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'sReview
St. John's College
1784-1984
Summer, 1984
�Editor:
J. Walter Sterling
Managing Editor:
Thomas Parran, ·Jr.
Editorial Assistant:
Jason Walsh
Editorial Board:
Eva Brann
S. Richard Freis,
Alumni representative
Joe Sachs
Cary Stickney
Curtis A. Wilson
'
Unsolicited articles, stori~s, and poems
are welcome, but should be accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed
envelope in each instance. Reasoned
comments are also welcome.
The St. John's Review (formerly The College) is published by the Office of the
Dean, St. John's College, Annapolis,
Maryland 21404. Edwin J. Delattre,
President, Samuel S. Kuder, Dean.
Published thrice yearly, in the winter,
spring, and summer. For those not on
the distribution list, subscriptions:
$12.00 yearly, $24.00 for two years, or
$36.00 for three years, payable in advance. Address all correspondence to
The St. John's Review, St. John's College,
Annapolis, Maryland 21404.
Volume XXXV, Number 3
Summer, 1984
©
1984 St. John's College; All rights
reserved. Reproduction in whole or in
part without permission is prohibited.
ISSN 0277-4720
Compos£t£on: Fishergate Publishing Co., Inc.
Printing: The John D. Lucas Printing Co.
Cover courtesy State of Maryland
Maryland State Archives. Laws 1784
Chapter 37 Page 1.
�THE
StJohn's Review
Contents
2
A Search for the Liberal College (book review)
Joseph Killorin
6
The Analysis of Fictions
Scott Buchanan
15 . . . . . .
The Breathing Side of Ocean (poem)
William Thompson
16 . . . . . .
The Problem and the Art of Writing
jacob Klein
23 . . . . . .
Passage (poem)
Elliot Zuckerman
24 . . . . . .
The Myth and the Logic of Democracy
John S. Kiiffer
31 . . . . . .
Bandusia, Flower of Fountains (poem)
Richard Freis
32 . . . . . .
On Mimesis
Victor Zuckerkandl
40 . . . . . .
The Archimedean Point and the Liberal Arts
Curtis Wilson
48 . . . . . .
The P~ogram of St. John's College
·Eva T H. Brann
OccASIONAL DrscouRsEs
56 . . . . . .
Sermon Preached at St. Anne's Church, Annapolis
J Winfree Smith
59 . . . . . .
The Golden Ages of St. John's College
Eva Brann
62 . . . . . .
William Smith: Godfather and First President of St. John's College
Arthur Pierce Middleton
BooK REviEw
66 . . . . . .
The Early History of St. John's College in Annapolis
Charlotte Fletcher
68 . . . . . .
The Old Gods (poem)
Gretchen Berg
�BooK REviEw
Summer 1984
A Search for the Liberal College
]. Winfree Smith, St. John's Press, Annapolis, 1983, vii+135 pp., $11.00
Joseph Kill orin
T
his is the story of how a man conceived
and founded, as an act of war against the
familiar educational enterprises of our age,
a college to cultivate the intellectual virtues
by means of what he called the liberal arts;
how, after a decade, its restle~s and weary maker, overreaching to a grander goal, attempted to confound his
original creation; and how, abandoned by him, it fell at
first into confusion until a second man, after a good
night's sleep, restored it safe and sound on its foundations, not without dire warnings thereafter against safe
foundations and sleep.
Who could possibly have thought, as Winfree Smith
says some did think, "that it would be preferable to have
someone from outside the college tell the story on the
ground that I might be partial to the curriculum and the
men who had most to do with starting and establishing
it"? The same Athenians, perhaps, who thought some
Scythian might tell their story more impartially than
Thucydides? Winfree Smith "went through the program"
under the conscript fathers and has acted for over forty
years a part in the life of the college that itself demands
a chapter. Yet his allegiance to St. John's appears only
in the restraint and decorum with which he presents its
history, and in the clarity with which he handles its principal intellectual concerns. The restraint is that of one
who knows first-hand far more of the facts and has had
cause for far sharper judgements than archives and other
secondary sources record, and which facts and judgements, one assumes, must sometimes therefore be forbidden to this history. On a very few occasions he gives
Joseph Killorin graduated from St. Joh.n's College, Annapolis, in 1947. He
is Callaway Professor of Literature and Philosophy at the Savannah unit of
the University of Georgia.
2
us only the deed with insufficient clue to motive; we
need the help at least of
"Some said ... , while others
said ... :'
Nowhere is Mr. Smith
more discreet or his interpretation more needed than
in the exit of Buchanan at
the conclusion of this history's enthralling central
episode, perhaps misleadingly titled "The Fight with the
Navy in Wartime and the Departure of Barr and
Buchanan:' The chapter begins, "This is a strange and
perhaps incomprehensible story:' Mr. Smith links up the
moves between the Navy and St. John's Board, both of
whom seemed to find this local war they discovered themselves in strange and incomprehensible. No wonder. As
Mr. Smith makes us see, it was a war in one man's soul,
in which war Mr. Barr was merely a messenger, the Navy
was merely an historical occasion, and the St. John's
Board a chorus of friends found to be betrayers. For the
war at the end of Buchanan's career with St.John's was
a psychomachia. The Demiurge, comparing his copy of
St. John's to the pattern laid up in Possibility, raged in
despair. Or, can one say, his "mistaken historical judgement'' at last revealed him to himself as a N essus, not
a Heracles, and in self-horror he demanded that his poisonous "program should be laid on the shelf and forgotten:' As Mr. Smith now presents this story, it is a good
deal more comprehensible than it seemed on the spot
(or even than Mr. Smith made it seem to me on the spot).
But for so byzantine a story, res ipsa non loquitur, or at least
the tears of this res do not speak out.
Buchanan in April 1945 virtually offered to sell the
campus to the Navy. Why within a year did he reverse
himself and decide to fight the government in the name
SUMMER 1984
�of"the great liberal arts college family;' "the sacred city,"
although he still did not wish to continue the college in
Annapolis? And why, after the battle to keep the campus was won, did he denounce the St. John's Board as
"stupid and blind . . . and therefore highly irresponsible to the vision . . . and disloyal" because they wished
to hold on to what they had? Of course Buchanan's life
had always been responsible "to the vision;' but why had
he been overcome with a holy horror at housing this vision in the scaffolding of his own New Program? He
called the New Program merely "a revolutionary blueprint to subvert and rebuild education, ... a bulldozer
inside a Trojan horse." And when after ten years it had
not yet subverted education, he cursed his program not
only as "a mistaken historical judgement;' but as "a poison
corrupting a household at St. John's and ... because of
its being at St. John's it would become a poison wherever
it was tried." It was also, in one of his favorite figures,
"a wind-egg;' an empty birth. (Thirty years later he asked
St. John's students how the search for a liberal college
was going, "and if it's still on, why do you have the same
curriculum now that we had thirty years ago?" [Embers
of the World, p. 180].) Was this turning in 194 7 against
the New Program connected in Buchanan's mind with
his turning from a non-voter to a political activist (on
the national platform committee of the Progressive Party
[Embers, pp. 99-195])? Mr. Smith's summing up of
Buchanan's tormented saga keeps our eye on the
subject -St. John's: if there was a tragedy in all this, he
says, it was that Buchanan's behavior jeopardized the only
college he and they had by losing for it Mellon's $4.5
million.
Not much is illumined in this history of Buchanan's
charm or of his power of mind and character. (Nor do
these things often appear in Wofford's conversations with
him. Perhaps Saul Bellow is needed.) But that mind and
that presence struck all with respect and many with love.
That is why it is so important to comprehend this story
as far as possible.
The community, dispirited if not paralyzed entirely
by the founder's curse, whispered in groups and
floundered for two years. Who now could speak for them?
Anyone would be measured against Buchanan. Yet
neither another Buchanan nor, worse, a new prophet with
a new program could save what they felt was worth the
saving. What was needed was a N uma or, rather, an
Augustus. And of course they knew he had actually been
among them all along. Neither imitator nor innovator,
he was a restorer.
In Scott Buchanan and in Jacob Klein, other faculty
members and students all saw plainly in act before their
eyes what Heidegger called the "faculty of wondering at
the simple, and of taking up and accepting this wondering as one's abode~' And Buchanan's fear that established
routine (even in the best possible curriculum) might inhibit spontaneous learning was also a persistent fear of
Klein's. They both saw college as an abode for practicing the habit of staying awake among the almost over-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
whelming inducements everywhere to sleep in unexamined opinion.
One might gather from Mr. Smith's portraits,
however, that Buchanan and Klein, both as philosophers
and deans, not only differed about why men do not stay
awake, but-far more to the St. John's point-about why
men do stay awake (when they do). Buchanan saw inducements to sleep embedded in the deficiencies of the
educational tools: in second-rate books and curricula, and
in arts unhoned for activating and liberating men's thinking power. Under the spell of the best books and the true
liberal arts the soul of any faculty member and any student learns to fly. Klein saw inducements to sleep welling from within, from "inactivity of vegetative or at best
appetitive souls~' It is a part of our nature, he told our
class, to fall "subservient to the appalling practical
automatism of our way of life;' for intellect to sleep, to
forget, before "the dull onslaught of routine and matterof-fact attitude:' Perhaps the life of almost all men (including in one year all but ten members of St. John's
faculty) is mostly a sleep and a forgetting. But, yet, intellect does not die.
Why do (some?) men desire to stay awake, to know
in the fullest sense? Mr. Smith presents, with an admirable explication, what is obviously a treasured parable
about the two Fathers- treasured, I would guess, because
it shows how one of them (almost?) forgets his own deepest faith, the faith of St. John's. The self-exiled founder
had wandered for six years when he returned to the sacred
city he once said he had poisoned- for a conference.
At St. John's "in the early days," Buchanan
remembered, "we were concerned about the whole range
of virtues, and the theological virtues were seriously inquired into. There was a concern about Faith, Hope, and
Charity ...." Because "the intellect does not live without
faith, without (hedging here; Mr. Smith may have caught
his eye] something ofthe sort ... :• Mr. Smith reminds
us that even Thomas does not see faith "as an imperative
for bringing intellect to life:' But did Buchanan say intellect is dead? Yes. Intellect unwatered by "ideology, faith,
or something or other" has died, he seemed to say, leaving everywhere in the house of dead intellect "a dismal
grim dullness:' The founder's suggestion that without faith
men do not desire to know thrusts to the heart of St.
John's. So Mr. Smith persists, "But did Mr. Buchanan
really mean that without faith (intellect] was dead?" And
the historian charitably answers that this is unlikely, on
the ground that Mr. Buchanan never before had faith
in Faith, but only employed it for "lively intellectual gym_nastic:;s~'
Now, like Mercury bearing the words of Jupiter to
that other wandering founder ("heu! regni rerumque oblite
tuarum!- Alas! forgetful of your own world, your own
kingdom!"), or like Parsifal opening the forgotten shrine
to heal the self-wounded Leader, Klein speaks.
Buchanan: We have to have something that will bring
intellect back to life. I have not any solution for this.
Klein: The intellect lives.
3
�Some men desire to know most fully, and intellect, the
highest activity, is under no necessity to proceed from or
to flower in faith, much less in ideology "or something
or other!' It is this other faith, in intellect itself, that both
of them demonstrated in their lives: the faith that
tormented Buchanan to abandon St. John's and sustained
Klein in restoring it. It was the spectacle of that act of
faith in intellect- most eminently in the lives of those
two and of Leo Strauss, but of others too- that many
of us carried away to ponder in our hearts in all the years
after.
Not, as our historian notes, that this confusion of
faith-in-intellect with faith was not itself a regular theme
for questioning. And indeed Mr. Smith himself usually
led the questioning. Note the extra-dryness of tone when
Mr. Smith recalls Buchanan on the sacraments or the
Incarnation, or rather the idea of them. And there is no
word in the vintner's vocabulary for the dryness with
which we are told that a President of St.John's once said
"the college as such was committed to belief in a God
who listens to and answers petitionary prayer?' Intellect
at St. John's came up against Faith in what seemed to
us at first novel ways: some had Faith (I mean Jews and
Christians now), and hated Theology, while some had
no Faith and loved Theology. And, again, Mr. Smith was
a citizen, we gathered, of Jerusalem, who nevertheless
elected alien residence in Athens. (He once ended a
review of a lecture on Kierkegaard: "Is it necessarily true
that faith in Jesus Christ requires the opposition of
reason? Is reason, after all, that important?" Just as he
couldn't believe Buchanan thought intellect was dead, we
couldn't believe Winfree thought that in any respect reason
was unimportant.) Mr. Buchanan claimed equal citizenship in both Athens and Jerusalem, or rather he thought
that each was also the other. Mr. Klein was a citizen of
Athens, for whom the desirability of citizenship in
Jerusalem was not even discussable. Mr. Kaplan (our
semi-official guide to Jerusalem) and Mr. Scofield (our
strongest guide to tragedy) were life-long renters in the
House of Intellect; we loved them, among many other
reasons, for their smiles of suspicion as they heard out
the landlord in his more aggrandizing moods.
Another persistent theme in the College and appearing in Mr. Smith's account of Mr. Klein was its ambivalent view of history. There was a public ban on
history, as sometimes there is a public ban on alcohol;
one drink can lead to the gutter, a little history can lead
to "historicism," which is the curse of the intellectual class
throughout and since the nineteenth century. Yet we
learned (in the coffee shop) from Mr. Klein that he and
Leo Strauss had studied under the greatest and most subtle "historicist" of all, Heidegger, whose "radical
historicism" seemed to us, after all, a little like the attempt of Mr. Klein himself to make clear the history of
"thinking:' (This conversation followed Mr. Klein's annual week of extra-curricular [!]lectures on the radical
difference between Greek and Cartesian mathematics.)
