience as both a student at the Graduate Institute and as an administrator?
BW: Do you mean, what it's like doing both at the same time, or reflecting on each
of them? Or both?
CQ: Can you reflect on both. You were in an unusual circumstance to be both a
student and helping to run the Program at the same time.
18
�BW: That's right. The position opened up quickly and unexpectedly. A few months
before I had had lunch with Ms. Langston through the “take a tutor to lunch”
program. I was curious about her being a tutor, but also an administrator. And she
had written a convocation address at some point called “Life in the In-Between”,
describing how in the GI program, people have feet firmly planted in two worlds:
they're in the program, but they also have their own very full lives, careers, families,
etc. The undergrads, in contrast, are just really so immersed in the program. There's
no other world besides the College that they can occupy for long. So I had I asked
Ms. Langston to lunch because I thought that being an administrator and a tutor was
also kind of like having your foot in two very different worlds. And I was curious
what that was like. My background was in higher ed and nonprofit administration.
And I had an interest in continuing in administration perhaps in another form. So we
had this conversation and a few months later, the job opened up. And I'm in the
middle of my third semester when it did and said, “Of course I'm going to apply to
this. This would be really cool.” And I had some skills I could bring to it. So I applied
and finished out that semester and then took some time to just focus on getting into
the job, doing it well, and making sure I learned what I needed to learn without
having to divide my time too much between that and the classes. I wanted to focus
on making sure I gave each the time they needed and deserved in order to do them
well.
But it was it was a strange transition, and I remember the moment that all the people
who knew me first as a student, as their classmate, when they all started graduating.
And then there's this whole crop of people coming in who just knew me as the guy in
the office, the guy who sends all the emails and tells them “you didn't turn in your
enrollment plan”, or “here's your conference schedule.” So that was a strange
dynamic. Having to navigate the rules around privacy and confidentiality and things
like that while still being very close friends with a number of people in the program,
and having the primary thing that people knew about me be that I was the program
administrator, rather than the fact that I was a fellow GI. So that was strange.
It’s been a blessing in so many ways to be able to remain a part of the college. And of
course, you know, a lot of people say, “Well, if I could just stay here, take another
semester, another preceptorial, wouldn’t that be great?” I say that as well. But a lot of
my education since joining the staff has been out of the classroom, learning as one
does through the experience of the mundane day-to-day of working a job. There are
things we can do better as an institution, and there are parts of the sausage-making
process I’d have been happy not to learn, but at the end of the day this “job” has a lot
going for it that others don’t. The college is first and foremost a community of
learning dedicated to a particular vision of liberal education, and that influences the
culture of the “office.” Employees are not—well, I should say not only—vehicles for
productivity and a means to someone else’s end. The humanity of the program
extends into the workplace.
19
�CQ: I can definitely relate to wanting to stay at St. John’s and the GI. I’ve felt
incredibly lucky to take preceptorials as an alumnus.
BW: Yes, there’s a dedicated group of returners that I’m happy to see every semester.
CQ: I’m curious if since the pandemic and the transition to online learning, you’ve
seen more alumni returning to take courses?
BW: Well, in the middle of the spring semester of 2020, of course, we had to go
online. And I mean, it was an unbelievable moment. Now we're so inundated with
COVID news that it barely makes a dent on the mind. But then we knew nothing.
We had no idea what was going on, how long it was going to last; this is even before
masking was a thing. Everything was just shutting down and cases were popping up.
The College had exactly zero infrastructure for doing anything online, right? There'd
never before been an online class in the history of the College and we had about a
week to get the GI classes up. They extended the undergrad’s spring break by an
extra week to give them more time to set things up. But we had basically a week in
the GI and a lot of the heavy lifting was from our great IT folks. To the extent I
could, I threw myself into the process and it was a “we'll figure this out” attitude all
around. I remember being on the phone with tutors evenings and weekends. I
offered to help serve as a guide to walk them through how to set up Zoom and how
to use it. We had questions about using headphones, and what is muting? I joke that
everyone who graduated that year earned a minor in educational technology, with
honorary degrees for the tutors.
And we did it. I think there were a lot of fears about it, obviously. Partly because
other colleges have had online options for a long time and we hadn't, and it was an
intentional decision not to have it. So there were a lot of fears going into it. And I
think the immediate reaction by just about everybody was, “Oh, OK. It's not sitting
around a table being co-present with others, but it's not this terrible thing that we
thought it was going to be. It actually kind of works. It's actually pretty good.” Your
question was about alumni and folks coming back. I think a lot of people realized that
this was an opportunity. We had people who had moved away because they got a job
or got married or had to leave in the middle of the program. But now, they can do it
from wherever they are in the world, they could finish that last semester in order to
graduate, or they could take a precept. I mean, they're not going to move to
Annapolis or Santa Fe for a semester to take a single class. So there were a lot of
people who really came out of the woodwork and were excited about the opportunity
that it presented. And it's funny the way that a crisis like that can reveal opportunities.
But I think it's often the case that that they do. And there are people who attended,
who otherwise would have never attended, people who graduated, who otherwise
would never graduate. And I think that's a really positive outcome.
CQ: I can say, from my own experience as alumni taking a preceptorial during that
time that transition, it was remarkably easy. Of course, the folks taking three classes
20
�probably had a little more of a transition, but at least for me, given the situation, it
seemed remarkably smooth.
BW: You were taking a class that spring, right?
CQ: Yeah, I was doing Ms. Kraus’s precept on T.S. Eliot.
BW: Four Quartets, right? It's funny, I was doing my last segment that that spring. So,
I'd just done eight weeks of in-person classes before spring break. And then both
getting the classes up and running and then having to go through that experience
myself of adjusting to the online mode of doing things as a student as well, which was
completely different from the administrative side of things. I never really had a
chance to reflect on what I was doing during that first week. It was just, you got to
get this up and running. We’ve got to do it. So it was a week of very intensive work.
And then I finally went to the classes thinking, OK, now I have to actually think
about this and how it changes the experience for me and what's going to be different
about it? It was helpful seeing both sides of that.
CQ: Yeah, that's a really interesting perspective. And I'd forgotten that you were, you
know, that you were finishing up then. Yeah. You got to see both the doing of it and
seeing how it works from the student end. I know for myself, it was nice having that
time on Thursday evenings away from current events and the uncertainty of the
times. It gave me something else to concentrate on, you know. And at the same time,
though Four Quartets felt eerily appropriate. It has the line, “This is the way the world
ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.”
BW: So that’s where that’s from?
CQ: Yes. It was a comfort to discuss the poem with a group of like-minded people
when everything else was unpredictable, even though at times it seemed to be about
the current time.
BW: Well, we always say, the texts are timeless and timely, right?
CQ: Exactly, it was strange and good at the same time. I'm also wondering what’s
been your experience with helping to develop the fully online, low resiliency track at
the GI?
BW: Like I was saying before, the crisis sort of thrust the online aspect on us out of
necessity, but then I think it became an opportunity for us. I really don't think we
would have an online low-residency program today without it. We might have had
one in three or four years. There were other pressures and discussions about doing
that. But we wouldn't have it today had it not been for the pandemic. And like I said,
just the people that we were able to engage with, who were able to have this
experience with the college, making lasting friendships across great distances and
divides. It's been great to see those kinds of results come out of it.
And I guess it's also been kind of doubly strange in a way, in that I'm also remote
most of the time. I'm in Annapolis every other week, but most of the time I'm home
21
�here in Virginia and I'm working with people who are in Annapolis, as well as doing a
lot more work with our Santa Fe campus because we now share the preceptorial in
the online segment. So, Annapolis-based online students are meeting the Santa Febased online ones. Students are taking classes with Santa Fe tutors and vice versa. So
there's a lot more college-wide community building that I think transcends some of
the one campus loyalty kinds of things. So that's very nice. But yeah, being remote
and serving remote students, I experience some of the same challenges that they do
have, and ask some of the same questions, and also see a lot of the same benefits in
working remotely that they see. They’re continuing to do their full lives without
having to uproot things to do the program.
Artwork by Bucca
CQ: I think, the growing interaction between the two campuses, feels like a great
opportunity. I realize I don't really know any of the Santa Fe tutors or administrators.
BW: Right.
CQ: I know Mr. Sterling from when he gave a lecture in Annapolis a few summers
ago. And I appreciated getting to know him better when Santa Fe did lectures online
last spring and summer.
BW: Yeah, you're right. We ended up canceling several of our lectures and Santa Fe
pushed ahead and really quickly transitioned to have a lot of their lectures online. And
22
�I sat in on a couple of those online reading groups they developed, like the all- college
seminar.
CQ: Right, and I think even this past summer Santa Fe had much of their lecture
series online. So that was nice to be able to watch that from Annapolis. Do you see,
you know, any challenges ahead for the College in general or the GI in particular?
BW: Well, by the time this comes out, we'll have welcomed a new President. Not to
say that’s a challenge, but a new President means new leadership. A new direction,
new tenor to things. There are a lot of open questions right now at the College in
general and the GI in particular. As much as I just talked about the benefits of having
this online program, there are a lot of a lot of questions we still have to work out.
And I think especially thinking about how the mix of online and in-person affects the
culture of the GI as a whole, I think is still very much a live question. I’ve been
listening to this podcast that we just produced with David MacDonald, a tutor in
Santa Fe, interviewing Zina Hintz here in Annapolis where they talk about
technology. They discuss the phenomenon of the existence or accessibility of some
new technology making the morality or validity of doing a thing somehow more
acceptable. The example they discuss involves reproductive technology, but in our
case it’s, “well this technology has been thrust upon us out of necessity, so now using
it for other things doesn’t seem so far-fetched.” The idea of an online GI program
even just a year and a half ago was outside the Overton window.
All this is to say, I wonder is there a risk to the life of the campus community of the
GI because of the accessibility of the online programs? Are there people who would
have and could have attended in-person, but choose online instead? Even if it’s, say,
only a 45-minute commute to campus, they think, going online, I could spend more
time with my family, or save on time and money, or keep normal hours at work, etc.
They weigh the tradeoffs and say, as much as I would like to do the in-person, I’m
going to be online, even though I reasonably could be in person and would have been
if the online option didn’t. I wonder to what extent that that will happen. The other
side of that question is how many students would never have been able to come to
the GI if not for this new option? How should the administration be thinking about
the answers to these questions? We really have to wait until the COVID-based
restrictions are done to see what people are actually going to do in a normal set of
circumstances, though.
I’ll say also that there are a lot of nonacademic—by which I don’t mean not
intellectual, but simply not connected to a college—organic, nonprofit learning
communities popping up all over the place that I think are attractive to some people.
People who are looking for an intellectual life, looking for stimulating conversation,
looking to seek truth. They want to be in the world of ideas. These learning
communities are less expensive, they’re more flexible. They’ll create classes and
groups that run the amount of time that’s appropriate for the content; they don’t
have this weird constraint of, “learning must take place in 16 weeks in the academic
calendar,” right? As though somehow that’s the optimal learning arrangement, which
23
�is a little constraining on our part. And it's also, I think, really appealing to people
who don't want or need a degree. That's not their primary motivation. And I think
that's true for a lot of Johnnies, too. For a lot of GIs who come through, the degree
is nice, but that's not why they did it. If they didn’t get it, they'd be equally happy,
right? So I wonder what competition from these other groups is going to look like.
They're not direct competitors in the sense of being other graduate programs in the
liberal arts, but I think they are compelling opportunities that have some good things
going for them. And so I'm curious to see how that plays out and how we might
respond to those potential challenges.
CQ: Definitely. You talked a little bit earlier about, the opportunity that going online
has given the GI. Are there other opportunities that you see?
BW: I definitely see opportunities in the sense that the GI program in particular, I
think, can be a benefit to a lot of people who are thinking about and reacting to
everything that’s happening in the world. You know, like I said before, coming out of
a crisis often helps clarify priorities. People are talking about the relationship of
economic life to the rest of life, they’re concerned about the nature of our so-called
politics, they’re grappling with death and loss. St. John’s, of course, can be one
helpful way of giving shape to and thinking through these questions. And I think
people who have said to themselves, “Oh, I want to do St John's eventually, it would
be great to do that eventually.” Well, they might see that “eventually” is now and that
they now have the opportunity to do it. I'm glad that we have more ways than ever
now for people to engage with us and to join our community.
One of those other things, not directly related to the GI, is a new College podcast,
which I edit and produce. We released our first two episodes in October. So by the
time this is published, there will be three or four episodes of this podcast. It’s called
“Books and a Balance: A Podcast on Liberal Education.” It’s hosted by two faculty
members: Brendan Boyle here in Annapolis and David McDonald out in Santa Fe,
who was previously the associate dean for graduate programs out there. So, it's the
two of them having conversations with people who have interesting things to say on
the topic of liberal education. Our first two episodes that are out now are with tutors
Zena Hitz and Dan Harrell. One with Columbia professor Roosevelt Montás on his
new book Rescuing Socrates is up next. It's an independent intellectual project, engaging
with the contemporary discourse around liberal education, very broadly construed.
Some of the guests that we have coming up are outside of the College, who have
ideas very different from ours about what a successful liberal education would look,
so I think it will be interesting to a lot of people.
It’s an opportunity that I'm really excited for in a couple ways. One is, we are going to
have some folks from the Graduate Institute, graduates and other people who've
gone on to do other things, who will be guests on the show. And I think it's also a
good opportunity for even more people to see the kind of conversations that happen
at St. John's. Because if you listen to them, they're just archetypes of good
conversation. And so I'm excited that that's going to be able to reach an even wider
24
�audience. You know, it's not meant to be a marketing tool, in the sort of cheap
transactional way that we often think of advertising or marketing. It's a substantial
intellectual project that I think is a totally new outlet for us. And I think there are
potential Johnnies out there who, in listening to this podcast, may well have their first
interaction with the College. I expect very soon a number of new folks coming to the
GI from this project.
CQ: Is there a book or an author not on the program that you’d include if you could?
BW: Everyone loves asking this! You know, everyone's got their pet thing of note,
so-and-so needs to be on the on the program. The short answer is, no, I don't have a
book. And the reason is not because there are so many different books that could be
included or excluded, but because I think it's a really hard question to actually answer
in any serious way; it demands such a massive context to really answer that question.
To do so, you would, I think, need a sense of the program as a whole from the
perspective of a teacher. You’d have to say, “I have a sense of the effect of different
readings and the combination of readings on the individual lives of students.” And
with that context, then saying, “I think taking this one book out and substituting
another would be beneficial.” And I don't have that context, right? I don't have the
depth and experience to think about it that way, but I think that’s how you have to
consider it, if you're going to answer that question in a serious way. A lot of times
that question really means is that there’s a particular book that you really like and you
really want to see it on the program. And that's one thing. But the real difficulty of
weighing it is knowing the pedagogical or academic context. And then also asking the
very difficult question of, well, if you're going to add that what are you going to take
away to make space for it? That's the harder question.
CQ: That’s the question I’ve always heard when people propose adding a book: what
are you going to take away?
BW: Really what I think this comes down to a lot of times, and it’s true for me in the
times I’ve said, “why isn’t X on the list?”, is that I’m thinking here's this book that is
very good or maybe even a great book that I want to read with other people who take
reading and discussing books seriously. You want it in the program so you can have
that discussion with other people right now. I invite anyone who has that feeling
about a book to come back and host a study group anytime! But of course the
program can’t contain and isn’t meant to contain everything; it’s the beginning,
hopefully, of a deeper, richer, more meaningful life.
25
�“Equality” and the Tyranny of the Majority
Drew Maglio
I am a democrat because I believe in the Fall of Man. I think most people are democrats
for the opposite reason. A great deal of democratic enthusiasm descends from the ideas of
people like Rousseau, who believed in democracy because they thought mankind so wise and
good that everyone deserved a share in the government. The danger of defending democracy
on those grounds is that they’re not true. And whenever their weakness is exposed, the
people who prefer tyranny make capital out of the exposure… The real reason for
democracy is just the reverse. Mankind is so fallen that no man can be trusted with
unchecked power over his fellows. —C.S. Lewis
What Is Human Nature?: The Anglo-American Perspective
There are two dichotomous views articulated by proponents of democratic
government which the aforementioned passage from C.S Lewis’s essay, “Why I Am a
Democrat,” succinctly conveys. These two distinct camps have been broken down
into many classifications by various authors as early vs. late-Enlightenment or AngloAmerican vs. French/Continental. The former classification, advocates for
democratic government as a makeshift, necessary evil, or least bad option. It holds
and articulates that man is so fallen that no one man--or group of men (i.e.
majority)—should possess such absolute power so as to legislate how others are to
live their lives. The conservative camp, firmly grounded in the way things actually are,
seeks to decentralize power (and production) via many checks and balances because
absolute power corrupts absolutely, as Lord Acton presciently warned. Recognizing
men “are not angels,” institutions and government must be varied and decentralized,
in a manner where one entity is positioned against another with an opposing
institutional interest, in order prevent any one entity from assuming too much power.
J.R.R. Tolkien perfectly encapsulated the “constrained” view (to borrow
contemporary economist, Thomas Sowell’s terminology) of government that is based
on a negative view of human nature that hearkens back to Plato and Aristotle, when
he wrote in a letter to a friend: “the most improper job of any man, even saints (who
at any rate were at least unwilling to take it on), is bossing other men. Not one in a
million is fit for it, and least of all those who seek the opportunity.”
The French View
In stark contrast to the early-Enlightenment, Anglo-American view of human
nature which is firmly grounded in Christianity and owes a great debt to the Medieval
Scholastics like St. Thomas Aquinas, is the Continental vision of democratic
government that manifested itself most notably during the French Revolution.
Without going too far afield, the defining characteristic of this strand of liberalism
(spearheaded by Rousseau), is the rejection of the idea that man is fallen by nature
that had long been held in the West.
26
�Rousseau famously declared that “man though born free, is
everywhere in chains”—he may as well have said “man is born good and is
everywhere corrupted.” In his Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, Rousseau
wrote with impunity,
Allowing that nature intended we should always enjoy good health, I dare almost affirm
that a state of reflection is a state against nature, and that the man who meditates is a
depraved animal. We need only call to mind the good constitution of savages, of those at
least of whom we have not destroyed by our strong liquors; we need only reflect, that they are
strangers to almost every disease . . . to be in a manner convinced that the history of human
diseases might be easily composed by pursuing that of civil societies. [1]
For Rousseau, it is in society that the “noble savage”—Rousseau’s archetypal man,
becomes irredeemably corrupted as his vices are allowed to fester while his virtue
grows weary and lethargic:
"In proportion as he (man) becomes sociable and a slave to others, he becomes weak,
fearful, mean-spirited, and his soft and effeminate way of living at once completes the
enervation of his strength and his courage." [2] In this way, Rousseau may be seen as
the antithesis of Hobbes who held that life in the state of nature—which for Hobbes
was analogous to a constant state of war—is “nasty, brutish, and short.” Locke
contrarily, occupied a sort of mean between the “totally-depraved” Calvinistic view of
human nature that Hobbes held and the naturally benevolent view of human nature
that Rousseau championed.
The Genius of Tocqueville
Hailing from France, Alexis de Tocqueville was simultaneously one
of most ardent proponents and chiding critics of American liberalism as it
was practiced during the 19th century. In his analysis, Tocqueville notes that
Antebellum America was the most fundamentally egalitarian society that he
had ever witnessed, in which both squalid poverty as well as extravagant
wealth were rarities. Tocqueville noted that there seemed to be no great
abundance of either uneducated or illiterate individuals, but on the other
hand, there were few highly intelligent and exceptional individuals. As
Tocqueville conveyed, the overarching motif of Antebellum America was a
pragmatic and practical—if not restless and busy—virtue. Unlike the
founding era that was made possible by the interventions of the learned,
noble, aristocratic (in the proper sense of the term, i.e. in merit not merely
land holdings), the burgeoning America that Tocqueville visited was fast at
work becoming a blue-collar and middle-class republic, in which leisure and
philosophical contemplation took a back seat to industry and action.
Tocqueville feared however—in an increasingly egalitarian and
average society—that a new tyranny was looming on the horizon: namely the
tyranny of the majority, which was manifested not through despotism and
27
�autocracy, but rather by way of the public pressure of opinion and homogeneity: “In
our day, the most absolute sovereigns in Europe cannot prevent certain thoughts
hostile to their authority from circulating . . . The same is not true of America, as long
as the majority has not made up its mind, speech is allowed; as soon as it has
pronounced its irrevocable decision, speech is silenced.”[3]
In this way, a new tyranny of mind exercised by the majority over minorities
began to manifest itself in Tocqueville’s age. Tocqueville argued that this new “groupthink” (as moderns tend to call it),“leaves the body alone and goes straight to the
spirit.”[4] When surveying the contemporary political order (or disorder),
Tocqueville’s pertinent observations have unfortunately and undoubtedly intensified
in magnitude and frequency.
Democracy Changes Neither Human Nature Nor the Nature of Political
Power
Despite being a Frenchman, Tocqueville breaks from Rousseau and instead
embraced Locke’s view of human nature, which holds that man has both the
propensity for virtue and vice: which he shall become is the result of deliberation and
habit. Locke held that the state of nature is not a state of license wherein each is
entitled to everything as Hobbes held, but rather that natural law does not cease to
reign supreme in the hearts and minds of men. Because of the gross difficulty in each
individual protecting his property by enforcing the natural law himself, individuals
(who naturally gravitate towards civil society anyway) contract together for the sake
of the enforcement of contracts, in addition to establishing an impartial body by
which to adjudicate disputes related to trespasses made by one party against
another.[5] All of this must be said, in order to convey that for Locke (and
Tocqueville), civil society neither drastically reforms (as in Hobbes) nor corrupts (as
in Rousseau) the human being: instead, it may do either according to the arrangement
of its structures and institutions which either accord with, or conflict with, the natural
law. In other words, man is still man no matter the political arrangement, generally
speaking.
In this way, Tocqueville rejects both the notion that man is either benevolent
by nature (and thus it follows that society corrupts him) or that man is so totally
depraved that a Leviathan is preferable to a constant state of war that follows from
unimpinged liberty:
Omnipotence seems self-evidently a bad and dangerous thing. Its exercise appears to be beyond
man’s powers, whoever he might be, and I see that only God can be omnipotent without
danger because his wisdom and justice are always equal to his power. There is, therefore, no
earthly authority so worthy of respect or vested with so sacred a right that I would wish to
allow it unlimited action . . . When . . . I see the right and capacity to enact everything given
to any authority . . . I say: the seed of tyranny lies there and I seek to live under different
laws.[6]
28
�Tocqueville put it even more chidingly later in his work, “I believe that in all
governments of whatever sort meanness will attach itself to force and flattery to
power. I know of only one method to of preventing men from being debased and
that is to grant to no one who has omnipotence (i.e. the majority as in the US) the
sovereign power to demean them.”[7]
The Lust For Equality: Mill, Marx, and other “Revolutionaries”
The underlying source of the new tyranny Tocqueville conveyed is
born of the democratic impulse and is the special scourge of democracy, i.e. a
disdain of any amount of inequality. Tocqueville believed this state would create
a condition of lethargy in relation to liberty, as equality became the most
cherished ideal of democratic society (rather than liberty). As Rousseau—and
later Mill, Hegel, and Marx became the dominant political ideologues for
Continental Europe, equality supplanted liberty as the most vital and
cherished ideal for civilization. Mill, for instance, went as far to argue that
“the most happiness for the greatest number of people” should be the end of
government. In this utilitarian view, the safeguarding of individual rights
takes a backseat to “equality” and “progress.”
Marx famously declared that “all history is class conflict,” and
therefore goaded the proletariat class of workers to revolution in order to
achieve greater equality. Marx adopted from Hegel a belief in historicity, or
the notion that social values, standards, and mores are historically contingent
and therefore not absolute and objective but, instead, malleable in order to
suit the needs of any given epoch:
The human essence is no abstraction inherent in each single individual. In its reality it is
the ensemble of the social relations . . . To abstract from the historical process and to fix the
religious sentiment as something by itself and to presuppose an abstract—isolated—
human individual . . . the “religious sentiment” is itself a social product . . . All social life
is essentially practical . . . The highest point reached by contemplative materialism, that is
materialism which does not comprehend seriousness as practical activity, is the
contemplation of single individuals and civil society. The standpoint of the old materialism
is civil society; the standpoint of the new is human society, or social humanity. The
philosophers have only interpreted the world . . . the point is to change it.[8]
The Desire For Equality Will Undermine Liberty
Tocqueville both anticipated and feared the way in which in those
who wished to undermine American democracy could appeal to man’s
insatiable lust for equality in all outcomes, despite the fact that each
individual possesses different aptitudes and abilities which allow or inhibit
them from making the best of their circumstances:
29
�The passion for equality sinks deeply into every corner of the human heart, expands, and
fills it entirely. It is no use telling such men, as they blindly obey such an exclusive passion,
that they are damaging their dearest interests; they are deaf. Do not bother to show them
that their freedom is slipping through their fingers while their gaze is elsewhere; they are
blind, or rather they can only see one advantage worth pursuing in the whole world . . . I
think that democratic societies have a natural taste for freedom . . . but they have a
burning, insatiable, constant, and invincible passion for equality; they want equality in
freedom and, if they cannot have it, they want it in slavery. They will endure poverty,
subjection, barbarism but they will not endure aristocracy.[9]
Tocqueville saw a great danger on the horizon for American democracy, whereby a
general distaste of learning and extreme wealth could and would create conditions of
mediocrity in mind and spirit, i.e. an aggregation of individuals becoming a
homogeneity and thereby silencing dissent through social pressure once the majority
“had made its mind up.” Once equality (and security for that matter) supplants liberty
as the foundation of democracy, it becomes obtrusive and destructive to both
minorities and the individual who have but little recourse or redress:
My main complaint against a democratic government as organized in the United States is
not its weakness . . . but rather its irresistible strength . . . When a man or party suffers
from an injustice in the United States, to whom can he turn? To public opinion? That is
what forms the majority. To the legislative body? That represents the majority and obeys it
blindly. To the executive power? That is appointed by the majority and serves as its passive
instrument. To the public police force? They are nothing but the majority under arms. To
the jury? That is the majority invested with the right to pronounce judgments . . . however
unfair or unreasonable the measure which damages you, you must submit.[10]
Tocqueville feared a sovereign majority—with a blithe regard for liberty and an
insatiable appetite for equality in all matter of small things—could create conditions
which would destroy the human essence, that revolutionaries such as Marx denied
altogether, while simultaneously appealing to the yearning for equality:
It (the tyranny of the majority manifested as a guardian rather than as a ruler) gradually
blots out their mind and enfeebles their spirit . . . It will be useless to call upon those very
citizens who have become so dependent upon central government, to choose from time to time
the representative of this government; this . . . brief exercise . . . of their free choice will not
prevent the gradual loss of the faculty of autonomous thought, feeling, and action so that
they will slowly fall behind the level of humanity.[11]
Tocqueville’s Democracy in America serves as a reminder that democracy is just
as, if not more, prone to abuse than other systems of civil government. In order to
flourish, democracy must be firmly grounded in principle in order to construct
institutions that align with the objective and absolute reality of this world. In order to
remain stable, power must be decentralized and therefore liberty and equality under
30
�the law must be valued over abstract and ambiguous ideals such as “equality”
or “progress,” which are but generalities that amount to little more than mere
slogans. As Tocqueville conveyed throughout his seminal work, liberty entails
duty and obligation and requires a great deal of proper habituation, which
cultivates the wisdom and virtue necessary for self-governance—even of the
practical sort. All of these prerequisites must be met so that democracy does
not devolve into tyrannical mob rule. In our age it seems that few of us have
heeded Tocqueville’s admonition about the dangerous democratic impulse
that is devoid of reality in so far as it fails to recognize the fallen nature of
man and in particular the propensity for those in power to abuse it, which is
most often made manifest in democratic society by the ceaseless, fruitless,
and senseless pursuit of absolute equality which anesthetizes the exceptional
individual in order to bolster the tyrannical majority.
[1] Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Greg Boroson, Discourse On the Origin of Inequality
(Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, 2004), 7.
[2] Ibid, 8.
[3] Alexis De' Tocqueville, Democracy In America, trans. Gerald E. Bevan (London,
England: Penguin Books, 2003), 297.
[4] Ibid, 298.
[5] Property for Locke was—among other things—both metaphysical as in labor and
the activity of the mind, in addition to physical as in the case of cultivated land. For
Locke, the preservation and protection of private property was the impetus for the
establishment of civil government.
[6] Tocqueville, 294.
[7] Ibid, 302-303.
[8] Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and C. J. Arthur, The German Ideology (London:
Lawrence and Wishart, 1974), 122-123.
[9] Tocqueville, 586-587.
[10] Ibid, 294-295.
[11] Ibid, 808.
31
�The White Man Burdened
Dimple Kaul
While researching British Education Policy and its impact on indigenous knowledge systems, I was
reminded of Rudyard Kipling’s exhortation of The White Man’s Burden! This poem is a
response from a proud member of the community of indigenous people across the world. It is a
reminiscence of pain and an attempt towards collective awareness, acknowledgement, and healing for
harmony. It is also a sensitive caution against subconscious/unconscious supremacy that still appears
to linger; it is not directed against any race or people. As a Hindu, harmony and mutual respect are
intrinsic to my being. Sarve Bhavantu Sukhinah!
The White Man burdened —
Set forth the worst of his breed —
blinded sons who were exiled
To serve his crown’s greed;
Plundering, causing heavy distress
On folks he labeled wild —
ill-treated the natives as sullen,
calling them Half devil and half child.
The White Man burdened —
Treating himself to a free ride,
Unleashed vile, violent terror
And reveled in that pride;
Not through stealth but loot simple,
An hundred times made plain.
He sought to make profit,
From our labour and pain.
The White Man burdened —
Forcing us to fight his wars of peace —
Causing full mouths of Famine
And never let sickness cease;
And when his goal was met
His promises came to naught,
He called us uncivilized, heathen
Treated worse than cattle bought.