Yes, it turned out, there was a legitimate form of
4
history- only one: the history of thought (in Mr.
Klein's-and Husserl's-written words) as "the interlacement of original production and 'sedimentation' of
significance." At St. John's we were attempting to reactivate "sedimented" thought, recovering thinking, the
original "wondering at the simple" (the original production would be reflected in the greatest books), out from
history. All along in our often trackless seminar wandering (do they still try to cross Thomas on law with Burnt
Njal?) we had been holding on, Mr. Klein made us see,
to this Ariadne's thread from the thinking of great
thinkers. The way in which Mr. Klein suggested we examine how words present things to us was different from
the ways ofWittgenstein or Austin. We were, it seemed,
superimposing, from our great authors, word on word,
context on .context, examining-as on a palimpsesthow the oldest, the original, handling of this thing showed
through the new and colored it, or, on the other hand,
was blanked out. How startling to see through Descartes,
Hobbes, Leibniz, Swift, Rousseau, the paths back to
Aristotle and Plato that had led from a thinking to a
rethinking! Mr. Klein in seminar, throwing up his hands
from time to time, would explode with twenty minutes
or so of this legitimate history. Mr. Strauss, besides his
lectures, would offer at times in Klein's seminar a full
evening of it. The discussions that followed later were
never so keyed up and so "informed" Heidegger and late
Husserl were mentioned, but we could not know then
also how unique were Klein's and Strauss's "history" lectures, which, except for Strauss's Hobbes, we never read
unless as mimeographed lectures. (Speaking of lecture
subjects, am I alone in not remembering now what was
said in a single lecture about the liberal arts-except
about Music, where-aside from Augustine-you simply
had to invent, the wilder the better. I see Music, the
traviata of the Seven Sleepers, has been downgraded to
Harmonics.)
If chiefly Buchanan and Klein informed this search
for a liberal college in its first twenty-one years, Mr.
Smith's subject is not the separate actors but the College
as a community concerned with the learning effort and
particularly the curriculum, its surprisingly adaptive soul,
as it moved from its first frantic plenitude through its
successive, more practicable, shapes.
And in the curriculum, one should mention (I am
not the one to say more) a last persistent theme or obsession. I remember that in our first week the Demiurge
himself warned us they had all been struggling with the
"matter" of the laboratory to try to make it more rational
and that the struggle would, with us, continue. The
laboratory has provided a theme more native to St.John's
than even faithless theology or anti-historicist history. Mr.
Smith calls attention to the now ancient yearning of these
knights of intellect to unify all the sciences, sheer force
of analogy having regularly failed. With Humphreys,*
*Humphreys Hall, where the laboratories were located in the 1940s
and 1950s.
SUMMER 1984
�it seemed then, the eros of intellect could not get beyond
an interesting fumble. Consideration of this matter of
the laboratory makes one see, on the one hand, how
romantic was St. ] ohn's reach as opposed to its grasp,
and, on the other hand, why an insider had to write this
history. For how could any outsider write the next
sentence with so little sarcasm and with so much smiling rue?
give unity to all knowledge (p. 57), was nevertheless in
an essential way like other modern seekers for unity
through method, and thereby unlike Klein.
Actually [Engelder, Dunkelberger, and Schiller] was not
a bad text for learning chemistry, but it did not do much
in the way of relating chemistry to the question of being qua being.
This kind of overriding concern to unify the diversity
of experience Buchanan shared with, say, both Dewey
and Whitehead, but not with Klein, who held "it is very
hard even to postulate unity" in the sciences as well as
in all the other fields of learning (p. 119).
Mr. Smith shows us, then, that the "radical inquiry"
which "St.John's College means to be engaged in" meant,
in its beginnings, at least two, and very different, kinds
of questions and answers. We cannot know how a longer
interchange between two such different men and different
concerns might have altered the content and style oflearning at St. John's. From what interchange we actually
observed there arose a spontaneity, a liveliness, a felt
presence of intellect, and along with this a model of intellectual manners which it is impossible to forget.
About Buchanan versus Klein, there was also, in their
last years together at St. John's, a distinct but light-hearted
sense of danger to students' minds, not that either man
willingly (horrible dictui) provoked it in the slightest way.
For the Collegian (August 20, 1943) five seniors wrote a
spoof in which J ascha, having sat at Euclid's feet, and
having rejected Descartes ("Jascha: All the world's in rack
and ruin/Grecian dough has ceased its brewin'./Genus,
species have passed by,/All that's left is x and y!'), at last,
arriving at Coney Island, is enticed by a carnival barker
named Buchanan:
So Mr. Smith's whole view of St. John's beginnings
arouses on every page comparisons with one's own partial memory of admirations, exhilarations, frustrations.
We felt at once the thrill of participants in Odysseus
Buchanan's plot to halt the Decline of the West by driving our unaccredited Trojan Horse into the Sacred City
of Higher Education, assured by Mr. Barr on our first
Sunday night that it was ripe for bulldozing, dying in
fact of the bourgeois-vocational-elective-system disease.
There were, to be sure, other, but "progressive;' Trojan Horses at work before us (Sarah Lawrence, Bard,
Antioch, Bennington, Black Mountain, and Minnesota),
and "we" found ourselves often at war with their sympathizers, instead of the common enemy we were all out
to do in. What followed was mere pretension at debate
about education's proper end and means in which, as it
has long since become clear, there was not much will,
on any side, to ')oin" the issues, except, perhaps, in
Meiklejohn's reply to John Dewey (Fortune, January
1945). But the difference between us and all of them was
obvious: we depended on the (mostly long past) great
books.
Now Mr. Smith's whole view invites us to see what
could be meant at St. John's by its goal of "radical inquiry" at that historical moment (1) when the American
scene was breeding such opposing Trojan Horses, all
radically inquiring, and (2) when a man with Klein's view
of the past joined a man with Buchanan's view of the past.
Buchanan and Klein shared an anti-historicist interest
in thinkers of the past, where even Meiklejohn understood
history, like education, as a progress towards wisdom.
Buchanan had, like that other American transcendentalist, Emerson, a trans-historical openness to past
thinkers in his desire to connect all insights to the eternal. But with this he combined a modern addiction to
logical systems and methods, such as Ockham's, Ramus's,
and Hegel's. (That Buchanan could not see the antisystematist Nietzsche as a serious philosopher may be
a sign of the differences between his education and
Klein's; it was from the attack launched by Nietzsche, from
phenomenology and deconstruction with their radical
questioning of the metaphysical tradition, that Klein returned to the tradition with a concern for recovering
thinking out of it.)
Mr. Smith implies that Buchanan, for all his faith that
metaphysics and theology were the sciences that would
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
[Buchanan] was a man of the post-Cartesian world in
that he was seeking methods and formulas and symbolic
structures for learning or philosophizing, methods that
would, he hoped, bring together the most diverse worlds
of thought and imagination.
All tickets win, and none do lose,
It doesn't matter which you choose.
Systems great and systems small,
Numbered you must try them all.
Won't you come and play my game,
Metaphysics is its name.
Uascha hesitates, then buys a chance. While
Buchanan turns the wheel, Jascha murmurs.]
J ascha: Oh fate, oh misery, oh dark forebodings . . . !
Buchanan (smiling): You've won a free ride on the
Platinic system.
f]ascha approaches the wheel, hesitates, tears the
ticket up and turns to go. The entire carnival, however,
converges on him in a whirling vortex. Thunder, lightning. Curtain.]
We heard that the piece caused somewhat hurt feelings
all-round. In any case, it turned out to be bad prophecy
about who tore the ticket up and turned to go, and no
doubt too light-hearted an assessment of what the game
rightly was and is.
0 beloved Pan and all you other gods of that place,
grant the fair-and-good man who wrote this book as
many blessings as he has the thanks-for unnumbered
reasons- of those he wrote it for!
5
�The Analysis of Fictions
Scott Buchanan
atter-day discussions of the fine arts have
led to an interesting metaphor which has
suggested the title of this little book. In the
attempt to clarify the criterion of 'purity' in
poetry, music, painting, and sculpture, and
to disentagle it from the older criteria of truth, sincerity, and depth, critics have spoken of 'distance: There is
no doubt that the metaphor has sharpened the sense of
a certain quality recognizable in our appreciation, one
which is closely related to formal clarity. On the other
hand there is little sharpness or formal clarity in the exposition of the metaphor itself. In fact it seems improbable that distance should become an exact technical
term in art criticism as long as the divorce between works
of art and symbols is maintained. The metaphor is empty
until we recall that a symbol, or a work of art, was
originally only a part of something from which it had
been separated, but to which it functionally belonged.
The immediate suggestion from this etymology is that
distance would neatly refer to the degree of separation
of sign from thing signified.
I shall not plead with art critics and aestheticians for
a nostalgic rapprochement between works of art and symbols, but I shall plead with linguists and logicians for the
inclusion of their studies within the broad traditional field
of the arts. The intellectual arts, at any rate, are concerned with symbols, and, it may be added, they are at
present painfully and crucially concerned with symbols
as their essential subject-matter. The pain involved in this
concern arises chiefly from the modern difficulty of
achieving distance or detachment in the terms of our arts
L
The late Scott Buchanan founded the New Program at St. John's College.
Ana(ysis qf Fictions appeared as the first chapter of Symbolic Distance, published
by Faber and Faber in 1932.
6
and sciences. It may be that our art critics are teaching
a deeper and broader lesson than they themselves realize,
a lesson that should be studied by scientists and moralists
as well as the man in the street.
The ancient arts of the trivium, grammar, rhetoric,
and dialectic, which we have relegated to the finishing
school for young ladies, were concerned equally painfully with the symbols of a previous age; they were studied
and applied for a thousand years before their task was
accomplished and they were allowed to give place to the
symbolic discipline of modern science with its operational
skills and its speculative generalizations. It seems worth
while to attempt a brief statement of their methods and
aims, and to enquire into the possibility of reconstituting
the technique to suit modern symbols.
In the first place it was considered dangerous to allow
students to enter upon the higher studies, law, medicine,
and theology, without a thorough training in the trivial
arts. The dangers were literal interpretation of symbolic
formulae and violent application of doctrine to special
cases. No vitally important study was safe in the hands
of untutored persons who could not deal easily and fluently with figurative, abstract, and general terms. No
small portion of our fear and confusion of medieval ideas
is due to the untutored experience we have had with the
isolated fragments of these subtleties that have persisted
into modern times. Laboratory training and mathematical discipline are necessary for the successful handling
of modern subtleties, and in some cases it seems that they
are not enough: vide recent attempts of mathematical
physicists to bring theology down to earth.
The distinctions and consequent specialized treatments of subject-matters in the trivial arts are still important. In the first place the trivial artist distinguishes
between what he calls impositions. There is the use of
words or symbols in the first imposition, as when 'apple'
SUMMER 1984
�refers to this or that concrete spherical red object. 'Apple' in the second imposition is the word itself, a part of
speech or writing. The confusion of imposition leads to
syllogisms like this:
This is an apple.
Apple is a word.
Therefore, this is a word.
In the second place, the trivial artist distinguishes between intentions. A term may be taken in the first intention as when Freedom is intended to refer to free beings; or it may be taken in second intention when it refers
to an abstract principle which may or may not govern
the behaviour of free beings. Confusions of intentions
lead to more serious, because more cryptic, selfdeceptions which we shall discuss under the head of
fictions.
It is in terms of these two distinctions that the trivial
arts operate. Grammar as a science studies words or symbols in the second imposition and the laws for combining them as parts of speech. In modern mathematical
language, grammar studies notations and their useful
manipulations. Rhetoric as a science studies these notations as natural objects having causal connections between themselves and with other natural objects, including man. In this respect rhetoric embraces important parts of psychology and anthropology. In addition
to studying words and symbols in the second imposition,
rhetoric also studies them as terms with second intention. When an orator manipulates notations in order to
'move' an audience, he almost necessarily also instructs
or misinstructs it by elucidating an abstract idea or principle. The lawyer may develop a valid argument by means
of enthymemes in order to convince a jury, or a teacher
may analyse a geometrical figure and prove a theorem
in order to instruct his pupils. The rhetorician must then
give an account of the verbal magic of second impositions and also show how a discourse clarifies or obscures
an ideal subject-matter. Finally the dialectician abstracts
second intentions from terms for the sake of discovering
and isolating the forms which many apparently diverse
notations may have in common. Eventually the dialectician will be concerned with the limits and boundaries
of meanings in which all symbols, even in the first imposition, are implicated. If he is easily tired with formal
distinctions or powerfully moved by rhetoric, he may
become a metaphysician, and hold theories about facts
and universals.
It should be noted how complicated, in the radical
sense of the word, these sciences are. Each one can cover
the whole field of symbols in the one single aspect that
it selects as its proper subject-matter. Another may cover
the same symbolic territory taken in another aspect, and
any given linguistic or logical unit may have three interpretations, or possibly more if rhetoric be more finely
divided. Adequate treatment demands at least three separate accounts which are normally complementary, but
may conflict badly if they are not carefully distinguished.
Finally there is a more general distinction between
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
the tnv1um as a group of sciences whose application
results in a criticism and theory of the symbols and the
trivium as a group of arts whose practice accomplishes
this or that ulterior purpose. It is impossible to speak,
write, read, think, or observe without at the same time
being as an artist, a grammarian, rhetorician, and dialectician. It is impossible to be in any adequate way more
than one of these at one time as a scientist and still is
quite as impossible to make an assertion in one science
without inferences being forced in the others. The controversies between the nominalists, conceptualists, and
realists of the late middle ages are incidents in the
development and differentiation of the corresponding
arts, and it would seem that the ability to understand
and appreciate the arguments has again become important to us although our subject-matters seem very foreign
to the ways of logic-chopping.
Modern scientific training has fairly completely
transferred the grammatical art from the authoritative
texts of the scholastic to human experience as given
material. It has also, though somewhat half-heartedly and
cautiously, followed the ways of rhetoric and dialectic,
but it has not yet achieved the linguistic balance and facility which it should provide. My contention is that its deficiency in rhetoric and dialectic has prevented us from
discovering and maintaining proper symbolic distances
in our highly specialized sects and cults of thought.
The point may be presented in an illustration taken
from our most familiar technical language for symbolic
problems. Perhaps it is its familiarity that has encouraged
us to omit scrutinizing the figurative modes from which
the language has been drawn. A symbol is said to 'represent' what it symbolizes. The metaphor is taken from
optical theory, where mirrors are said to reflect objects.
Imagine a series of mirrors set up between an object and
a human eye in such a way that the first mirror catches
an image from the object and throws it on to the second
mirror which in turn throws it to a third mirror, and so
on to fourth, fifth, and nth in which the eye finally sees
the image. There will then be a series of (possible) images corresponding to the series of mirrors. We may ca11
the image in the first mirror primary, and the other images secondary since they are derived from the first.
Whether we refer to a geometry of perspective merely
or add to that a theory of light transmission, there will
be certain distortions to be taken into account, and hence
qualifications or degrees of representative accuracy. If
we add to such distortions, due to perfectly plane and
efficient mirrors, the possibility of imperfect planes or
degrees of concavity and convexity, and if we allow for
imperfectly reflecting materials, we shall have a problem in the resolution of images such as an astronomer
must solve before he can trust the data which he gains
by the use of a reflecting telescope, spectroscope, and
interferometer.
The representation theory of symbols presupposes
some such analogy as this. Notations whether they are
verbal, imaginative, or operational, correspond to im-
7
�ages in mirrors. Usually primary images are all that the
theory envisages and the problems of multiple distortion
and resolution which arise in connection with secondary
images are ignored. The theory of symbolic distance is
an attempt to introduce into the critique of symbols some
of the devices for circumspection and calculation that will
correspond to optical theory in the art of astronomical
clause can take its place. In this account of grammar it
would seem that discourse is the successive selection and
exhibition of sections from a matrix whose constituents
are adjectives and whose order is fixed by the subsumption of adjectives. As a matter of fact such hierarchies
have been the main content of European thought
throughout long periods of history, as is evidenced in
observation. I hope it is not necessary to warn the reader
variations of the neo-Platonic hierarchy of forms, the
that the analogy is only an analogy and should not be
taken literally before it is fully expounded.
Symbolic distance is a constituent of any set of symbols. It should first be recognized, and then its measurement should be attempted. The suggestion for the latter
is that the number of reflections as given by the nota-
theory of ecclesiastical and political official ranks, and
the rise of the classificatory sciences.
However, this analysis will not do. Forcing it leads
to serious paradoxes, and in fact many symbolic forms
are suppressed even in what we have already described.
tions intermediate to the extremes that correspond to the
For instance, the copula tends to be restricted to only
one of its many meanings, namely, "is identical with;'
concrete object and the observant eye would give a rough
scale of measurement. We shall see that the problem of
pretation when "is a case of' is allowed. Paradoxes are
distortion and resolution in symbols will require considerable revision and reformulation of this suggestion,
were well aware. The connective force of prepositions is
and is only partially relieved of this paradoxical interborn of both these meanings as the Greek Megarians
but it may serve as a working diagram or archetypal image from which the exposition can proceed. It will become
lost when they are buried in prepositional phrases which
clear as we proceed that unresolved distortions of sym-
logical force have to be eliminated with the result that
bols are favourable conditions for the production and per-
whole sentences undergo reconstruction. Nouns become
sistence of fictions, and that the measurement of sym-
hypostatical and immanent entities and threaten the
whole hierarchical structure, as F. H. Bradley so eloquently showed in his defense of adjectives against the
absolute.
bolic distance itself effects some degree of resolution.
So much at present for the field of symbols within
which we are to find and determine fictions. There will
be more to say of it explicitly later, but at this point grammar calls for the choice of' the elementary units from
which the field may be said to be built up. The grammar usually taught to school children deals with the parts
of speech, by which it means the parts of sentences:
are then used as adjectives. Conjunctions that have any
On examination these paradoxes and suppressions
show more or less thinly disguised the elements that have
been ignored, the relations. The copula always is asserted
in respect of some relation, or in logical terminology, in
some category. The preposition is obviously relational
nouns, verbs, adjectives, prepositions, conjunctions, and
and directive. Conjunctions with logical force express very
so forth. Older grammar began with smaller units, such
as the parts of words: syllables, sounds, and marks, and
it might even include non-verbal elements. Certainly
fundamental relations, and nouns are either substantives
or, like functions in the mathematical sense, systematic
there is no reason apparent in the representation theory
relations. In fact with the same kind of ingenuity that
educes the adjectival hierarchy from the sentence struc-
why these should not play the part of elementary units,
but it may be well for us to start with the parts of
ture, we can educe a network, or matrix, of relations from
sentences, and allow generalization to follow the suggestions we find there.
The form of the simple sentence seems to dictate its
division into three parts, the noun, the verb, and the ad-
analyzed into relations, and after the manner of the contemporary mathematical physicist we can rearrange our
preconceptions in such a way as to turn the world into
a relative and expanding universe. Relations are mar-
jective, or the substantive, copula, and the adjective. The
vellously elegant hypostatical entities, and they appeal
strongly to the metaphysical imagination. We shall have
to say more of the fictions arising from this mode of
need for an account of more complex sentences and the
possibility of substituting phrases and clauses for one or
another of these parts of speech has led to the separation of the form of the sentence and the making of rules
of substitution. These allow not only a prepositional
phrase to be substituted for an adjective, or a copula and
an adjective or an adverb for the verb, but also for the
replacing of a substantive by an adjective. In fact, by the
which all discourse can be drawn. Adjectives can be
generation also, but here it will be sufficient to point out
that we have paradoxes and suppressions like those that
accompany the adjectival grammar. The chief sufferers
here are the adjectives and nouns that serve as terms for
perform the function of a substantive, as when it is the
the relations. They are needed to anchor the relations,
but their service is soon dispensed with and they give
their places to relations between still other terms whose
life and activity is also limited. Here again also the whole
network is finally taken in one piece and attached as an
adjective to some substantive of hypostatical origin and
subject of a sentence, and that an adjective may be very
complex as when a preposit\onal phrase or an adjectival
that we are pushing good analysis too far in each of these
proper selection of rules of substitution it is possible to
show that any sentence expresses some section of a merely
adjectival hierarchy. This means that an adjective can
8
we have Bradley's problems on our hands again. It seems
SUMMER 1984
�cases, and that there ought to be a more temperate
medium which will throw the precedin$ methods into
complementary service.
This last suggestion is reinforced by certain points
in Bentharns' Theory of Fictions (Kegan Paul, 1932). It
seems that J ererny Bentham spent the greater part of his
life in exposing ghosts. There were ghosts in his family
horne when he was a child, and later he found john Doe
and Richard Roe in the law courts, as well as the economic and the natural man in Rouges of Parliament. In
fact every institution harboured ghosts, and some of them
were even worshipped. After a busy life spent in exorcizing ghosts of all descriptions and reputations, Bentham decided to retire to some quiet place and draw up
the rules for the permanent cure of ghost-seeing in
general. He had learned that the genesis of ghosts is
linguistic, and he therefore knew that the required rules
would be orthological, and in particular would deal with
the clarification of fictions. The exposure of ghosts is
brought about by the clear exposition of meanings in
language. For this purpose he lays down the fundamentals of a suitable grammar and rhetoric.
He begins with a classification of words as substantives, adjectives, relatives, and operatives according to
the usual conventions of school grammar except for the
substitution of operatives for verbs. We shall see the importance of this exception later. He then points out the
various practical devices for fixing the meaning that a
word shall have in a given piece of discourse. These are
chiefly comparison of words by means of dictionaries and
etymologies, and definition by means of classification according to genera, species, and differentiae. So much he
expounds only to point out the subject-matter and the
conventional and therefore recognizable ways of handling
it. Nothing has happened to fictions and ghosts up to
this point. And so it is with the types of grammar that
we have pointed out so far; they are not sensitive enough
to discriminate between fhe vicious and the efficient uses
of language.
The clarification of fictions requires exposition by
paraphrasis. This in turn depends on a certain telescopic
character in words as Bentham recognized, particularly
in words that have a fictional force. A single word may
stand for and at the same time obscure very complex
linguistic forms. A sentence containing such a word may
convey quite false and misleading intents to a hearer who
cannot make the proper reference. Thus in the grammar of adjectives a single adjectival word may be
substituted for a whole clause or phrase, and then this
single world may occur as the subject of a sentence. The
result for a naive hearer or reader may be the addition
of an apparently substantial entity to the sum of things
that the ordinary person would call his real world. Thus
as Bentham shows, many people have fought wars and
died in order to achieve Liberty or Justice, simply because
they have heard someone use these words as subjects of
sentences. Phlogiston, caloric fluids, and the ether have
influenced centuries of laboratory practice for the same
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
linguistic reason. Bentham recognized the telescopic
character of these and other words, and recornrnend~d
paraphrasis for the resolution of their distorted images.
Paraphrasis is the process by which a real subject may
be substituted for a fictional subject in such sentences.
It has two parts, archetypation and phraseoplerosis, as
Bentham very pictorially calls them. These names really
refer to parts of the process by which the fictional subject was generated, and therefore call for the reconstruction of the structure that lies behind or inside the
telescopic word. Archetypation is the process by which
a term is made to represent a thing. In terms of the representation theory of symbols it is the setting up of the first
mirror so that it will reflect some one aspect of the concrete individual. It is on such archetypes that the rest
of our symbolic world depends. Phraseoplerosis is the
filling in of the secondary, tertiary, and n-ary symbols
that mirror for us the primary or archetypal symbols.
When some of these intermediate symbols are lacking,
we mistake the remaining ones either for archetypes or
for individual objects, and we suffer from fictional
deception.
Bentham has this to say about archetypation: Simple propositions are either physical or psychological.
Psychological propositions have physical propositions for
archetypes; physical propositions are asserted about
things either at rest or in motion. Ultimately every proposition predicates the existence, past, present, or future,
of some state of things which is either motional or quiescent. These remarks have a heavier metaphysical load
than we need to carry for our purposes, but it is easy
to see that the distinction between physical and
psychological propositions accords with the distinction
between primary and other symbols. The specifically
psychological side of symbols will more suitably come
into the next chapter when we are discussing the production and gcowth of fictions. The formal and operational side will concern us here.
Phraseoplerosis may be a very complex process, and
Bentham has listed many suggestions that we shall have
to systematize. The general term of the separate processes
is synonymization, and these processes correspond very
closely with the various sorts of transformations that take
place in secondary symbols under the conditions of
distortion, on1ission, and amplification of representation
or mirroring. The Benthamite list follows:
Antithesis
Illustration
Exemplification
Description
Enumeration
Parallelism
Ampliation
Restriction
Distinction
Disambiguation
(Determination by opposites)
(Adducing analogies)
(Showing instances)
(Application of unique traits)
(Of instances)
(Comparison by complex analogies)
(Characterization by relations to other terms)
These terms are fairly pictorial and, with the explanatory
phrases that I have added, help to· convey what may be
better gained by reading the archetypation and
9
�phraseoplerosis of the word 'church' as Bentham gives
it (Theory of Fictions). It can also be seen that the list has
overlapping terms, and that it is probably not exhaustive
of the processes that would be necessary in given cases.
These are Bentham's brief suggestive descriptions of processes that we find him employing throughout his other
writings. If we can translate his terms to a new basis,
I think it will be possible to show the systematic foundation on which he was working. This new basis will be
taken from the science of rhetoric, or that part of it which
deals with figures of speech, but, as an account of notational structure, rightly belongs to grammar.
There seem to be two important ways that sentences
involve figures of speech. In one of these ways a sentence
is to be understood metaphorically; in the other a sentence is to be understood literally. It is by ignoring this
distinction that the grammar of adjectives and the grammar of relations gain the specious generality that leads
to the paradoxes that we have noted in them. The grammar of adjectives tends to conceal metaphors, as when
an adjective in one hierarchy is predicated of an adjective in another hierarchy without confessing the jump.
The grammar of relations on the other hand pretends
to give all sentences a literal interpretation. Each grammar has its proper virtues, but the virtues are heuristic
and speculative rather than analytical. A first rough division of sentences into literal and metaphorical serves a
practical and common-sense end, and the possibility of
referring them both to more complicated units, the
figures of speech, takes care of their complementary
properties.
In the language of one contemporary school oflogic
sentences may be divided into two different kinds of incomplete symbols. Some sentences, those to be understood literally, need other literal sentences as co-ordinate
context to make their meanings clear. Other sentences,
metaphors, need to be expanded into sets of literal
sentences. In this manner of speaking, metaphors are
condensed summaries of systems of literal sentences, and,
as we shall see, they become fictions when their exposition is ignored.