The White Man burdened —
Usurping the rule of kings,
Through deceit and acting as keeper —
Vaingloriously he sings.
The ports he forced and enter,
The roads he lustily tread,
And made his entire living,
Off our sweat- alive and dead!
The White Man burdened —
And reaped untold rewards:
32
�The lies and fallacies he’d better,
Spreading hate for those he charred —
The cry of hosts, the fake perfumer
Would hide in plain sight —
He sold our people into bondage,
While calling himself just and right
The White Man burdened —
He kept stooping to conquer
And called it an act of civilization
To cloak his wickedness;
Impoverishing us, he did prosper,
By hook or crook,
Through acts quiet and vocal
Denigrated our Gods, reduced us.
The White Man burdened —
Having benefited in myriad ways —
The self- proffered laurel,
The lavish self-praise.
Comes now, to teach us humanity
After all the thankless years,
Cold-hearted ravager of human civilization,
Sits in judgment of us, he dares!
Artwork by Jesse Clagett
33
�Holy Sonnet XIV
Vita Kudryavtseva
Upon reading this poem, I was immediately struck by the wave of angst and tsunami
of violent rage felt in the wake of it. What kind of “holy” sonnet is that? Where is the
Poet’s reverence for Higher Being? Where is humility and trust in God’s wisdom?
Donne opens up with “Batter my heart” - a command or directive, but hardly an
appeal. He marches on complaining that God’s gentle ways, “knock, breathe, shine”
are not effective in helping him, Donne, to “rise and stand” and God’s viceroy
“proves weak and untrue”. Donne’s request to God to “bend Your force” can be
taken as outright blasphemous - merciful Christian God is no help, he calls upon
Zeus the Destroyer, who can “break, blow, burn”. And after giving the account of
God’s multiple shortcomings, Donne sighs - “Yet dearly I love you”. Why is Donne
angry and who is he angry with, are the questions that I seek to answer in this essay.
A couple of immediate observations spring on me - the prevalence of “me”s in the
poem, 8 mentions total, and distinctness of “I” from “me”, as in “imprison me, for
I...never shall be free”. In fact, the famous paradoxes of the last 3 lines - freedom
through imprisonment, chastity through rape - are paradoxes only if “I” and “me” are
conceived of as referring to the same entity. What if, by way of hypothesis, we look at
them as related but separate?
“I” and “me”, being personal pronouns, lead me to take a note of “you”, another
personal pronoun frequently evoked in the poem. While the identity of “I” and “me”
is not yet clear, Donne makes it explicit that “you” refers to “three-person’d God” in
the very first line of the poem. Now that I identified three main characters at play in
the sonnet - “I”, “me”, and “you” - the next step is to examine them individually and
in relation to each other.
“me” in line 12 both rhymes with and is consonant with “enemy” in line 10. The Poet
would like “me” to be o’erthrowen, made new, imprisoned, ravished. “me” is the
troublemaker, the antagonist in the story. Throughout the sonnet, Donne insists on
“me”s distraction or subjugation. Interestingly, the only exception to this narrative
happens in line 7: “Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captiv’d”.
This is also the line in which “me” is stressed twice in a row. Who is it that Reason
has failed to defend “me” from? One potential reading of this line is to go along with
Donne’s poetic logic and to add a couple more “me”s - “Reason, your viceroy in me,
me should defend [from me], but is captiv’d [by me]”. These additions are consistent
with the antagonistic treatment of “me” elsewhere in the sonnet and illuminate the
fact that “me” is not inherently “bad”, rather left to its own devices “me” can
become unruly and dangerous. If the current “me” could be returned to its original
condition, “made new”, “me” will no longer be an “enemy”.
On the other hand, Donne’s description of “you” makes me think of a powerful but
gentle giant, who is slow to act because he is kind and aware of his might. The Poet’s
choice not to capitalize “you”, “three-person’d God”, visually puts “you” on the same
34
�level as “me”, makes it more “human-scale”. “you” is lovable, “you” is unintrusive,
“you” shines. “I” loves “you”. “you”s victory over “me” is also “I”s only hope for
being free, chaste, and loved. “I” pleads with “you” - “Divorce me, untie or break
that knot again, take me to you”. It can appear ambiguous whether “I” is referring to
divorcing “me” from “you” or “me” from “I”. But the presupposed union between
“me” and “you” does not make sense in light of the subsequent request to “take me
to you” and multiple appeals for “you”s distraction earlier. Rather, it is the bond
between “me” and “I” that “I” is asking to be severed - “Divorce me [from I]”! And
we are told “you” have done it before and can “break that knot again”. This tells us
that “you” has both the authority, experience, and expertise to straighten “I”s affairs.
But who is that “I” that is making the appeals?
The first thing we learn about “I” is that “I” is down, not doing well and the cause of
“I”s condition is “me”. Donne’s metaphor for “I” as an “usurp’d town” is echoed
throughout the poem. “I” is “betroth’d unto your [“you’s”] enemy”, making “I” a
potential traitor. “I” wants “me” imprisoned, enthralled. “I” is suffering because “I”
loves “you” but feels unsure of “you”s love - he may be, “would be lov’d”. “I” comes
across as weak, powerless, vindictive, and angry. If the reader can suppress combat
connotations evoked by the imagery of “usurp’d town”, the relationship between
“me”, “you”, and “I” takes the character of a tragic romance story told from “I”s
perspective. “I” loves “you” but is “betroth’d” to “me”. “you” is ambivalent or
perhaps more reserved in his feelings for “you” and “me”. “me”, in the eyes of “I”,
has taken “I” unjustly, by force, but without “you’s” intervention “me” is certain to
prevail.
While I found it helpful to designate “I”, “me”, and “you” as a kind of “stick figures”
for the purposes of elucidating some of the “plot” lines in the sonnet, it is now time
to attempt an interpretation of their meaning. Donne’s use of “three-person’d God”
as an antecedent for “you”, as well as appeals to “you’s” powers throughout the
poem, make it easy to see “you” as divine nature. In contrast, “me” can be thought of
as a human nature - fallible, driven to horrid extremes when not governed by Reason.
But even Reason by itself cannot be relied upon to control these animalistic impulses
and urges. The question of who “I” is both the most obvious and the most difficult.
On one hand, “I” is the narrator, the Poet, John Donne. But with this understanding,
“I”s relationship to “you” and “me”, “divine” and “human”, remains obscure.
35
�Artwork by Jesse Clagett
Donne may have planted a hint to answering this question in the opening line “three-person’d” is clearly a deliberate choice of descriptor for the Supreme Being
that harks back to the Holy Trinity. Drawing attention to God’s multiplicity and
oneness in the very beginning of the poem, Donne sets the stage for the multiplicity
and oneness of “I”, “me” and “you”. The intentional parallelism between the God’s
structure of Being and the Poet’s, “I”s, structure is further strengthened if we recall
Genesis 1:27: "So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He
created him". God’s creation resembles God by design. However, in the context of
the sonnet this correspondence can only be taken so far - it is hard to envision that
“I”, “me”, and “you” are meant to directly correspond to the “Father”, the “Son”,
and the “Holy Spirit”. At a very minimum, the sonnet does not seem to supply
enough evidence for such a direct mapping to be established unambiguously. Thus,
while the multiplicity may be present in Donne’s concepts for both “I” and God, the
relationship between “I” and “me” and “you” requires further clarification.
Because of the prominence of “usurp’d town” metaphor taking over the entire
second quatrain, I was drawn to conceive of “I” as a fortress, a container, a shell
which under ideal circumstances can contain both “me” and “you”, “human” and
“divine”. In the Poet’s case, “me” has overgrown, overflown, subdued Reason, and
filled up "I"s entire interior. Like a cancerous growth, “me” needs to be lacerated to
make space for “divine” to be admitted back into Donne’s being.
36
�An alternative interpretation of “I” occurred to me when I recognized “I” as a
common symbol for a mathematical function, called “Indicator function”. This
function can only have values of 1 or 0, “true” or “false”. It is 1 if a variable is a part
of a given set, and 0 if it is not.
If I substitute “you” for “x” and “me” for A in the above formulation, then an
indicator function equals one if “you” belongs with “me” and zero otherwise. This
conception of “I” better aligns with the extremeness and volatility of feelings
expressed in the sonnet. “I” only has value when there is “divine” present in it,
otherwise it is a mere “me”, a worthless animal. This would explain why the Poet
cannot be loved, as in “valued”, in his current condition and “would be lov’d fain”
only when “you”, “divine” returns to “me”. Donne is facing a stark, binary choice admit “you” to “me” and “raise and stand” as One or continue on as “me”, a Zero.
Did any of these elucidations get me closer to understanding why Donne is angry and
who he is angry with? I think so. Both a “container” and an “indicator function”
concepts of “I” share an important feature - the potentiality for having Divine as a
part of “I”, an internal part. The Poet is making demands of and airing frustrations
not to an external deity but to the Divine within. The angst, the rage, the brutality
Donne summons are both self-directed and self-inflicted. The remedy he seeks for
his condition is not a violent rape but a self-flagellation.
37
�About a Letter
Louis Petrich
Dyed colors eye my star-took tan goodbye,
and harking freckles, islets hitching waist,
my home’s horizon, wane in vesting night.
I hail them back, hot stabs: so bleeds away
a summering care for hale and hearty having.
One letter needs to convalesce, my ache.
Then alphabetic whole, outfielding fate
that kicked me forth her goal, like lightening grounded,
shall sate farmed fires ‘tween legs that compass sky
and sweat such poses, friction-bent, of limbs,
that unquiet hips may cool on capering tongues
that summon sounded midriff world of ends.
And were those aches but featly trials of me
to loose from earth and seas their titled stores
lone Adam’s lips, spontaneous, once sprung?
Go live bedrocked in paradise of questions;
tell good and evil: hang yourselves. You’ll see.
That always ache—it’s butting never never.
With waves unbound around the earth forever,
no breaking reef, sunk shores so answered, be.
38
�Artwork by Bucca
39
�Prize-winning Tutorial Essay: Meno
Andrew Laurence Graney
“Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue is something teachable?” Meno
asks at the outset of Plato’s Meno. He continues, “Or is it not teachable, but
something that comes from practice? Or is it something neither from practice nor
learning, but something that comes to human beings by nature, or some other way”
(70A)? Quickly, however, Socrates turns the dialogue away from Meno’s original
question, whether or not virtue is something teachable, and towards the very
definition of what virtue is. Socrates claims he does not know what virtue is, and can
therefore not say, on any solid ground, whether or not virtue is teachable. He states:
I share the poverty of my fellow citizens in this matter and blame myself for not knowing
about virtue at all. And how could I know what sort of thing something is, if I do no not
know what it is? Or does it seem possible to you that someone who has no cognizance of
Meno at all, who he is, could know whether he is handsome or rich or well-born, or the
opposite of these? Does it seem possible to you? (71B)
Therefore, as soon as the conversation has begun, it has taken a turn. It is no
longer, for the time being, about whether or not virtue is teachable, but what the
thing itself is. Still, Socrates’s answer, saying that he does not know what virtue is and
so cannot say whether or not it is teachable, implies that he does at least think that
some things are teachable, that there is such a thing as the teachable thing, and he
simply does not yet know whether virtue is one of those teachable things.
Throughout the dialogue, neither of the interlocutors explicitly claim that nothing at
all is teachable. In 87C, for example, Socrates and Meno seem to agree that
knowledge, at least, if nothing else, is teachable. In this paper, I want to question
whether or not anything it is at all, truly teachable. I am inclined to say yes. But, as
Meno learns in his conversation with Socrates, what I am inclined towards is not
necessarily the truth, for at the beginning of their dialogue, Meno is sure he knows
what virtue is, and yet as the dialogue continues he becomes more and more
perplexed. Therefore, I ask again, is anything teachable?
Another way to ask this question might be: what is the relationship between
teaching and learning? Surely, people do learn things. I could not be writing this
paper had I not learned a multitude of things beforehand. I had to learn my letters,
had to learn how to write, how to form cohesive thoughts, among other skills. How
did I learn these skills? One might say that the obvious answer is that I had teachers
in these subjects. In elementary school, teachers taught me how to read and write. As
I got older, other teachers taught me how to write papers, ask questions, form my
thoughts on the page in a manner that might be compelling to others. This does seem
to be the case. I had those teachers. I learned those skills. But, a problem arises.
When I was a child I had a violin teacher, and yet I never became a skilled violinist.
My teacher had other students that did become quite skilled. From this example I can
only conclude that the fact of having a teacher does not guarantee one’s learning.
Therefore, I return to my question. How does one learn? Is anything teachable?
40
�In their search for what virtue is Meno asks a question that seems to imply
that no one can actually learn anything. Again, from everyday experience, it seems
obvious that people do learn. Still, Meno’s question is difficult a difficult one to
answer. On how Socrates will find what virtue is, Meno asks:
And in what way will you seek, Socrates, for that which you know nothing at all
about what it is? What sort of thing among those things which you do not know are you
proposing to seek for yourself? Or, even if, at best, you should happen upon it, how will you
know it is that which you did not know? (80D)
Socrates responds:
I understand the sort of thing you want to say, Meno. Do you not see how inclined
to strife this argument you are drawing out is, that it is not possible for a human being to
seek either what he knows or what he does not know? For he could not seek for what he
knows, because he knows it and then there’s no need of any seeking for this person; nor could
he seek for what he does not know, because then he does not know what he is seeking. (80E)
This argument, at first glance, might appear foolproof. Socrates has an
answer, however. The soul is immortal, he states, and “Inasmuch as the soul is
immortal and has been born many times and has seen all things both here and in the
house of Hades, there is nothing which it has not learned” (81C). He then supposes
that everything we are supposed to have learned is actually, truly, our souls
recollecting that which they already knew. To illustrate this point, Socrates calls over
one of Meno’s slaveboys. Through a series of questions asked by Socrates, the
slaveboy comes to realize the line lengths that would be needed to double the size of
a given square. Socrates claims that because he asked nothing but questions, this
serves as evidence of the fact that the knowledge of the squares came from within the
boy, from within his immortal soul. One could object that Socrates was asking
leading questions, and that, perhaps, asking these sorts of questions is a way of
teaching. Before starting on my own inquiry, in this paper, on the nature of teaching
and learning, I would have been inclined to agree, and to a certain extent, I still am.
Socrates knew what he was asking. He led the boy step by step, albeit through
questions, through the geometrical proof. The boy could not have come to this
knowledge without Socrates. Nevertheless, as I stated earlier in my example of having
a violin teacher as a child, having a teacher does not guarantee that one learns
something. Beyond Socrates questioning, how does the slaveboy learn the
geometrical proof? That is, what makes him have an “aha” moment, a moment of
realization, a moment, perhaps, of learning?
Socrates’s exchange, if taken at face value that the boy, through questioning,
came to recollect what his soul already knew, does, in a way, clear up Meno’s
paradoxical question of how one can learn anything. That is, one can search for
anything, “learn” anything, if it is simply, (though it may not be simple), a matter of
recollection within his soul. Still, the soul’s immortality does not shed any light on
what makes the ‘aha’ moment happen for a learner.
41
�After this exchange with the slaveboy, Meno and Socrates continue the
dialogue on what virtue is and whether or not it is teachable, and something strange
happens here to Socrates’s argument. Socrates, as I have stated, claims to have not
taught the boy anything, and instead states that “true opinions will exist within him,
which after being aroused by questioning becomes matters of knowledge” (86A).
Again, Socrates’s argument is that the boy is recollecting, not being taught. Still,
Socrates must think some things are teachable. If he thought nothing was teachable,
he need not inquire about what virtue is in order to say whether or not it is teachable.
He simply could have said, “No, it is not teachable. Nothing is.” Strangely enough, in
apparent contradiction to the geometrical proof example with the slaveboy, Socrates
seems to believe that knowledge actually can be taught, and is, among all things, the
only thing that can be taught. He states:
In this way then, about virtue too —since we know neither what it is, nor what sort of thing
it is—let us look hypothetically at it, whether it is teachable or not teachable, speaking in
the following way: If virtue is some sort of thing among those things that have regard to the
soul, would it be teachable or not teachable? First, then, if it’s the kind of thing that is
different from, or like knowledge, is it teachable or not, or, as we were just now saying it, is
it recollectable?—let it make no difference to us about whatever name we use—but is it
teachable? Or is this, at any rate, clear to everyone, that a human being is taught nothing
else than knowledge. (87B-C)
Meno agrees to this, that a human being is taught nothing else than
knowledge, and agrees, when Socrates states, “And if virtue is some kind of
knowledge, it is clear that it could be taught” (87C). The question then becomes for
the interlocutors, is virtue a matter of knowledge?
It might be that Socrates does wobble a little bit here in his argument,
changing from nothing can be taught to knowledge can be taught, but for my
purpose, it would not be productive to quibble with that wobbling. For my question
still holds: How does learning happen? Is anything, strictly speaking, teachable?
For Socrates, if virtue is a matter of knowledge, and can therefore be taught,
there would be teachers of virtue, and one would do well to send his child to a virtue
teacher. In the end, Meno and Socrates agree that there are no teachers of virtue.
Furthermore, they agree that if there are no teachers, there are no learners (96C).
Because they conclude that virtue has no teachers, and is therefore not something
teachable, which, consequently, makes virtue not a form of knowledge, they then
conclude that one who has virtue must get it from “divine dispensation” (100A). I
disagree with Socrates that if there are no teachers there are no learners. One can
learn through observation. One can learn to play basketball by watching professional
basketball players. One can learn to skateboard by doing the same. One can learn to
write poetry by studying the masters. This glaring omission, their leaving out that one
can learn through observation, makes the conclusion of this dialogue, to my mind,
unsatisfying, makes the jump to divine dispensation quite the leap. The more I think
about it, however, the more I think Socrates might be correct.
42
�I still do not agree with him that if there are no teachers there are no learners.
I do, however, think he might be right when he says that learning virtue is due to
divine dispensation. To my mind, his answer as to what is divine dispensation is
actually too limited, for I still cannot understand, if anything is teachable, knowledge,
for example, what makes that ‘aha’ moment possible. Where does it come from? One
might say it comes from intuition, but what is intuition? Could not one say that
intuition might in fact be the soul remembering, and that therefore nothing is
teachable? I was dissatisfied with Socrates’s answer that virtue is bequeathed through
divine dispensation because I thought it obvious that one can learn without teachers,
that one can learn, that is, through observation. But what about this gift of
observation? Where did it come from? Is it all, everything we do and learn, a gift
from God? Could it be that yes, there are teachers; things are teachable, and yes, there
are learners; we do learn things, but it all comes from God, the ‘aha’ moment of
learning, the ability to teach? Many questions arise from this. Does God bestow gifts
equally, but one has to accept the gift? Could this be why some people are virtuous,
others not? What makes one more or less inclined to accept God’s gifts? Why would
God create people who are not inclined to receive his gifts? Does God indeed do
this? But these, perhaps, are questions for another time. For now, though, I conclude
that that ‘aha’ moment that makes learning possible, that might permit me to answer
these further questions, must be a gift from God.
43
�Prize-Winning Preceptorial Paper: Thus Spoke Zarathustra
Anthony Meffe
In a note Nietzsche observes that “One generally mistakes me: I confess it;
also I should be done a great service if someone else were to defend and define me
against these mistakes.” (XIV, 318 f.) Nietzsche here admits to the often obscure and
esoteric nature of his writing, an obscurity that must be revealed by later interpreters
and defenders. Walter Kaufmann in his seminal biography of Nietzsche echoes this
sentiment with his refutation of the “Nietzsche legend,” namely the inheritance of
preconceived notions surrounding who Nietzsche was, and what the purpose of his
project was. The benign influence of Nietzsche’s sister Elizabeth was instrumental in
cementing Nietzsche’s reputation as a nationalistic anti-Semite, as poet, or prophet
rather than philosopher, and had led to a situation where, as Kaufmann puts it, “there
is not even basic agreement about what [Nietzsche] stood for.” While the scholarly
horizons for Nietzsche’s work are perhaps less grim today than in 1950, it is still a
weighty task to come to a firm understanding of a philosopher who deliberately
eschewed systematization, and who described the scholarly approach to knowledge as
“cracking nuts.” (Z, II, 16) In cracking a nut you achieve a completeness, a goal, an
end, then discard the scraps and move to the next nut, triumphant. In contrast,
Nietzsche asks us not to ‘solve’ his thought, but to engage with it in a dynamic
motion of mistaken interpretation, defence and clarification.
The emphasis upon motion is a recurring theme in Nietzsche’s work, and
especially in Thus Spoke Zarathustra where the path to the Overman (Ubermensch) is first
described in direct and linear language but quickly develops into cyclical and nonlinear transformations, dances, and songs, that lead to greater understanding and
creativity, but not to any end or telos. Nietzsche, while desirous of eternity, attempts
to achieve it not in any solution that finds a solution, but rather through the eternal
recurrence of the individual, subjective, creative will in the world, this particular
world, the only one which will ever exist and has ever existed. Creation, the act of
God which demands conformity, is distinguished from individual creation that
engenders freedom and creates new values in a world where God is dead. (Z, Prologue,
9) In the death of the Creator, there is an opening for the creative will to find its way
to becoming the Ubermensch, by perpetually moving. But the question remains as to
whether the world outside of the subjective creative will ‘exists’ in a real sense, or
whether it is merely a subjective projection of the whims of new creators. At the risk
of attempting to crack this philosophical nut like the scholars, I will argue that
Nietzsche presents a unified and consistent view of the world, defined by motion,
and against Christian and Darwinian teleology, which demands the kind of creativity
he describes. It is meaningful insofar as it describes reality, the eternal exercise of the
will in relation to the world. Nietzsche’s system that eschews systems then relies upon
perpetual motion which reflects and is faithful to life, or rather living in the world as it
is. This is achieved through eternal recurrence, and can be described reliably as an
objective reality.
44
�The most essential quality of life in Zarathustra is constant motion, whether
simply physical motion or a deeper spiritual transformation. As Peter Behrens writes
in his novel The Law of Dreams, “the law of dreams is keep moving,” and this might
equally be called the law of Zarathustra. (Behrens, 10) Thus Spoke Zarathustra begins
with a movement and transformation: “When Zarathustra was thirty years old he left
his home… and went into the mountains. Here he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude
and for ten years he did not tire of it.” (Z, Prologue, 1) Zarathustra moves to the
mountain, but still finds no ultimate satisfaction: “I am weary of my wisdom… I want
to bestow and distribute…For this I must descend into the depths, as you do
evenings when you go behind the sea and bring light even to the underworld.” (3) He
continues: “Like you I must go down…” (3) Already on the first page we have spanned
ten years, and bridged two epiphanies on the part of Zarathustra, not satisfied with
enjoying his spirit, he wishes to descend and teach. And what does he wish to teach?
It is the path to the Ubermensch: “I teach you the Overhuman. Human being is something
that shall be overcome. What have you done to overcome him?” (Z, Prologue, 3)
Humanity is one stage, a stage that requires action to be surpassed. While Zarathustra
also uses semi-evolutionary language, comparing the Ubermensch to man as we
compare man to ape, Kaufmann is careful to point out that Nietzsche rejected an
evolutionary corollary to his work. (Z, Prologue, 3) While the symbolism and
comparison here “invites misunderstanding,” Nietzsche himself claimed that only
“scholarly oxen” would interpret his work as Darwinism. The path to the Ubermensch
requires active overcoming rather than passive and deterministic reception of natural
forces to which one adapts. We might find some clarity in Nietzsche’s work on
history, written in 1874 before Zarathustra” where he writes:
For since we happen to be the results of earlier generations we are also the results of their
aberrations, passions and errors, even crimes; it is not possible quite to free oneself from this
chain. If we condemn those aberrations and think ourselves quite exempt from them, the fact
we are descended from them is not eliminated.” (U VI, 3)
He writes further that the attempt to eradicate this memory creates a kind of
second nature as we break from the first, and yet something of the past state always
remains, and the new state is generally feebler than the first. (U VI, 3) By feebler
Nietzsche likely means more contingent and less survivable, even if it is more
complex, as all higher beings are, comparing the complexity and fragility of humans
to the durability of simpler organisms in The AntiChrist. Instead Nietzsche demands
that the path forward be willed rather than accepted, even as remnants of earlier
transformations will endure. Rather than look to change as a cold or mechanistic
reality, it should be understood as a proud action towards a higher state. In The Gay
Science Nietzsche remarks that the Darwinian conception has led, just as in
Christianity, to a “man against the world” understanding of life, wherein man must
give up either reverence or his own being, where both are accorded as nihilism. (GS,
346) Rather Nietzsche seeks a path wherein man and the world are not in conflict,
45
�where what is past, is, and is to come can be accepted with all their warts. But how
does Nietzsche’s conception of motion and transformation eradicate nihilism?
The answer to that question is found in Nietzsche’s conception of life which
is irrevocably tied to endless motion towards without ultimate completion, as well as
his notion of the death of God. Zarathustra teaches not just the Ubermensch but the
path to it: “Mankind is a rope fastened between animal and Overman – a rope over
an abyss.” (Z, Prologue, 4) The ones who know how to be “crossing over” and “going
under” are those who know how to live. (4) But what does it mean to know how to
live? If mechanistic Darwinism is not an antidote, then neither is faith in God, even
as in the revolutionary nineteenth century such a dichotomy seemed to be the nexus
of intellectual conflict. As soon as Zarathustra comes down from the mountain he
meets an old man who has as yet not heard that “God is dead.” (Z, Prologue, 2) The
phrase is one of Nietzsche’s most famous aphorisms, and represents a foundational
principle upon which all his ideas depend, especially in Zarathustra. The one who is a
believer in God is a believer in “a world behind.” (Z, Part 1, 3) God is presented as
outdated, or perhaps more appropriately something which has served its purpose, but
which now retards motion. Zarathustra once believed in this “delusion,” that is the
belief in anything beyond the human. (Z, Part 1, 3) To put faith in a world beyond
the world that one inhabits is to reject life and living, to place the creative will outside
of one’s action, and instead to conform to an invented will without realizing that it
was man that willed it. Thus speaks Zarathustra:
Weariness that wants to attain the ultimate in a single leap, in a leap of death, a poor and
ignorant weariness that does not even want to will anymore: that is what created all Gods and
all worlds behind…The body it was that despaired of the body – that groped with the fingers
of deluded spirit for the ultimate walls. (Z, Part 1, 3)
The deluded spirit longs to achieve eternity and completion, the ultimate, in
one swoop, and to rest upon that victory. God’s corpse erects a wall, an ultimate wall,
that protects against motion, but motion and transformation is necessary to life. In
simpler and more direct words, Nietzsche describes the chief principle of faith in
Twilight of the Idols (written after Zarathustra) as “faith that a will is already in things.”
(G, Epigrams and Arrows, 18) If a will, especially a constant, unchangeable Will, is
imputed into the world, then the human will is once again in opposition to the world.
He must either conform and lose himself, or lose his reverences, just as with
mechanistic Darwinism. We are then presented with two distinct forms of modern
nihilism, both belief in a deterministic world to come, and a religious world that
ought to be left behind yet casts long shadows. By what means then can man find
meaning? For Nietzsche the answer lies in the transformation, the motion, of the
spirit.
We have already heard that mankind is a rope over an abyss, but Zarathustra
goes on to say that “What is great in the human is that it is a bridge and not a goal.”
(Z, Prologue, 4) What is terrifying in humanity is “dangerous shuddering and standing
still.” (Z, Prologue, 4) The bridge, however, like the rope, is a linear image, one may
46
�cross forwards, or backwards, or potentially fall into the abyss. While the abyss itself
may represent a non-linear element, the path is straight. A straight path then must
necessarily lead to some goal, some destination, or some end, unless it is infinite.
Surely then the straight path must lead to death. However, this linear imagery is
developed in Zarathustra’s speech on the Three Metamorphoses, and becomes more
cyclical. The cycle allows for repetition, without a necessary end to motion. The spirit
moves through three transformations, into the camel, the lion and the child, each
providing a necessary means to move beyond the world behind, and the world to
come. The first transformation is that of a camel in whom the spirit can carry the
weight of heavy questions and pondering. (Z, I, 1) Then we encounter the lion in
which man learns to regard the “sacred Nay” to become a “lord in its own desert”
after winning freedom. (1) The enemy of the lion is the great dragon who proclaims
“Thou shalt,” in a rather obvious reference to the Decalogue. (1) Freedom is attained
through rejection of what one should do, “thou shalt,” and in rejection of external
value, of external will in the world. (1) An apex, but not a completion, is found in the
child, the final transformation. (1) The power of the will transforms sacred naysaying
into sacred “Yea-saying,” embracing creativity to build one’s own world of value. The
innocence of the child allows for forgetting, rebuilding, and transforming, much like
in Nietzsche’s theory of history. The purpose of these transformations seems to be a
means to let go of the old values that weigh down the spirit, to reject the world
beyond, and to will it into the world behind through individual creation. As
Zarathustra remarks, “Wherever I found the living, there I found the will to power,
and even in the will of the serving I found the will to be master.” (Z, II, 12) The
dragon says “thou shalt” but the lion says “I will” becoming master over itself and
serving life. (Z, I, 1) Evaluation is transferred from the realm of external discernment
to individual will and creation. There is no indication that this could not be repeated,
providing man a means to stay in motion. Life is then served by killing the Creator,
killing Creation, and moving to become one’s own willing creator in the world as it
exists.
The slaying of the dragon then opens new ports of motion. Nietzsche writes
in The Gay Science of the great joy one experiences at the news that “the old god is
dead” (GS, 343):
At long last the horizon appears free to us again, even if it should not be bright; at long last
our ships may venture out again…all the daring of the lover of knowledge is permitted again;
the sea, our sea, lies open again; perhaps there has never yet been such an “open sea.” (GS,
343)
What is important is the possibility of movement and transformation, not
any particular course. The sacred Nay opens an ocean of sacred Yea. Yet even this
grand freedom is not without qualification, as Zarathustra remarks “Body am I
through and through, and nothing besides; and soul is merely a word for something
about the body.” (Z, I, 4) The soul is an aspect of the body, as is the spirit. (4) The
transformations enumerated above are bodily and spiritual, insofar as all things are
47
�bodily for mankind. He later expounds on this stating “Since I have come to know
the body better… the spirit is only a hypothetical spirit to me; and all that is
everlasting – that too is only a parable.” (Z, II, 17) Only the perishable body exists as
truly real for Zarathustra at this point. What is important, however, is that Nietzsche
necessarily unifies subjective creation through the three metamorphoses with
reverence for life and nature. The creating will is a function of a new freedom gained
from an awareness of the reality of this world, apart from worlds beyond or behind
that a literal spirit or soul would indicate. One might raise the objection: is this
demand to perpetual motion and life not simply replacing one dragon with another?