·
The distinction between metaphors and literal
sentences is important and obvious in the literary use
of language. 'Napoleon was a wolf and 'Napoleon was
a soldier', though in the grammar of our schools of the
same verbal form, are easily distinguishable in a literary
context. In 'Napoleon was a wolf' we have a good case
of Bentham's archetypation, the picture of a wolfleading
a pack to the destruction of flocks of sheep, and this picture obviously represents, or can be represented by, a
system of literal sentences, one of which would be
'Napoleon was a soldier: The finding and articulating of
this set of literal sentences would be what Bentham calls
phraseoplerosis. There is no doubt that such archetypation and phraseoplerosis would have been comforting to
the ordinary folk in the Napoleonic period of history. We
usually have similar but closer and less recognizable fictions in our minds, and they need similar treatment.
10
As in the case of the previous grammars, there are
matrices of terms from which metaphors are drawn. As
a matter of fact such matrices are constructed by the proper combination of adjectival hierarchies and relational
networks, but they have much greater generality and
usefulness than either of their constituents, and the process of combination would not be illuminating at this
point. These figurative matrices are like those from which
determinants are made in algebra, terms set in rows and
columns to make rectangular patterns, some oblong and
some square. Diagrammatically they look like this:
a
b
c
d
a
b
h
c
i
b
e
h
c
!
b
e
h
k
!
g
a
d
g
a
d
(1)
e
k
d
J
j
I
(2)
(3)
'
c
(4)
'
!{
I
J
Thus 'Napoleon is a wolf could be interpreted as a
metaphor drawn from a matrix of the first type, with four
terms thus:
Napoleon
peasants
wolf
sheep
(1)
Or from the second type:
Napoleon
army
peasants
kings
wolf
shepherds
(2)
pack
Or from type (3):
ambition
plans
hunger
hunting
end
means
sheep
success
satisfaction
consequences
(Napoleon)
(wolf)
(man)
It will be noted that the terms in this matrix do not include any of the terms in the metaphor except as these
are expanded in the matrix. This example might easily
be extended for the purposes of a psychological-ethical
analysis of the history of Napoleon. Another type might
state the comparative anatomy of Napoleon and a wolf.
The extent and shape of a given matrix depends on the
explicitness of the subject-matter, the available notations,
and the purpose of the diagram.
According to the mathematician a matrix should be
read merely as it stands, but this is doubtfully possible
in algebraic matrices, and quite impossible when the
terms are verbal. The mathematician's point is that matrices are merely arrangements, and the moment any
selection or rearrangement is attempted, a matrix
SUMMER 1984
�becomes a determinant with a value at least potentially
determined. The mathematician's insistence is somewhat
like the metaphysician's insistence that a prime matter
completely unformed can be separated from things and
dealt with in isolation, and in the metaphysical analogue
we may see what the mathematician intends to point out.
For the metaphysician wishes to say that matter can enter
into any of a certain class of things, and is not restricted
to this as against that form, except disjunctively, either
this or that. Likewise the mathematician intends to say
that different determinants can be drawn from the same
matrix, and this means that a matrix has a greater range
of possible forms than any one interpretation can put
upon it, though this range has definite limits, as could
be shown by the application of a calculus of permutations and combinations to the aggregate of terms.
It is the presence of the indeterminacy under a
definite form that makes it so difficult to read a matrix
without imputing to it one or another of the possible interpretations. On the other hand the attempt to make
a matrix fully explicit meets with great difficulties. A
matrix as it stands has many meanings but we do not
know which one is intended. A verbal matrix is like an
algebraic formula in which we do not know what is being talked about nor whether what it says is true. The
fact that it has words as terms makes it doubly puzzling
to the ordinary reader because we recognize the words
of which we usually think we know the meaning and yet
the clues these give us lead to labyrinthine confusions.
Just so to some people an algebraic equation calls for
solution and the filling in of unknown quantities, search
for which by the untrained algebraist leads across the
swamp of trial and error. The trained algebraist notes
the form of the equation and follows the rules appropriate
elements, the table top and the number five, but the
analogy makes clear that the similarity is not directly relevant. It rather holds between two relations, one between
a part and the whole of the table-top, and the other between one and five; it is between these relations only that
the similarity holds. Furthermore the similarity does not
hold between any two terms either of the metaphor or
of the analogy, but rather between two relations about
which nothing more than a similarity is stated. The
distinction here between what is stated and what is not
stated in the analogy shows what is definite in the matrix,
and what is left indefinite, and the distinction is important to keep in mind when dealing with metaphors,
analogies, and matrices in general.
The example chosen above is of course of the simplest
sort, and there are more complicated sorts, correspon-
ding to the types of matrices diagrammed previously. In
each case a similarity is stated between the respective relations that connect the terms in the several rows or columns. The primary relations connecting the successive
terms in any row or column may be of any sort as long
as the other rows and columns involve similar relations
similarly placed. Also terms may be repeated from one
row or column to another, resulting in the type of matrix
from which the Greeks drew their favourite analogical
formulae, the mean proportional. A completely
degenerate case of this would be a matrix in which all
the terms were identical and all the relations relations
of identity. The other extreme of this type would be a
matrix in which all the terms were distinct and different
and the relations in any one row or column different from
those in any other row or column. In this case we should
have what might be called a thin analogy, the similarity
holding only between orders resulting from quite different
to it. In some cases he will know that there are no determinate solutions, in others that there are several solu-
relations. All cases of physical measurement are cases of
tions, and in still others there may luckily be one and
only one. But there is still another kind of mathematician who will realise that the solutions are trivial illustrations only and that there is more to be learned by a study
of the form itself, and that such study may proceed
in either terms or relations, provided the relations give
rise to similar orders. Stated otherwise, a matrix consists of rows and columns of terms, such that the relational order in one row is repeated throughout the others,
and the relational order in one column is repeated
through transformations, generalization, and the many
tricks in mathematics that correspond to what Bentham
calls archetypation and phraseoplerosis. The ways of
such thin analogies. Any degree of diversity is allowed
throughout the others. Obviously the most abstract
matrical notation as it is written on paper fulfills the above
requirement in the bare spatial relations of its terms, but
generalization and manipulation of forms seem vague
that does not prevent it from exhibiting the form of an
and confusing to those who have like ourselves lost grasp
of their language, and these remarks about mathematics
may be comforting by way of citing precedent for the
following remarks about matrices of words.
The form that we have exhibited in matrices is the
form of the analogy; this is true both for mathematics
and for grammar. The relation between metaphors and
indefinite number of other matrices. One further point
their matrices is best shown in the expressions we have
for measurement. Thus to say that the table is five feet
long is a quasi-metaphorical short statement for the
analogy: a certain section of the table-top is to the whole
table-top as one is five. The original metaphorical statement says that there is a certain similarity between two
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
of formal description: Any retangular part of a given
matrix is also a matrix; and any given matrix may be
included as a part in some larger matrix. Any shifting
of the order of terms, and the rules for such shifting would
come under the treatment by rhetorical operations.
Bentham illustrates archetypation by an analysis of
the fiction of moral obligation. Chasing etymologization
as the clue, he says that the archetype involved in any
reference to obligations incumbent on persons is the pic-
ture of a man pinned to the earth by a heavy weight which
must be removed if he is to get free. This picture is the
archetype of the fiction in that it sets the pattern for the
11
�phraseoplerosis that is required to make clear just what
the elements and relations are that go ioto the social situation where we fmd obligations. In another place he cites
the picture of a man bound by ligatures to a load which
he is carrying as the archetype of obligation, and then
goes on to detail the elements in this situation. The flat
literal-mindedness of these interpretations is a striking
quality in all of Bentham's work; he was vividly aware
of the great distances in fictional discourse and was not
afraid to take them at one stride. The rest of the analysis
is concerned with the details of his well-known hedonistic
ethical theory.
If we assume that the analysis consisted in the construction of a matrix, the picture of the man pinned to
the ground by a heavy load serves to fill in the top row:
man
load
This row then serves as an archetype or model upon
which the other rows are to be built, and we may imagioe the last row as follows:
person
duties
There will be as many intermediate rows as are necessary
to make the fiction clear. In Bentham's case the middle
rows would present the main terms in the hedonistic
theory, and the original archetype would be expanded
to more terms for the sake of a finer analysis.
As the matrix grows by the addition of rows, the columns also take form and when it is complete we have
another archetype in the first column, which repeats its
form in the succeeding columns, and as a matter of fact
this second archetype is often used in the construction
itself. It would be used as an aid for the purpose of suggesting terms where the words for things and ideas are
in a confused state and difficult to choose. We may call
these second archetypes cognate to the first; they become
useful in measuring distances as we shall see. They may
displace the original archetypes in cases of emergency.
It should be noted that often the relations that constitute
the archetypal order in the columns are very thin relations of correspondence; whether they give place to
thicker relations or not depends on the skill of manipulation applied to the matrix in deriving formulae from it.
There are two important processes in scientific method
that are exceptions, the so-called one-oneing of series and
the observation and measurement of data. In these cases
there is a stage where mere correspondence is taken as
original and the process of induction passes from this to
detennination of relational order (for instance, in the case
of series, to the analysis of serial orders, and in the case
of measurement, to the articulation of relational hypotheses). The shift of attention from an archetype to its
cognate and back again sets the twin problems of
mathematical and empirical induction in a most instructive light. It informs imagination and memory, and may
at any time save the analytic process from complete
collapse.
12
Archetypation lays down the basic structure of the
matrix in the rows and columns. Phraseoplerosis completes the matrix by filling in secondary rows and columns. The remaining part of grammar is concerned with
the determinants and the rules by which they are drawn
from the matrix. In the first place two kinds of determinants are to be distinguished, the analogical determinant and the literal determinant. The analogical determinant is little more than a reformulation of the matrix,
though there is some variation in the ways that this can
be done. Thus the matrix
a
d
g
c
b
e
h
/
l
can be written as a determinant thus
a:b:c:d:e:J:g:h:i
which may be read
a is to b is to c as dis to e is to f as g is to h is to i.
The same matrix can also be written
·j ·
a .· d .· g .· .· b .· e .· h .· .· c . . ,·
In the Euclidean account of proportions, from which
this notation is taken, the second determinant would be
said to result from the first by alternation, and other
forms with which the reader will be acquainted result
from the first by inversion. The application to matrices
and analogies is obvious and needs no further comment.
These might be called the complete analogical determinants derivable from a matrix. Partial determinants
can also be derived by taking any rectangle or square
of terms as they stand, or by taking the corresponding
parts of selected rows or columns. For instance,
a
g
b
h
gives rise to the determinants
a:b::g:h
and
a:g::b:h
The derivation of literal determinants is a more fundamental process. Suppose we try to take a single row
or column by itself. We can do as Bentham did and
translate it into a picture, for instance, the man bound
to a load, but pictures are too ambiguous. If we are to
keep the necessary degree of rigour and explicitness, we
shall have to substitute some more determinate relation
for the implicit or variable relation that is indicated in
the matrix. Instead of simply
a
b
c
or
a: b : c
we shall have to say
SUMMER 1984
�where R 1 and R 2 are more or less explicitly defined relations. Thus
man
load
will have to be amplified or explicated to
man bound to load.
The derivation of literal determinants demands some
determination of the unknown or unstated relations of
the matrix. It is a more difficult process than any other
so far mentioned. It leads to the notion of a fully determined matrix in which all the relations would be made
explicit thus:
a
R'''
R'
R"
c
R'''
R'
b
R'''
e
d
R'"'
g
R"
f
R'
h
R"
R""
R''''
in which the primes show the diversity and yet the
similarity of the relations. Fortunately such fully determined matrices, if we may still call them such, are not
always needed. If the archetype is sufficiently familiar
as ,il picture, the determinate relations may quite
harmlessly remain submerged, as far as the analysis of
fictions is concerned. On the other hand, some degree
of explicitness must be brought into the analysis at some
point. Otherwise matrices, determinants, and analogies
in general become the vehicles of mysteries and the multiplication of mysteries. Familiarity with pictures is a scaffolding built in imagination for the sake of the establishment of explicit relational structures.
The derivation ofliteral determinants from matrices
actually calls for the specification of the relations in the
rows or columns concerned. These relations, as long as
they are in matrices, need only be specific enough to fulfil
the demands of analogical similarity; that is to say, they
are apparent variables as they enter into analogies. The
analogy says that there is at least one relation between
a and b which is like at least one relation between c and
d. It may be that there is more than one such relation
on each side for which the analogy holds. Literal determinants, on the other hand, substitute constant relations
for the variables, and since there may be more than one
constant that satisfies the conditions of the analogy in
the matrix, there may be several literal determinants for
any one row or column. If there is only one such constant, we say the original row was thin; if more than one,
the original row was thick Thin and thick relations make
weak and strong analogies respectively, and the usual objections to arguments by analogy are directed against
abuses that arise from confusing such relations. The cure
for such abuses is the careful explication of literal
determinants.
Certain violations of the rules for drawing literal
determinants from their matrices may give rise to what
might be called metaphorical determinants. In the matrix
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
a
c
b
d
it may be noted that a in the first row corresponds to
c in the second row. If we now substitute 'is' for 'corresponds td, we have the simplest and most familiar type
of metaphor. 'Napoleon is a wolf is an instance, and it
was drawn from the matrix
Napoleon
wolf
peasants
sheep
Another class of violations give rise to more subtle and
lively metaphors. 'Napoleon barked at the sheep' or 'The
Wolf stampeded the peasants' would seem to argue the
supposition of diagonal relations in the matrix, or the
product of the cognate relations. Strictly speaking this
is not the case. It is easy to see that 'barked at' and
'stampeded' belong in the literal determinants for the second and first row respectively, and that the metaphorical
sentences merely appear to shift them to the diagonal.
A literary purpose has been fulfilled by ellipsis, which
in these cases has either crushed or staggered an analogy.
Metonymy and synecdoche play similar happy havoc with
matrices, and likewise allegories, myths, and scientific
theories with more complex analogies.
It should now be clear that the results of phraseoplerosis consist in explicit relational statements extracted
as literal determinants from analogical matrices. Some
propositions as we meet them in discourse are metaphors
which are to be analysed and made explicit by archetypation and exposition in matrices. Metaphors are thus elliptical expressions for a group of propositions that we derive
as literal determinants from their matrices. The simplest
literal determinant will be a proposition that states a
dyadic relation holding between two terms of the matrix.
Larger literal determinants can be analysed into these
units. These are the atoms whose confluence in discourse
results in symbolic structures, and their conjunction in
analogies is the basis for the representation theory of
symbols.
One of the difficulties in the representation theory
is that propositions do not always show in their verbal
structures the kind of precise correspondence to one
another and to their objects that the theory demands.
I think I have shown one reason for this, namely that
some propositions are metaphorically elliptical, or contain telescopic words and incomplete symbols. A!llllysis
of these propositions removes the difficulty by showing
their elementary units and how they do correspond in
analogies. Another difficulty is due to the fact that not
all the symbolic units, the relational couples, are expressed in verbal propositions. In fact relations are in
a real sense themselves fictions, as Bentham says. They
can be translated into other symbolic elements, and in
ordinary discourse some relations are so translated and
some are not.
The best term to describe the symbolic elements into
which some relations are translated is operation, or
13
�operative. The discovery of operations in mathematics
and their careful formulation was a turning point in
analytic theory. So it might have been in the other
linguistic sciences. In mathematics it is possible to formulate the assumptions of geometry in terms of points,
translations, and rotations. The last two are operations
to be performed, first, on points and then on any elements
that result from such operations. Thus a line results from
the translation of a point in a given direction, and a circle from the rotation of this line about a point. When
such a formulation has been made, it becomes apparent
that the operations have taken the place of the fundamental relations in the older geometry. Likewise in
algebra the relations in an algebraic equation can be
formulated as operations on elementary symbols. Similarly the relational constituents of any language can be
translated into operations, a fact which has recently been
noted and developed by anthropologists and pragmatists
in philosophy, and recognized by them as parallel with
the operational interpretation of physics as we have it
stated in Bridgman's Th£ Logic of Modern Physics. As a matter of fact any material that is used symbolically can be
interpreted operationally, and this is done by substituting
operations for relations in all cases.
Some conservatives are alarmed at the apparent
degradation of science and thought in general brought
about by this translation. They think that relations have
been annihilated and that therefore rigour must have
been lost. They should be reminded that all the rigour
that is essential has been carried over in the translation,
and it should further be pointed out that there were very
puzzling paradoxes in the calculus of relations that were
disguised and hidden in the rules of operation. In other
words operations have always been present, and sometimes their neglect has had confusing consequences. The
operational interpretation of symbols recognizes these
puzzles, and at the same time applies its grammar to a
wider range of symbolic materials such as, for instance,
the use of scientific instruments and the patterns of
human behavior that enter into intellectual arts. Thus
the rules of grammar become mure general and adequate
as the grammarian admits that the whole field of symbols is his subject matter.
However these controversial matters may stand, the
point for us here is that a full analysis of fictions should
include operations as well as that part of the symbolic
14
complex which happens to be symbolized in sentences.
Thus the metaphor of measurement noted above, "The
table is five feet long;' must be analyzed into an analogy,
one side of which collslsts in the operation of successively
applying the unit of length to an interval which corresponds to the multiplication of one by five in arithmetic.
Most discourse for reasons of brevity and convenience
is half relational and half operational in its significance,
and the difficulty of deriving literal determinants from
matrices is often avoided by the introduction of operations where relations are not named. Similarly, the
representation theory will often not apJrly unless operations are introduced to supplement the propositional form
which is deficient.
Bentham realized this point a hundred years ago and
for that reason substituted operatives for verbs, thus gaining at the outset directness and concreteness in the results
of his analysis. The pictures which he used for archetypes,
when given operational interpretation, lead directly to
the detail of phraseoplerosis and the full exposition of
fictions. The final interpretation of matrices would also
treat the spaces between the terms in the rows and columns as blanks to be filled in with operations appropriate
to the analogical form. Thus we can say that the operation that will transform a to b is similar to the operation
that will transform c to d, and discover that Love makes
the World go round because the turning of one's head
and the apparent whirling of the visual field involve the
same relation or operation, namely, rotation.
With the extensions which the operational interpretation make possible for verbal symbols, sentences can enter
grammar in two ways: metaphorical or literal. If they
are metaphorical, they should be interpreted and analysed
by archetypation and phraseoplerosis with the help of
analogical matrices and the derivation of literal determinants. Literal determinants can then be asserted as
propositions or entertained as propositional functions
whose forms are relational. If sentences are literal, they
can be placed in matrices with their proper analogical
contexts. All of this may be done under the operational
interpretation.
Such is the grammatical account of the structure of
symbols and the description of the field within which fictions arise. It remains for rhetoric to show how these
structures arise in use, and what changes they undergo
and pass on to other things.
SUMMER 1984
�The Breathing Side of Ocean
The storm has lifted and the summer sea
lies still, a shimmering immensity,
as the spent waves slide over the sand.
The mind can almost grasp a sea this still,
is tempted to forget itself until
the vacationers return, crowding the strand.
They are well-equipped: umbrellas erected,
towels placed, radio-stations selected,
bodies well-oiled and tanning, they compose
a tedious leisure. Let the sun bless
them with lethargy. It will suffice.
I watch their children bobbing in the shallows,
and remember wading here, a child-king
for whom the sea dreamed freely, waves arching
toward the shore with the glory of Chinese
warriors, their horses crowned with foam,
their swords flashing victoriously in a prism
of mist beneath the chalky, mountainous clouds.
At evening I meander down the beach
to where the pelicans feed on dead fish.
The clouds are high and thin, luminous ghosts
attending the seas heavings, the waves crashing
dim silver. I lie down, thinking of nothing,
and watch the sea for hours, how it persists.
William Thompson
William Thompson is a graduate student in English at the University
of Virginia.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
15
�The Problem and the Art of Writing
Jacob Klein
T
he subject of this lecture is The Problem and
the Art uf Writing. And that is what I am going
to talk about. My real theme, however, the
theme that prompts me to deliver this
lecture, is- Reading. For what we do here,
are supposed to do here, most of the time, is- reading.
I submit- and I hope you will not mind my saying thisthat, on the whole, we do not read too well. There are
obviously many reasons for this failure, varying from individual to individual, from circumstance to circumstance. It would be quite a task to try to account
for all of them. But there is one reason- one among so
many-which is conspicuously noticeable. Reading
means, first of all, to face a written text. And it seems
to me that we do not sufficiently reflect on what this fact
entails, on what writing itself implies or presupposes, and
on what it, of necessity, precludes. To talk about Reading
leads thus unavoidably to the subject of Writing. Hence
this lecture.
In reflecting about writing it is impossible to disregard
the spoken word. How could we, indeed? For human
speech, this marvel, this greatest marvel perhaps under
the sun, is right there, behind or beneath or above the
written word. It is difficult (although not impossible) to
conceive that there could have been writing without
human speech existing in this world. I mean, writing
seems to follow speaking. Writing and speaking exhibit,
at any rate, common aspects as well as aspects in which
they differ. Let me discuss those similarities and differences at some length.
The differences are not as clear as one might sup-
The late Jacob Klein taught at St. John's College, Annapolis, for over thirty
years. For a decade, from 1948-1958, he served as Dean of the College.
16
pose at first. Speaking, we might say, appears, of necessity,
as an audible sequence of sounds, a sequence in time;
actual human speech is never available as a whole, while
anything written is visibly there at once, in a book or
on a piece of paper or a chunk of stone. While reading,
even silent reading, takes time, as does the act of writing,
a written text, which takes up some space, is present all
at once in all its parts. But what about a tape-recorded
speech or conversation? Is not the whole right there, on
the marked tape? Are not written records of the proceedings, say, in a law court complete in such a way as
to project the temporal sequence of all the speaking that
goes on into a more or less limited space in which the
entire sequence is duplicated, and thus preserved, at
once? Such projections, duplications, and preservations
of live speech by means of manual skills or mechanicoelectrical or electronic devices amount to canning processes. The result is indeed canned speech that can be
released again into its proper medium by vocal or
mechanical or electrical means. The written word, however, is not at all canned speech. The primary cause for
the existence of the written word is not the desire to
duplicate and to preserve the sound of the spoken word,
but the desire to preserve its meaning so that it could
be conveyed to others over and over again. Writing tends,
therefore, to a shortening of the spoken word, a shortening that manifests itself in a variety of ways. Let us consider this phenomenon in some detail.
First of all, any writing is shorthand writing. Any
writing will do violence to the sound of the spoken word
for, although it cannot help reproducing words, its
primary purpose is to convey the meaning of those words.
The various methods of writing show that clearly. Chinese
characters, as you all know, although they can be read,
are drawn not to be read but to be understood without
recourse to the medium of sounds. They are appropri-
SUMMER 1984
�ately called ideograms. Egyptian hieroglyphics, at least
the oldest ones, convey their meaning directly, even
though out of them evolved a syllabic and alphabetic
script, something that happened to Chinese characters,
too. But even alphabetic writing, i.e., writing reproducing the sounds of words with the help of some thirty letters and combinations of letters, can often be read only
if the meaning is grasped first. This is particularly true
in the case of English writing. We would not know how
to pronounce, for instance, the assemblage of the three
letters BOW or ROW without the context that gives this
assemblage one of its several meanings. The reason for
this ambiguity is that the number ofletters is not sufficient to indicate the various sounds we are producing
while speaking. Although in many cases, as in the examples given, it might be easy to remedy the situation
by changing the spelling, it does not seem possible to
reproduce in writing the sound of all spoken words with
complete faithfulness. And that would probably still be
true if we adopted a phonetic system of signs, as the
linguists do, unless we multiplied the number of those
signs immeasurably. It is rather remarkable that the inadequacy of our sign systems does not really bother us.
It is true that something very similar can be said of
spoken words (in any language) inasmuch as the same
sound may convey differnt meanings depending on the
context, as for example the sounds "spell;' ''lie" (lye), "die"
(dye), or the sound of inflections in nouns and verbs. In
cases like those, writing might help to distinguish the
meanings, but it does not always do that. The relation
of written signs to the sounds of words seems, on the
whole, more ambiguous than the relation of those sounds
to their meanings.
Now, what seems to me significant is that the shortcomings of our character or letter systems appear to
reflect the tendency inherent in all writing to shorten the
flow of spoken words for the purpose of clarifying and,
above all, of preserving their meaning. This shortening
is done by reducing the number of the spoken words,
by condensing them, as it were, and this in turn is done
by selecting and arranging them in a proper way. That
is where the problem of writing begins to emerge.
Such shortening and condensing cannot be attempted, let alone achieved, unless the whole of what is to be
written is in some way present to the writer- I mean the
whole as a whole, not necessarily in all its details. In
shortening and condensing the spoken word, writing extends the devices by which words and sentences are con-
joined in live speech. The device of shading the meaning of words by inflections or prepositional and adverbial linkages, and above all, the device of combining not
only words but whole sentences by means of conjunctions and variations of verbal forms- the sum total of
all such devices constitutes what we call the arts and
disciplines of Grammar and Syntax. These terms refer
to disciplines which are the result of some reflection on
the manner of our speaking. It is not without interest
to observe that such reflection bore fruit, in other words,
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
that those disciplines took shape, in confrontation with
the written word, as the very word "grammar" indicates.
But writing itself transforms those grammatical and syntactical devices by applying them on a much larger scale
to the whole of a written work. The term "syntax"
( cruv"ta~t<;), in particular, acquires a much more comprehensive meaning. The word means "co-ordering," "putting things together in a certain order;' "com-posing." Anticipating the whole of what is to be written down, the
writer has to fit the parts of that whole into a proper order.
We have a direct pointing to this procedure in the title
of Ptolemy's book that we study here: it is called
Matherrwtical Composition (cruvra~t<; !!<XStl!i<X"tlKl'j)-"mathematical" in contrast to a possible non-mathematical composition relating to celestial phenomena. But the same
term cruvra~t<; could be applied to all written works. The
anticipated whole imposes upon the writer the task of
com-posing its parts with the graduated emphasis due
to each of them. And just as the devices of such a composition are extensions of syntactical devices (in the
restricted sense of the term "syntax"), the devices involved
in varying emphases, the devices of articulation, appear
to be extensions of grammatieal shadings observable even
in simple sentences of live speech.
The shortening and condensing of spoken words in
writing demand, then, modifications and extensions of
grammatical and syntactical devices. In writing, the
devices of Articulation and Composition add a new
dimension above and beyond the one governed by grammatieal and syntactical rules. It is in these new devices
that the problem of writing resides. That problem can
be formulated as follows: how can the anticipated whole
be made to unfold itself so as to become an actual whole,
that is, in Aristotle's immortal phrase, to become
something that has a beginning, a middle, and an end?
Right at this point, we see that the term "writing"
may be somewhat misleading if it is understood to suggest that the act of writing must be done with some kind
of instrument on some visible material. A speech in a
political assembly, in an election campaign, or on some
other public occasion (a lecture, for example) may well
be delivered without any written text, even any written
notes; the speaker could, of course, have prepared his
speech beforehand in writing, but he need not have done
so; he must, however, have prepared it somehow by thinking about what he is going to say and about how he is
going to say it; he must thus have anticipated the whole
of his speech and have committed this whole to his
memory, again not necessarily in all its details, but in
such a way that its composition and its main articulations are present to his mind. A speaker of this kind is
a writer, too. His rhetorical problem is not different from
the problem the writer faces. The speaker's memory is
covered, as it were, with the "imprints" of the whole. On
the other hand, a letter, a hastily scribbled note, can, on
occasion, be something like canned speech, if that letter
or note reproduces faithfully what would have been said
without writing.