Why should the ‘thou shalt’ of nature or of life be any different from the ‘thou shalt’
of God? From the language that Nietzsche uses, however, it seems plain that he
envisions this reverence for life not as something you must do, but rather that this
new way offers man the freedom to behave honestly towards nature, not through a
delusion, nor through compulsion. Zarathustra preaches faithfulness to the earth and
not to invented worlds. (Z, I, 3) The creation of new values is then a function of
nature through our life-affirming bodies. Nature does not demand, but permits. The
image that Zarathustra uses of the railing to the Ubermensch illustrates this: “I am a
railing by the torrent: grasp me whoever is able to grasp me! But your crutch I am
not.” (Z, I, 6) One may grasp the rail or not, but it is there to make use of as one will.
But does life not still end? How does one avoid the obvious inference of
fatalism (that Nietzsche rejects) in these attempts to escape nihilism, or does this
merely cement nihilism as reality? Some clarification and expansion might be found in
the songs that Zarathustra sings in the Second Part of the book where we find the
first murmurings of the eternal recurrence. The distinction between night and day
also features heavily as a kind of perpetual and ongoing motion in the cosmos,
undergirding life.
In The Night Song, Zarathustra looks to the heavens, and finds something cold
and unsettling in their motion. “Many suns revolve in desolate space…to me they are
mute. Oh this is the enmity of light toward that which shines; mercilessly it goes its
orbits.” (Z, II, 9) Later Zarathustra says “Like a storm the suns fly their orbit, that is
their motion. They follow their inexorable will; that is their coldness.” (9) This
inhuman motion seems to unsettle Zarathustra in contrast to the motion of the spirit
which was animating. Words like ‘merciless,’ ‘desolate,’ ‘mute,’ ‘coldness,’ and
especially ‘inexorable’ sound like the language of fatalism and resignation rather than
life, specially when referencing will. Yet life is itself a reverence and honesty towards
nature through motion. Zarathustra is perhaps reflecting on the disjuncture between
the creating will which “wills its own will” and which “attains its own world” while
confronted with a natural world remote to that experience (Z, 1, 1) In the daylight
Zarathustra could preach to the stars: “You great star! What would your happiness be
if you had not those for whom you shine?” (Z, Prologue, 1) Where Zarathustra was
boastful and proud in the daylight, he is now intimidated and alienated from those
same luminous bodies in the evening. What has changed? Zarathustra experiences
“iciness” and “hesitation,” at night, and he seems unable to move while experiencing
48
�a kind of involuntary contemplation of the shining suns that move so inexorably.
Contemplation, or rumination had been an object of mockery to Zarathustra, a
desirable nonsense, but nonsense all the same. (Z, I, 2) Later too he describes
contemplation as “emasculated leering,” to “desire nothing from things” but to lie
before them. (Z, II, 15) The lifeless impasse is broken by adding motion into
contemplation as a passive corollary to the dynamic creation of the day time.
In The Dance Song, Zarathustra comes face to face with life itself in the form
of a dancing girl while strolling at night with his disciples. Life is dancing, and it is in
that motion and transformation of nocturnal dancing that Zarathustra finds a means
to rehabilitate concepts he had dismissed to make them serve life. His first words to
life are “Do not stop dancing” referring to the dancing girls as “light ones.” (Z, 2, 10)
He finds life before him, in the evening, motioning in a manner that is not alien the
way the movement of the stars was. He says to life:
Into your eyes I gazed recently, oh life! And then into the unfathomable I seemed to sink.
But you pulled me out with your golden fishing rod; you laughed mockingly when I called you
unfathomable.” (10)
Unlike the distance between Zarathustra and the night-time suns, life is here
personified, and speaks to Zarathustra directly, breaking any delusion of distance or
disjuncture between the human will and the natural world. To look at life and
understand it is not then a rumination, nor a flight from life, but part of a parallel
structure of nature of which the creative will is one part, along with the
acknowledgment of the natural world. Creation of value is necessarily parallel with
nature, not disrespectful to it. But while nature’s existence is objective, creation of
value is not, for how could you march from summit to summit if you had found and
rested upon the real truth? (Z, II, 7) Rather it is an objective response to the freedom
conferred by the non-existence of objective values in nature that is itself an objective
reality. This is why life dances, because these two necessary aspects participate with
each other in the constant motion that is, for Nietzsche, life, itself mirrored in the
transition from daylight to evening. In the dance we can imagine the constant flow of
transformation, from camel, to lion, to child, or from day to night, in a constant flow
of motion, that is to say in concert with nature.
It is not surprising then that it is those moments of crisis for Zarathustra
when he has forgotten how to walk, that he has also lost sight of the path to the
Ubermensch. (Z, II, 22) But why does Zarathustra continue to experience moments of
stillness and lifelessness even after his encounter with life? He has still not sufficiently
conquered one final ‘end,’ specifically permanent death, a permanent end to motion
that he refers to as ‘the spirit of gravity.’ Zarathustra describes life as “A dance and a
mocking song to the spirit of gravity,” the spirit that rules the world. (10) Zarathustra
mentions this spirit only once before in the first Part, “And when I saw my devil,
there I found him in earnest, thorough, deep, somber: it was the spirit of gravity –
through him all things fall. (Z, I, 7) The spirit of gravity is the essence of fatalism, for
what goes up must come down, what lives must die, what begins must find an end,
49
�even if that end is neither a religious nor a mechanical world to come, nor a world
beyond. In what then can a creator take solace other than nihilism? The dancing god,
life, provides a clue in the names men give her: “profundity or fidelity, eternity or
secrecy.” (Z, II, 10) Eternity is the name that men give life, but eternal life is a
concept that Zarathustra has derided as the life-denying philosophy of the despisers
of the body and the preachers of death, whose conception of eternal life is a goal that
distracts from life as it is in the world. (Z, I, 9) What life tells to Zarathustra is that
life itself, life as it is, is eternity, and this is the lightness that Zarathustra perceives in
the dancing girls, their liberation from the spirit of gravity without any final end to
their dancing.
This liberation also provides for a liberation of the will, as well as a further
unity of the subjective creating will with the objective natural world. In The Gay
Science, Nietzsche claims that “Faith is always coveted most and needed most urgently
where will is lacking.” (GS, 347) Faith is the dereliction of the will, the belief that
there is another will in the world to which one must submit. However Zarathustra
remarks that “I would only believe in a god who knew how to dance.” (Z, 1,7) It
would seem then that the dancing god, life, offers an exception to the rule. Nietzsche
states that there is a correlation between one’s strength and the need to believe,
therefore Christianity, or Metaphysics more broadly, will survive so long as they are
needed. (GS, 347) We know that Zarathustra has proclaimed the death of god,
declaring that all gods are human works (Z, I, 3) and that true creativity is impossible
if there are gods, for how could one create if there were already Creation, if there
were already a will there? (Z, II, 24) Zarathustra tells us that the gods died of laughter
when the God of Abraham declared “thou shalt have no other gods but me,” stating
that true divinity is to have gods but no God. (Z, III, 8) Yet through the spirit of the
lion, and sacred naysaying, God, the dragon that commands “thou shalt,” has been
killed. We are left without gods, and without God, but this leaves a new sea open
once again. If belief is derived from necessity, then the creative will must will belief in
the dancing god, life. The dancing god is man’s reverence for nature which
participates in nature. The created god of nature, the created god of the will, steps in
concert with the world as it is, and is united with it. Man gives up neither reverence
nor himself. To what one is reverent is their own body united with nature through
the will. This unity is expounded upon by Zarathustra when he addresses the heavens
before sunrise:
Oh sky above me, you pure, exalted one! This your purity is to me now… that you are my
dance floor for divine accident, that you are my gods’ table for divine dice throws and dice
player. But you blush?... is it the shame of us two that made you blush? (Z, III, 4)
Through the will, man can find unity even in the parallel structure of nature,
and divinize the world as it is. Why does the sky blush? Is it perhaps embarrassed by
this union? While still two distinct and separate entities, Zarathustra becomes aware
of the power of the will to unite with the natural world, exemplified by the motion of
the dancing god, life. The necessity of creating new values is reconciled with the
50
�reality of nature in this long dance to become aware of how one’s “own being is
involved in the totality of the cosmos”. That parallel division is never truly eliminated,
however, nor does that seem to be a particular problem for Nietzsche or Zarathustra
any longer.
But there is still the question of the eternity of life, that is to say the question
of perpetual motion. Having reconciled life with the creating will, there is still the
need to defeat the spirit of gravity. As Nietzsche writes in Twilight of the Idols:
The fatality of our essence cannot be separated from the fatality of all that was and will be.
We are not the consequence of a special intention, a will, a goal; we are not being used to
reach an “ideal of humanity”… We have invented the concept “goal”: in reality, goals are
absent… (G, The Four Great Errors, 8)
Nietzsche must then find a way to reconcile the eternity that life has spoken to
Zarathustra with human fatality, without succumbing to fatalism. This is achieved
through the concept of eternal recurrence. As Kaufmann points out, Nietzsche
considered the eternal recurrence his most important idea, even as he offers little to
no proof of it in his works. All the same it is an absolutely necessary aspect of his
thought, for it is his solution to fatalism that respects fatality. The dwarf says to
Zarathustra, “You stone of wisdom! You hurled yourself high, but every hurled stone
must fall!” (Z, III, 2.1) This is the thought of lead that is dripped into Zarathustra’s
ear, which he overcomes with the courageous phrase, “Was that life? Well then! One
More Time!” (2.1) Zarathustra then develops the doctrine of the eternal recurrence:
“See this gateway, dwarf! I continued. “It has two faces. Two paths come together here; no
one has yet walked them end to end. This long lane back: it lasts an eternity. And that long
lane outward – that is another eternity (2.2)
The paths converge only at the gateway called “Moment.” (2.2) Each moment is then
made eternally alive through repetition, without the need to look forward or
backwards or towards any goal or telos.
From this gateway Moment a long eternal lane stretches backward:
behind us lies an eternity… And if everything has already been here before,
what do you think of this moment, dwarf? Must this gateway too not already have
been here? And are not all things firmly knotted together in such a way
that this moment draws after it all things to come?... For, whatever can run… must
run it once more! (2.2)
Kaufmann calls this the supreme “suprahistorical” expression, wherein all
striving beyond is extinguished in the exaltation of the moment, whether that striving
be Darwinian, or Christian. Each moment resounds in eternity not as a stepping
stone, but as a stepped stone, always present, and past, and future, and therefore
always in perpetual motion. The finitude of earthly existence is transformed into an
eternal faithfulness to the earth that Zarathustra preached from the beginning. (Z, I,
3) With each moment separated from a final goal or end, the will is free to say to
itself “One More Time!” (Z, III, 2.2) This is what it means for the will to create its
51
�own world, because it creates the world as it is, one’s own eternity which is eternity,
and that is life. With the eternal recurrence Zarathustra is free to say “This is my good
and evil.” (Z, III, 11) The recurring will makes for itself eternal values not by appeal
to another world, but in this world that will always reemerge. “All joy wants eternity,
wants deep eternity,” says Zarathustra, by which he means that willing ‘yes’ to life is a
will to its totality, night and day, pain and happiness, all ensnared together as one
bottomless dancing eternity. This is how Nietzsche solves the problem of nihilism as
a reaction to the world as it is, through life as eternal motion which relies heavily
upon the eternal recurrence to achieve coherence, and also how he reconciles the
subjective will with objective nature.
The project of Nietzsche can then be described as the attempt to reconcile
his rejection of nihilism with his beliefs regarding what reality is. Whether he
succeeded or not is a difficult question, and one to which many will likely come to
differing conclusion, however what seems clear is that Nietzsche offers in Thus Spoke
Zarathustra a circuitous and roundabout enumeration of the demands of his
conception of reality. The creating will that emerges from the corpse of God is not
merely subjective, but rather subjective in accordance with the reality of the natural
world where there exists a gap in objective value. While Nietzsche never fully unifies
the two, he does posit a parallel unity where each is faithful to the other, even if they
are not fully united to the other. This faithfulness to the earth as it is what is objective
for Nietzsche, the earth that is eternally alive and in motion, where every subjective
value is elevated in each moment of eternity. Through eternal recurrence, and the
creating will, Nietzsche sustains his central notion of life as motion in a way that, at
least internally, fulfills the objective of faithfulness to the earth as it is (according to
Nietzsche), while providing an escape from nihilism that rests on no assumptions that
contradict his own conception of reality. The joy that Zarathustra experiences
towards the end of the work is the joy of reconciliation and unity, achieved on his
own terms. The conception of the world as described by Zarathustra can then be said
to be objective, and even further, that the distinction between subjective and
objective breaks down in the eternal recurrence. Whether it is correct is another
question for another essay, though there are suggestions of the necessity of faith for
some of the concepts here enumerated, particularly the eternal recurrence. Whether
this is a true victory over nihilism is perhaps still left to the reader, but all things
considered it was a heroic and consistent attempt.
52
�Artwork by Jesse Clagett
53
�
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Colloquy, Fall 2021
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Volume IX of Colloquy, published in Fall 2021.
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Braley, Olivia (Editor-in-Chief)
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Graduate Institute
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Colloquy
�A Note from the Editors
Contents
On Being a Stranger 12
On Play 20
Translations 30
Memoria 46
List of Works 59
Acknowledgements 60
The Graduate Institute is St. John’s Wild West. We’re not nearly as old as the rest
of the College, and we’re not as tightly bound as the undergraduates. We come
into the College from very different situations, and we have jobs and families to
attend to. We feel that one role Colloquy must take is to be a place where we can
grow closer together. We’re hoping Colloquy leads us all to reach out across the
program, not just the seminar table.
Colloquy is still so new a publication as to admit trial and experiment. Our first
issue was spring 2017. In this eleventh edition, we continue to preserve, as we
did in the first issue, the end of the semester toasts to the students and tutors.
We include the précis for Kelly Custer’s Master’s essay to recognize its successful
defense, and to offer a model for future candidates to have some sense of how to
go about writing them. We invited all the G.I. to submit brief pieces on the topics
“On Play” and “On Being a Stranger” to carry on St. John’s democratic tradition of
dialogue. We received submissions from alumni, including the founding editor of
the journal, Bonnie Naradzay. We are proud to include a Latin, Spanish, Russian,
and Arabic translation. We hope you appreciate the thought and labor that went
into this edition of Colloquy.
Most of all, we would like to express our sincere gratitude to Emily Langston,
Kashya Boretsky, and Diana Villegas for all their assistance, as well as the Graduate Student Council and the alumni for their continual support of the G.I. community. And of course, we would like to thank our contributors.
Abdullah Wadood and Jesse Clagett
Fall 2022
1
2
�Reflections of the Revolution in Britain
Benjamin Crocker
Like periscoped sheep, the palace hordes startled back and forth, lunging
the gates, devices bobbing - flopping above the fray into which they all tumbled.
They scuffled to meet, but mostly just to prove-their-meeting-of, the new King.
By chance, I had been working in Wiltshire the day before, Thursday
September 8 - the day of Queen Elizabeth II’s passing. Mid-conference at an old
Wiltshire estate when news of Her Majesty’s death broke, my first observation
was that no one quite knew what to do.
That would be good, I thought.
But down there at Buckingham it was a dog show indeed. Those journalists stampeding like marked cattle. The sheepy public surging forth to wherever
fear of missing out and royal opportunity might intersect.
And when the standard went up, and out he came, stooped and sartorial,
to meet his public, he might have had cause for bewilderment
At dinner that evening the staff stood to attention, some silence was enforced, a vigorous shout of ‘Long live the King’ rang out, and esteemed colleagues
made fine, concise addresses of tribute and remembrance. A wonderful young
couple seated opposite me had hurried to buy black. I was relieved.
For Charles III more often than not shook the hand of a mind tethered
not to royal affection, but to its own demented voyeurism. The King looked not
into the warm eyes of the old empire, but to the cold glass lens of the new one.
But the milieu was otherwise unshaken by the day’s earthquake.
This was mourning as spectator sport. Which of course isn’t mourning at
all. Only one in a hundred, nay, maybe a thousand, had the decency to wear black.
The liquor flowed as on any other night. The conversation was light, serious, silly, and profane by turns - as on any other night. ‘I feel a deep sadness’, a
wise colleague had the decency to say, in private, amidst the oblivious bonhomie.
And through it all, the BBC - and every other Tom, Dick and Harry with a
microphone - kept vigil. Vigil in the way a hamster keeps vigil at its wheel. Constant, monotonous, unchanging, dumb.
Our coach to London the next day took neither longer nor shorter than it
should have. No one was flocking to the capital to grieve in public. But it seemed
no one was staying home to grieve in private, either. I was dismayed.
There were some flickers of hope. Two American flight attendants had
hurried down after their shift, pinned their wings to a rose and moved diligently
toward the fence to pay their respects. “That’ll end up in landfill, love” - it didn’t
take long for the locals to burst their bubble…
On every billboard between Heathrow and Whitehall her face alternately
shone with youth or glowed with wisdom. Westfield presents Queen Elizabeth in
Black and White. Surreal.
Arriving at the hotel, I scoffed down whatever was in sight and hurried
across the road to the Palace. What were the odds that I would be here, on that one
day out of 35,000 others in the span of the second Elizabethan Age?
I could have the privilege of mourning - not just for the Queen, but for
the spectre of grace and diligence that emanated from her reign. For my Grandfather, who served in her Army, played the piano bequeathed by her family, and
migrated between two of her realms. For the people for whom she meant more
than I could ever know - the war wounded and widowed, the people who tied
3
ribbons, baked cakes and trained dogs for shows, who dressed smartly and hung
her portrait proudly in dusty halls on dusty plains, in dusty farming towns, in the
dusty country I grew up in.
Another beautiful young woman dressed in black strode stoically through
Green Park, fighting the tears that burst forth regardless. And though I caught but
glimpses of them, I can say that those women knew how to mourn.
But I’m not so sure about the rest of us.
I’m not sure we knew what clothes to wear, what posture to hold, what
pace to step, and what manner to speak in. I’m not sure we understood that solemn pageantry and sacred ritual are to be more experienced, less packaged into
clips and discussed over dinner.
4
�
In the span of the Queen’s reign, and contra her steadfast grace and majesty, what remains of her Empire has indeed undergone a profound revolution.
The Romantics
Lest that revolution in Britain not be conspicuous for any speed or
bloodshed, it shall ever be for the sake of propriety slowly surrendered, for decorum gradually lost.
Ten-thousand daffodils along the margin of a bay
would in my time have all ceased to decay,
and Daisies become a worthier flower to adorn
an epitaph desiring that we mourn;
for if my Words have any worth at all
then perchance they would outlast us all.
But times being as they are, I think I’ll write
only for myself, and no distant reader’s delight.
Melissa Moore
No modern master Taylor could possibly hope to weave
prettier patterns of discarded themes,
nor any serious painter withstand not being privy
to such a place as Kubla Khan decreed.
It was a painted poem, upon a painted canvas
that first set in motion things outlandish
and though it was quite beautiful and refined,
in the end it took a lifetime to wash away the brine.
Though the crystal chill overcomes the burly winter birch
—coats with downy flake limbs where songbirds perch—
though all this world should be condemned to fire and to ice,
I doubt that either Burns or Frost suffice.
Beware, young friends: Tam O Shanter’s good mare’s
advice, a red red rose with thorns, ensnares,
for she is long gone, and yet here you stand
for all the world a much luckier man.
The past is filled with beauty – this truth no one will deny –
and the future appears stark before the nostalgic eye,
but words do not belong to those who say them best
and life spent lost in memory is life best laid to rest.
Though in this race the many may surpass me
and though their words through many ages may outlast me,
I’d rather turn my words to wind during the run
than become Swift only to be called Donne.
5
6
�
He’s This, She’s That
Louis Petrich
Can he be rhymed off straight from facts—writ pat?
Can she be rhymed off straight from facts, stared stone?
In love with seas, curled brains, dared skin, pink wilds--
Her friend long-haired, longed tame, with dog she keeps.
“I have love for you, friend,” she pares, “that’s it.”
Yet love dared pick him and pertains, phone-laired.
As clouds paint skies her evanescent smiles
(Her dog would like him more, licked treat to treat.)
subscribe words lit from distant hands, stealth lips,
Legs chickening, fingers satiate, spell out
for don’t bit stars do infinite of black?
fools’ fated fallings in across hearts’ hacked
Her missives vibrate overtones and sips
divide. How quaint quilled perks do punt all doubt
of overtures that salve somewhat heart’s rack
of cursive character: see!
and spur his plenty done more jointed years.
unstop her soundings, scored not his who fears!
Not fooled enough, still wet, issues grotesque,
for schooled she goes in art of raising cheers
girl-curious t’anoint boys amouresque.
He might as well be spinning silk to straw.
Imagination cleaves to jewels that claw.
7
couplings blacked
Core falling yearnings turn parts mortal-tasked
and creasing bent to pleasing master mirrors,
equipage buffed to bluff dusk, youthful masked.
“Life’s flash I steal, my wares achieve!” she rings.
Imagination husbands armful things.
8
�9
10
�| On Being a Stranger
11
12
�on being a stranger
you can spend your whole life chasing authenticity and find out you don’t know
the meaning of the word
a stranger in your own skin; not at home in yourself
you can’t see yourself in
five years
(or in love)
(or as a parent)(or happy)(or not in pain) when
you can’t see yourself
in a mirror
there’s a fog over everything. it’s hard to realize you’re the only one who can’t see
right
things look different from that perspective
you don’t know what’s wrong but
you’ve always felt like an alien
(ever at arm’s length)(your ways are strange)
every movement: like in a nightmare, trying to run
your limbs feel Wrong
untethered
the world bends away underneath you
there, but not there
you get very good at losing yourself to survive
staring too long at the flames would mean acknowledging you’re on fire
no one else sees it
you can’t explain it
all you can do is look away
the easiest place to lose yourself is in other people
sometimes, they’ll let you
sometimes, they like it
(they like You)
13
14
�it’s as addictive as anything else you can lose yourself in completely
a total abnegation
disintegration
you’ll swear it’s transcendence
there’s a special brightness in the eyes when the fog clears
an appreciation for how much there is to see
and a thirst to see it anew
how do you share what you learned on the other side? merely having been there,
it’s alienating
how can you explain what it is to feel Wrong to those who have always felt
right?
(always belonged?)
but you’re trying You on for size
feeling your weight under yourself
and it feels good
like every grand journey, it’s about finding the way home
Siobhan Petersen
It must be said that every evil in some way has a cause. For evil is the absence of the
good, which is natural and due to a thing....
Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica, First Part, Question 49
I went to San Antonio to collect a writing award recently. TSA treated
me with contempt. As I saw the lights of D.C. (my only home) from up above, I
wept for a reason I do not know why. I asked an older gentleman if I could sit next
to him while I waited for the connecting flight. He agreed. As soon as my butt
touched the seat, he got up and left. When I arrived at San Antonio at noon, the
woman at the hotel counter told me check-in was at three. I wasn’t welcome, her
stern stare scolded. So I walked to a Whataburger without a sidewalk in sight. All
my belongings were on my back. I didn’t want to be mugged. I hoped that someone would pick a fight with me just so I would be noticed, but I didn’t even get
that. This city is made for metal and rubber, not flesh and bone. I hid behind a
pillar of an abandoned building to get out of the sun and out of sight. A homeless
man had the same idea. The soles of my shoes began to reek of hot tar. The crosswalks are spaced out in twenty-minute intervals. Ten-lane highways separate
the sidewalks the width of my thumb. Every building is an island surrounded by
asphalt seas. A haggardly man passes me by on a bicycle, the only other pedestrian. He told me a word of wisdom, but he went by too fast in an accent I couldn’t
understand. The sun began to seep into my clothes and turned into sweat. I need
some sleep. I need to rest. I returned to the hotel disheveled and waited for an
hour in the lobby. The woman at check-in eventually acknowledged me and
apologizes profusely. I pretend that it is no big deal. Earlier that week I learned all
my old friends have been excluding me. I couldn’t hold my grief much longer. So
I searched for someone to talk to. I called my younger brother and asked him if he
was free. He opened his lips to inhale. I wept. God is stretched very thin here.
Abdullah Wadood
15
16
�Ex Cathedra
By Mephibosheth
Today started like any other day for Jay: he got up early and sat around on
his bed playing on his phone or turning on the TV to watch some of his favorite
shows. By all accounts, he was just like any other young man, that is to say that
he was lost and yearning to find a purpose in his life, bouncing from interest to
interest, job to job, and major to major as he attempted to strike out on his own,
away from the ever-scrutinizing eye of his parents.
Unlike his younger counterparts, however, Jay had something which
set him apart from all others, he had a disability—not just any disability, but one
which required the use of a bulky power wheelchair. Being that his condition had
been with him since birth, he knew no other form of transport, and had easily
come to accept both the chair and side effects of his condition. Although he was
occasionally taken by bouts of loneliness and alienation due to the limits his chair
imposed on him, it would not be an exaggeration to say that he and the chair were
one in spite of all this.
As he waited for his nurse to arrive, Jay began to turn over a myriad of
thoughts about his life, his future, and the problems that he caused his family
as a result of his disability. Usually the television assisted in drowning out these
thoughts long enough so that he would not be consumed in sadness, it helped,
but not for very long—his mind always returned to the ever-present conclusion
that he was a burden; the conclusion that all of his studying, all of his attempts
at work, his phobia of the outside world, would lead to life passing him by as he
stood inept and cowardly staring it in the face.
You see, Jay cared very much for his fellow human beings, but because his
condition limited him so severely as to the enjoyment of various natural things
which do not particularly concern those who do not suffer from physical disability he had grown to hate nature. It reminded him of everything which separated
the cripples from the non-cripples, the invalids from the valid. He preferred the
cold, calculating world of electronics and technology. This world was, to him at
least, more relatable, especially since he depended on that world to live his daily
life.
So it was, then, that after turning over all of the questions of the universe
and existence inside his head that Jay’s nurse finally came. Her routine was simple: she would change Jay, help him put on his leg braces, help him put his clothes
17
on, pivot him into his chair, and finally strap him in so that he would not fall over
while sitting. After this their routine would continue as most others’ would: he
would have breakfast, brush his teeth, and decide what to do for the day.
Everything seemed to be going well until Jay suddenly felt a sharp pain in
his back, almost as if someone had stabbed him. It wasn’t unusual that he would
rub up against the back side of his seat or catch his shoulders on the metal backplate of his chair, so he had initially thought nothing of it. As the day went on,
however, his motion became more and more restricted, and he noticed that the
chair was slowly and painfully enveloping him within itself.
What is going on? There must be something wrong with the chair or me. It shouldn’t be
this way. This shouldn’t be happening.
But try as he might Jay could not escape the inevitable and he was eventually completely subsumed by his own chair. He could feel that he had been enveloped by total darkness, but as far as he could discern he was able to speak normally and without impediment. Around this time late in the evening was when
his nurse would come back in order to serve him dinner and put him to bed.
When his nurse finally came he wasn’t exactly sure what was going on,
so when she opened the door he greeted her as he normally would “Hi, Catie, it’s
nice to see you again today,” Jay said.
“It’s nice to see you as well, Jay. Are you ready for dinner?” replied Catie.
“Yes, I’m super hungry,” responded Jay.
Catie didn’t seem to notice what had happened to Jay. She acted as if
nothing was wrong. It was just as if it were any other day.
Jay noticed that although he was surrounded by darkness he could still
see outside of his chair and move his hands just enough to drive to his room to
await his food. As Jay ate, the material enveloping him within his chair would
recede as he raised the spoon up to his mouth, only to re-envelope him in its
darkness when he put the spoon down. The same thing happened as Catie gave
him his daily sponge bath. Jay was really beginning to question his reality. This
was made all the more worrisome for him as Catie proceeded to lift his entire
chair and place it in his bed.
Jay was very distressed, but he never actually said anything to anyone
18
�because he was afraid that he would inconvenience those around him and add
to his status as a burden. He lived out all the rest of his days invisible to himself,
but treated as if he were still there by others. It was this fact that really made him
wonder whether he was right all along to think that his feelings of alienation
were, in fact, correct. In the end, however, it didn’t really matter if Jay had actually become one with his machine, because society saw him simply as his machine
and nothing else.
He was doomed…
| On Play
19
20
�21
22
�23
24
�“On Play”
Ansley Green
Oh to play… All I want to do all day is play! The fresh outside air, the endless
possibilities, it is hard for mom to get me back inside. The imagination runs wild
with possibilities, nothing is off limits, the world is huge and for the exploring.
What would make me want to stop all this play?
Time does not stop for happiness. The play no longer is free. Consequences come
into play. Competition clouds kindness, but also spurs on greatness. Keep playing
and you can make it big. Keep playing and you can be famous. Keep playing and
you can be rich. Can’t you?
I see the young women play, who have dedicated all the years of their life to excel.
They gave up lighthearted playing for a fierce competition and love of sport. They
have made it to the level all other little girls dream of. They are on the big stage,
playing for an audience now. They play exactly the same amount as the men, the
yellow ball zinging back and forth at speeds no slower than the others. They play,
rackets flying when anger comes in. They play, tears streaming over stretched
smiles when the victory comes. They play, but for what?
They play so they can have a prize purse 1/3 of what the men’s is. They play so they
are rewarded at a fraction of what their friends are rewarded…for the exact same
play. There is no lack of money at the upper levels. The tournament organizers are
not broke. They have just broken the system. Playing is no longer fair. Playing is
no longer full of limitless opportunities. The air is less fresh here. The system is
broken. The play is over.