17
�The distinction, then, between the spoken word and
the written word reduces itself to the distinction between
saying something spontaneously and saying something
in the light of an anticipated whole. Yet, this does not
seem sufficient. It could become more meaningful if we
looked at the effect speaking or writing may have or may
not have on the listener or reader.
We all remember a phrase that Homer uses so often
when describing human speech, the phrase "winged
words" (E1tEU n·mp6EV'tU). Whence this image? In most
cases, the phrase occur& when a personage, a god or a
man, addresses another single personage, a god or a man.
Occasionally it is also used when someone speaks to a
group or a crowd of people. Minstrels in Homer are never
said to utter or to sing "winged words." Now, words are
not called "winged" to indicate their soaring or lofty quality. The image seems rather to imply that words, after
escaping the "fence (or barrier) of the teeth'' (EpKo<;
OOOV'tOJV), as Homer puts it, are guided swifty, and
therefore surely, to their destination, the ears and the soul
and the understanding of the addressee. Words, especially
spontaneous words, can indeed be spoken in such a way
as to "sink in;' as we say. But this possibility grows more
uncertain with the growing indefiniteness of the addressee. It is more difficult to reach a crowd of men than
a single man. Exertions of a special kind are then required. In writing, the indefiniteness of the addressee
becomes almost complete. Live speech is spontaneous,
not confined within the boundaries of an anticipated
whole, and more often than not endowed with wings.
Written speech, visibly put down or invisibly committed
to memory, is prepared, composed and articulated as a
whole, and may yet lack wings. The problem of writing,
then, is: how to give wings to written words so that they
may reach their destination, the soul and the understanding of men.
To solve this problem, that is, to know how to compose and to articulate words so as to give them wings,
is to possess the art of writing. However artful the composition, some of us, of course, will not be touched by
the wings. There are no safeguards against that.
In the main, there are two ways in which this problem Baa be solved.
One is: to say explicitly all that is necessary for the meaning of the written text to be grasped, that is, not to omit
any link in the chain which binds our understanding,
and not to say anything which could disrupt that chain.
This kind of composition is conspicuously present in
mathematical works, in Euclid, Apollonius, good calculus
textbooks, and so forth; it is prevalent in any writing
meant to convey to us an understanding of the ways of
nature, of nature's structure, of the interlocking of natural
phenomena; its traces may be found elsewhere, too, especially in legal writing. The articulation of such works
tends to follow the sequence oflogical inferences. In fact,
it is the reflection on what is implied in this kind of composition that leads to the conception and establishment
of a very special art and discipline. This discipline has
18
as its subject that element in human speech, that element of the A.6yo<;, which gives it the character of
reasoned discourse. It concerns itself with the pure structures of the A.Oyo<; and bears therefore the name of Logic.
Subsequent reflection may make us doubt whether words
derived from actual speaking can serve as vehicles of
logical inferences. This doubt, in turn, leads to more
refined versions of the discipline of logic, leads to what
is call today Symbolic Logic. Any writing termed
mathematical or scientific is under the spell of the idea
of a strictly logical demonstrative discipline that proceeds
from accepted premises through a chain of inescapable
inferences to irrefutable conclusions. Seldom,. if ever, does
a composition embody this idea in its purity. The degrees
to which this idea is being approximated form a wide
range. What interests us here is the character of the wings
proper to compositions of this kind. This character is the
necessity inherent in our thinking.
The other way in which the problem of writing can
be solved is quite different. Here what is most important and decisive is not said explicitly at all. Compositions of this kind tend to articulate the whole in such
a way as to raise questions about the link that holds them
together. It is our answer that will either illuminate the
whole or plunge us into further darkness out of which
we shall be groping anew for light. Writings of this kind
taunt us. The character of the wings proper to them is
the taunting presence of a hidden answer, yet of an answer
within our reach. In what follows I shall try to give examples of this second way of writing. I shall take them
from Homer and Plato. But before embarking upon this
dangerous enterprise, I have to add a not unimportant
remark to what I have just said.
I said that in the main there are two ways of solving
the problem of writing and I have tried to indicate what
they were. I said "in the main" because there are- as
always- border cases and fringe phenomena in writing
that may loom large before our eyes and glow in a
peculiar light. Among the oldest cases of writing are, for
example, written laws. There are also monuments, themselves something like imprints on the collective memory
of mankind, but imprints made visible, and there are
inscriptions on them glorifying the deeds of some great
man or of some great ruler or of an infamous one. There
are epitaphs. There are short poems expressing a mood
or a whim, aphorisms, sayings, and proverbs. I omit mentioning other examples. (There are too many of them.)
We tend to cherish such border cases and fringe phenomena and to devote special attention to them. But I should
venture to say that they find their place on the map of
writing in terms of coordinates derived from the two main
stems of writing I was talking about.
And now, let me turn to the first example of the
second of these main stems.
Consider the Iliad. Among the great many events that
follow each other in the story and the description of which
constitutes the whole of the poem, there are certain ones
of decisive importance, which are quite familiar to us:
SUMMER 1984
�(I) the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles which
leads to Achilles' withdrawing from the fight; (II) the victorious advance of the Trojans; (III) the intervention and
death of Patroclus; (IV) the reappearance of Achilles on
the field of battle; (V) the death of Hector; (VI) the
funeral ofPatroclus; (VII) the surrender of Hector's body
to Priam. All these decisive events could be put in a
diagram as follows:
I
JI][·
·--------------- -x --..z
,6 " '
Disregarding the more or less superficial division into
books or songs and even allowing for all kinds of tampering with, and dislocations of, the original text, there is
no denying that the decisive events are crowded into the
last third of the whole. Between (I) and (II) events of great
significance certainly do occur, as, for example, the death
lost through Agamemnon's action. It is then said (I,
511-12): "But Zeus, the cloud-gatherer, said nothing at
all to her and sat in silence for a long while (&ljv):' An
awful silence! Thetis repeats her plea. At last, Zeus consents and nods, a sign of an irrevocable decision. Olym-
pus shakes. Thetis departs, apparently satisfied that she
has accomplished her mission. Has she?
The second event occurs after Patr~::>elus' death
(XVIII. 165-229), while the battle for Patroclus' body
rages before the ships between Hector and the Aiantes
and while Thetis is on her way to get new arms for her
son from Hephaestus. Hera sends Iris to Achilles, without
Zeus and the other gods knowing anything about the mission, to urge Achilles to intervene in the struggle for
Patroclus' body. Since Achilles has no arms at this juncture, he is asked by Iris to do nothing but to show himself
to the Trojans, to frighten them by his mere appearance.
Achilles, "dear to Zeus" (203), obeys and does more than
what Hera through Iris asked him to do. Pallas Athene,
who is nearby, does her share: she casts the tasseled aegis
around his shoulders and she sets a crown in the guise
of a golden cloud about his head and from it issues a
blazing flame. Thus he appears- alone, separated from
the other Achaeans- in the sight of the foe, a flaming
torch. But not only does he appear, he shouts, three times,
and the wounding of many and important warriors, the
Diomedean terror, the wounding of two gods, the encounter of Diomedes and Glaucus, the peaceful scenes
a terrible shout, clearly heard-and "from afar Pallas
Athene uttered her voice" (217-18). Unspeakable confu-
in Troy, the unsuccessful embassy to Achilles, inconclusive
duels among men and delightfully treacherous actions
on the part of the gods-all of which contribute in varying degrees to the unfolding plot. In the main, however,
the battle is swaying back and forth all the time until
finally the Trojans reach the ships of the Achaeans. During all that time Achilles sits in his tent, sulking, and only
occasionally watching the fight. The pivotal event, the
death of Patroclus, which changes, which reverses
saved.
What kind of shout is this? Is it one of triumph? Of
everything, occurs very late in the poem, in the sixteenth
book. It is as if the poem took an exceedingly long breath
to reach that point and afterwards rushed with breathtaking speed to its end. This is the more remarkable since
the entire period of time the poem encompasses is one
of 49 days and Patroclus' death occurs on the 26th day,
that is, very nearly in the middle of that period.
Why is the composition articulated in such an unbalanced way, we wonder. Let us see.
There are two events-among many others-which
I have not mentioned at all. Yet it is these two events that
seem to be the two foci from which all light dispersed
throughout the poem stems.
The first takes place when Thetis, Achilles' mother,
is visiting Zeus to ask for his help on behalf of her son,
reminding Zeus of the help he once received from her.
She wants Zeus to turn the scales of the war, to let the
the Trojans have the upper hand until finally, in the hour
of the Achaeans' greatest peril, 'Achilles, and only Achilles,
might be able to save them from certain defeat, lead them
to victory, and thus regain his honor, which he allegedly
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
sion and terror seizes the Trojans. Patroclus' body is
threat? Is it an ordinary war cry, raised to a very high
pitch? It is certainly not like the bellowing of the wounded
Ares (V, '859, 863). Two verbs are used to describe that
shout, one of a rather neutral taint, and, at the decisive
moment, another,
iuxro
(22S), which has a range of
meanings. One of these meanings is "crying out in grief;'
Shortly before (29) the same verb was used in precisely
this meaning to describe the lament of the maidens at
the news of Patroclus' death. It will be repeated shortly
afterwards (XIX, 41) to describe Achilles' shouting when
he rouses the Achaeans to battle. Why does Achilles shout
now, though not urged to do so by Iris? Certainly, to
frighten the Trojans, to make them desist from Patroclus'
body. But can this shouting fail to express the unspeakable
pain that fills his heart, the pain which had just brought
his mother to him from the depth of the sea? Here indeed is a terrible sight to behold: a man raised to his
highest glory by Pallas Athene, wearing the aegis,
crowned by flames, radiant, truly god-like-and this same
man crushed by grief, miserable in his awareness of hav-
ing himself brought the immensity of this grief upon
himself. The apotheosis of Achilles is the seal of his doom.
And it is his voice, his brazen voice (XVIII 222), his terrible shouting, which brings terror to the foe, that expresses
his misery and his doom. Pallas Athene's voice seems but
a weak echo of that of Achilles or is even completely
drowned out by the latter's intensity.
But are not these two events related?
19
�Does not Achilles' shout sonorously echo Zeus' silence?
Can we not guess now why Zeus remained silent for a
long while? Surely, he had to take account of the susceptibilities of his wife, as any husband would- and in his
marital relations Zeus is no exception- but is it only
Hera whom he was silently thinking about? Must he not
have been concerned about the whimsical nature of
Achilles' plight and Thetis' plea? And, on the other hand,
how could he have refused to satisfy Thetis in whose debt
he was? Is it not right then and there that Zeus decided,
in wisdom and sadness, irrevocably too, to accede to
Thetis' demand, to give honor and glory to Achilles, but
to do that in a manner which neither Thetis nor Achilles
suspected? The long stretch of the poem which corresponds to Achilles' inactivity fills Zeus' silence. While
the tide of the battle is being reversed, Patroclus' approaching death is announced twice (VIII, 476; XV,
64-7), the steps which lead to it are carefully pointed out
(XI, 604, 790-804, especially 792-3). Achilles will get
what he wants, but at the price of the greatest loss he
could suffer- the loss of his beloved friend, his other self
(XVIII, 79-82). In the hour of his triumph he will be
the most miserable of men. The ways of Zeus are as wise
as they are crooked. Zeus does not know about Iris' mission. But do the strong-headed and light-minded goddesses, Hera and Pallas Athene, know what is going on?
They do not, nor does Achilles' mother (XVIII, 74-5).
While Pallas Athene transfigures Achilles into a god,
Achilles is mortified. He has grasped Zeus' intent. He
says himself (XVIII, 328): "Not all the thoughts of men
does Zeus fulfill"; as Homer has said before (XVI,
250-2), commenting on Achilles' prayer before the slaying of Patroclus: "One thing the father granted him, the
other he denied:' Zeus denied him the safe return of
Patroclus. He denied it for Achilles' true glory's sake. For,
as Zeus confides to Poseidon, mortal men are his concern even in their perishing (XX, 21). That is what
neither Hera nor Pallas Athene understand. Hera does
not understand the biting irony of Zeus' remark to her
(XVIII, 357-9): 'Well, then, you have accomplished this,
you have aroused Achilles free of foot. Verily, the flowinghaired Achaeans must be your children:'
Achilles' suffering at the moment of his triumph is
Achilles' own. It cannot be matched by anything on
Olympus. It is as much the prerogative of a mortal as
it is the attribute of a hero. Homer is the teacher no less
of Aeschylus than he is of Plato.
This, then, is one example of the way in which a piece
of writing taunts us to understand what is being said not
20
in so many words, but through the articulation and composition of the whole. The answer I have given may not
be the right one or may not suffice. It is up to you to
find a better one.
Let us turn to the second example, Platds Phaedrus.
This example has the virtue of being not only an example of writing, but also a piece of writing the main theme
of which is writing itself. The two people who do the talking in this dialogue are Socrates and Phaedrus. Phaedrus
is a young man who loves passionately everything connected with words. He is a qnA.6A.oyo~ and so is Socrates.
The conversation is between two lovers of words and takes
place, on a summer day, outside the walls of Athens, near
a cool brook, under the shade of a tree in which cicadas
make a continuous and, I suppose, sometimes deafen.
.
1ng nmse.
The dialogue is divided as follows: there is an introductory part which I shall omit, although it is highly
significant. Then there are two clearly distinguishable
parts as follows:
"' Q00
~
=·
" lis.
I
The whole dialogue is framed, as it were, by two
figures. One is. Lysias, a famous speech-writer, who, at
the very beginning of the dialogue, appears on the scene
in the most suitable mask, to wit, as the scroll in
Phaedrus' left hand. (The scroll contains a speech written by Lysias.) Lysias remains present in that guise
(although presumably not always in Phaedrus' left hand)
throughout the entire dialogue. The other figure is
!socrates, another famous speech-writer, who is conjured
up by Phaedrus and given stature and dignity by Socrates
at the very end of the dialogue. One emerges as a past
master of bad writing and the other as full of promise
of becoming a writer of superior standing. Between these
two extremes Phaedrus is confronted with the problem
of Speaking and Writing-and so are we.
In the first part, three speeches are heard, the one
written by Lysias and read by Phaedrus, the other two
spoken by Socrates who keeps attributing their authorship variously to somebody he cannot remember, or to
the local deities, the Nymphs and Pan, or to the poet
Stesichorus, or to the cicadas, or to Phaedrus. The two
speeches spoken by Socrates are, at any rate, painstakingly elaborate, and, if they are not to be taken strictly
as written speeches, can hardly be conceived as impro-
SUMMER 1984
�vised unless, indeed, they are "inspired;' that is, dictated
by divine or superior powers.
Lysias' speech is the plea of a man to a young boy,
in which it is contended that it is better to favor a nonlover than a lover. Phaedrus considers it a wonderful
speech, "charming," as he would say today. Socrates finds
plenty of faults in it and proceeds to deliver a better
speech on the same theme, except that this speech blames
the lover and stops short at the point where it is supposed
to begin praising the non-lover. Phaedrus does not succeed in making Socrates finish that speech. It remains
truncated. Instead, Socrates, by way of recantationbecause he has offended Love- delivers another speech
in praise of Love. This speech, the most eloquent, occupies the middle part of the dialogue and is spoken by
Socrates while the sun goes through its highest course.
There is a definite change in the tenor of the dialogue
after the speeches are done with, and this changed tenor
persists throughout the second part. The conspicuous difference in the tenor of the two parts poses the problem
of the dialogue's composition.
Socrates and Phaedrus begin to speak, quietly and
soberly, about the spoken and written word and continue
doing so until the very end of the dialogue. Phaedrus
agrees with Socrates that the real problem concerning
writing is to distinguish good writing from bad writing
and is ready to embark on a discussion on this subject.
It is here (258E-259D) that Socrates calls Phaedrus' attention to the cicadas over their heads. He tells a story
about their origin: they were once human beings, even
before there were Muses; now, in their present form, so
says Socrates, they are supposed to report to the Muses
and to tell them who among men honors whom among
the Muses; they are watching, says Socrates, him and
Phaedrus now, at noontime, and if they see both talking
to each other and not asleep -like sheep and most
men- they might be pleased and report accordingly. The
question arises: why does Socrates tell this marvelous and
fantastic story of the cicadas' origin and nature at this
moment? It seems to be done to underscore that, from
now on, Phaedrus and Socrates, instead of exchanging
elaborate speeches, that is, written or dictated words, will,
in leisurely and sober fashion, converse about speechmaking and speech-writing and thus restore to the spoken
word its proper and unchallengeable function. The trouble is that Socrates' tale interrupts this sober conversation. And let us not forget that this sober conversation
is embodied in a written text.
In what follows, we witness the previous speeches being criticized and analyzed. The beginning of Lysias'
speech is subjected to a special scrutiny. And in the course
of it this beginning of Lysias' speech is made to repeat
itself, twice (262E; 263E-264A), word for word. We hear
Socrates interpreting freely the speeches he himself made,
assuming the role of their "father," so freely indeed that
they appear somewhat changed: the doubtful is omitted,
the wording is modified, additions are made (264E ff. ).
It is Socrates' way of supporting and defending the truth
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
they might contain. We observe Socrates and Phaedrus
bearing down on various books which claim to teach the
art of speaking. Phaedrus, the "lover of the Muses," is
not altogether satisfied with this kind of conversation
which he describes as "somewhat bare" (262C).
At the crucial point, when the discussion seems to
revert to the problem of good and bad writing (274B),
it is again interrupted by Socrates. He suddenly asks:
"Do you know in what way you would best please divinity
in the matter of words, either in making speeches or talking about them?" Phaedrus replies: "I certainly do not.
Do you?" Socrates: ''A tale, no more, I can tell from hearsay; a tale that has come down from our fore-fathers;
as to the knowledge of the truth, it is theirs alone:' And
Socrates casually adds: "But should we ourselves find this
truth, would any human fancy or opinion (S6l;uaJ.LU)
about it still be of any concern to us?" To which Phaedrus
replies: ''A ridiculous question!" Urged by Phaedrus to
report what he heard, Socrates proceeds to tell the tale
of Theuth and Thamous, legendary Egyptian personages,
a tale in which Theuth is reported to have invented letters, and thereby writing, and to have presented this invention to the god-king Thamous. I shall read now what
Thamous, according to Socrates, says (274E-275B):
"Most artful Theuth, one man has the ability to beget
artful things, another the ability to judge of their
usefulness or hamfulness to their users; and now you,
who are the father of letters, have been led by your affection to ascribe to them a power the opposite of that
which they possess. For this invention will produce forgetfulness in the minds of those who learn to use it, because
they will neglect their memory, inasmuch as their tftist
in writing will make them recollect by means of external marks which are no part of themselves and will not
make them recollect from within through their own effort. You have thus discovered an aid not to memory but
to reminding. And you give to those who learn not truth
but merely the appearance of wisdom: they will become
acquainted with many things without proper teaching
and will seem to know, while remaining for the most part
ignorant and hard to get along with since, instead of getting wise, they will merely have acquired the reputation
of being wise:'
We should not forget that this is a tale and that we
have been warned by Socrates: hearsay is no substitution for our own discovery of the truth. Again, we should
not forget that this tale presents itself to us as a written
text which, according to the very content of the tale, cannot be relied upon without proper teaching. Neither
should we forget that the discussion of the problem of
good and bad writing has, once more, been successfully
interrupted.
What follows in the written text is a description of
writing that makes it appear a playful thing, undertaken
for "amusement's sake" (276B-D). One cannot expect
written words to be serious. For, as Socrates says (275D),
"you would think that they (the written words) speak as
if they had understanding, but should you, from a desire
21
�to learn, ask them anything about what they say, they
do nothing but repeat always one and the same thing!'
They cannot, therefore, defend themselves against misunderstanding and abuse. Furthermore, they cannot and
do not discriminate between those to whom they speak.
Any author who holds that there could be much solidity
and clarity in his written work, whatever its subject,
deserves to be blamed for that, regardless of whether there
is anyone to voice the blame or not (277D-E; 275C).
What, then, about the distinction between good and
bad writing that Socrates and Phaedrus set out to discuss?
Nothing is said about it. The answer to that question has
been- of necessity, it seems- playfully withheld. Still,
whatever has been said about the problem of writing has
been enacted in the dialogue. The repetitiousness of the
written word, its inability to defend itself, the superiority of the spoken word in spontaneous conversation which
interprets with understanding what was written downall that has been enacted by Socrates and Phaedrus in the
dialogue. Must we not continue the conversation to solve
the problem of good writing, to find the answer which
was not stated in the dialogue? And does not precisely
the Phaedrus, as it is written, offer an example of how good
writing can be done?
I have few concluding remarks.
Is Plato right in attributing superiority to the spoken
word, to any conversation in which winged words can
be exchanged spontaneously? There is a point at which
this superiority seems to disappear altogether.
22
A most remarkable similarity obtains between words,
spoken words of live speech, and money, money that is
available in coins and bills. Both are precious, both circulate freely, coins and bills from hand to hand, words
from mouth to mouth. The imprints on coins and bills
are gradually erased, effaced, rubbed off, just as the
meanings of words seem to become fuzzy, blurred and
empty with the passage of time. There is even
counterfeiting in language as there is in money. Human
speech, that greatest marvel perhaps under the sun, can
and does indeed deteriorate to an extent which renders
it obnoxious and totally wingless.
It is at this point that the written word may come
to its rescue. As we so aptly say, words can be "coined."
This happens both ways: words can be coined in support of cliches, fostering and increasing the ever-present
tendency to diminish the vigor and meaning of speech;
but words can also be coined afresh.
In a letter to a friend, Virgil, a writer, says that he
gives birth to verses in the manner of bears and according to their custom (parere se versus modo atque ritu ursina),
that is to say, that he handles his verses the way the mother
bear handles her newly born cub: assiduously and persistently she licks it into its proper shape. Such assiduous
work, performed on the written word and undertaken
to assure the right articulation of a composed whole, can
and does restore and preserve the integrity of human
speech. It is thus that the written word repays its eternal
debt to the spoken word.
SUMMER 1984
�Passage
Ich habe unter meinen Papieren ein Blatt
gifunden . . . wo ich die Baukunst eine
erstarrte M usik nenne.
Goethe
Cold as it is, this Duomo isn't frozen
Music. Measures I have in mind grow stiff
To no fa<;:ade, no calculable space,
No shrines for worship. God
And Goethe can't discern the difference,
Not having heard my music. This is not
To say that music has anything much to do
With sound- the unessential ear-caress
Of cello or contralto. Only the tones
Have number. Music moves
By turnings, unprefigured, unannouncedFallings that promise risings, like the wink
Of Eros at the crossing of the bar.
Elliot Zuckerman
Elliot Zuckerman is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis.
THE ST JOHN'S REVIEW
23
�The Myth and Logic of Democracy
John S. Kieffer
D
emocracy is a myth. From one point of view
there is not and never has been a government or a society that is truly democratic.
But on the other hand, when the name is
given with sinGerity to a government, there
are demands imposed on that government and its people that compel them to act so that the name is not completely falsified. This is the nature of a myth. It is a story
that is both false in detail or in literal fact, true in spirit
and in general.
The myth of democracy is, however, in our tradition
more definite than these general considerations. The
myth of democracy is the history of ancient Athens. It
has its quintessential formulation in the funeral oration
of Pericles, though it is told by all the great Athenian
writers; poets, historians, orators, or philosophers. It is
a lively, living myth. When modern historians write about
Athens, they reveal as much about modern political feeling as they do about ancient Athens. All the battles of
politics in the nineteenth and twentieth century have been
fought in the Agora of Athens.
The myth of Athenian Democracy has been one of
the great formative myths for our times. The goddess
Athena stands in the center of it. Athenas place in the
myth is exemplified in the Eumenides. She was the founder
of the court of the Areopagus, which symbolized the
wisdom and justice that were to replace the tribal custom
of blood-feud. The Athenians saw themselves in this central myth as escaping from the reign of the daughters
of Night, the furies. Now Athena is the goddess of the
In the course of a lifetime of teaching at St. John's College, Annapolis, John
Kieffer served as professor, tutor, President and Dean of the College.
24
household arts, of weaving, of managing. She also gives
the art of persuasion and practical reason.
In the Statesman Plato draws an analogy between the
art of weaving and the art of government or kingship.
It is not fanciful to suppose that he had Athena the weaver
in mind when he did so. He must have been thinking
of the way Athena had woven the fabric of her polis from
the warp of the bold natures who dominated the assembly
and the woof of prudence in the Areopagus. At any rate
the history of Athens shows this interweaving of boldness
and prudence, grandly in Themistocles and Aristides,
meanly in Nicias and Alcibiades.
The myth of democracy is largely legend, that is, a
story explaining some great phenomenon of history.
What does it explain? To take an example of another
myth, in the case of the Trojan cycle it seems probable
that the myths explain the breakdown of the Mycenaean
world. Periods of chaos are productive of legend. But this
is not the full story. The my.th of Troy as we have it is
the work of a man of genius who seems to have lived long
after the disappearance of the Mycenaean world. The
expansion of Greece through colonies seems to have been
the exciting cause of the Homeric poems. This was again
a period of swift change such as to be fertile in making
myths. So, for the Trojan war,. it seems that two periods
of history contribute to the story. (I am not saying that
the Homeric poems are caused by historical circumstances. The absolute cause must be the myth-making
faculties of Homer and his unknown predecessors. I am
saying that historical periods supply the material for the
poet's imagination to work on. And further, that periods
of change supply the most usable kind of material. Still
further, it may be that the finished poem, the Iliad or
Odyssey, is produced in a stable period following a period
of change.)
With the analogy of the Iliad and Odyssey in mind,
SUMMER 1984
�we may try to see what historical circumstances furnished
material for the myth of democracy. I am not going to
say "the fifth century," because that was the myth. To us
looking back it has historical being and becomes circumstantial to the myth; to the people living then it did
not, of course, exist historically, and so could not be the
phenomenon they felt called on to explain. I think the
historical phenomenon I am looking for is that same
period of colonization, or rather its concluding phase,
that had been, in its earlier phase, the material for
Homer. The second set of historical conditions for the
myt~ of democracy would be the rise of the Persian
empire.
So it is my contention that the myth of democracy
that we know from a community of bards and classic
writers, and that they knew from the rhapsodes of the
assembly, somehow told itself by applying its imagination to the colonizing period that ended in the sixth century B.C. and to the Persian wars. What was there about
that period that aroused the imagination to see a way
of government by words? And secondly, why does this
produce a myth of democracy?