The little girls realize that this is not uncommon. This unequal reality is not
contained to one game. If tennis was called golf was called basketball was called
surfing was called skiing was called soccer was called hockey was called wrestling
was called boxing was called running….it is still the same. Keep fighting, they
say. Look, we have equal pay now, they say. What was the cost? Why was the battle
so steep? Who will stand up for the others?
Who will keep the girls in play?
25
26
�Anne Carson translated this fragment 286 from Ibykos, an ancient Greek lyric poet, and then proceeded to use the structure of the fragment (on the one
hand….. on the other hand….. nay, rather….. ) to experiment with other texts,
including pages from Kafka, the FBI file on Berthold Brecht, two pages from
the owner’s manual for her new microwave…. See: Nay Rather (Volume 21)
(Cahiers) Paperback – February 15, 2014. For one I experimented with Plato’s
Meno and for the other Schrödinger’s What is Life? - Bonnie Naradzay
Aporia
Ibykos fragment 286, using only phrases from Plato’s Meno
The torpedo fish?
I am quite perplexed.
On the one hand,
anyone who touches it feels numb.
On the other hand, the human soul is immortal:
at times it comes to an end, which they call dying,
at times it is reborn, but it is never destroyed,
and one must live one’s life
piously.
Nay rather,
the statues of Daedalus run away if not tied down.
But now the time has come for me to go.
27
What is Life?
Ibykos Fragment 286, using only phrases from the epilogue of Schrödinger’s What is Life?
To say “Hence I am God Almighty,”
on the one hand,
sounds both blasphemous and lunatic,
the closest a biologist can get
to proving God and immortality at one stroke.
On the other hand, in the Upanishads,
Atman equals Brahman
in perfect harmony, mystics
somewhat like the particles
in an ideal gas.
Nay rather,
in a gallery of mirrors,
like the way Gaurisankar and Mount Everest
are the same peak seen from different valleys,
I see my tree
you see yours
obviously only one tree.
What the tree in itself is,
we do not know.
28
�| Translations
29
30
�
إن األعلى من األسفل واألسفل من األعلى
IPA: /innəl ʔala’ mən as su’ful was su’ful mənəl ʔala’/
“Lo and Behold! The highest is from the lowest, and the lowest is from the
highest.”
The phrase is found in Islamicate hermetic texts, most notably the “Emerald Tablet” and the “Secret of Secrets”. The first word, /innə/ , doesn’t translate
to anything in particular in English. Usually it’s translated as “Indeed”. In Arabic,
it is used as an intonation or particle attached to the subject to emphasize what’s
being said. “Lo and Behold!” does not usually translate well when using /innə/
since /innə/ can be a very everyday word, but this particular line is describing
something beatific so I thought it was fitting. I think also the simple affirmation
“Yes!” could work, but that is too literal. The next word, /al ʔala’/ means “The
Highest”. It is usually translated as “The Most High” but I think that is clunky.
The Islamic tradition attributes ninety-nine names for God. /al ʔala’/ is one of
them. Arabic doesn’t have copulas (“to be” words) in the present tense. They are
grammatically implied. /mən/ is a preposition meaning “from”. /wa/ is the conjunction “and”. And /as su’ful/ means “The Lowest”. I have used the apostrophes
in the IPAs to indicate a sound short of a full glottal plosive.
Abdullah Wadood
31
32
�In the last two lines of his Ode on a Grecian Urn, Keats writes:
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know”.
I found these lines so formidable that I decided to try to translate them
into my mother tongue: Spanish.
Here is the result:
“Belleza es verdad, verdad belleza. En la tierra
Sólo esto llegáis a saber y no necesitáis saber nada más”.
Now, two comments. In Spanish, a definite article—la, el—always precedes the noun in order to link its meaning with a referent, unless it is a proper
noun1. In this case, I omitted the articles before the nouns belleza and verdad even
though, strictly speaking, the poet did not present them as proper nouns. This is
incorrect in academic or formal writing, and awkward in informal conversation,
but it is not unheard-of in poetic forms. I chose to omit the articles because they
would somehow steal the attention of the listener. I think Yeats would want us to
focus on the nouns.
On the other hand, you may notice that I used vosotros instead of ustedes to
translate “ye”—hence, llegáis and necesitáis instead of llegan and necesitan. Vosotros
and ustedes are both second-person, plural, personal pronouns. In Spain, the
former is used in informal contexts and everyday parlance, while the latter is
mostly used when speakers are total strangers to one another. In Latin America,
however, ustedes is the standard usage in both informal and formal contexts, and
no one uses vosotros either in everyday conversation, nor in academic or professional environments. But there is one place where vosotros still lives: Catholicism.
The Bible uses vosotros throughout and in Mass the priest addresses the congregation with vosotros. Vosotros conveys an ancient and awe-inspiring tone which is
how I believe Yeats’ Grecian Urn would speak.
And that is all ye need to know.
Luis Sánchez
1 In “María no vino a la fiesta”, the proper noun is not preceded by an article while in “el
cartero llegó tarde” the definite article proceeds the noun.
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�Молюсь оконному лучу—
Он бледен, тонок, прям.
Сегодня я с утра молчу,
А сердце—пополам.
На рукомойнике моем
Позеленела медь.
Но так играет луч на нем,
Что весело глядеть.
Такой невинный и простой
В вечерней тишине,
Но в етой храмине пустой
Он словно праздник золотой
И утешенье мне.
I am praying to the window light—
It is pale, thin, and straight.
Today I am quiet since morning,
And my heart—it is split in half.
The copper of my washbasin
turned green.
But light plays on it there,
So fun to touch.
So innocent and simple,
In the evening silence,
But in this empty temple
It is a golden holiday
And it is solace for me.
Анна Ахматова, 1909
“Из книги Вечер”
Anna Akhmatova , 1909
From the book “Evening”
I chose to translate this poem because its mood and feelings it evoked were
relatable to me. The praying to a morning light with a broken, or perhaps just a
confused, heart gives an idea of a new beginning taking time for adjustment. The
speaker finding joy in a golden evening ray reinforces that change takes time,
despite initial and underlying feelings of loneliness and despair. There is comfort
and beauty to find after time has made things change, depicted by the light which
dances still on the copper of the basin which has turned green. The days still pass,
time goes on, and peace can replace despair. I focused on meaning rather than
keeping true to meter for this translation.
Ansley Green
35
36
�Seneca, Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales
Seneca, Moral Epistles for Lucilius
CXII. SENECA LVCILIO SVO SALVTEM
Letter 112. Greetings! To my dear Lucilius, from Seneca,
Cupio mehercules amicum tuum formari ut desideras et institui, sed valde durus capitur; immo, quod est molestius, valde mollis capitur et consuetudine
mala ac diutina fractus.
Volo tibi ex nostro artificio exemplum referre. Non quaelibet insitionem
vitis patitur: si vetus et exesa est, si infirma gracilisque, aut non recipiet surculum aut non alet nec adplicabit sibi nec in qualitatem eius naturamque transibit.
Itaque solemus supra terram praecidere ut, si non respondit, temptari possit
secunda fortuna et iterum repetita infra terram inseratur.
Hic de quo scribis et mandas non habet vires: indulsit vitiis. Simul et
emarcuit et induruit; non potest recipere rationem, non potest nutrire. ‘At cupit
ipse.’ Noli credere. Non dico illum mentiri tibi: putat se cupere. Stomachum
illi fecit luxuria: cito cum illa redibit in gratiam. ‘Sed dicit se offendi vita sua.’
Non negaverim; quis enim non offenditur? Homines vitia sua et amant simul et
oderunt. Tunc itaque de illo feremus sententiam cum fidem nobis fecerit invisam
iam sibi esse luxuriam: nunc illis male convenit. Vale
I want1, by Hercules, that your friend be formed, as you desire, and educated2; but he, as someone very hard, is stuck3, really, what is more troublesome,
he is stuck as someone very soft and broken4 by a consistent and bad way of life.
I want to refer you to an example from our art. Not just any vine supports
a scion;5 if it is old and consumed, if it is weak and thin, either it will not receive
the shoot, or it will neither nourish it nor apply itself to it nor will it cross over
into the quality and nature of it. And so we are accustomed to cut it off above the
earth, so that if it doesn’t respond, a second chance could be tried,6 and, again,
the second attempt7 would be sown under the earth.8
This man, concerning whom you write and enquire, does not have the
strength9; he indulges his flaws10. He wilts and grows stiff at the same time. He
is not able to receive argument11, he is not able to nourish it. “But he wants to12.”
Don’t believe that. I’m not saying that he’s lying to you; he thinks he wants to13.
For him, excess makes appetite14; Quickly, he will return to favour with it. “But he
says he is put off15 by his life.” I wouldn’t deny that. For, who is not thus put off16?
Men at the same time both love and hate their flaws. And so, we will judge17 him at
that point when he shows18 us that excess is now hateful to him. But right now, for
them the matter is poorly agreed.19 Farewell.
Walker Rogalsky
37
38
�Endnotes
1
It is not Seneca’s desire or Lucilius’ desire that makes Lucilius’ friend
unable to be bettered.
2
Educated here is institui, in meaning ‘in’ and stitui being from statuo
meaning ‘to set something’ which is where English gets statue and status. This
means primarily ‘to set something in.’ It’s where English gets institute or institution from. But it takes on two very interesting secondary meanings for this letter.
It can mean ‘to plant’ and ‘to educate.’ That is, the same way knowledge or virtue
is ‘set in’ someone, a plant is ‘set in’ the ground. I‘ve kept the Latin word order
here because it is telling that Lucilius‘ desire is between the friend being formed
and educated. It seems like Lucilius’ desire is ‘set in’ the possible passive activities of his friend.
3
This is the passive form of capio - ‘to take.’ The subject is the friend; the
friend is seized and the durus is in apposition to the implied subject being the
friend. This is an interesting use of capio. It implies two things, namely that the
friend has been seized, very much like our word seize which implies the no longer
functioning of a mechanism as in ‘seized up.’ It is also the word a Latin speaker
would use, as in English, to say a plant has ‘taken root.’ Thus foreshadowing for
our upcoming plant analogy. But both of these meanings together along with the
durus (hard) being in apposition to the implied subject make me feel as though
his friend has grown stuck, but by his own agency. Indeed we do not have any
agent in the ablative for the passive verb in these clauses that contain capitur. But
it would not be out of the question to say that the consuetudine mala ac diutina
could be used as the agents for not only fractus but also capitur. This only further
corroborates the fact that this friend has taken root or been seized as very hard or
very soft by his own agency.
4
Broken here is fractus. This is a nominative thus is playing the same
grammatical role as durus (hard) and mollis (soft.) It is fascinating that he is
seized as something not only very soft but as something broken too. It is strange
to think of something very soft as being broken because typically very soft things
are malleable and thus not easily broken. This is not so in the case of the friend.
This strangeness implies that the state of softness and brokenness of the friend is
not physical. His character is soft i.e. it cannot endure pains, and thus broken by
his consistent choices which form his way of life i.e. his (mala) consuetudine. This
is also foreshadowing for the luxuria which is the friend’s exemplary fault or vice
39
which is a result of his being soft and thus not being able to endure pains.
At first Seneca thinks him very hard which means unchangeable or recalcitrant in
his error. But then says he’s very soft which has a common moral meaning of not
being able to endure pain. The alternation between very hard and very soft seems
to mean that he is unchangeable because he is very soft and thus unable to be
formed like water or clothing. This all seems to be an allusion to Aristotle’s Ethics
wherein hardness and softness concern moral character in relation to enduring
pains; it doesn’t seem that Lucilius’ friend has attained the mean between hardness and softness; Aristotle at 1150b calls luxury a certain kind of softness.
5
Here the vine (or root plant) is Lucilius’ friend. I do wonder if the scion
(the cutting that is being grafted on to the base plant) is Lucilius. In order to
understand this analogy, we should first look at what grafting is: “Grafting is a
technique that joins the tissues of two plants together so they continue to grow as
one plant. In viticulture this technique allows grape vines to express the desirable varietal characteristics of the scion (upper part of the joined plant) in the
fruits, while developing or keeping the root system of the rootstock (lower part
of the joined plant).” So, the new plant seems to be an image of the friendship
between Lucilius and his friend. The scion is Lucilius and the root plant is Lucilius’ friend. This is probably the case because if the grafting is successful i.e., the
friendship is possible, then Lucilius’ friend, the root plant, will be able to take on
the desirable characteristics of Lucilius, the scion. This is very well corroborated
by Seneca‘s idea of the exemplum wherein virtue is achieved by being close to and
imitating someone virtuous. This is most clearly articulated in Letter 6. Also, any
grafting needs to be done between organisms of the same species, so it seems
likely that Seneca is talking about two people here, not one person and some
abstract qualities.
If Lucilius is the scion and his friend is the root vine, we might wonder
whether Seneca is the gardener. It may be “their art,” but it could be theirs in
different ways.
6
The Latin here is temptari possit secunda fortuna. Temptari, the passive
form of temptare, is where English gets ‘to tempt.’ It has a fairly broad, though
consistent, semantic range. It means roughly ‘to test,’ ‘to prove,’ ‘to try’ but mainly by touching, that is, by direct experience. It can be used not only as in, ‘to try
one’s enemy in battle,’ but also ‘to feel the pulse of.’ This is an excellent word for
the sounding out of character through friendship that this analogy is depicting.
Secunda fortuna is the subject of the complementary infinitive temptari through
possit (is able.) Fortuna on its own means ‘chance,’ ‘fate’ or ‘fortune’ but with
40
�secunda it means ‘good fortune,’ but also ‘second chance.’ Secunda means literally
‘second’ but also means good, a carry-over from a second i.e., following wind
being always a good one for sailing, so secunda came to mean good especially
with things determined by chance like the wind. Here it means most prominently
‘second chance,’ but can also mean good fortune is able to be tried again. Another
interesting possibility for secunda fortuna is ‘a following state’ because secunda
can mean ‘following’ and fortune can mean ‘fate’ or ‘state’ or ‘condition.’ Thus
if at first the root plant doesn’t have a following condition, it’s possible to try a
following condition. It’s quite possible Seneca means all three possibilities for
secunda fortuna.
7
Second attempt here is repetita which is where we get ‘repeat.’ It comes
from re, which means ‘to do again’, like English, and peto, which means ‘to seek,’
but especially to make an attack. This agrees very well with temptari in bringing home the harsh, if not violent nature of sounding out someone’s character
through friendship. This is not a pleasant experience for either the root plant or
the scion, although it does seem like it can be beautiful. This corroborates the fact
that the friend is soft, that is his character can’t endure pain.
8
There is some ambiguity here concerning whether the cutting will be
grafted to the root plant below the earth or simply sown as its own plant in order
to root itself. ’Sown’ is inseratur which can mean either ‘to graft in’ or ‘to plant in.’
The purpose of growing grapevines is for the grapes. Grafting allows the variety
of the cutting (scion) to produce fruit more quickly than if simply planted in the
ground. But if the root is no good, one can just plant the cutting in the ground on
its own, and although slower, it will produce fruit. This is opposed to if the root
vine is old and weak, in which case no fruit will be produced. It seems likely that
Seneca is saying here that, after the first attempt, if the root is no good, just plant
the scion directly and throw out the root. That is, if the new plant is the friendship of Lucilius and his friend and we can assume the fruit is virtue, then if the
root is bad and won’t take the favourable qualities of the scion which means that
the friend is of a sufficiently bad character to not take to the friendship of Lucilius, then it is best to let the friend go if virtue is the goal. This letting go also seems
like it would be painful for both.
9
‘Strength’ here is vires which can also mean ‘vigour’ or ‘virtue,’ it is
derived from vir which means man and it is where English gets ’virile’ from. It
is plural which seems to imply there are many qualities his friend is missing in
order to accept the graft. This can also mean, although grammatically unfeasible,
41
’you are green‘ or ’you flourish’ from the Latin verb vireo which is derived from
the word for green viridis.
10
Flaws’ here is vitiis which is most directly translated as ‘vices,’ but ‘vices’
implies a kind of Christian meaning that I don’t want to invoke. A vitium is any
quality in a particular thing that gets in the way of a that thing naturally tending
toward its end.
11
‘Argument’ is here ratio where English gets ‘reason’ and, you guessed it,
ratio from. I didn‘t want to use ‘reason’ because it brings to mind a kind of Enlightenment era notion of the activity of the intellect. Argument is a better notion
although it sounds worse. Because of his poor moral state, it seems like Lucilius’
friend is not able to accept any argument or reason, let alone to live according to
it and nourish it in his life.
12
’Want’ here is cupio. It is the word that begins the letter, although Seneca
is speaking then, not Lucilius’ friend. Seneca says that he wants that the friend be
educated but that the goal of the desire is impossible. The friend says he wants to
be educated but the goal of the desire is impossible, and it is impossible for the
same reason as why Seneca‘s desire is impossible; namely because the friend‘s
moral state doesn‘t allow the desire to be chosen.
13
Here we can see that Lucilius’ friend’s desire and reason are not in accord, that is, he is ignorant of his desires, but he doesn’t know that he is ignorant
of them.
14
Stomachum illi fecit luxuria, translated literally is ‘luxury makes the
stomach for him.’ Luxuria is where we get luxury from but they are by no means
semantically identical. Luxuria means literally the rankness of trees or plants.
It is that strong smell that comes off vegetable matter. But figuratively it means
moral decadence. A very apt word! This phrase is difficult. It should be taken in
two ways. First, it is as when one eats too much and is disgusted with food because
of the discomfort. Yet as soon as the excess leaves the stomach, the disgust will
return to desire. Secondly, it implies that the excess, the expression of the flaw
in character, produces the whole unnatural process of excess enjoyment, disgust,
excess enjoyment, etc.... His character makes his actions, and his actions make
his character because he is unable to accept reason which is the only thing capable of presenting with him an alternative to his vicious cycle.
42
�15
’Put off’ here is offendi it means literally ‘to be hit.’ This is frequently
used to describe military action and goes well with the harsh and violent language Seneca gave us when describing the grafting process. This seems to imply
that pain will be part of life regardless of whether one is stuck in viciousness or
becoming virtuous and thus cannot be a good reason for choosing either.
16
This seems to mean that anyone, should they think back on their life, will
recall some cause for pain and regret. Thus it is not sufficient reason to believe
that someone wants to become virtuous, for all people feel this way, both those
who do and those who don’t want to become virtuous.
hard and soft, soft and broken at the same time, he loves and hates his flaws. He
is feverish, and it’s his soul that is sick. Only by choosing to become virtuous, and
the pain that comes with that can he begin to come back to health. But he must
choose pain in this instance rather than just feel it, because there will be pain either way. By choosing he will begin to exercise his reason, and thereby be able to
accept arguments and nourish them in conversation with Lucilius. But right now,
he is stuck, so it seems the gardener recommends that this root plant not be used
for grafting.
17
’We will judge’ here is feremus sententiam. This idiom means literally ‘we
will carry opinion’ but it has a very particular usual meaning. It is used for voting,
and especially voting in the comitia, where the people would vote on who should
be magistrate. They would vote twice with time in between, so that the magistrate
would be able to change his way of life or not based on the first vote; see Cicero’s
On The Agrarian Law 2.11. This is very similar to the way Seneca describes the
grafting process having two chances.
18
’Show’ here is fac fidem which means literally ’make faith.’ Normally this
means to convince or persuade, but with an object clause it means to show or
evince. That is, with an object clause the proof is more obvious and less subject
to interpretation. This is similar to how temptari, used earlier, requires a kind of
experience for proof. So it seems like Seneca and Lucilius will need the friend to
start living as though excess (luxuria) is hateful to him rather than just saying it.
This seems to require a choice on his part.
19
This is a difficult phrase to translate. The Latin is: nunc illis male convenit. Convenit is where English gets ’convenient.‘ It comes from con which means
‘together’ and venio which means ‘come.’ The ‘them’ is the friend and luxuria.
The issue in translating this phrase is that it is impersonal, so the subject is the
situation. The impersonal meaning of convenio means: ‘it is agreed upon,’ ‘there
is unanimity with respect to something,’ or ‘the matter is decided.’ Also, it is not
a simple negation; the adverb is male which means ‘badly.’ This phrase seems to
put the friend and the faults on the same level, as if they are to agree to something
together. This is strange because they are his faults, to put them on the same level
indicates that his faults have as much agency in his life as he does. This is absurd
because his faults are him how could they not agree? What this likely means is
he is not in agreement with himself. He wilts and stiffens at the same time, he is
43
44
�| Memoria
45
46
�Students at the Graduate Institute who elect to write a Master’s Essay undergo an oral examination upon completion of their essay. Each examination begins with the student reading a précis
of their work. This fall Kelly Custer successfuly defended his Master’s essay titled Following the
Logos of Plato’s Phaedo.
Following the Logos of Plato’s Phaedo
October 5, 2022
Kelly Custer
In my undergraduate years, I worked in a restaurant, during which time
the most frequent question asked of me was what my major was. Immediately
after my answer that I was a philosophy major followed the question, “What are
you going to do with that?” My response was always, “Prepare for death.” While
I cannot recall how many people pushed me to answer just what preparing for
death entailed, it was no doubt only a few. The lack of follow-up questions was
favorable for me as it is doubtless that whatever stumbling and blush accompanied response I might have given was as unmemorable to me as it must have been
for anyone else.
Philosophy as the preparation for death and itself the practice of dying
and being dead is the dominant theme of Plato’s Phaedo. Who could not help but
share in Simmias and Cebes’ initial perplexity and outrage upon hearing such a
definition of philosophy? Socrates’ first task in the Phaedo involves his explicit
answering of how philosophy is akin to dying, which sets the stage for the ensuing
speeches and arguments of the Phaedo. One of the primary contentions of my
essay is that it is equally in Socrates’ treatment of his young friends, his attending
to their souls through philosophical speech, and his attempt to persuade them
to spend their lives taking care of their own that we see just what philosophy as a
preparation for death consists of – the care of our souls. And as all great endeavors that bear the balance of life and death, the care of our souls is not without
danger.
The primary question of my essay is what such dangers in the Phaedo are
and how Socrates and his young companions follow the logos of their conversation to a place of safety at the dialogue’s conclusion and the end of Socrates’ life.
But before discussing my essay with those at this table, who are the first recipients of my gratitude for the time you have taken to read my essay and are now
prepared to spend with me as we enter our own dialogue guided by the richness of
Plato’s Phaedo, I would like to offer a few words of thanks and dedication.
To Mr. Kalkavage for the guidance of my writing and thought as you
patiently encouraged me as I started and stopped, often fumbling with awkward
hands in the attempt to pick up and follow my logos throughout the completion of
47
48
�this essay.
To my parents John and Julie who never once asked a young and confused, but albeit, earnest philosophy major, “What are you going to do with that?”
but always trusted and had faith that there is no greater task than the care of one’s
soul.
To my wife Martha who shares my soul and whose love and patience
never wavered as she often disproportionately shared me with the Phaedo among
many other books, the seminar table and those who sat around it, and the conversations that never end.
And last and in no way least, to my son, Yohannes, to whom this work is
dedicated. In the brevity of your nine weeks of life, your every movement, facial
expression, and sound reminds me that you have a soul and that it is in my care
but more importantly, that the art of fatherhood is to persuade you to become
master of your own.
49
A Toast to the Tutors
May 22, 2022
Andrew Graney
Should we do this at Galway?
It’s hard to believe my time here at St. John’s is coming to an end. What
is the “end” of St. John’s College? Is it our happiness? I think Aristotle would be
happy if it was, as long as that happiness was in accord with virtue and right reason, whatever that means. And while I chuckle to myself a little as I say, “whatever
that means,” I think it gets to the heart of something important about St. John’s. I
heard that phrase with some frequency during my two years here— from students
and tutors alike. After one person asked what a particular author was saying, or
trying to say, another might offer up a passage he thought would be helpful, read
it, and then, realizing he might not have actually understood it, would say that
three-word phrase. This, I find, has been a way of keeping the conversation both
light and serious. It’s funny, but it also shows an openness that is key to education
at St. John’s.
We all came here to ask questions and read books in conversation with
one another. When done right, it’s a remarkable thing. The books are in conversation with one another, and we, with one another, are in conversation with those
books. That funny phrase, “whatever that means,” reveals how we actually want
to have those conversations. We do not come to the texts, or each other, with premade answers, but instead have genuine interactions. We all go by our honorifics, including the tutors, because we are all trying out figure out what “it” means
together. We help one another, guide one another, wrestle with the texts together.
Instead of being told what something means, we have a conversation about what
it might mean. We listen and have our minds changed. It’s no small thing to have
one’s mind changed, and sitting at the St. John’s seminar table graciously grants
us that gift.
You can risk yourself here. You can say, “I don’t know.” You can ask questions that have been on your mind for years or questions you had never thought
of before, of concepts entirely new to you. Through conversation, we grow. Our
minds, like knives against a whetstone, become sharper, more penetrating. We
have a chance to come into hard to reconcile complexities and revel in them
without reducing them. As I said earlier, we say, “I don’t know,” but that “I don’t
know is not an “I don’t care,” nor is it a throwing up of arms and giving up, (even
if we might want to sometimes). It’s not a stagnant “I don’t know,” but a moving
50
�one—in every sense of the word.
We laugh, we agree, disagree, get confused together, and perhaps even enlightened.
Thank you, tutors of the GI, for cultivating this environment, for allowing all of this to happen. Thank you for guiding us in our confusion, for giving
us room to be confused. Thank you for letting us think for ourselves but not by
ourselves. As Aristotle said, “man is by nature a political, [i.e. social], animal.
Through hosting the big questions of life, you, the tutors, help us to come into our
very natures, become more ourselves. Keeping your minds (and hearts) open,
you open us.
So, friends, please join me in raising a glass.
And here’s to the tutors: thank you for all you do.
51
A Toast to the Master’s Degree Candidates
May 22, 2022
Louis Petrich, Tutor
A few weeks ago I took the pleasure of reading some poetry of Robert
Frost in the company of my seniors. Despite the middle portion of their college
careers having been muddied by Covid, they made a clear, joyous end of it in
American poetry. That got me wondering how character keeps buoyant, avoiding nausea, while crossing rough seas to rocky shores. What follows are some
thoughts of mine offered apropos of your new characterization as masters of the
liberal arts—the wonder of it, given the contrary winds that blow. “Thoughts
of mine” warrants this note: as always when I rise to speak I owe my would-be
height to the authors I have been reading of late with you—Emerson, Thoreau and
Whitman, Melville and Nietzsche—and with students like you—Baudelaire, Flannery O’Connor, and always Shakespeare. Much importing we have done. Their
voices stand out or blend to make my present solo a chorus. Let that suffice what
is owed, so as not to appear a smuggler.
You chose this college. You might have spent somewhere else your many
hours, and somehow else your means to live. You maintained a bright and forward disposition when even the offspring of Whitman were given to cranky sighs
at life’s unaccountable swings. I can’t chalk this up to youth, as I might with my
seniors, for not all of you are young, unless, as they say, “in spirit.” That’s a word
we have much encountered together—spirit: in the eagled flight of aphorisms,
while dancing the dialectic, or feeling massaged by expert rhetoric. Right now, as
fits our poignancy, let spirit appear as poetic stressing in those final feet of Frost’s
“The Road not Taken”: I took the one less traveled by,/ And that has made all the
difference.” With legs young or old you took that road, you seekers of knowledge,
and on it your spirits altered. You learned how to listen and speak to the ever-living questions, booked lonely and communal, invisibly active, resolutely cheerful,
unpretentious, patient; living dangerously, like an endangered species in this
angry culture that hastens to harpoon and drain, Ahab style, whatever offends its
fragile members. But as for your style, you players with lightning, let your future
comportment manifest all the difference this road (open to many) makes to its
few faithful takers. So may your faces impress the many, when they see how sympathy, generosity, and courage give you looks of readiness to expand your days,
your moments towards eternity.
Isn’t it remarkable (speaking of readiness) when the lines we were given
to read in high school (our salad days, green in judgment) come readily back
in adulthood so transparently good? For it’s often the reverse case: we return
52
�to youthful occupations or pleasures and ask: “how could I ever have liked this
stuff?” This prompts me to ask if a confession of this kind will ever be encountered over the books you have been reading on the Program? The sighing of such
words would have to issue from a depleted kind of character, not yet heard without gainsay among your predecessors. That being so, don’t be afraid to look back.
It won’t send your Eurydice to hell or turn you to a pillar of salt. It is part of our
convalescence and manifesting of health, that while bound to the perils of life we
go on conducting the air-born music and grounding the fires of the sky. As water
cuts into rock, let life’s learning cut into life’s hardness—silently, subtly—shaping
the very character of the times we inhabit. So does an open road, overgrown with
waiting, admit the impression of our cultivating passage.
In my fall preceptorial with you, I looked back at my first literary heroes
to see how well they would hold up to my autumnal needs. I was met by my Eurydice, face to face and accompanying me upward still, after forty years. Although
the American “enterprise” (Thoreau’s favored word for it) was approaching the
abyss in the 1850’s, he and his fellow transcendentalists sang—then as now—of
shining dawns and springs, of love for their fellows rooted in love for themselves,
and even as an assassinated president’s coffin toured the states, they conducted
stars earthward and flowers they sentenced rising—for all time. And that’s not
just me succumbing to fine words, for one who tried to put on the attire of Emersonian idealism but couldn’t make it fit man’s cannibal-fed fierceness—Herman
Melville—even he found a good use for a cannibal’s coffin, carved with the tantalizing possibility of heaven and earth’s mutual design: that use being to keep one
calling himself “Ishmael” alive to tell the incredible true story of Moby Dick. Why
should we in our preceptorials harken back to the tellings of Moby-Dick, Walden,
or Song of Myself, unless the tellings have like uses as that carved coffin?—to keep
us well-sounded, ready to be picked up on the dark seas by bereft sailors searching for characters manifestly buoyant, however much alone, possessed of speech
able to name things forever current, though not in purchase, yet much in need.
And as for that great white whale pursued by Ahab, who went lining the
oceans with questions untallied: is their finding each other on the open seas so
incredible, when today we find ourselves lingering on high scenic old roads, not
at all the current effacing efficiencies plotted for all on the plains?—when we hear
our latent words come from what depths of undiscovered country to breach the
surface between our facing infinities? The little things we’re made of can do what
we most long to do. Isn’t that remarkable? And so here we are, where we most
long to be. We have taken the most signal ways across the wanderings of our kind
to arrive here and measure up. Like that German philosopher, canvassed behind
a big mustache, who says, “Let us color our own example ever more brilliantly,”
you too have stepped aside from the ugly, the accusatory and reproachful, the
partial improvers and punishing equalizers, to paint your canvass as one whole,
53
and to make it beautiful. Remember well the practice, how to draw aside from
incessant clamoring to color your example by attention to the exemplary. Whether whaling or sitting by the fire, there’s a line tightening around the neck, but
remember how life’s breath, made aware of what’s out there, would fasten in its
finitude only on what’s tasteful and terrific. A familiar paradox obtains here, of
looking away in order to be looked at, of stepping aside from the world in order
to come back to the world—still having to live, still having to think—of saying “no”
to make room for a vast encompassing “yes.” Let that character obtained as yours
be bold to manifest its inherent case for treading today’s less traveled road of the
liberal arts.
Like that fellow treader, Parker by name, trying to know himself in one
of Flannery O’Connor’s late stories (boy did she ever know about that line!), his
entire body he covers with random tattoos; but God—because Parker asks for God
when all he has left unpainted is the blank skin of his back—God comes in answer
to color the whole of his back in a tattoo of brilliantly byzantine design. Well, you
asked for it when you took this road, and in brilliant color and design it’s got your
back now. Whatever grumblings or fears may front you piecemeal, we’ve got your
back now—wonderfully looking, masterfully reaching ahead.
Let us then raise our glasses, and in reach of these towering trees that
give us back breath enough to hold out against wind and rain, let us drink to
the brilliant masters of the Graduate Institute, class of 2022, manifestly goodly
different.
54
�A Toast to the Tutors
Summer 2022
Chase Waller
As I have reflected on the past four summers which I have spent at St.
John’s, the big question, which I and probably my classmates have been asking is:
What did I get out of this? What have I gained from my time with these amazing
tutors reading these texts? Plutarch credits Solon with the following words:
“The future that bears down on each of us is variable and determined
by unknowable factors, and so we consider a man only happy when the
gods have granted him success right up to the end of his life. However, to count anyone happy while he is still alive and faced with all the
uncertainties of life is as unsound and valid as proclaiming an athlete the
winner and crowning him while the contest is still in progress.”
So I guess, by Solon’s calculations, I can’t thank the tutors for making me
happy. Hopefully, the gods will grant me success up to the end of my life, but that
privilege seems reserved for a small percentage of people. And I will corroborate Solon’s claim further by saying that St. John’s, in one sense, has not brought
me happiness. I am more confused now than I ever have been in my whole life.
“About what?” you may wonder. About everything! About justice, and love, and
education, and history, and parallel lines, and God, and everything. It’s chronic!
It never stops. St. John’s has effectively ruined certain things for me. I feel like
I haven’t answered a question in four years! When I drive down an open road I
see a Lobachevskian parallel and have to pull over and take a nap. I have grown
to be tepid– I struggle to assert anything because I feel so lost in the vast world of
wisdom and knowledge and story. This state is not happy. Sometimes it’s angry.
I feel like Thrasymachus, barging into the dialogue and demanding that people
listen to what I am saying, even though what I am saying falls apart so quickly.
And yet, in another sense, St. John’s has brought me some of the greatest
happiness in my whole life. I have made friends every summer I have been at St.
John’s. I have cried every summer I have been at St. John’s. I have laughed every
summer I have been at St. John’s. The list goes on, but the full range of emotions
has been readily available, and I have embraced each of them openly with others.
What else can you do when presented with truth and beauty?
So, to answer the question, I would like to thank the tutors for what I feel is the
most important thing that I have received from St. John’s (and that which might
55
cause me to disagree with Solon): simply the ability to listen.
Every time I sit in class I look at the tutor and wonder to myself: “how can
they listen to this conversation, having themselves read and re-read the text so
much more than me, having themselves so much more background information
about the text, having themselves thought so many more years than I about these
things, having lived so much more life than me?” How did you, tutors, listen to
my confused attempts so patiently? Why do you reject time at the beach during
the summers to sit in a classroom and continue the dialogue? It is an act of love,
and I am so grateful. You taught me how to listen carefully, and to dignify every
person by that very act. It is tremendously profound.
I hope, like you, the tutors, to be able to willingly enter confusion and
difficulty over, and over, and over again with excitement, and generosity, with
an ear for everyone (including the authors) and with the extreme compassion to
listen.
Furthermore, by your example, I have learned how to listen to and thereby love myself. When I came here, I was in a crisis. I didn’t know what to do. I
used to berate myself for every little mistake I made. I still don’t know what to do,
and I am still in a crisis. But now, thanks to my tutors and my friends, I know that
I am not alone, and I know that I don’t have to beat myself up for not knowing.
Not knowing is part of the fun. And just as I want to be like the tutors in loving
others by listening to them and valuing what they say, I want to learn how to do
the same for myself. Just because I don’t necessarily come to any grand conclusions, doesn’t mean the ideas in that pursuit are worthless.
I will conclude with this: when I first read Notes on Dialogue, the strangest
precept to me was that we were not to take notes. I thought it strange because I
wanted to remember the ideas in the conversations we had. But in my time here,
I saw that it was actually extremely profound to fully listen to someone, without the distraction of trying to write anything down, making full eye contact. It
makes sense to me how full attention to someone’s words will give you a much
deeper appreciation for their ideas. And though I might not have a record of that
idea on paper, what I do have is an intimate experience with the person, having
given their words due thought, and having let them convince me. In that sense,
the ideas become more a part of me when I encounter them in this way than they
would have had I recorded each and every one of them on paper. Every conversation was a relationship; every conversation changed the way I think in some way.
I don’t need them all on paper because I think for me that would just be a temptation to return to the ideas and use them for something other than what they were
meant for. Perhaps, it is better to just listen, and in so doing, to love.
So, to the tutors, here’s to you for teaching us how to listen and to love.
May we follow your example and thereby learn how to embrace confusion, argument, paradox, and complexity for the sake of perhaps seeing something true.
56
�A Toast to the Master’s Degree Candidates
Summer 2022
John Tomarchio
As God cast Adam and Eve out of the garden of paradise, so we gather
here today as you cast off from this our island of misfit toys, to finish out your
intellectual life among infidels and barbarians, some your nearest and dearest.
And when you propose to them to spend 2 hours some Monday night after work
discussing a 17th century metaphysical poem on the vanity of erotic desire; or
a geocentric account of the solar system; or the arguments of an ancient Greek
drinking party for and against pedophilia, they will think you a misfit for even
asking, and they will be right.
So, what will be left for you to do but retreat to the secret chamber of
your soul where your heavenly Father alone will see what becomes of the seeds
that Holy Mother College, like a good sower, has scattered there. True, some of
those seminars fell on the hard parts of your soul and were devoured forever by
the birds of pride and prejudice. Other seminars fell on the shallow parts of your
soul and sprung up quickly, even eagerly, only to wither before searing rays of
cross-examination. Still other seminars were choked by the thorns and thistles
of daily cares, for the G.I. Johnny does not live on Seminar alone! BUT, some of
those seminars have fallen on good soil, and taken root, and if cultivated, will in
time yield fruit 30-fold, or 60-fold, even 100-fold.
And if then you should remember us, your Tutors, send a check earmarked for Tutor compensation, for Tutors can’t live on Seminar alone either.
So, please raise your glasses, my fellow Tutors, to those about to brave life after
Seminar: may it never befall us!
57
58
�List of Works
Cover
Midnight in the Studio
Jesse Clagett
Digital transfer of 16mm cyanotype
59
Acknowledgements
Pl. 24
A winter afternoon in Kentucky IV
Jesse Clagett
Black and white print
10” x 8”
Cover, Jesse Clagett
jesse.clagett@gmail.com
6 Melissa Moore
27 Bonnie Naradzay
bonnie.naradzay@gmail.com
Pl. 9
Capulin Volcano, NM, I
Aschely Vaugh Cone
Oil on panel with hard gesso surface
10” x 8” x 1”
Pl. 25
The Gyre
Jules Spiese
Color pencil on paper
7 Louis Petrich, Tutor
29 Jesse Clagett
9 Aschely Vaughan Cone
https://www.aschely.com/
31 Abdullah Wadood
Pl. 10
White Arch I
Aschely Vaugh Cone
Oil on panel with hard gesso surface
10” x 8” x 1”
Pl. 29
Thinking Pre-Socratic
Jesse Clagett
Digital transfer of 16mm photogram
Pl. 11
Cast Fossil and Carson Cover
Aschely Vaugh Cone
Oil on panel with hard gesso surface
10” x 8” x 1”
Pl. 45
Capulin Volcano, NM, VI
Aschely Vaugh Cone
Oil on panel with hard gesso surface
10” x 8” x 1”
Pl. 21
Found at 4000 ft. in the Appalachians
Jesse Clagett
Black and white print
11” x 14”
Pl. 47
White Arch II
Aschely Vaugh Cone
Oil on panel with hard gesso surface
10” x 8” x 1”
Pl. 23
And if it’s cold enough
Jules Spiese
Color pencil on paper
Pl. 58
A winter afternoon in Kentucky III
Jesse Clagett
Black and white print
10” x 8”
3 Benjamin Crocker
25 Jules Spiese
26 Ansley Green
10 Aschely Vaughan Cone
33 Luis Sanchez
sanchezmo.luis@gmail.com
11 Aschely Vaughan Cone
35 Ansley Green
14 Siobhan Petersen
37 Walker Rogalsky
rogalsky.walker@gmail.com
16 Abdullah Wadood
abdullahwadood.com
17 Jose Gabriel Coronado-Flores
gabecoronado66@gmail.com
21 Jesse Clagett
22 Jesse Clagett
23 Jules Spiese
https://www.jspiese.com/
24 Jesse Clagett
45 Aschely Vaughan Cone
47 Aschely Vaughan Cone
48 Kelly Custer
50 Andrew Graney
52 Louis Petrich, Tutor
55 Chase Waller
57 John Tomarchio, Tutor
58 Jesse Clagett
60
�
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Colloquy
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Colloquy, Fall 2022
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Volume XI of Colloquy, published in Fall 2022.
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Clagett, Jesse (Editor)
Wadood, Abdullah (Editor)
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Colloquy
On Creation
1
�2
�Table of Contents
4. Letter from the Editor
6. Poetry
22. Short Stories & Musings
32. Essays
66. Translations
79. An Interview with Associate Dean Brendan Boyle
3
�Letter from the Editor
4
�On Creation and the Value of Themes
I think a short explanation of the role of theme within a publication is warranted, given its inclusion in a handful of recent issues of Colloquy. Not only is it useful for you,
the reader, but for the contributors, and the editorial team. Without theme, we have
nothing to judge against. I’m not speaking of judgements of quality, as we would have
a difficult and spirited discussion about how to ascertain a work’s quality. Instead I
mean “judge” as in weigh the value of any particular work within the context of its
setting. I think the simplest way to explain the importance of a theme is to highlight
how prevalent the habit of keeping something “thematic” is. You cannot say something coherently unless a theme renders what you say coherent.
I’d first point to books, like the many we read here at St. John’s. If Kant deviated at all
from theme then the Critique of Pure Reason would suddenly find itself impure and unreasonable. And what a detriment to the ends of that work such a change would be. A
core aspect of our ingrained habit of storytelling is theme. It ties one plot point to the
next and allows metaphor to shine in the liminal space between word and interpretation. The role of theme is the same as the role of words, to communicate, but theme
on its own can communicate an entire catalogue of interpretations and emotions that
words cannot in their isolation.
So, let us focus on the theme for this issue of Colloquy: On Creation. Creation is among
the most transcendent capabilities of any single thing. It can refer to the creation of
new life or new purpose. We talk of artists as creators, and we say the same of gods.
The role of creation is that something comes to fruition, and moves from a space purely other, that of the non-existent, to that of the tangible and knowable, materializing
reality from concept.
In a way, “On Creation” is not a theme that enforces rigid boundaries. Creation as act
is available to the entirety of life’s beings, and seems to belong to nature’s fundamental forces. The Universe forges stars as we create an idea. As a theme, “On Creation”
does invite the polity of the Graduate Institute to participate in the single most unifying capability of all the Universe. And so I would like to end this musing with what I
hope the following submissions create within you, dear reader.
I hope they create inspiration, so that some aspect of the style, content, or beauty of
what you read here aids you in creating something wholly your own. I hope they
create a reaction, as emotional states are a sudden and startling reminder that we are
alive. And I hope they create a sense of appreciation for the brilliant, curious, and creative minds that make up the polity of the Graduate Institute, in this time and place.
Thank you, and give witness to creation.
Stephen Borsum - Editor
5
�Poetry & Musings
On Creation
Old Dog
Forbidden Fruit
Children of that World
Mimi
My Mind’s a Dark Forest
Before the Blank Stare
6
�Contributors
Austin Suggs
Chris MacBride
Stacey Rains
Louis Petrich
Sydney Rowe
Sylvie Bernhardt
John Harwood
7
�On Creation
Austin Suggs
What was in that dark
Over which the Spirit’s spark
hovered?
There was water there it seems
Though not the water of our streams.
This was of a different order
Not teeming with life
But humming with the power
Of a world not yet made
But somehow already there.
Did you tame primordial chaos
Or disturb a primal peace?
And what happened on that second day
That caused the pen to betray
Something was off.
For it was not good
Nor was it great.
It simply was.
Did the mass of land amidst the seas
Begrudge the Spirit its roaming free
A new strife where once there was peace?
And tell me, how great was man, really,
If you came to regret his progeny?
And if he’s an image of you,
Well, what are we to do
With that?
8
�Somewhere with Warm Waters - Louis Petrich
9
�Old Dog
Chris Macbride
The click-clicking of four arthritic ankles
announce him into the kitchen
At 17, he’s still turning up whenever the recipe begins
warm olive oil over medium heat, add 2 cloves garlic…
We met him at a rescue and were told his first owner was a chef
it explains a lot
His back is now a long, deep sway between hip and shoulder
curved like the mountain valley in Virginia where he was born
He shakes his head and the World’s softest ears
slap against sunken cheekbones
These days, he speaks in low groans as if to say
getting older stinks (like dog poop)
And yet
when the air outside turns chilly
darn if he isn’t a pup again
Trotting up the driveway eager to sniff out
the latest news left by four-legged friends
Nose to ground, tail wagging
he is happy
10
�Forbidden Fruit
Stacey Rains
In 9th grade Biology, we dissected lilies;
we carefully opened the white petals to access the pale green center,
separated the stamen from the pistil, and
learned that even flowers have ovaries
to grow life inside of life,
inside the deep, protected center, comes the slow swelling and upwelling,
‘til the petals drop away, and all is given
to the potential.
I have wrestled with
the discovery that trees can be dioecious–
that plants also are gendered–and, more, that there exists
a botanical misogyny. “When used for street plantings,
only male trees should be selected,
to avoid the nuisance from the seed.”
Fertility is so inconvenient.
Nevermind the spewing,
fertile pollen that now dominates the landscape,
causing red eyes and running noses.
Nevermind regret.
11
�Children of that World
Louis Petrich
(Luke 20:34-36)
“—they neither marry, nor are given in marriage—”
That’s all, perhaps, you need to say to inculcate
thy kingdom come and save us bouts of parables:
your sower, famed as seeding ground that’s cursed,
then straining after roots to clutch at light,
next family farms and winter strawberries—
all angelically void when wings caress
god’s breath and ‘tis enough to harvest songs.
Your late-hired field hands, prodigally paid for?-consider angels--any time--for free.
The good Samaritan gets even better,
stays the night with beaten travelers
instead of backing home to wife and stacking
nursing on an innkeeper, whose own shrewd wife,
though scraping profit from the dirty sheets,
with years grows tired of busybody neighbor feats.
12
�There’d be no rigmarole with folks declining
t’attend the wedding--no resorting last
to uncast idlers outing for a lark—
when kingdom come has come, the nights are done
that consummate, no made-up faces fine
or bodies nipped and tucked to light a spark—
O what a load from off the mind!--you lookers, mark.
My savior dear, your promised kingdom
parabolic could have been a kingdom
literal, in words that summon what they mean
forthright as prince’s peal: I say there shan’t be
children given away from honied skies.
For yes, I do remember Paradise-creation, mine to color.
Then the pall,
for none do slice off married once for all
until they deal their evil able parts
and die while knowing them inseparable.
She, hearing how to swallow serpentine
the world, tends him naked taste of inside
out desire; henceforth, he’s good no more alone
to name things as he will and hear the Lord approve.
13
�If only kingdom come, pie rained from sky,
were plated now for simple thanks to still
the pulpy verbiage, round it goes: “Now eat
at once the astronomical wee apple
that lets fall the dominoes.” Along come back pains,
raking leaves from tree left-o’er uneaten,
cracking truth on fossil fruit pertaining
not to peaceful night of sleep ‘til death-with tugging of the limbs and closing in
and never deeper getting than this flushing skin.
To walk with God in cool breeze
of the evening--unafraid
of after-hidden, poor performing fool—
that’s ever, and forever, bliss.
For that, be overcome, O world amiss.
14
�Mimi
Sydney Rowe
Vertebrate coast.
Silent boat.
Cusp of tropics, touch pearl.
Medicine inside embers.
Sails high; flatter.
Arcing Inwards to you.
The tiny cabin with a bowl of salt.
Cut open, pouring.
15
�My Mind’s a Dark Forest
Sylvie Bernhardt
Escape—run for the trees—evade;
Before they mark me freak,
No hope flickers warmth I might save.
No others will I need learn.
Down, down a dark stone cave
Goes I, who dares and burns.
I’ll claim honors as renegade,
Down, down these mountain graves
As friend to claw and beak.
That shutter, crack, and groan.
No good friend have they been to me—
Community of Fear—
Scratching fang nails on rusty rails,
These wretched creatures roam.
Conquer my last youthful decree:
I’m no Devil nor deity;
“I know this dark mirror.”
Grisly death wings me home.
Under night’s blanket I make haste
Away from light, away.
To fall in sight would lead to waste;
Safety in darkness lay.
Know I seek not a Paradise
Where those wretched do roam.
Those that claw against their stone
tombs
Wail, weak cretin cries.
As I descend, no lights a friend
Forever suckling purple blooms,
To delve through depths returned.
They who lives no more dies.
Wicked shadows cling to bright kin,
To I, who dares and burns.
Brutish heads prevail in disorder,
In guise of man though beast.
Debased are they, the exploiter,
And violence of brutes won’t cease.
16
�I move quietly in shadow
But if my flesh be not my end,
With sharp claw I unsheathe.
Then question not my aim.
No hatred I harbor in tow,
Makers of form are divine kin,
But blood be what we breathe.
So worship not to tame.
Should I consent to suffer more
Tread on, but move most steadily,
Or live in sunk despair?
Else these shales might splinter,
I know in cruelty they’ll restore
And break. Striking me readily,
A lust for death so fair.
As done in past winter.
Earth, oh Earth, cries do bury
Depths I dove, and air gusts led
An evil rot in mind.
Through caverns and deluge.
Spoken in tongues—restless fury
A moonlit grove, past tamed, then freed—
Stirs frenzied force blind.
Now my living refuge.
If only I had strength in hand to rake
A melody of crinkling leaves
The tremors from my flesh.
Invokes safety’s soft glee.
From my throat’s rage to the world’s
break,
Lantern flower blooms now breathes
All cries ever languish.
A loving warmth through me.
Death I keep always in soft heart,
Hold I no more despotic dark,
That will know endless cold.
While rose, mint and oak grows;
Love binds us before we depart;
Reflecting sanctuary’s mark
Of All, this I now hold.
Away I from old woes.
17
�Ruins are ripened with dull time.
On this bed of oak leaves I sleep;
I find the warm glow safe.
No company I seek.
Lonely lantern’s golden flame climbs
My tale always to tell as creep,
An ancient etched-stone waif.
As friend to claw and beak.
Secret garden beneath the falls
Spiraling to center.
Fire sprouts flame on vine-meshed
walls
Blooming in November.
To stir thoughts of metaphysics
I deny mind’s fetters.
Alight there glows hieroglyphics—
Spells in gold letters.
Timber crackles in a dirt pit.
Smoke fails to reach the floor.
Poems I babble and I spit,
So to deepen the lore.
Tonight, what dreams will I endure?
Be they kind or bleak?
While rosy-cheeked dawn will ignore
Me so tender and meek.
18
�Puck: Consider it a Dream - Nadine Bucca
19
�Before the Blank Stare
John Harwood
Here I sit and kneel
Before the blank stare
Of some little earth,
An image, of one
I have never seen nor touched.
The more thoughts rattle
In between my ringing ears,
The less I can manage
To imagine even the carving
Of the one I’ve never seen.
A faceless and mangled
Homunculus of marble
Stands before my penitent’s gaze.
In fear, I can not fathom to begin;
To set a chisel into the creature,
To even gesture to the creator.
How can I release anger and dread,
Praise and duty, pent up
In the veins and muscles
Of marble, so finely shaped
By the hands of the Almighty?
20
�Would even a painting,
A lead etching,
A mindless praying,
Or even tranced dancing
Begin to evoke the Unspeakable,
The Ever-Perplexing?
So, I sit and scratch lines into letters
And letters into the pages of my heart
That resembles the stone
That patiently awaits
Before my artist’s first minding.
After a purging time of pondering
Before the blank stare
Of the One Unfathomed,
Who fathoms me gently,
I dare begin to finally set a mark.
21
�Short Stories & Musings
Dialogue: Meeting with Descartes
TRANSLATIONS
The First Postulate
22
�Contributors
Yonas Ketsela
Cynthia Crane
23
�Dialogue: Meeting with Descartes
Yonas Ketsela
I set out on a journey today to meet with Descartes. He invited me to come and chat
with him at his house. I have been anxiously waiting to see him all day. I have his
book, Meditations on First Philosophy under my arms. After a long walk, I arrived at the
appointed time, and I am now only waiting for his call. This is roughly how our conversations go:
Descartes: “Let us for example take the wax; it has only just been removed from the
honeycomb; it has not yet lost all the flavour of its honey; it retains some of the scent of
the flowers among which it has gathered; its colour, shape, and size are clearly visible;
it is hard, cold, easy to touch, and if you tap it with your knuckle, it makes sound. In
short, it has all the properties that seem to be required for a given body to be known as
distinctly as possible.”
Yonas: What you said makes sense to me. This is in fact what I myself experimented on
a candle before coming here. If I put it in my own words, what you describe is exactly
what I characterise as my conscious sense-experience or sensations: the colour, shape,
size of the candle belongs to my vision; it has some cedar flavour which belongs to my
sense of smell and taste; its hardiness and coldness to my sense of touch; and its sound
to my ear. Thus, all these sensations are distinct to me. Even though I am not sure if I can
say that it is clear, nor do I know exactly what this experience means to me.
Descartes: “But wait–while I am speaking, it is brought close to the fire. The remains of
its flavour evaporate; the smell fades; the colour is changed, the shape is taken away, it
grows in size, becomes liquid, becomes warm, it can hardly be touched, and now, if you
strike it, it will give off no sound. Does the same wax still remain?”
Yonas: It is unclear to me now how I can precisely answer the question whether the
same wax remains or not. But one fact is clear to me that it has undergone some changes
of appearance. Its previous qualities are not there anymore. My sensations are obviously diminished in reaction to this change. I can barely smell it, its colour is unclear, its
shape somewhat deformed or irregular as a result of being in a change of state—from
that of solid to liquid; I also cannot grasp it; its sound is not as distinct as before. So, I
guess, so far as my sensation is diminished, I can say it is not exactly the same wax as
before. In fact, if someone now breaks into the house and senses this wax, he would
hardly be able to exactly predict or imagine its previous state. But as for me, I know
what happened and I can remember its previous state–however vague it might be. So I
don’t see the same wax as before.
24
�Descartes: [I see what you are saying but] “we must admit it does remain: no one would
say or think it does not. So what was there in it that was so distinctly grasped? Certainly, none of those qualities I apprehended by the senses: for whatever came under taste,
or smell or sight, or touch, or hearing, has now changed: but the wax remains.”
Yonas: Ahh, you are right. I hadn’t reflected in this way before. But If I follow your suggestion, it does seem to me that what I distinctly grasped was first its number, namely,
there was one wax here which has undergone a change from one state to another. But
as you said, for its taste, smell, sight, touch and hearing, they become very obscure and
even my imagination can only be a little to no help (given that my imagination is not
good enough). My senses may still retain a certain trace of sensations in them, but I am
sure they will disappear pretty soon (given that my memory does not always record
these sensations accurately). In another extreme case, someone who does not have one
of these sense organs may not participate in the same experience at all as I am now. I am
now wondering if these qualities are not necessarily what belongs to the essence of this
wax, then what is the essence of the wax apart from these qualities?
Descartes: [Good], “perhaps the truth of the matter was what I now think it is: namely
that the wax itself was not in fact sweetness of the honey, or the fragrance of the flowers
or the whiteness, shape, or sonority, but the body which not long ago appeared to me
as perceptible in these modes, but now appears in others. But what exactly is this that I
am imaging in this way?”
Yonas: That is exactly what I am wondering about too.
Descartes: [Okay] “let us consider the matter and, thinking away those things that do
not belong to the wax, let us see what remains.”
Yonas: Ok. Good.
Descartes: “Something extended, flexible, mutable: certainly, that is all.”
Yonas: I think I can understand that.
Descartes: “But in what do this flexibility and mutability consist? Is it in the fact that
I can imagine this wax being changed in shape, from a circle to a square, and from a
square into a triangle?”
Yonas: Well, speaking in clear concepts, I think, that may be what we can understand by
terms such as flexibility and mutability. But I am not sure if that is exactly what happens
in reality.
Descartes: [Okay] “That cannot be right: for I understand that it is capable of innumerable changes of this sort, yet I cannot keep track of all these by using my imagination.”
25
�Yonas: Now, I see what you mean, namely that the limitation of my faculty of imagination would not at all allow me to keep track of all these changes ad infinitum.
Descartes: “What about ‘extended’? Surely, I know something about the nature of its
extension. For it is greater when the wax is melting, greater still when it is boiling, and
greater still when the heat is further increased.”
Yonas: Yes, in some vague estimation, I can surely think of changes in its state, that is to
say, from a solid state to liquid or further to gas, consequently its extension increases.
Yes, I am not sure whether at a certain point, we may want to say that it is dispersed,
and not any longer an extension but discrete parts in space.
Descartes: [Okay, hold that thought] “And I would not be correctly judging what the
wax is if I failed to see that it is capable of receiving more varieties, as regards extension,
than I have ever grasped in my imagination.”
Yonas: Your meaning is that if I cannot determine what this wax is like as it changes
from one state into another in some notion or idea, then it seems that I could not do that
by my imagination alone.
Descartes: “Now [see] I am left with no alternative, but not to accept that I am not at all
imagining what this wax is, I am perceiving it with my mind alone: I say ‘this wax’ in
particular, for the point is even clearer about wax in general. So then, what is this wax,
which is only perceived by the mind?”
Yonas: If I remember correctly, we previously said that if we remove all the qualities
from the wax, we will arrive at only flexibility, mutability, and extension. Is that what
you mean? I mean that the mind can grasp the wax in these ideas and yet it would be
the same wax.
Descartes: “Certainly, it is the same wax I see, touch, and imagine, and in short it is
the same wax I judged it to be from the beginning. But yet—and this is important—the
perception of it is not sight, touch or imagination and never was, although it seemed to
be so at first: it is an inspection by the mind alone, which can be either imperfect and
confused, as it was before in this case, or clear and distinct, as it now is, depending on
the greater or lesser degree of attention I pay to what it consists of.”
Yonas: Indeed, that seems to be an interesting and important point. There seems to be
much more happening in perception than my simple sensations. But I don’t quite see
the problem yet. I do trust my senses that they can give me accurate sensations, but
I hadn’t quite reflected in this way before—how my mind can be problematic to this
experience or how it would inspect the wax apart from the senses and yet could be in
error?
Descartes: “...I am amazed by the proneness of my mind to error. For although I am considering this in myself silently and without speech, I am ensnared by words themselves,
and all but deceived by the very ways in which we usually put things. For we say that
26
�we ‘see’ the wax itself, if it is present, not that we judge it to be there
on the basis of its colour or shape. From this I would have immediately concluded that
I therefore knew the wax by the sight of my eyes, not by the inspection of the mind
alone.”
Yonas: That difference makes sense to me.
Descartes: [For example, as I am seeing this wax]..”If I had not happened to glance out
of the window at people walking along the street, I have immediately concluded that I
knew the wax by the sight of my eyes, not by the inspection of the mind alone but using
the customary expression, I say that I ‘see’ them [the people in the street] just say I ‘see’
the wax. But what do I actually see other than hats and coats, which could be covering
automata? But I judge that they are people. And therefore, what I thought I saw with
my eyes, I in fact grasp only by the faculty of judging that is in my mind.”
Yonas: This explanation does make much more sense to me now, especially when I
connect it to what you said before about the degree of attention one needs to put in his
observation of facts of experience. Thus, my mind’s imperfection and confusion then
only consist in that it judges quickly and that is when it errs.
Descartes: [Good] “Let us then go on where we left off by considering whether I perceived more perfectly and more evidently what the wax was, when I first encountered
it, and believed that I knew it by these external senses, or at least by what they call common sense, that is imaginative power; or whether I perceive it better now, after I have
more carefully investigated both what it is and how it is known. Certainly, it would be
foolish to doubt that I have a much better grasp of it now. For what, if anything, was
distinct in my original perception?”
Yonas: I don’t believe we arrived at that yet.
Descartes: [That is right] When I distinguish the wax from its external forms, and as if
I had stripped off its garments, consider it in all its nakedness, then, indeed, although
there may still be error in my judgement. I cannot perceive it in this way except by [my]
mind…I have learned now that bodies themselves are perceived not, strictly speaking,
by the senses or by the imaginative faculty, but by the intellect alone and that that they
are not perceived because they are touched or seen, but only because they are understood, I clearly realise that nothing can be perceived by me more easily and more clearly
that by own mind.
Yonas: I am amazed by this conclusion. I think I would rather stop our discussion here.
I want to go now and come back another day for more discussions. For now, I have
enough thoughts to contemplate for the coming days. It is really nice meeting you and
talking to you in such a respectful way.
27
�Walking to My House
My dialogue with Descartes was very interesting and, on my way back home, I was
contemplating deeply the significance of his conclusion. Descartes’s assertion is that in
one’s act of thinking, he said, it is possible to strip all external impressions and concentrate a certain degree of attention to the object and receive a correct perception in the
mind. This is conceivable. After a long walk, I finally arrived at my house. I was completely lost in contemplation; only when I looked at the flowers at the front door of my
house that I was awakened to the facts of this amazing world. I said to myself, ‘that is
my house.” I judged it correctly but the question that is still with me is how I did that—
is it my mind or my senses that showed me the way here?
Note: The Full Treatise of Descartes’s Discussion of the Wax is found in Book II of his
Meditations on First Philosophy.
28
�The First Postulate
Cynthia Crane
A false and scurrilous tale
Let it be postulated to draw a straight line from any point to any point.
East of the dusty market, under a low dry tree, a girl put an open wooden box at the feet
of her little brother. The boy did not notice, but stared at the curling clouds brushing the
near-white sky, broken to bits by the branches and leaves of the olive. “Euclid, look,”
she said, and tapped the box. Their mother, working the edge of the market, stopped her
hawking, saw the children safe in conversation, and turned back to her selling. Nothing
would come of it, she knew, and wished the girl would let her brother be. Euclid’s eyes
moved slowly off the clouds and his mind moved slowly off the job of assembling them
back to wholes from the fragments between the leaves. The box of sand assembled itself
at his feet, and then his sister’s face: lips, teeth, sunned freckles, black eyes obscured by
curls. “Euclid,” she said, “come back.” So he did.
The boy knelt and smoothed the sand
And smoothed the sand
And smoothed the sand,
Grains of glass under his palms
Grains of glass under his palms
Grains of glass under his palms and fingertips.
Mother’s cries, “here, here, sailor,”
Cut his ears like
Grains of glass under his palms and fingertips.
“Don’t listen,” the girl said, and shifted the box around so Euclid would not watch their
mother. His tears were leaving tracks in the dust on his face, but she did not wipe them
away, would not touch him and set him off.
He spit the dirt out of his mouth, and watched it bead then sink into the ground.
29
�No.
He smoothed the sand and smoothed the sand and smoothed the sand, grains of glass
under his palms and fingertips.
“Yes. Look.”
His sister’s dirty finger poked a dot in the sand,
And by it, another,
And by it, another,
And by it, another,
Snaking a line across the box of sand,
Awaking a serpent in his mind,
Between his eyes,
Behind his nose,
Above the taste of salty olives and grape leaves boiled in wine
Lingering
Annoying
On his tongue.
He spit again.
No.
The serpent reared its hooded head, smelling tongue and clouded eyes. It curled around
his thoughts and flicked them into disarray.
Euclid jabbed his finger into the sand, dragged it straight across the box, connecting one
of his sister’s dots to another and abandoning the rest. He pulled his finger out again,
and smoothed the sand on either side of the line he’d made. He leaned forward, his face
close to the surface of the sand, and then he leaned back. Strange. Sensation. He felt his
face with his fingertips and palms. It moved soft as shifting sand or dust and as though
and as though and as though .
“You’re smiling,” his sister said.
30
“Yes.”
�Galaxy in a Flower - Nadine Bucca
31
�Essays
Corruption at the Symposium
How to Read Well
The Galileo Affair
The Nature of the Pilgrimage
The Creation of the Self
32
�Contributors
Sam Hage
Siobhán Petersen
Shirley Quo
Noah Vancina
Kyle Reynolds
33
�Corruption at the Symposium
Sam Hage
At the conclusion of the Symposium’s six speeches about Eros, the drunken Alcibiades
interrupts the party with a crowd of attendants in tow. At the conclusion of Alcibiades’
speech, another, drunker crowd of revelers interrupts the party, sending things into
confusion and signaling the end of Aristodemus’ narrative. Unlike Alcibiades’ initial
entrance, which enables his long and rhapsodic depiction of Socrates—providing key
biographical information found in only a handful of places in Plato—this second entrance seems to serve no discernible dramatic purpose.
A small detail, however, included almost as an afterthought, may tell us a great deal.
The second time around, the intruders find the door to Agathon’s house already open,
because “someone had gone out.” We mustn’t suppose this detail is accidental; according to ancient anecdotes, Plato revised individual lines of his dialogues hundreds of
times. What’s more, the preposterous custodial chain of the Symposium’s narrative is a
clear indication of Plato’s own authorial hand at work.
So who has left the party? And why does Plato wish for us to know? Once noticed, the
first question is not difficult to answer: Alcibiades is still speaking or has just finished;
Phaedrus and Erixymachus are mentioned as leaving right after this; Socrates, Agathon, and Aristophanes stay awake talking all night; Aristodemus is there to witness and
narrate it all. Of the seven speakers, plus Aristodemus, Pausanias is the only one not
explicitly mentioned. Unless this is a meaningless addition meant to refer to one of the
unnamed speakers whom Aristodemus or Apollodorus forgot about, the only possibility is Pausanias.
Why Plato should present us with this detail is a much greater question. Pausanias,
we are told in the opening pages, is still hungover from last night’s festivities—but no
reader will be satisfied to think he has left simply because he isn’t feeling well. More
relevant is the fact that he has been witnessing his beloved, Agathon, flirt with the beautiful newcomer Alcibiades—and with Socrates from the very start of the party. Given
that it is during Alcibiades’ speech that Pausanias finally storms out, it seems likely that
34
Alcibiades will provide us with the key to Plato’s lesson.
�Without undertaking a tedious examination of Pausanias’ and Alcibiades’ speeches, we
can at least observe some cursory points. Pausanias’ defense of Eros is highly unerotic;
even the “highest” relationships are for him ultimately transactional. In truth, Eros is
not defended at all, but instead undergoes a kind of technical scrutiny and classification. Pausanias’ bizarre focus on the jurisprudence of pederasty is especially startling
in juxtaposition with Phaedrus’ emphasis on the tragic nobility of a lover’s self-sacrifice
and Eryximachus’ rapturous elevation of Eros as the governing principle of the entire
cosmos. His focus on the shameful is revealing: he seems rather ashamed of erotic relationships altogether.
No character could be further opposed than that of the shameless and bombastic Casanova who delivers the evening’s unexpected epilogue. Whereas Socrates reveals the
true nature of Eros properly understood, Alcibiades vividly illustrates the corruption
that this philosophic attitude can sometimes leave in its wake. As a youth, Alcibiades has been partially won over by an appeal to wisdom; nonetheless, the conversion
has not entirely succeeded. Plato’s dramatic art demonstrates the extreme care Socrates
took in choosing to whom, and how, he disclosed his teachings. Socratic education does
not admit of half measures, and a little learning is a dangerous thing. No doubt Socrates
is not entirely to blame for the schizophrenic political career of a man with such unreformable erotic impulses. Nevertheless, many Athenians would have seen Alcibiades
as a prime example of Socratic corruption.
However strange his views of pederasty might seem to us, Pausanias, by contrast, is a
spokesman for the conventional. His archetypal pederastic relationship exchanges the
beauty of the body for the knowledge of a wise teacher. The lover possesses the good
that is truth, and desires the beauty he lacks. Socrates recognizes the beauty of his own
soul as superior to that of any mere body; he would never participate in this transaction. Socrates’ students instead come to recognize the beauty of his soul, and become
his lovers instead.
Plato offers us many indications that corruption is a theme of the Symposium. When
Apollodorus is first approached by his unnamed companion in the dialogue’s opening
lines, he reports that just the other day, Glaucon had asked to “question him closely”
about the party where “Socrates, Alcibiades, and the others” made erotic speeches.
35
�The singular focus on Alcibiades is understandable, not only because of his prominent
role in Athenian politics throughout the Peloponnesian War, but especially on account
of suspicions that Socrates was somehow responsible for Alcibiades’ spectacular downfall. The party depicted in Plato’s dialogue occurred not long before the Sicilian expedition, Alcibiades’ recall, and his subsequent desertion to Sparta; the framing device at
the start of the dialogue takes place just over a decade later—only a handful of years
before Socrates’ trial.
This offhand inclusion of Glaucon as Apollodorus’ interrogator is extremely notable:
the evidence of this dialogue, in addition to that of other Platonic works, suggests that
of all Socrates’ close associates, Glaucon in particular may have felt himself corrupted
by Socrates’ tutelage.
At the start of this dialogue we learn that “everything” is more important to Glaucon
than philosophy. This might indicate that he now holds a conventional and suspicious
view of Socrates’ way of life; moreover, it tells us that his concern with the details of the
speeches at the party can’t possibly have been philosophical. How odd, indeed, that if
he is so interested in the events of the drinking party, he did not simply consult Socrates
himself. Glaucon’s importance is also signaled by similarities between the opening lines
of the Symposium and the Republic, in which Glaucon is Socrates’ central interlocutor:
both begin with the narrator “going up” to town, before being arrested by a combative
acquaintance. In this case, the verb used by Apollodorus in the dialogue’s first line,
πυνθάνεσθε (“I am not unprepared for what you ask about”), is in the second person
plural—is he now being scrutinized by a group of inquisitors?
Xenophon also wrote a dialogue called the Symposium, also with an unmistakable suggestion of the theme of corruption: Socrates is there depicted in the company of the
beautiful youth Autolycus and his father, Lycon—one of Socrates’ accusers in his trial
for corrupting the young.
In general, Xenophon seems more willing than Plato to concede the reality of the corruption charge. He grants in the Memorabilia, first, that Socrates did indeed impart political skill to his associates and, second, that Alcibiades and Critias were among those
associates.
36
�(It is often taken for granted that the ruination of these two supreme criminals was the
real substance of Socrates’ indictment, but that because of the amnesty of 403, such
a charge could not be made explicit.) Commentators have even pointed out that the
Greek verb απομνημονεύω, from which the title Memorabilia is derived, can mean, in
addition to simply “call to mind,” to “hold something against another”; not just “bear
in mind,” but also “bear a grudge.”
Just like Plato’s inclusion of the detail of the open door, Xenophon cannot possibly
have placed Lycon among the banquet’s attendees by accident. He must wish for us to
learn something about what would become Lycon’s motivations for accusing Socrates
23 years later. It is true that in Xenophon’s version of events, just as in Plato’s, Socrates
subverts commonly accepted pederastic norms, urging both Callias and Critobulus to
avoid sexual entanglements and to care only for the virtue of their young beloveds. But
while disagreements like this might explain a frustrated lover’s early departure from
a party, they can hardly provide motive for the prosecution of a capital crime. Besides,
this chaste exhortation is exactly the kind of thing Lycon, the father of a handsome
youth, would most wish to hear.
Doubtless far more important, then, is the revelation that Autolycus was killed by the
Thirty Tyrants after the Peloponnesian War. Did Lycon hold a particular grudge against
Socrates for his role in Critias’ education, or associate him with Thirty’s rise? Did he
blame Socrates for Autolycus’ being an “outspoken” member of the insurgent democratic faction, as Diodorus Siculus describes him?
Beyond his putative influence on Critias, there is admittedly a strong case against Socrates as an opponent of democracy. Republicanism and the rule of law are presented a
number of times in Plato’s dialogues as a “second sailing” to the rule of a wise statesman, and in the Republic, Kallipolis bears certain unmistakable similarities to Sparta
and other monarchic or oligarchic regimes. Socrates’ theories about “intellectual despotism”—the belief that the wise alone hold a rightful claim to rule—could easily have
been taken by men like Lycon to constitute support for actual despots.
It is understandable that an embittered father could attribute some blame to Socrates,
the famous political philosopher, for the power and brutality of the oligarchic Thirty
37
�Tyrants. It may not at first make sense that Lycon could also blame him for his son
Autolycus’ membership in the coalition that resisted them. But Xenophon once again
suggests the connection. Despite the fact that no reader of the dialogues could mistake
Callias III of Alopece for a genuine follower of Socrates, the debaucherous grandee
presents himself at the beginning of Xenophon’s Symposium as a devoted student of
philosophy and a member of the Socratic circle.
In Xenophon’s depiction of the party, Socrates exhorts Callias to a career in politics, and
tells him the surest way to woo Autolycus is to make him more virtuous. Indeed, the
theme of the evening’s conversation is introduced by the question of who can “make
Autolycus better.” Socrates quickly warns the others that this is a dangerous topic, and
should be put off to another time. It seems he was right: Callias’ unfortunate political
career during the Peloponnesian War demonstrates a respect in which Autolycus chose
the wrong mentor.
Perhaps Lycon sees it thus: a follower of Socrates ensured Autolycus became an outspoken member of the losing side; a follower of Socrates caused the winning side to form a
powerful, repressive oligarchy that put Autolycus to death.
Socrates’ supposed intellectual despotism, it turns out, is not unconnected to his erotic
innovations. In both Symposia, erotic attachment to the beautiful is supplanted by attraction to the good. This reorientation is of a piece with the typical Socratic line about deliberate action and human motivations: everyone is always pursuing what seems good
to him, and wrongdoing is thus the result only of mistaken apprehension of the good.
Human action, in other words, is to be understood in terms of a kind of self-interest;
elevated self-interest perhaps, but self-interest nonetheless.
To truly comprehend this outlook is to radically undermine traditional notions of noble
virtue. If what it means to act deliberately is to act in accordance with a belief in one’s
own good, how could beautiful sacrifice be possible? On this extreme Socratic view of
human nature, the brave or noble person really thinks what he’s doing is best.
Orpheus, Alcestis, and Phaedrus’ invincible regiment of male lovers would no longer
deserve our admiration—not to mention pediatricians, special ed teachers, firemen, and
38
�Nobel Peace laureates.
In teaching this doctrine, Socrates did something far more subversive than impugn the
city’s religion. Most Athenians, in any case, seem to scorn literal belief in the gods: Euthyphro is openly ridiculed for his unusual fundamentalism. It was corruption of the
young that carried the real weight in Socrates’ indictment, for which impiety was mere
window dressing. Socrates has done something much worse than simply contravene
the city’s religion; he has taken away its idols, and undermined the very basis for noble
and heroic deeds. No wonder the city tries to kill him. We would, too.
39
�Nightmare - Nadine Bucca
40
�How to Read Well
Siobhán Petersen
How is it that I’m able to say that I’m not sure I ever read a book before I started the
Program? Close reading – attending deeply to what is said, the way it was said, what
it could mean – has never been a weakness of mine. Yet, something was still missing;
some crucial engagement beyond merely what the author has put on offer that gets to
the vitality of what our labors are all for. How do we facilitate a meaningful conversation with an inanimate object, how do we engage with ideas so renowned they’re
practically cliché? If we decide the inexhaustibility we’re seeking in the Great Books
actually comes from ourselves, can this teach us how to drink deeper from them? I
offer some thoughts on how I’ve met that challenge.
I
On a pragmatic concern: I am a strong advocate of writing in our books. The best
advice I ever got on annotation – after it was too late to help with my first semester,
incidentally – was to not to try to make insights or observations in the margins, but
rather to be indexing them for things I found interesting about it as I read. My margins
are full of notes that just describe the action, like “Patroclus’ ghost;” running motifs
specific to the text, like “synthetic judgment” or “The Moment;” and big ideas it might
speak to, like “fate” or “death” or “divine justice.”
i This makes it easy to find quotes in discussion, and come paper season, it’s so
helpful to know what I was thinking about and where. I’ve turned my copy into a
bespoke reference for textual evidence on every line of inquiry that matters to me. But
more to the point, it helps me read deeper because it helps me return to the text as I
think about it later on; it is perhaps only half of the experience to actually read and
discuss, the other half is how you turn it over in your mind after.
ii Beyond the practical value, I’d also advocate for an aesthetic value to the practice.
Books are strange, fourth dimensional objects – they carry our thoughts forward in
time. A thought is ephemeral; a body of them preserved against the passage of time is
a text, and that can be as true for the reader as it is for the writer. Further, I am creating a shelf of artifacts of my life at St. John’s. What starts as a two-way conversation
between the reader and the author becomes a trialogue, with the version of myself
as a Master’s student participating too. Just as I feel privileged to see inside the head
of people I care about when I read their annotated books, someone is likely to value
these thoughts from this particular stretch of time of my life at some point in the future, even if that someone is only me.
41
�II
I think what separates a lay reading and a close reading is a decision: to take nothing
within a text as incidental. Every word was deliberately chosen for a particular effect;
every tangent, every metaphor was considered in light of the whole. I take as axiom that
no one writes anything because they want to say something – they do it because they
need to say something. Whatever the author set out to express lies
in the background of every small detail, so it pays to attend them with care.
How do we attend to details that will enhance the discussion? I think that anything that
sticks out to you is interesting. A particular use of language, a mention of something
else you read, the way some pet interest of yours appears in a reading: I’ve seen some
of the most profitable inquiries come out of someone’s peculiar observation. Someone
offering their idiosyncratic take opens up vistas of thought that, definitionally, I could
never have hoped to imagine myself. Ultimately (or with an eye to the Good Life, let’s
say penultimately), we read to come ready to share; to me, this is what we call the
“learning community.” No one else can give your perspective, and it’s our function as
classmates in-community to offer it.
i In trying to sort out the big picture, I think it’s valuable to remind myself – as anyone who’s written anything can probably relate to – I’ve never gotten to the end of any
writing project and felt like I’d fully said everything I set out to. I try to leave space in
the text for what the author perhaps couldn’t write. I think this is different from simply
granting a charitable reading; I’m perhaps suggesting we can sometimes glimpse past
the text if we look hard enough at the totality as well as the particularity: can see the
forest and the trees. Whether we’re impressed with the picture we see is up to us, but
given the choice between two readings, I try to default to the one that is most nuanced,
human, interesting.
ii Counterintuitively, what I’m not suggesting is a devotion to the author, nor their
intended message. What I’ve found reading so many Great Texts birthed from Great
Minds is that somewhere along the way I stopped reading to find out what Plato, or
Descartes, or Dostoevsky thought; I only read to find out what I think. We talk about
ourselves as “in conversation” with the books. Part of being a good conversationalist is
to hold up your end of the discussion. Have your own thoughts! There’s a bit of a
pressure-relief in realizing I can be nearly certain I can’t have a wholly original idea
about texts so widely read, but that doesn’t mean we have to rely on cliché, or pre-made
understandings. What does a text mean to you, right now?
III
In that spirit of the “now,” I’ll even go so far as to say it is okay to disinterpret a text to
the end of creating the most interesting possible reading. “Disinterpretation” implies
willfulness; we are free to develop accounts of the reading that run contrary to good
sense, so long as we can support it with textual evidence. Put a quote in another context!
Take one out of context!
42
�Are you unsatisfied with the answer the author provides, can you develop a more elegant account with what else they’ve said?
i Even if you end up spiraling out or spinning the wheels; experimenting by analyzing, combining and recombining ideas from all over the canon, from your classmates,
from your favorite novel will be a worthwhile skill to build in its own right. I try not
to worry myself with the products of any of these experiments, nor do I try to disguise
my experiments in-seminar as completed positions; the idea is to
push every idea to its limits. I only ever want to be a better scientist.
ii Partly, my decision to close-read is built on this disinterpretation; I can’t know for
sure what was in the mind of the author when they selected any element, but I choose
to read it otherwise, even if I’m wrong. I joyfully forfeit any spurious claim on the
Necessary for a ground in the realm of the Aesthetic. If something seems to come out
of nowhere based on everything you’ve previously understood about the work, it’s
easy enough to disregard it as incidental, but far more worthwhile to examine it as
vital, integral. Why might this be here? There’s no ambition to exactitude in “might,”
only pliable openness. It is my firm opinion we are not here to be right about anything; we’re here to be wrong in interesting ways.
43
�Galileo and the Interaction between Religion and Science
Shirley Quo
Introduction
Galileo’s Dialogue on the Two Chief World Systems: Ptolemaic and Copernican (Dialogue) is one of the most important texts of the Copernican and Scientific revolution.
It started the transition from the geocentric to a geokinetic worldview by means of interdisciplinary considerations based on Galileo’s new physics, observational evidence
stemming from his telescopic discoveries and methodological principles including critical reasoning.
The Dialogue is also noteworthy because it led to Galileo’s trial by the Roman Catholic
Inquisition in 1633. His book was banned and he was found guilty of ‘vehement suspicion of heresy’. This was because the Catholic Church believed that the Holy Scriptures
supported the geocentric worldview i.e. that the sun revolved around the earth. To
support a geokinetic worldview was therefore an act of heresy. These developments are
known as the Galileo Affair.
The purpose of this article is to examine the conflict between science and religion in the
context of the Dialogue, the Galileo Affair and its aftermath. What, if any, is the role of
religious authority and the Bible in scientific inquiry?
The Geostatic Worldview
The geostatic worldview assumed that the earth is spherical, motionless and that it is
located at the center of the universe i.e. geocentric theory. Aristotle and Ptolemy were
the two main contributors to this view of the universe. The old view considered that
there was a fundamental division in the universe between the earthly and the heavenly
regions and each region consisted of bodies with different properties and behavior.
This is called the heaven-earth dichotomy.
Terrestrial bodies occupied the central region of the universe below the moon, whereas
heavenly bodies occupied the outer region from the lunar to the stellar sphere (the highest heaven or the firmament). Earthly bodies moved naturally straight toward (downward for earth and water) or away from the center of the universe (upward for air and
fire), whereas celestial bodies (aether) moved circularly around the same center.
44
�Geometrically there were only two lines with the property that all parts are congruent
with any other part – the circle and the straight line. Motion could be simple or mixed.
Simple motion was motion along a straight line. Thus there were only two types of simple motion – straight and circular. Mixed motion was motion which is neither straight
nor circular.
There was a theoretical reason why upward and downward natural motions could
belong to the same fundamental region of the universe but were essentially different
from natural circular motion. This is the theory of change as contrariety according to
which all change derives from contrariety and no change can exist where there is no
contrariety. Contrarierty means opposites such as hot and cold, dry and humid. So up
and down is a fundamental contrariety. This applies to terrestrial bodies which is full
of qualitative changes e.g. birth, growth, generation, destruction etc. Circular natural
motion of heavenly bodies by contrast have no contrary therefore it lacked an essential condition for the existence of change. Because no physical or organic or chemical
changes were detected or observed in the heavens, it was claimed that the heavenly
realm, unlike the terrestrial realm, was unchangeable, ingenerable, incorruptible etc.
This provided the basis for the heaven-earth dichotomy.
The Copernican System
Copernicus published ‘On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres’ (Revolutions) in
1543. Unlike the old view, the stellar sphere was motionless and did not revolve around
the earth with westward diurnal rotation. Instead, the diurnal rotation belonged to the
earth, though its direction was eastward in order to result in the observational appearance of the whole universe rotating westward. This is called a geokinetic worldview.
The earth was given a second motion, an orbital revolution around the sun with a period of one year, and also in an eastward direction. The annual motion was shifted from
the sun to the earth thus making the earth a planet rather than the sun. This terrestrial
orbital revolution meant that the earth was located off-center, the center being instead
the sun. This is called a heliocentric worldview.
45
�Copernicus’s view was based on an idea proposed by the Pythagoreans in ancient
Greece which had been rejected in favour of the Ptolemaic worldview. In Copernicus’s
worldview, the earth moves by rotating on its own axis daily and by revolving around
the sun once a year. It was a simpler and more coherent theory if the sun rather than the
earth is assumed to be at the center and the earth is taken to be the third planet circling
the sun yearly and spinning daily on its own axis. It had fewer moving parts than the
geokinetic system because the apparent daily motion of all heavenly bodies around the
earth is explained by the earth’s axial rotation and thus there is only one thing moving
daily (the earth) rather than thousands of stars.
There were also theological and religious objections. The biblical objection claimed that
the idea of the earth moving is heretical because it contradicts many biblical passages
stating or implying that the earth stands still.1 For example, Psalm 104:5 provides that
the Lord “laid the foundations of the earth, that it should not be removed for ever”.
In Ecclesiastes 1:5, it provides that “the sun also riseth, and the sun goeth down, and
hasteth to the place where he ariseth” which seems to attribute motion to the sun and
support the geostatic system.
Another theological objection was based on the idea that God is all powerful – this
may be called the divine omnipotence argument.2 This was endorsed by Pope Urban
VIII during whose reign Galileo was tried and condemned. One version of this argument was that since God is all powerful, He could have created any one of a number
of worlds e.g. one in which the earth is motionless. It was religiously heretical because
it conflicted with Holy Scripture and the biblical interpretations of the Church Fathers
and therefore undermined belief in an omnipotent God.
The Galileo Affair
In 1615, the Holy Office, or Roman Inquisition, asked its Inquisitors for an opinion on
two propositions based on some formal complaints filed against Galileo in relation to
the Copernican system:3
(1) the Sun is the centre of the world and completely immovable by local motion; and
(2) the Earth is not the centre of the world nor immovable, but moves as a whole and
also with a diurnal motion.
46
�The Inquisitors returned a unanimous opinion:
(1) The first proposition was declared unanimously to be foolish and absurd in philosophy and formally heretical inasmuch as it expressly contradicts the doctrine of Holy
Scripture in many passages, both in their literal meaning and according to the interpretation of the Fathers and learned theologians.
(2) All were agreed that this proposition merits the same censure in philosophy and
that, from a theological point of view, it is at least erroneous in the faith.
In 1616, the Congregation of the Index issued a Decree declaring that the doctrine of the
earth’s motion was physically false and contrary to Scripture; condemning and permanently banning Foscarini’s book, Letter on the Pythagorean Opinion, which had argued
that the earth’s motion was probable and not contrary to Scripture; and temporarily
prohibiting Copernicus’s Revolutions until and unless it was revised.5
Although Galileo was not mentioned at all in the Decree, he was given a warning in
private. This warning exists in two versions. One is written on a certificate given to
Galileo and signed by Cardinal Robert Bellarmine, who was an authoritative member
of both the Congregation of the Index and of the Inquisition; it stated that Bellarmine
had informed Galileo that the earth’s motion could not be held or defended. The second
version is in an unsigned note written by a clerk and found in the file of Inquisition trial
proceedings; it stated that the Commissary-General of the Inquisition gave Galileo the
special injunction that he must not hold, defend, or discuss in any way the earth’s motion. Galileo claimed that he had never received the second version.6
Despite the warning given to him by the Catholic Church, Galileo published the Dialogue in 1632. The book was a discussion of the earth’s motion but took the form of
a critical examination of all the arguments for and against the idea; the arguments on
both sides were presented, analysed, and evaluated. The arguments for the earth’s motion turned out to be much stronger than those against it. This was an implicit defence
of Copernicanism. However, Galileo believed that he had acted within the spirit of
Bellarmine’s warning because it was only a hypothesis.
47
�In 1633, Galileo was brought to trial by the Inquisition on the charge that in his Dialogue, published in the previous year, he had disobeyed the injunction of 1616 and
had defended the Copernican system, knowing it to be heretical. In the course of their
judgment the Inquisitors twice reaffirmed that the system was heretical, in two slightly
different forms. In the first place they recalled and quoted the judgment of 1616, citing
it as evidence that it had already been duly examined and condemned. The Inquisitors
then delivered their own verdict:7
“We say, pronounce, sentence and declare that you, the said Galileo... have rendered
yourself, in the judgment of this Holy Office, vehemently suspected of heresy, namely
of having believed and held the doctrine, which is false and contrary to the Sacred and
Divine Scripture, that the Sun is the centre of the Earth and does not move from east to
west, and that the Earth moves and is not the centre of the world, and that an opinion
may be defended and held as probable after it has been declared and defined contrary
to Holy Scripture.”
According to one commentator, there is an interesting difference between the two statements.8 The Inquisitors in 1616 condemned as heretical the proposition that the Sun is
the centre of the world (centro del mondo) and immovable; in 1633 they condemned as
heretical the proposition that the Sun is the centre of the Earth (centro della terra) and
does not move from east to west (i.e. does not move in a diurnal orbit around the Earth).
What does this mean? Surely it cannot be taken to mean literally that the Sun is the centre of the Earth? Perhaps it means that it is the centre of the Earth’s orbit or, as in Copernicus’s own theory, the centre of the celestial sphere in which the Earth is embedded
(which might be called ‘the Earth’ in an extended sense).9
As time went on, however, the situation changed. In the new theory, the fixed stars did
not rotate and hence, it was no longer necessary for them to be held together in a rigid
sphere. The whole system of rigid spheres could be abandoned. The universe need not
be spherical, it could be any shape or even infinite. Even if it was a sphere there was no
need for the Sun to be at its centre or immovable (for the whole planetary system might
be in motion).
48
�Galileo was aware of this theory. In the Dialogue, Salviati, the advocate of the Copernican centre of the universe; if any centre may be assigned to the universe, we shall rather
find the sun to be placed there, as you will understand in due course’.10 Galileo added
this marginal note “The sun more probably at the centre of the universe than the earth.”
In 1633, the Inquisition found Galileo “vehemently suspect of heresy” for holding and
defending the thesis that the earth revolves around the sun and for thinking “that one
may hold and defend as probable an opinion after it has been declared and defined
contrary to the Holy Scripture”.
The content of Galileo’s suspected heresy was two-fold. The first was an astronomical
or cosmological claim about physical reality, which Galileo had supported and defended in the Dialogue. The second was a methodological principle or rule about how to
proceed in the search for physical truth or the acquisition of natural knowledge i.e. the
principle that Scripture is not an authority and may be disregarded as irrelevant in astronomy and natural philosophy. Galileo’s new telescopic evidence removed most of
the observational-astronomical objections against the earth’s motion and added new
evidence in its favor. Galileo believed not only that the geokinetic theory had greater
explanatory coherence than the geostatic theory (as Copernicus had shown) and that it
was physically and mechanically more adequate (as Galileo’s new physics suggested)
but also that it was empirically and observationally more accurate in astronomy (as the
telescope now revealed). His assessment was that the arguments for the earth’s motion
were stronger than those for the earth being at rest; that Copernicanism was more likely
to be true than the geostatic worldview.
According to one argument, the view was developed during the Enlightenment that
Galileo’s trial embodied the inherent incompatibility between science and religion, and
later this view became widely accepted. The case of Galileo may be one of those where
science and religion happened to be in conflict. Galileo’s trial does exhibit such a conflict if science is interpreted in that context as Copernicanism and religion as Scripture;
for although Galileo believed and argued that Copernicanism is compatible with Scripture, the Catholic Church (through Bellarmine, Pope Urban VIII, the Index, and the
Inquisition) claimed that Copernicanism is contrary to Holy Scripture.
49
�The conflict between science and religion is a striking feature of both the original and
the subsequent Galileo affair: in the original episode in 1616, it takes the form of Copernicanism versus Holy Scripture; in the subsequent controversy in 1633, it takes the
form that Galileo’s trial was widely perceived to epitomise the conflict between science
and religion.
Aftermath of the Galileo Affair
The Catechism of the Catholic Church states:
Though faith is above reason, there can never be any real discrepancy between faith
and reason. Since the same God who reveals mysteries and infuses faith has bestowed
the light of reason on the human mind, God cannot deny himself, nor can truth ever
contradict truth.
Consequently, methodical research in all branches of knowledge, provided it is carried
out in a truly scientific manner and does not override moral laws, can never conflict
with the faith, because the things of the world and the things of faith derive from the
same God. The humble and preserving investigator of the secrets of nature is being
led, as it were, by the hand of God in spite of himself, for it is God, the conserver of
all things, who made them what they are. By 1939, Pope Pius XII was praising Galileo
for being among the “most audacious heroes of research … not afraid of the stumbling
blocks and the risks on the way, nor fearful of the funereal monuments.”
Galileo was again mentioned with approval by Pope Pius XII in an address to the General Assembly of the International Astronomical Union in 1952, where he concluded his
remarks saying:
As so, friends, above and beyond the deep respect which we entertain for all the sciences and for yours in particular, this is yet another reason why we are moved to pray: may
the science of astronomy, founded on the highest and most universal horizons, the ideal
of so many great men in the past such as Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler, and Newton,
continue to bear the fruit of marvellous progress and, through to the heartfelt collaborations promoted by such groups as the International Astronomical Union, bring the
astronomical vision of the Universe to an ever deeper perfection.
50
In 1979, at a meeting of the Pontifical Academy of Sciences commemorating the centen
�nial of Einstein’s birth, Pope John Paul II gave a speech in which he talked about the
Galileo affair. The Pope admitted errors on the part of ecclesiastic individuals and institutions and acknowledged some wrongdoing on their part. He spoke of Galileo having
been caused “suffering,” of his treatment as an instance of unwarranted interference
into the autonomy of scientific research, and of the fact that the Second Vatican Council
had “deplored” such interferences.
From the point of view of the principles Galileo held regarding the relationship between
science, religion and the Bible, Pope John Paul II spoke with unprecedented clarity and
remarkable accuracy. In the 1979 Einstein centennial speech, the Pope said:17
He who is rightly called the founder of modern physics declared explicitly that the two
truths, of faith and of science, can never contradict each other . . . The Second Vatican
Council does not express itself otherwise.
Pope John Paul II also issued a call for further studies of the Galileo affair that would
be guided by three goals: bipartisan collaboration between the Galilean scientific side
and the ecclesiastic religious side; open-mindedness to the wrongs of one side and the
merits of the other side; and validation of the harmony between science and religion.
Although the third goal was in some tension with the other two, it was the one closest
to the Pope’s heart. For he argued that Galileo believed that science and religion are
harmonious and that Galileo conducted his scientific research in the spirit of religious
service and worship.
Galileo also elaborated important epistemological principles about Scriptural interpretation, which correspond to the correct ones later clarified and formulated by the Catholic Church. The Pope wanted to reverse the traditional interpretation of Galileo’s trial
as epitomising the conflict between science and religion.
For Pope John Paul II, a key lesson from the Galileo affair is the need and importance of
methodological pluralism i.e. the rule that different branches of knowledge call for different methods. This is what Galileo himself had advocated. In contrast, his theological
opponents were committed to a misplaced cultural unitarianism that led them to fail to
distinguish scriptural interpretation from scientific investigation and so to illegitimately transpose one domain into the other.
51
�Some commentators argue that the Inquisition was wrong to condemn Galileo since
he preached and practiced the principle that scriptural passages should not be used in
astronomical investigation, but only when dealing with questions of faith and morals.
The Inquisition found this principle intolerable and abominably erroneous, and wanted to uphold the opposite principle that Scripture is a scientific authority, as well as a
moral and religious one. On this question of theological and epistemological principle,
Galileo was ultimately exculpated.
In regard to the biblical issue, the main point of Galileo’s letters to Castelli and to Christina is that the literal interpretation of the Bible is binding only for questions of faith
and morals and not for physical questions.18 Although in a sense this proposition can
be accepted as true, it was regarded and was in fact singularly dangerous at that time.
The most detailed description of how the Church views the interaction between religion
and science can be found in a 1987 letter written by Pope John Paul II to Fr. George
Coyne SJ, director of the Vatican Observatory. In this letter, he insisted on the equal
value of science and religion:19
… both religion and science must preserve their autonomy and their distinctiveness.
Religion is not founded on science nor is science an extension of religion. Each should
possess its own principles, its pattern of procedures, its diversities of interpretation and
its own conclusions.
Science can purify religion from superstition; religion can purify science from false absolutes. Each can draw the other into a wider world, a world in which both can flourish.
The Pope also argued that this dialogue was essential to progress within science itself,
a theme which Pope Francis would later develop in Laudato Si’:20
… science develops best when its concepts and conclusions are integrated into the
broader human culture and its concerns for ultimate meaning and value. Scientists …
can also come to appreciate for themselves that these discoveries cannot be a genuine
substitute for knowledge of the truly ultimate.
And in 1992, at the conclusion of his inquiry, the Pope had not changed his mind in this
regard but reaffirmed the point with these words:
52
�“Paradoxically, Galileo, a sincere believer, showed himself to be more perceptive in this
regard than the theologians who opposed him . . . The majority of theologians did not
recognize the formal distinction between Sacred Scripture and its interpretation, and
this led them unduly to transpose into the realm of the doctrine of the faith a question
that in fact pertained to scientific investigation.
Moreover, from the Galileo affair . . . another lesson we can draw is that the different
branches of knowledge call for different methods . . . The error of the theologians of the
time when they maintained the centrality of the earth was to think that our understanding of the physical world’s structure was in some way imposed by the literal sense of
Sacred Scripture.”
The Galileo myth claims that Galileo was not condemned for his astronomical conclusion that the earth moves, but for his theologically unsound practice of supporting an
astronomical view with biblical passages.22
This explanation is untrue because Galileo preached and practiced the opposite principle that Holy Scripture should not be used to support physical propositions. This myth
seems to have acted as a catalyst for the subsequent Galileo affair to become the cause
celebre it is today.
Commentary
As Galileo put it, quoting Cardinal Baronius, “The intention of the Holy Ghost is to
teach us how one goes to heaven, not how the heavens go.”
Galileo added the following note in the preliminary leaves of his own copy of the Dialogue:
“Take note, theologians, that in your desire to make matters of faith out of propositions
relating to the fixity of sun and earth you run the risk of eventually having to condemn
as heretics those who would declare the earth to stand still and the sun to change position – eventually, I say, at such time as it might be physically or logically proved that
the earth moves and the sun stands still.”
Galileo rejected the conception of the center of the universe which deprived the justi
53
�fication for the idea of the immovable earth. Following Copernicus, Galileo set forth
the advantages of assuming the sun to be at rest. It is simpler to assume a rotation of
the earth around its axis than a common revolution of all fixed starts around the earth.
The assumption of a revolution of the earth around the sun makes the motions of the
inner and outer planets appear similar and does away with the troublesome retrograde
motions of the outer planets, or rather explains them by the motion of the earth around
the sun.These arguments are convincing but are only of a qualitative nature i.e. since
humans are tied to the earth, our observations will never directly reveal to us the “true”
planetary motions but only the intersections of the lines of sight (earth-planet) with
the fixed star sphere. Galileo demonstrated that the hypothesis of the rotation and
revolution of the earth is not refuted by the fact that we do not observe any mechanical
effects of these motions. However, this misled him into formulating a wrong theory of
the tides.
Galileo’s work represents the passionate fight against any kind of dogma based on authority. Only experience and careful reflection are accepted by him as criteria of truth.
In Galileo’s time, this was a revolutionary concept. Merely to doubt the truth of opinions which had no basis but authority was considered a capital crime and punished accordingly. This is one of the reasons that Galileo is considered to be the father of modern science. The Dialogue is the book which historically did the most toward breaking
down the religious and academic barriers against free scientific thought.
As Einstein said, ‘the leitmotif which I recognise in Galileo’s work is the passionate fight
against any kind of dogma based on authority’. Galileo’s works were not removed from
the Catholic Church’s prohibited list until 1741 by Pope Benedict XIV.
The Inquisitions of Galileo Galilei between 1615 and 1633 highlighted the Catholic
Church’s interpretation of the role of tradition. In that time, the Church was facing the
fact that Copernican heliocentrism was better able to predict planetary motion than biblical tradition. Galileo has also been celebrated as a figure of valor to the scientific community because the Dialogue pulled no punches in mocking the then Pope Urban VIII.
Galileo allegedly used direct quotes in the Dialogue and attributed them to a character
called Simplicio. What is less appreciated however, is that Galileo agreed that the natural world could not be in contradiction with the faith that he maintained his whole life.
54
�Conclusion
The moon is 40 million years older than we thought, according to a new analysis of lunar samples collected by Apollo astronauts a half-century ago.
This research looked at moon dust brought back by the Apollo 17 mission in 1972, the
last time humans set foot on the surface.
The results, published in the journal Geochemical Perspectives Letters, suggest it must
be at least 4.46 billion years old and that it could have formed as long as 4.51 billion
years ago.
“It’s important to know when the moon formed”, Professor Philipp Heck of the Field
Museum in Chicago, senior author of the study, said, “(because) the moon is an important partner in our planetary system – it stabilises the Earth’s rotational axis, it’s the
reason there are 24 hours in a day, it’s the reason we have tides. Without the moon, life
on Earth would look different.
In the Dialogue, Galileo argued that the tides are caused by the compounding motion
of the earth as a conclusive proof of heliocentrism. Despite this error, the Dialogue remains one of the most important texts of the Scientific revolution.
The Galileo affair illustrates that changing scientific paradigms caused increasing
problems for religious doctrines that had been reconstructed according to the scientific knowledge of earlier times. It has been claimed that science and religion constitute
“non-overlapping magisteria” whereby science pertains to the empirical realm of facts
and religion to ultimate meaning and moral value.28
From the late nineteenth century, free inquiry came to encompass the study of religion
itself. Emile Durkheim, a prominent social scientist, defined religion as “a unified system of beliefs and practices relative to sacred things, that is to say, things set apart and
forbidden.” This assumes conflict whenever scientists attempt to study sacred things
“set apart and forbidden” and in so doing, challenge religious prohibitions. Today,
stem cell research invokes some of the same deep-seated religious prohibitions as heliocentrism once did.
55
�Mind in a Fog - Nadine Bucca
56
�The Nature of the Pilgrimage:
The Meaning of Springtime in The Canterbury Tales
Noah Vancina
“Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages” (12)—why now, and whence the longing?
Before he even arrives at the human subjects of his tale of pilgrimage, all described in
the General Prologue, Chaucer, as an “introduction” to the General Prologue, gives the
sweetest description of springtime, which evokes already in the hearer the longing for
the peaceful time he describes. Let us go on our own pilgrimage to seek how Chaucer
awakes this longing, and how we might then be ready to join the pilgrims as “to Caunterbury they wende.”
Chaucer begins by providing a context for pilgrimages: “whan” (1). “When” is a temporal description that is precise or imprecise, depending on what follows. What follows
must be some event, identifiable such that the time, the “when” of the sought-after
occurrence, appears. Yet, Chaucer draws out his “whan” for eleven lines, one great dependent clause, in which he lists multiple conditions before the long-desired “thanne”
arrives. Even these conditions, though, remain imprecise: “Whan that Aprille with
his shoures soote/The droughte of March hath perced to the roote/And bathed every
veyne in swich licour/Of which vertu engendred is the flour” (1-4); at what moment
have all these things come to pass? Rain falls gradually, only in drops, and slowly it
soaks into the earth, uprooting the drought that preceded. So likewise the blowing of
the zephyr until it reaches and warms end of every damp wood. Thus, the awaited
fulfillment is an atmosphere, not a moment, in which pilgrimages begin. With these
descriptions, Chaucer evokes a dawning awareness, a longing that does not come all
at once and overwhelm but that grows like the fitful entrance of springtime and the
growth of young shoots, like the passing away of sickness and the coming of full health.
Chaucer presents meteorological events not exactly as personified, but yet as intentional and moving towards a goal. April, with “his” sweet showers, as if the showers
belonged to April (as opposed to “April’s” showers, which feels more distant), who
brought them with the intention of ending the drought and bringing the moisture needed for the flowers. The zephyr and the sun, too, play a part with “sweete breethe” and a
“cours” to run. This almost personification suggests that natural phenomena act in the
world as more than dumb happenings.
57
�Each verb, too, is loaded with intentions. April’s showers pierce the drought of March
(2). Not a simple statement of cause and effect in nature, “pierce” suggests attack, an
intentional breaking through as if much depends on not being repelled. The next line
reveals the goal: to “bathe[] every veyne in . . . licour” (3), that life be not hindered. The
zephyr then inspires the “tendre croppes” (5-7) as if it had breath to share, or the shoots
could receive spirit. When Chaucer arrives at the birds, no change of language is necessary. One might even say that the verbs applied to the birds, “maken” and “slepen,”
are the least suggestive of life, although birds are the most obviously conscious of the
characters so far.
Curious also is the peacefulness suggested by Chaucer’s diction. The showers are
“soote” (1), the zephyr’s breath is “sweete” (3), the shoots are “tendre” (7), and the birds
are “smale” (9). Everything in this springtime bespeaks gentleness and peace. Only
against the intruder is any harsh word said, for the “droughte of March” is “perced” to
the root (2): the drought being an unwelcome condition that would forestall the coming
of spring and, perhaps, also of pilgrimage.
It is in this verdant time, teeming with life, that men long to go on pilgrimages. Now
why at a time when everything seems so right with the world would men desire change
rather than rest? We find a suggestion in a line that sits right between the dependent
clause description of springtime and the independent clause discussion of pilgrimage:
“So priketh hem nature in hir corages” (11). Of whose hearts is Chaucer speaking? It
may seem natural, as the immediate antecedent, to think that the birds are meant, who
make melody and sleep with open eyes due to nature’s influence. But could it not be
looking ahead as well, to the folk who long to go on pilgrimages? Even the rhyme
scheme would couple “hir corages” with “pilgrimages.” Line 11, situated close to the
midpoint of this introduction to the General Prologue and at the meeting of the dependent and independent clauses, joins weather, plants, animals, and humans in the influence of nature on their thoughts and actions.
What kind of nature incites men to longing? Two meanings of “nature” seem possible:
the inherent constitution of a creature or the creation itself. But perhaps neither meaning is really distinctive. If nature is understood the first way, Chaucer is saying that
something within man stirs him up in the springtime, in reaction to what it perceives
around it. If the second way, creation in springtime moves man to longing.
58
�Chaucer points to the importance of the natural world in either case, leading us to wonder why springtime would cause such feelings in human beings.
There is, first, a correspondence between the creation emerging from winter and a man
recovering from sickness. Chaucer lavished attention on explicating the blooming flowers, the tender shoots, and the centrality of the sun, but these conditions or incitements
for longing are only linked to humans with a “thanne,” the termination of the dependent clause. Nevertheless, the pilgrims on the road to Canterbury are seeking a saint
who helped them recover from sickness. The parallel is evident, though human convalescence is not described so lyrically. It has already been described through springtime.
But more darkly seen is a lack in men out of which rises this longing. Before nature, with
its wholeness and life, man is disturbed. The showers do not enliven him; the wind does
not warm him. Or not primarily. Man stands across from a natural world that seems as
conscious as he. He longs, and so he leaves his familiar home, sometimes to go to foreign lands. Still, what is the lack, the source of longing? As has been said, those pilgrims
that go to Canterbury have been healed from sickness. Wholeness there; so we would
have to say those pilgrims are responding to wholeness, not to want. Thus, man at his
best state would still not possess something of which he is made aware by springtime.
The conceit behind Chaucer’s tales suggests that this want is filled by fellowship. Plurality is present throughout the introduction: “every” vein is bathed by the rain, “every”
wood and field is inspired by the zephyr, and multiple “foweles” sing. As emphasized
to by the loading of all these plurals into a dependent clause, these plurals are bound
together, as if joining one another in a festival of spring. Thus, people who recover out
of the loneliness of sickness (or whatever separates them from others) find in springtime the inspiration to join fellowship on pilgrimages. The newness of spring incites
men to seek new acquaintances, new sights, and new experiences. We see how Chaucer
(or whoever the narrator may be) embarks on his pilgrimages alone but quickly seeks
out, and is accepted into, the company of other pilgrims (19-34). Men desire to mirror
the character of the season around them. They participate in this way not solely with
creation, but with each other, each individual being drawn out of himself and into a
community.
59
�Of course, we should not force Chaucer to say that he has described all people in springtime or even all who go on pilgrimages, just as not every springtime is as consistently
idyllic as the one represented in the General Prologue. What Chaucer does offer is insight into human nature, seasons, and pilgrimage. The wholeness found in a beautiful
springtime does incite longing in the human heart, but not a longing of despair or unrequited passion. Instead, it draws people together into communities of thanks—for to
this end Chaucer’s pilgrims wend to Canterbury. While it may be less common now to
make a pilgrimage of the kind Chaucer describes, springtime can still create longing in
our hearts and, now that we better understand what it means, we are better prepared to
meet our own longing “to goon on pilgrimages.”
60
�The Creation of the Self: Shakespeare and Aristotle
Kyle Reynolds
It might seem self-evident that Prince Hal undergoes a significant change in character
throughout Shakespeare’s Henry IV. His character is first introduced as a drunken degenerate ne’er-do-well. Yet, by the end of Part One, Hal has redeemed himself in the
eyes of his father and is hailed as a hero. This does not necessarily signify a change in
character though, only a change in his conduct. One does not need to be virtuous to
act virtuously. As Plato’s Ring of Gyges allegory demonstrates, the utilitarian benefits
of acting justly are often enough to compel just behavior. Still, perhaps a change in
conduct is enough to result in a genuine change in character, even if this result is unintended. This begs the question, does Hal’s character truly change and does he become
a more virtuous man?
Hal’s first soliloquy, spoken to the audience after the prince agrees to join his comrade
Poins in a plot to embarrass their friend, Falstaff, provides some critical insight on this
question. Shakespeare uses this soliloquy to help elucidate Hal’s intentions and provide an explanation for his behavior. The prince tells us he is seeking to “imitate the
sun / Who doth permit the base contagious clouds / To smother up his beauty from
the world, / That, when he please again to be himself, / Being wanted, he may be more
wond’red at” (Shakespeare 15). If the prince is to be believed then, his juvenile and
dishonorable behavior is all in service to a grand façade. By shirking his duties and
ensuring he is perceived as worthless and reprehensible throughout the kingdom, Hal
is tempering the expectations of his subjects, his father, and his peers. So, when he does
finally cast off this façade, his redemption and reformation “shall show more goodly
and attract more eyes”.
However, it’s not clear that Hal’s behavior is merely a façade. He seems to thoroughly enjoy taking part in the debauchery perpetrated by his dishonorable cohort. Take
the dialogue directly preceding Hal’s soliloquy for example. Hal is at first weary of
Poins’s scheme to prank the unsuspecting Falstaff. To convince the prince, Poins offers
the prophetic argument, “[t]he virtue of this jest will be the incomprehensible lies that
this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet for supper: how thirty, at least, he fought
with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this
lives the jest”.
61
�Hal, now convinced, responds, “[w]ell, I’ll go with thee. Provide us all things necessary
and meet me tomorrow night in Eastcheap. There I’ll sup. Farewell” (Shakespeare 14).
It is the prospect of humiliating Falstaff and catching him in his lies and exaggerations
that finally compels Hal to join Poins’s plan. There does not appear to be any utilitarian
benefit for Hal in joining Poins. His willingness to go along with the prank seems best
explained by a genuine and wholly ignoble desire to humiliate Falstaff.
Hal’s reactions to Falstaff’s all too predictable lies concerning the prank only a few
scenes later serve to further illustrate this point. Falstaff begins to eagerly, and inaccurately, recount his ordeal to Hal and Poins, telling them of the men who robbed him of
his stolen gold, entirely unaware of the fact that those men were in fact Hal and Poins.
Almost immediately, Falstaff begins to, in a rather obvious manner, increase the number of his attackers, for which Hal derides him, saying, “O monstrous! Eleven buckram men grown out of two!” (Shakespeare 47). Falstaff, surprisingly unphased by the
prince’s derisions, continues with his fictional account of the “battle” and Hal continues
with his mockeries. Finally, after Falstaff becomes wholly indignant due to Hal picking
apart every aspect of his tale, the prince tells Falstaff the truth, stating:
“We two set on you four and, with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and
have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house. And, Falstaff, you carried your
guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity and roared for mercy, and still run
and roared, as ever I heard a bullcalf. What a slave art though to hack thy sword
as though hast done, and then say it was in a fight! What trick, what starting hole
canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?”
Every action Hal has taken and every word he has spoken in this scene seems to have
been aimed at maximizing Falstaff’s embarrassment. If this is simply a part Hal is playing, such intricate scheming would be unnecessary. However, if Hal truly is morally
degenerate and elicits genuine joy from poking fun at and participating in the schemes
of his corrupt and contemptible crew, then his behavior makes a great deal more sense.
Hal’s so called “reformation” begins in earnest when he confronts his father and pledges to fulfill his duties as a prince of the realm.
62
�He tells the king, “So please your Majesty, I would I could / Quit all offenses with as
clear excuse / As well as doubtless I can purge / Myself of many I am charged withal”
. The king rejoices at this news, but is, at first, skeptical. Hal reassures him, promising
to “[b]e more”.
Hal appears to honor his commitment, marching off to battle against a rebel force, to the
astonishment of his enemies. Percy Hotspur, the leader of the rebels, inquires as to the
statues of Hal and his forces, asking, “Where is … [t]he nimble-footed madcap Prince of
Wales”. His cousin, Vernon, replies:
“All furnished, all in arms; / All plumed like estridges that with the wind / Bated like
eagles having lately bathed; / Glittering in golden coats like images; / As full of spirit
as the month of May / And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer; / Wanton as youthful
goats, wild as young bulls. / I saw young Harry with his beaver on, / His crushes
on his thighs, gallantly armed, / Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury, And
vaulted with such ease into his seat / As if an angel dropped down from the clouds /
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus / And witch the world with noble horsemanship”.
Hal has, at least in the eyes of his enemy, become an entirely different person. He is no
longer seen as the “madcap Prince of Wales,” but is instead viewed as a gallant warrior.
Hal has done little except show up to the battle, yet, Vernon offers him some of the most
striking and sincere praise seen throughout the play. At this point, the reformation Hal
prophesized seems to be coming to pass. Hal is executing his plan and those around
him are taking note.
However, Hal’s plan is to simply feign virtue so as to be better looked upon by those in
his kingdom. He is only interested in the utilitarian benefits of being perceived as virtuous. Yet, after the conclusion of the battle with Hotspur’s forces, Hal takes an action
which appears entirely inconsistent with this philosophy. Falstaff falsely tells Hal and
his brother, John, that he had killed Hotspur. Hal responds, truthfully, “[w]hy, Percy
I killed myself”. This, of course, does not stop the invariably deceitful Falstaff from
arguing that his account of Hotspur’s death is accurate, going so far as to threaten to
make anyone who doubts him “eat a piece of [his] sword” (Shakespeare 114). Hal, despite knowing the falsehood of Falstaff’s claims, agrees to allow him to take credit for
the killing of Hotspur, saying, “if a lie may do thee grace, / I’ll gild it with the happiest
terms I have”.
63
�While it’s not entirely clear why Hal chooses to let Falstaff persist in his lie, it seems
to come from a genuine desire to see Falstaff improve himself and his circumstances,
which Falstaff commits to do only a few lines later. There doesn’t appear to be any
benefit to Hal in allowing Falstaff to claim the glory and honor associated with killing
Hotspur. Hal’s motivations are instead altruistic in nature and demonstrative of true
virtue.
Despite deciding to reform himself in the eyes of those around him, Hal is unable to
entirely forgo his old ways. Much to the dismay of his father, Hal continues to associate
with Poins, Falstaff, and his other sinful companions. When the king learns that Hal is
back in London with his band of scoundrels, he laments;
“Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds, / And he, the noble image of my youth, /
Is overspread with them. Therefore my grief / Stretches itself beyond the hour of
death. / The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape / In forms imaginary th’
unguided days / And rotten times that you shall look upon / When I am sleeping
with my ancestors. / For when headstrong rage and hot blood are his counselors,
/ When means and lavish manners meet together, / O, with what wings shall affections fly / Towards fronting peril and opposed decay!”
The king is deeply afraid that Hal cannot truly reform and will ultimately succumb to
his rage and other vices which will destroy him.
Finally, at the conclusion of Part Two, Hal ultimately casts of his old habits and comrades. In a cutting and markedly harsh speech directed at Falstaff, the prince announces:
“I know thee not, old man. Fall to thy prayers. / How ill white hairs becomes a
fool and jester! / I have long dreamt of such a kind of man, / So surfeit-swelled,
so old, and so profane, / But, being awaked, I do despise my dream. / Make less
thy body hence, and more thy grace. / Leave gormandizing. Know the grave doth
gape / For thee thrice wider than other men. / Reply not to me with a fool-born
jest. / Presume not that I am the thing I was, / For God doth know, so shall the
world perceive, / That I have turned away my former self. / So will I those that
kept me company”.
The way Hal speaks of his transformation makes it sound not as if he is simply put
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�ting on a different mask but as if he has truly undergone a metamorphosis of spirit. He
likens his reformation to wakening from a bad dream, a dream he now despises.
So, although Hal may not have meant to undergo a genuine change in character, he did.
His actions make clear that he was a morally corrupt degenerate that enjoyed taking
part in the activities of his London gang. Then, he undergoes a reformation, which may
have at first simply been an act, but ultimately results in a changed character capable of
committing acts of altruism. Hal does seem to waver in his new convictions, returning
to the London tavern to fraternize with Poins and Falstaff, but finally lets his old wayward acquaintances go. But why does Hal undergo this change in character? Perhaps
Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics can provide some insight. Aristotle tells us:
“oral virtue comes about as a result of habit, whence also its name (ethike) is one
that is formed by a slight variation from the word ethos (habit). From this it is also
plain that none of the moral virtues arises in us by nature; for nothing that exists
by nature can form a habit contrary to its nature. … Neither by, then, nor contrary
to nature do the virtues arise in us; rather we are adapted by nature to receive
them, and are made perfect by habit”.
Hal lived a life of vice and did not create a habit of virtue. He thus became sinful and
devoid of moral integrity. Hal then began to act virtuously. Eventually, acting ethically
became habitual. However, habits are engrained on the soul and Hal struggled to overcome his past transgressions. Though, finally, a new, virtuous Hal was created through
the prince’s actions. For, the self is formed by our habits, and Hal is no different.
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�Translation
On the Creation of Man
66
�Contributor
Stephen Cunha
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�On the Creation of Man
By Wolfgang Musculus
Translation by Stephen Cunha
Now, accordingly, in proper order, we proceed to consider the work of God in the creation of
man: which consideration must be understood, not only to be next after those things which we
have noted concerning God the maker of all things, but also to especially concern man. For what
is more properly suitable for man than, after his creator, to understand himself? We are drawn
to this knowledge not only by that which Lactantius somewhere puts into words, “Great is the
power of man, great his reason, great his mystery, so that not undeservedly Plato gave thanks
to nature, because he was born a human being”—yes indeed, because next to God nothing is
more sublime than man, nothing more excellent has been made;3 but also because no small
portion of our salvation requires this, that we know ourselves, wherein even those who have
everywhere inculcated the saying γνωθε σεαυτόν, that is, “know thyself,” as if it had dropped
down from heaven, have admonished that the greatest part of wisdom is found. But who does
not know that it is especially required for the knowledge of man, that we should not be ignorant
of the origin and making of mankind? And the Holy Spirit has described the creation of man
with singular care and greater diligence than all other created things in the Sacred Scriptures,
undoubtedly for this purpose, that even from the origin of our race, we might be reminded that
when God made man, he wanted to create a certain remarkable work, which would be much
more outstanding, and would much more closely approach the glory of his divinity, than the
rest of creation; and in the next place, that the knowledge of our beginning might be very much
conducive to the consideration of divine wisdom, goodness, and power, and contain, as it were,
some principles of heavenly philosophy.
And I also think that some parameters of knowledge are required, so that we do not extend our
consideration beyond those things that are able to advance Christian godliness. What should be
thought by the godly person concerning the creation of man cannot be better determined than
from the instruction of the Holy Spirit, which Sacred Scripture sets forth to us. For the mind of
man has been so darkened, that he is able to judge rightly neither of his maker nor of himself.
For this reason, man must take care to search for the things that ought to be known, and held
with certainty, not only concerning man himself but also concerning God his creator, from the
Sacred Scriptures rather than from human opinion.
And those things which have been handed down in the Sacred Scriptures, having rejected all
curiousness, are so composed, that they are adapted to both our capacity and our benefit. They
are moderate, but solid, certain, profitable, necessary, and harmonious. Therefore, concerning
the creation of man, this is related to us in few words in Genesis chapters one and two. First,
that man is a work, just as all other created things. He was made in time; he did not exist before
time. Indeed, if we consider the time of our beginning, which Sacred Scripture also reveals, every creature is more ancient than man. Now everything which has been made does not exist on
account of itself, but by reason of another source. And just as
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it does not exist from itself, so whatever it has, it does not have from itself, but from the one by
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�whom it was made. Nor when it was made, was it able to cause itself to be made different, either
better or worse, than what it was made according to the will of its maker. On the contrary, it has
not even contributed in the smallest degree to become what it has been made. Accordingly, it
should be observed concerning man, that since he also, just like the rest of creation, was made,
all that he is and all that he has (in terms of natural abilities), depended on the will, wisdom,
and power of his maker.
Second, since the very consideration that we have been made immediately leads us forward to
become acquainted with our maker, we next inquire about the maker and creator of man. Sacred
Scripture attributes the creation of man to the same One by whom all other things were made.
It says, “God created man.”The books of the Gentiles say concerning a certain Prometheus, the
father of Deucalion, that he first formed man. And he did not form man, but the image of man
from clay: for which reason he is also the author of the art of molding. We acknowledge that
the maker of our race is the only and true God, who made heaven and earth, and all the things
which are in them, visible and invisible, and so we confess that whatever we are and whatever
we have is from him. Moreover, it is properly required that in all things we depend on him
alone, as the creature on his creator. Israel is reproached in the Mosaic and prophetic books
because it abandoned its maker. And God himself cries out, saying: “I made you.” Wherein it is
sufficiently demonstrated how perverse the heart of man is, to such an extent that he forsakes
his own maker, God.
Furthermore, we are admonished by this knowledge, since we all have the same creator and
maker, lest any man find fault with his work, either in himself or in others, saying: “Why
did he make me like this?” In Isaiah chapter forty-five we read as follows: “Woe to him
who speaks against his maker, a potsherd among the potsherds of the earth. Shall the clay
say to its potter, ‘What are you making?’” And in Proverbs chapter fourteen we read: “He
who finds fault with a poor man, reproaches his maker.”Therefore, that faith by which we
believe that we have been created by God, will work these three things in our hearts. First,
that in all things we depend with our whole heart on God our creator. Second, that each man
is content with how he has been created, and even embraces it with thanksgiving, for which
he has been made by God the creator. Third, that no one looks down on how his neighbor
has been made, however base and lowly, lest he dishonors in him their common creator.
In the third place, the Sacred Scriptures are not silent about this, of what man was made. In Genesis chapter two we read the following, “Therefore, the Lord God formed man from the dust of
the earth, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living creature.” In
Hebrew it is, המדאה ןמ רפע. Notice the material from which man was made. And what is baser,
what is poorer and more unstable, than the dust of the ground, from which not even bricks can
properly be made? He could at least have been made from solid earth. This origin of our race
warns us all, that in consideration of it we maintain modesty, lest it be said to us: “Why are you
prideful, O earth and ashes?” For what other assessment is to be made of that, which is made
from dust? The Holy Spirit could have said, “The Lord God formed man from the ground,” or
“from the dust”: but in order to inculcate the lowliness of man, he called man, made from dust,
“the dust of the earth.” And what did
God say to Adam? “Dust you are, and to dust you will return.” He did not simply say, “you are
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�71
�from dust,” but “you are dust.” Lest the flesh should say, “So what that I am from dust? Whatever I came from, I am now a human being, and am not dust”; the sentence of God our maker
comes to us, saying: “And from dust you are, and dust you still are, and to dust you will return,” just as if you were to say to a magnificent glacier: “And water you were, and water you
are, and to water you will return.”
In the fourth place, the way in which the first man was made is read in the Sacred Scriptures.
We read the following in Genesis chapter two: “Therefore, the Lord God formed man, from
the dust of the earth, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living
creature.”11 By the verb “formed,” the Holy Spirit expresses the singular diligence put into the
creation of man. Second, in order to describe what material God formed, when he built man,
he adds: “dust of the earth.” Third, he adds, “and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life,”
by which words he teaches us how the figure of the human body, first formed from the dust,
and still inanimate, was made animate and living. His maker poured into him spirit and breath
(for in the Hebrew it is )םייח תמשנfrom which he would live, and so he was made into a living
soul: that is, he began to live, a man now animated, who before was dust and inanimate. Thus,
the things concerning the first man Adam.
And how Eve was subsequently made, is in the same chapter read in this way: “The
Lord God sent a deep sleep on Adam. And while he slept, he took out one of his ribs, and replaced the flesh over it. And the Lord God built the rib, which he had taken from Adam, into a
woman, and brought her to Adam. And Adam said, ‘This is now bone of my bones, and flesh
of my flesh. She is called woman, since she was taken out of man.’”
In both cases, the singular purpose and care that God used in the creation of man is
sufficiently intimated. And yet, in like manner, we are permitted to see how the Holy Spirit describes in three words the wonderful way man was formed—wherein the body together with its
members, both internal and external, such as bones, veins, cartilage, vertebrae, muscles, joints,
and limbs were most harmoniously fashioned, put together, and adorned, and then vivified by
the infusion of the soul—when he says, “he formed,” “he built,” and “he breathed [inspired].”
And in this way, he restrains our curiosity, which is itching to know each of these things, how,
by what industry, by what strength, and in what space of time it was accomplished, admonishing us to reverently hold fast to those things imparted in few words, and to acknowledge and
honor God our maker.
In the fifth place, it is also taught in the Sacred Scriptures, what kind of man was made.
With respect to the figure of the body of both, male and female, its stature, and the fitting together of the body and soul, it is in itself plain, of what constitution we have been made. But
as for clearly perceiving the nature and dignity of man, since both have been corrupted, and
deprived of their original quality, of what kind both were in the first man, we are not able to
know, unless the Holy Spirit speaks of and teaches it to us.
And I do not understand in this place by quality of nature the bodily necessities and
affections, in which we are still subjected, but that original quality of rectitude, which it is read
that God imparted to the first man in Ecclesiastes chapter seven. For Ecclesiastes says the following, “I have found this only, that God made man [ רשיthat is, upright].” This is not to be un
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�derstood of the uprightness of the body, but of the soul, which men call original righteousness,
and which comprises the knowledge of God the creator, obedience, faith, love toward both God
and one’s neighbor, and the freedom of an upright will, together with other adornments of that
nature.
Therefore, when the first man by nature was made such—namely, upright, not only in
body, but also in soul—he possessed free will in such a way, that he was able to obey God, if he
wanted: and, on the other hand, he was able to sin, if he wanted. For however upright and free
to do good he was made, nevertheless, at the same time, he differed from the angels in this, that
he was able to be tempted by inordinate affections, and consent to them, and be led away from
the rectitude of original righteousness. This does not have a place in those angels who, since the
fall of the reprobate spirits, have remained in the truth of God.
The Sacred Scriptures also testify concerning the dignity of the first man, when they
teach that he was made in the likeness and image of God. God says in Genesis chapter one, “Let
us make man in our own image and likeness, and let him rule over the fish of the sea, and over
the birds of the air, and over every living creature on the earth, and over every creeping thing
that moves on the earth. And God created man in his image and in his likeness, in the image of
God he created him,” and the things which follow in that place.
Most ancient and contemporary authors expound the dignity of man as uprightness of
nature, of which we have made mention, so that the image of God was what separated man
from the beasts, by reason and by the internal integrity of man which more nearly resembled
the divine nature, wisdom, and righteousness. But although that exposition is not to be altogether discarded, it is nevertheless clear from the very words of Sacred Scripture that man was
so made in the image of God, that he should be like God on the earth, and have all things placed
under his feet. For what else is being said where it reads, “And God created man in his image
and likeness,” than what follows, “in the image of God he created him”? In Hebrew it is םלצב
םיהלא. And to be created in the image of God, is to be constituted like a certain God. Whence,
magistrates and rulers are in the Scriptures called םיהלא: that is, “gods” and “mighty ones.”
And this image of God granted to man does not exclude the internal uprightness of man, which
is so necessary for the former to be retained, that without it a ruler differs nothing from a savage
beast, except perhaps that he employs more subtlety and cunning in carrying out the malice of
his tyranny. This understanding of human dignity, according to which man is made in the image of God, was plainly set forth by Chrysostom in his exposition of Genesis chapter one, and
occasionally by Augustine in his dispute with the Manicheans.
And when the apostle says in First Corinthians chapter eleven that “a man indeed ought
not cover his head, since he is the image and glory of God, but the woman is the glory of man,”
he thus plainly makes a distinction between the man and the woman, saying that the man is indeed made in the image of God, but the woman in the image of man. This cannot be understood
only of internal human rectitude and righteousness, of which the woman is a partaker together
with the man in the Lord, but is wholly to be understood of the authority of rule, which, as is
well known, was granted at once to the man at the beginning, but denied to the woman.
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The putting of Adam in a paradise of pleasure after he was made, a place more excellent and
exceptional in comparison with all other habitations on the whole earth, and that he put names
�75
�upon all the living creatures, also relate to this dignity of the image of God. For what else do
these things prove than that he was the lord and ruler of the whole earth?
Many other things are disputed concerning the status that our first parents had in paradise, and
what they would have had if they had not sinned, but these things from Sacred Scripture are
more certain and more profitable to students of theology: briefly, to hold, first, that man was
made; second, that he was made by God; third, that he was made from the dust of the earth;
fourth, that he was built with the special care of God; and fifth, that he was made in and elevated to the image of God, so that he is more outstanding in both nature and worth than all other
creatures. If properly considered, these things contain most ample subject matter of Christian
philosophy, and are conducive to this, that through the consideration of our origin we are restored to modesty, and through the knowledge of the uprightness and dignity of our first parents, we understand more deeply what we have lost in them, and what we have recovered, and
not without great gain, in Christ our second Adam, and the author of our regeneration.
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�77
�Bad Dreams - Nadine Bucca
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�“Creating a Community”
An Inter view with Associate Dean
Brendan Boyle
A vision for building community at the
St. John’s College Graduate Institute.
By Stephen Borsum
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�It was what I would call the first cold day of the year when I came to the BBC to meet
Mr. Boyle for an interview. It was cold only in that the rain falling that day was a chilling one, one lacking the distinct warmth that rain has in summer and early fall here in
Annapolis. As I entered, I approached Mr. Boyle’s office to see it closed. Unexpected,
given I was just on time for our scheduled meeting. But he called to me from within the
GI Conference room where he had been taking some calls for the day, and after some
polite banter and the brewing of some green tea, we began our discussion. What follows
has been edited for clarity, and is ultimately a poor reflection of just how engaging a
face-to-face conversation with Mr. Boyle can be.
Stephen:
I’m really curious to hear your thoughts on the role you play as dean. You know, you’re
a liaison to the college. You are a tutor. You’re a family man. You have all of these responsibilities and so, where does worrying about the health of the GI community fall in
the list of priorities?
Mr. Boyle:
I think my top priority is the GI as a community. One thing I realized when I was thinking about this interview this morning is that I’m probably going to be borrowing a lot of
formulations that I heard from Walter Sterling yesterday. And I’m happy to credit him
and you can credit him in whatever way you think is necessary, but I hadn’t really even,
until yesterday, begun to notice that the first statement of the program is that St. John’s
College is a community of learning, and that even if I hadn’t noticed that, I don’t think
I had caught what he drew attention to. Which is that sentence, at least on his construction, is meant to distinguish St. John’s qua community from St. John’s qua institution
like in the first instance. At the same time it might well be an institution. But if it’s an
institution, that description is somehow much lower than the description of St. John’s
as a community. So I do feel like my first responsibility is to the community of learning
and more particularly to the community of learning that is the Graduate Institute now.
And that there’s a new aspect to that community given the fact that the community now
includes persons who are not physically located here, namely low-residency students.
And so, in some sense, I’m the first Associate Dean to inherit this. To walk into a community or to have responsibility of shepherding the community that is not physically in
the same place. It is true that Emily Langston also had that in the latter part of her term,
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�and maybe I’m the first to come into a term for a community of this sort. And that will
present, you know, new different challenges, but those are very much on my mind.
How does one hold together a community that includes a not small number of persons
who are not residents of this place? I’m trying to do some things, reading groups, for
example, that in the past, I think, would be unheard of for an associate dean to have a
reading group that was held online by design. But for me, in having the dean’s reading
group be part of the weekend, I made it online by design because I was trying to be responsive to the nature or shape of the community now. To return to to the formulation
of your question, I really do think that my job is as the steward of the community and
its intellectual health, but intellectual health understood in the most capacious term. I
also want people to be flourishing affectively and interpersonally because, in so doing,
their intellectual flourishing will be still greater.
Not to go on too long — I do want to make this conversation — but I will say one thing
that I really liked about some of the things [Walter Sterling] said yesterday is that it’s
very important for the person in a position of leadership to be physically present. And
I’m trying to keep that at the center of my own mind. Now, I think I can actually do a
much better job of being at ASG on Thursday nights — things like that. I could, in fact
— and should, in fact, do a better job of that. So one of the things that’s important to me
is to acknowledge the importance of the associate dean being physically present here as
much as possible.
Stephen:
I will say, I think the impact of that is already palpable. You and Ms. Langston both
have prioritized that, and I think it’s noted. I will give you the pass on being there at
ASG. You’re here at, you know, eight or nine in the morning. I don’t think we need you
there at 10 p.m. at night. That’s not on you.
Mr. Boyle:
That’s kind of you to say.
Stephen:
That splits off into two things, and feel free to go either direction with these questions.
I do think the gap between the in-person students and the low-residency students is a
very tough one to address and some things are being done like low residency weekends
and I think everyone really enjoys those and it’s hard to require them to come to us
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�more. So I think that solutions like online reading groups are excellent. The other thing
is the relationship between tutors and students seems so vital and, as much as I know,
certain tutors really enjoy the GI but I don’t see them present in some of those additional events. So I think the two main questions there are: Are there other things you are
considering to bridge the gap between in-person and low-residency? And how do we
keep the tutors involved at a greater level?
Mr. Boyle:
Yeah, two hard and great questions. I have some ideas for bridging this gap, and I’m not
sure even if the ideas were put in place and they were successful, I’m still not sure how
much the gap would be bridged.
One of the things that I’d like to do and want to start doing in the near future is just
doing something like a spotlight on a low-residency student, weekly or biweekly, or
something like that, and maybe having a little interview and then putting it up on the
board or sending it around. Just as a way to get the in-person students to know about
the low-residency students who are out there. Would that make intellectual connections? I don’t know. I’m hopeful that something like that, and I don’t know what their
exact right form is, could go some way. Now, to me, it’s still an open question. What
would the best possible outcome look like? How much of a divide would there be in
the best of all possible worlds between the low-residency students and the in-person
students? I don’t think that the answer would be none. But maybe it would be rather
little and I think that’s a perfect question. How do you achieve that “rather little.” The
question about tutors is also a good and hard one. And I think that one of the things
that Emily Langston did really well is integrate the Graduate Institute into the larger
life of the college, and I think that she would say that that was an important part of her
own work. I think that she would also say that it’s probably not yet finished, and it’s
my job to, if not finish it, then hopefully advance it. But it’s also true that we haven’t
really found a way to bring more tutors to the GI. I feel like there’s a somewhat small
subset of tutors, and the faculty who are teaching in the GI and we haven’t yet found
a way to broaden that subset. There are some restrictions, like untenured faculty can’t
teach in the GI seminar. OK, leave that to the side. I would like to find a way, and I’ve
begun to speak with [Annapolis Dean] Susan Paalman about this to find a way to bring
in mid-career tutors beyond the current subset of regulars into the GI, because I feel
like that problem is related to the problem that you’ve said of getting tutors to just be at
other co-curricular or curricular-adjacent events.
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�They seemed like separate problems, but I think they’re related in that if people think of
the GI as a regular part of the academic life of the college tutors, that is, they will see GI
events — be they ASG or (Campus) Convening weekend or what have you — as much
more of a piece with homecoming weekend or just general college events that they go
to with some regularity, even if they’re not teaching in the GI in that particular semester. So, that’s an aim of mine, and I think it would be good for the GI to have greater
circulation of the faculty through it. And I think that some of the GI students even like
the fact that there a subset of tutors who are especially dedicated to GI. I think there is
something to be said for that, but it would be nice for that subset to be larger, and then
I think we would have that circulation which would be good for all parties.
Stephen:
I think all of that addresses another question I have. It seems that It’s hard to build a
community with busy adults when you only have four segments to do so. And I know
that’s how the program is built and marketed, but do you see that as a hindrance to a
sustaining a community? Are there inclinations you have on how to address that other
than GIs coming back to do precepts and audit classes later?
Mr. Boyle:
Can I first ask a question in response? Is it somehow a corollary of that question that the
MALA could or should be longer than four segments?
Stephen:
It certainly could be. And I’m thinking of the four semesters and particularly how I hear
it marketed in some ways where you could do summer or fall, spring, summer and be
done in a year, and you can hardly form a friendship in a year regardless of your lifelong relationships.
Mr. Boyle:
That seems that seems fairly said. On the one hand, I think that the MALA is by most
Master’s standards long. Most other programs speak in the language of credit hours.
This Master’s program, seeing as it takes, let’s say, two academic years, generally is
more time for students to form community than I think a lot of other Master’s programs
have. I’m not entirely sure that the time component is works against us. I do agree that
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�when the program is marketed, or at least described, as a program that you could finish
in a year — summer, academic year, following summer — then the question of how
to put that frame together with the emphasis on community is a hard one, and maybe
even might sound a little bit disingenuous. As in, how can you promise the creation of
community in one calendar year? I would respect that criticism. I don’t actively talk
about the program as one that should be done in a single calendar year. When people
ask if they can do this, I tell them that of course they can, and I recognize that some
people have a year off of their job or a sabbatical that is just the calendar year, and we
want them to be able to do this in that in that single calendar year and I guess we’re in
some sense crossing our fingers that the intensity of the program will generate some
sort of community and lasting friendship that is typically brought about by time. It
might be important for me to think about those persons who have done the program in
a year and calendar year and whether they as a distinct group feel connected or not to
the college now.
One other open question for me is: does this segment structure itself work against community? That wasn’t precisely your formulation, but I wonder if you might endorse
it? And I say that because it’s not as if students move through the program together.
You’re in a segment with somebody one semester and then they’re in segment X in the
spring semester, but you’re in segment Y spring semester and you just don’t see each
other or aren’t reading the same texts any longer. Does that work against community?
Maybe it does. It’s certainly true that the undergraduates, you know, don’t have that
experience. So that’s something I may have to give some more thought to, but maybe I
could just pause for a second and ask you, do you think that segment structure works
against community? Insofar as the person with whom you are forging a deep friendship
now this fall very well will not be in the same class with you next semester, let alone in
the same segment.
Stephen:
I do think this type of thing plays out in ASG. And I haven’t seen enough evidence to
say that it’s positive or negative, but it is interesting to see the... I want don’t use the
term “clique” because it’s often so loaded, but it’s the most apt word. Cliques will form
in ASG often, and if they’re not people who are already established friends they will
form because of the shared texts. And those are bright and vibrant conversations, but
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�at the same time, there is such a genuine interest in what everyone else is experiencing
that I think it overcomes itself, so I don’t think the segment structure is necessarily a
hindrance. I would be curious to know, and this is more of a general question, if there
is a perceived issue, how even flexible is the structure of the GI? It doesn’t seem like it’s
something that can change on a whim.
Mr. Boyle:
Definitely not something that could change on a whim. But the GI structure has changed
a lot, even in the short time that I’ve been at the college. For example, the decoupling of
the preceptorials from the segments. At one point, not during Emily Langston’s associate deanship but back in Jeff Black’s deanship, it used to be the case that the preceptorials were in a pretty strong sense pegged to the segments offered that term. So, if you
take this term for an example, Math and Natural Science, and Literature. The preceptorials offered would be two Literature preceptorials and two Math and Natural Science
preceptorials. Instead, what we actually have this fall is Canterbury tales, Galileo, three
modern poets, the Greek, and Plato. And yes some of those may fit the themes of the
current segments, but that seems to be circumstance, not designed.
I think in years past one might have said that Plato’s Republic somehow belongs to
Philosophy and Theology. So I do think that there is some kind of openness for the
structure of the GI to change, and you might hear people around the halls talk about
other paths to degree that the GI might pursue. Maybe we decouple — and I’m not
endorsing this, I’m just reporting things that I’ve heard — decouple the seminars and
tutorials. And it’s no longer the case that one needs to take four seminar-tutorial pairs
plus four preceptorials, but one needs to take four seminars, four tutorials and four preceptorials. And they can be somehow mixed and matched. That could not be changed
on a whim and I’m not sure that that’s even a good idea. I would say I do think that
the relationship between seminar and tutorial in the GI is unique and it’s not like the
relationship between seminar and tutorial in the undergraduate program. Insofar as
it’s unique, I can imagine people in the future thinking about different ways forward
to the degree that may not abandon the segment structure, but might actually in some
sense alter it because one would be no longer bound to these seminar-tutorial pairs.
Again I’m not endorsing this. I’m just speculating on things that I have heard, and I’m
of two minds. As you might recall yesterday, Walter Sterling talked about the GI as be
85
�ing a place for experiments, and I think that there’s definitely some truth to that. Now,
one needs to be cautious about imagining the GI as just some kind of laboratory where
one can try a bunch of different things, because that’s a deep disservice to the Institute,
as an institution with its own coherent program. It’s true that it’s more amenable to experimentation, new offerings, new MALA segments than with the undergraduate. Well,
obviously it might be amenable to new offerings than undergraduate programming is,
but one needs to be very measured about how one goes about doing such a thing.
Stephen:
I think this discussion of the structure of the GI program raises a question that ties the
conversation back to the relationship between the GI and the broader college community. I think the first thing I want to just hear your input on is, there is such a difference
in how the GI and the undergrad programs are built — and this might get at the heart
of the issue — do you think GIs and undergrads graduate from their programs prepared to have the same conversation with each other? Is there something inherently
true about the structure either way that creates that unity?
Mr. Boyle:
I think there’s enough overlap between the texts that are at the center of the GI. I want
to say that at the center of the GI are the books and at the center of the undergraduate
program are the books. It just so happens that we have kind of carved them up into segments for reasons that might be related to the unique position that a number of persons
who are coming to the GI find themselves in. That they’re organized by segments to
me will always remain a secondary fact about the about the Graduate Institute, and the
books on the lists will always remain the absolute center, and insofar as there is great
overlap between those lists and the list for the undergraduate program. I do think that
the two sets of graduates, GI and undergraduates, go out ready to talk to one another,
and the places in which they differ, it’s probably the case that undergraduates know
about and wish that they could have read things that are in the GI program and vice
versa. For example, the entire history segment. GI’s have ready ears to hear about things
that are in the graduate program but not in the undergraduate one, and seem genuinely
curious about the undergraduate experience and what it offers that they may not see
in the GI. Labs are a terrific example there. Music, by and large. But yeah, there’s a nice
amount of overlap. But with the possibility for growth because the overlap is not total.
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�Stephen:
Absolutely. Well, I only have two more quick questions for you. I’m curious to hear
your take on what it is that makes the GI community so unique amongst the polity or
even in the world. And then the last question is just a question on your background and
what got you here. So I guess you if you want to take the GI community question first
and then we can jump into the other one.
Mr Boyle:
This is where I’m definitely going to steal from Walter yesterday because I thought it
was so moving of him to have said that. In some sense, the GI is most reflective of what
it is that is at the heart of St. John’s College. Insofar as, people come to the graduate program, people do not drift into the Graduate Institute in the way that 18-year-olds can
drift into the undergraduate program or be helped along by their parents into the undergraduate program, directed by their parents say, into the undergraduate program.
It’s not a knock on anybody, it’s just a recognition of that’s how life is. One at 18 is still
not quite in charge of one’s own life. But when one decides at the age of 25, 55, 75 to give
of oneself one’s time and one’s finances to intellectual inquiry, that is a demonstration
of the true choice-worthiness of the undertaking that we do here. That characterizes
the work of the college. And yes, it will always be the case that the undergraduate program is at the center of St. John’s. No one, no one is doubting that. But I thought that
Walter really highlighted a way in which something about the presence of persons who
have made a very considered and deliberate choice, in something like the middle of
their lives, to undertake this mode of inquiry through conversation is the best possible
endorsement of it. So, I found that very, very moving. And in some sense wish all GIs
could have heard that. It helps me even think about what I find so moving about seeing
a 25-year-old, a 55-year-old, a 75-year-old here together learning from one another. I
see in them hunger for a life of learning with others and in community with others but
also, recognition that that hunger is one that can be met by this distinct community, the
institution of St. John’s College. So, their presence here in the Graduate Institute is in
some sense the greatest endorsement of the institution as a whole.
Now, how did I get here? Again, I’m going to borrow a little bit from something that I
heard Walter say in a different meeting. I’ve been a tutor for 10 years, more or less. And
at some point along the way, I think I felt some sort of calling to take on a role in the
college over and above my work and the working of the classroom, which is, I believe,
the most important work at the college. But I thought that I might have had one or two
administrative talents that are in some sense very minor virtues like staying on top of
87
�things or keeping some things organized, that I felt like I could put in the college’s service. I Won’t be in this position forever and look forward to returning to the classroom,
but as I felt like I had these minor virtues I wanted to share them with the college. And
so when they asked me to do this, I was very glad to do it. And I came into the role with
the GI in a great position and hope to leave it in a still better one.
Stephen:
Building on your journey to this position I have one last question is and then we’ll get
you out of here. I saw in your background in classics is what led you into this world
of inquiry. But clearly, just even having a couple of brief intro or Campus Convening
Weekend seminars with you, there’s a vibrancy in you about educating itself. So I’m
curious, does that drive to be an educator come before the passion of the classics, or did
the passion of the classics inspire the drive to be an educator?
Mr. Boyle:
Can I do the thing that interviewers hate and just reject the terms of question?
Stephen:
Be my guest.
Mr Boyle:
I think I might have at one time thought of myself as an educator, but I’m very grateful
to St. John’s because I don’t any longer really think of myself as an educator. But I feel
like I can passionately model being a student, like I just love learning and I love learning
with others and I think I’m not bad at it. I think I know how it goes well, and what in
what conditions it goes well, and what conditions it goes somewhat poorly. And I think
I can model that for people. If I’m educating them in that regard, I’m happy to, but I’m
definitely not filling their minds with any theories.
88
I’m grateful to St. John’s because to be perfectly honest, before I came to St. John’s I
did just want to be filled with facts that I could report, but not really own as my own.
St. John’s, as I think it’s true for many tutors, marked a real new beginning in my own
intellectual life. What I could say if I have to start again from nothing and say, almost
all of what I take myself to know I know in only the most attenuated sense because it’s
so mediated. It’s been handed to me by so many other persons that I have never really
taken any ownership of my own education, and I think I was able to do that when I
�became a tutor and I hope I’m showing people that they can do that, too. And you can
start at any time. It’s available to anybody to just take ownership of their education.
And insofar as I’m showing people what that might look like, I may consider myself an
educator, but in the main, I’m just a student.
Stephen:
Well, it’s certainly palpable and thank you for taking some time with me today
Mr. Boyle:
It was a pleasure, glad to.
89
�Thank you to all our contributors
90
Austin Suggs
On Creation
Chris Macbride
Old Dog
Cynthia Crane
The First Postulate
John Harwood
Before the Blank Stare
Kyle Reynolds
The Creation of the Self
Louis Petrich
Children of That World
Nadine Bucca
Visual Art
Noah Vancina
The Nature of the Pilgramage
Sam Hage
Corruption at the Symposium
Shirley Quo
The Galileo Affair
Siobhán Petersen
How to Read Well
Stacey Rains
Forbidden Fruit
Stephen Cunha
On the Creation of Man
Sydney Rowe
Mimi
Sylvie Bernhardt
My Mind’s a Dark Forest
Yonas Ketsela
A Dialogue with Descartes
�COLLOQUY
St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland
Volume 13: Fall 2023
Editor
Stephen Borsum
Editorial board:
Sarah Ritchie, Paul Harland-White, Shirley Quo, Stuart Williams,
Kyle Reynolds, Sylvie Bernhardt
With thanks to: Kashya Boretsky, Associate Dean Brendan
Boyle, and the Graduate Student Council
.....
Colloquy is a biannual publication of the Graduate Student
Council and St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. The journal is free of charge. Address correspondence to Colloquy, The
Graduate Institute at St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue,
Annapolis, Maryland, 21401. Or email to colloquy@sjc.edu.
Students, tutors, and alumni of St. John’s College and the Graduate Institute are encouraged to submit their manuscripts in PDF
or Word format by email to colloquy@sjc.edu . The journal also
accepts submissions of poetry, original art, and photography.
Please include your name, contact information, and the title of
your work with your submission.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in the journal do
not necessarily reflect those St. John’s College, the Graduate
Council, or Colloquy.
91
�92
�
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Colloquy
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A journal for the Graduate Institute Community of St. John's College in Annapolis, MD.
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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92 pages
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Colloquy, Fall 2023
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Volume 13 of Colloquy, published in Fall 2023. The theme of the issue is On Creation.
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Borsum, Stephen (Editor)
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St. John's College
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Annapolis, MD
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2024-02
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English
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St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.)--Periodicals
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English
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Colloquy_Fall2023_Online-Copy
Graduate Institute
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