I answer my first question first. Words must have
achieved a new importance for the sea-faring colonizers.
Ulysses shows by his example how his survival depended
on his skill with words: his quick repartee with the
Cyclops, his courteous speech and inspired tale-spinning
among the Phaeacians, his self-concealing lies when he
had returned to Ithaca. We can well imagine how often
a group of colonizers had use for quick wit and ready
tongue, to ease their way among strange tribes on the
coast ofltaly or the Crimea, to gain advantage over rival
groups seeking. a "home far off' on the same site, to settle disputes among the colonists themselves, now they
were living far from their accustomed ways and ancestral
habits.
This last was perhaps most important of all, for,
though hearth fire.and home gods accompanied the colonists, and ancestral customs were carried in their very
souls, the change of setting must have weakened the sentiment with which the colonists regarded them. Moreover,
many of their gods and customary rites must have been
inappropriate to their new surroundings. Add to this that
the colonizers went in small groups to widely scattered
places, from the Crimea to Spain, and came from many
different home cities, and so there was no central direction of their movement. They were forced to rely on their
own resources. No wonder then that the colonies were
often pioneers in new constitutions and in the development of written law. In all this words assume an importance not only greater than before, but also of a different
kind. As confirmation from the converse let me remind
you that the Spartans, who did not colonize and did not
carry on commerce overseas, were a byeword to the rest
of the Greeks for brevity of speech and have given us
our word Laconic. No one should be surprised to notice
that Homer was an Ionian and that both poetry and
philosophy sprang into being in colonial areas: Sappho,
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Alcaeus, and Archilochus in the islands; Thales, in Ionia,
Pythagoras born in Samos and settled in Southern Italy.
The rise of Persia contributed to the myth in a different way. In the first place Persia created Greece. It
was the threat of conquest by her world empire that made
the Greeks know themselves as Greeks. This was the
origin of the myth of Hellas. The Hellenes were forced
into a cooperative effort for self-defence. Once more the
power of words was made apparent. You cannot read
Herodotus without observing how rational discussion
among the allies was essential to the measures taken to
meet the Persian danger and how much persuasion was
needed to bring the leaders to agree on plans in common.
So we have the myth of Hellas and have seen how
the Greeks have discovered the power of words to hold
together a self-uprooted, changing society. Why does the
myth of democracy eventuate from this finding? To
answer this question we may first look at the political
myth that prevailed in Greece before the colonizing
period and that guided the plans and actions of the colonizers. That myth, I suggest, was the patriarchal myth,
the myth of fatherhood, of the wisdom of the elders. It
was the myth that was to be named aristocracy when later
ages became self-conscious and invented labels for its
customs. Its foundation in economics was in the ownership of land and its legal expression was through ancestral
custom, the laws (thesmoz) of Zeus-born kings and the pronouncement of oracles. The myth or elements of it survived all through the later age of democracy, oligarchy,
and tyranny. You can feel its presence on every page of
Plato. By contrast one of the formative myths of modern
democracy is the Social Contract. Now the Social Contract implies the natural equality of all men; it
foreshadows brotherhood rather than fatherhood and is
forward-looking not backward-looking. Men in a SocialContract society ask what new agreement shall we make
to deal with a new situation; in a patriarchal society they
ask, what does the custom of our ancestors, or the will
of our father, God, direct us to do. Probably the inner
logic of political behavior will always interweave the
strands of fatherhood and brotherhood. Our society is
founded on the Social Contract and yet our own Social
Contract, the Constitution of the United States, has
become, and had to become, an institutionalized father
image, the incarnation of ancestral wisdom.
In the foundation of the Greek colonies this order
is reversed. The colonies, as we have seen, were founded
according to the ancestral model of the mother city, but
by the logic of the situation, geographical dispersion, and
political autonomy, the colonies were forced to look ahead,
not back, and to act in practice as if on the theory of
the Social Contract. Accordingly, as we have seen, they
became leaders in the writing of constitutions and the
making of legal codes. Moreover, as we have also seen,
the Social Contract implies equality. Therefore, the
tendency toward democracy acquired the backing of
political practice. When the cumulative force of the many
separate experiences with government showed what had
25
�happened, historic patterns came into view. Tyrannies
arose, oppositions in the name of ancestral custom converted the traditional, unself-conscious aristocracies into politically conscious oligarchies, and the people, the
Demos, thereby became conscious of itself as a political
force.
I see the grounding of the myth of democracy, then,
in the colonial movement, which weakened the unquestioned acceptance of the old patriarchal way oflife of the
land-owning aristocracy pictured and idealized in Homer
and Hesiod, and in the Odes of Pindar. I have argued
that colonizing put a new emphasis on the use of words
as means of politics and that this meant a tendency away
from ancestral custom toward something like a Social
Contract. Another way of putting it is that tradition
disappeared to be replaced by reason. Historical realities
never exactly conform to categories of thought. The more
rational new forms of the colonies retained traditional
forms and relations and developed their own tradition.
Conversely, the traditional forms began to use the mode
of reason in their struggle for self-preservation.
The democratic myth includes something more than
a set of historical conditions and a new way of using
words. It includes also an implicit change in the view
of men in relation to one another and a new foundation
of political power. These two changes are related to each
other. If we can believe the accepted view of most
historians, the colonizing movement was one expedient
adopted because of population pressure. Rather than risk
revolution, the citizens of the metropolis decide to encourage a portion of the populace to emigrate and colonize. So, you see, a group that may have been an unconsidered mob of base-born paupers acquires a new
status. Partly this is because of its physical strength as
it grows more numerous, and perhaps because of the appearance of bold and intelligent leaders in its ranks. More
significant, however, is that, by the proposal to send out
a colony, the old aristocracy confers on the group of colonies the dignity of a rational equal. No longer are they
just a number of poor people who can be absorbed as
tenants or clients and cared for in a fatherly way by the
well-born land owners. It is now in embryo a corporate
body with whom the aristocracy can treat in a reasonable
way. This is the birth of Demos.
It is noteworthy that colonization was only one of the
possible expedients for dealing with the problem, but the
most rational and successful one. Another was the Spartan solution of the opposite extreme. The Spartans converted themselves into a permanent police force, holding
down lower orders by terror in a state of permanent subjection. Another solution, which went along with colonization, was conversion of the metropolis from agriculture to commerce and industry. This was the course
taken by Athens and Corinth, the former not an active
colonizer, the latter one of the greatest mothers of colonies. It was to these commercial cities that the progressive back-flow of new ideas and institutions first extended its influence and was most permanently effective.
26
In both Athens and Corinth the accommodation to the
new age was made by means of tyranny. Athens, however,
passed through the stage of tyranny under Peisistratus in
the sixth century and went on to Periclean democracy.
Corinth lapsed from Periander's tyranny into oligarchy.
As you remember, Athens and Corinth were the first antagonists in the Peloponnesian War.
In all this ferment which gave birth to Demos, and
Anti-Demos, we may add, there operates a world force
that assisted and hastened the coming of Democracy and
perhaps helped move events in that direction. This was
the introduction of coined money. Coinage both made
possible the commerce that sustained the colonial
development and was an important factor in the rise of
rationality. The latter because first coinage simplified
numbering and measuring goods for exchange, and then
because it struck a blow against the aristocracies' system
of personal values. As Marx puts it, exchange value
became dominant over use value. Whatever evils follow
from this exchange, it does represent a greater rationalization of human life. Protagoras' "Man is the measure" is
the philosophical end product.
One result was the substitution of property qualifications (represented in monetary terms) for qualifications
of birth, in settling the constitutional organization of the
polis. This was Solon's fundamental reform in sixth century Athens. Although he graded political power according to wealth, the successors to Pericles gradually
transformed the institutions until the property qualification became meaningless. But while these reforms ended
forever the old aristocratic power, they introduced the
schism that was to prove fateful, that divided Greece between democracies and oligarchies. For as to the birth
of Demos there always remained an uncertainty. Was
Demos the poor alone, or was he the whole state?
Periclean Athens came close to ending the schism, but
at the cost of a new division. The Demos of Athens was
corrupted by the imperial power the city gained as a result
of the Persian War, and ultimately the rational basis of
democracy and its appeal to the aspirations of men was
lost in the struggle for power. So the myth of Athenian
democracy ends in tragedy.
I believe we can trace a progress in the form of one
central question. Aeschylus and Pericles seem to ask the
question, 'What will make democracy work?" while Plato
asks rather, "Why won't democracy work?" Socrates is
the pivot on which the question turns. The transformation of the question is due, I think, to the tragic flaw in
the democratic myth that I have pointed out. For
Aeschylus, the answer to his question is that democracy,
which is represented as the victor over the Furies, will
work if it reverses the compact between Athena and the
Furies, now become the Eumenides, and preserves
Athenas court of Areopagus. In other words he accepts
the democratic exchange, but warns that the wisdom of
the elders, which we have seen to be characteristic of the
old aristocracies, must be allowed to make its voice heard.
Democracy is to be the government of all, not the govern-
SUMMER 1984
�ment of the many. Pericles, to judge from the funeral
oration, finds the source of the wisdom needed to guide
deliberation in the character and institutions of the Athenians. Athens is the School of Hell as, and must be, consequently, her own first scholar. For Pericles, too,
colonial experiments in rational construction of government had time to sink into the consciousness of the
Hellenic world, the authority of ancient wisdom, enshrined in sententious sayings, was first perverted then
democracy is the government of all; Demos is not just
challenged: perverted by being applied in contexts apart
from the old ways of behaving, then challenged by a ra-
the poor. The city will have wise leaders and a public
opinion that is a judge of good leadership, even if it is
not capable of originating policy. For Aeschylus and
tionalizing ascription to reason. For example, the most
famous gnomic utterance, "Know thyself," attributed to
various ones of the Seven Sages, meant, first of all, no
Pericles wisdom is something a little mysterious. They
each, in fact, are somewhat complacent in accepting the
doubt, know thyself to be an insignificant ephemeral
creature, the kind of being Zeus in Prometheus Bound intended for destruction. The perversion of the saying is
confident view that the success of Athens is due to her
wisdom and that one need not doubt that the wisdom
is there.
Socrates' whole life was a life of questions. In him
the power of rationality puts ancient wisdom to the question to declare its meaning to a new generation. The
democratic heirs of the old patriarchate had inherited
the noble terms, Ko./...6<;, tlya96c;, 8tKat6c;, "noble," "good"
and '~ust:' But just as Cleisthenes had rearranged the
patriarchal tribes of old Athens into geographic wards,
in order to obliterate the political power of the ancient
birth, so the sophists were rearranging meanings of the
ancient words and thereby obliterating the ancient moral
wisdom of the polis. As they became gradually aware of
what they were doing, the Sophists summed up the
discussion with the words qn)av; and v6!J.ot;, nature and
convention. 'What is just by nature differs from what
is just by convention" is a thesis that points up the contradiction in the democratic position of Pericles and his
contemporaries. To Conservatives the ancestral custom
of justice is natural and opposed to the injustice of tyranny, which is conventional. The sophists transvalue
values. Ancestral custom is conventional, brute power
is natural. "The natural is just" is the major premise here.
The mysterious paternal wisdom that Aeschylus saw interpreted by the goddess Athena and Pericles found in
the curriculum of the School of Hellas has become a subject of inquiry to the rational spirits of the sophists.
Socrates therefore appears in the pivotal role of
democratic dialectic. To the simple man, who was satisfied
instanced in the chorus of the Antigone, "Many the wondrous things, but none more wonderful than man." The
challenge, or substitution of new authority, is portrayed
in Prometheus who gives man the liberal arts and the
industrial arts, and frees him from his abject dependence
on the powers of nature. Finally, the naked opposition
to the original meaning of the saying is subsumed in Protagoras' "Man is the measure of all things." This saying
is effective because it not only expresses the end point
of an intellectual tendency to reverse man's relation from
one of dependence on nature to one of control of nature;
it also, additionally, reflects the economic and political
shift from an aristocracy of land-owners, with their
dependent tillers of the soil, and their own dependence
on the whims of weather and season, to the commercial,
sea-faring society of the colonies and Athens. In this society all things are measured by coined money, man himself
becomes a coin that measures all things with which he
comes in contact.
Socrates is a statesman, then, because he made possible the rational criticism of politics. He is a democratic
statesman, because it was only in democracy that his
method could work. I do not mean that people in an
oligarchy or an aristocracy could not play the game of
dialectic. But for Socrates his method was not a game;
it was a political program, aimed at the improvement
of the process of government. The reason why it could
work only in a democracy is that it is only in a democracy
that the means of governing is speech. Oligarchy and
with the wisdom of his fathers, he was a sophist. To the
aristocracy alike rest on a non-rational foundation, the
sophists, themselves, he was the supreme antagonist and
reactionary.
Socrates claimed to be the only true statesman in
one of wealth, the other of personal prestige or nobility.
Political control is reached either by purchase or by inspiring awe and in the end, sustained by force. Whatever
reasoning may go on among the elite themselves, the final
Athens because he alone went about asking people to
examine themselves and to find out what as men they
really wanted. The so-called statesmen simply out-bid
each other in giving the people what they thought they
authority is external to reason. In a democracy, on the
growth of democracy, was tending to destroy the foun-
other hand, reason is the final authority. I do not imply
that a democracy always reasons well or that the authority of reason never breaks down. I mean simply that you
can't have democracy without this principle. In Athens
the people discovered the principle, used it implicitly
without full understanding, were insufficiently self-critical
dation in ancestral wisdom not alone of democracy, but
of their own wisdom, and so put Socrates to death.
of any orderly government. The early aristocracies could
The death of Socrates was followed, within less than
a century, by the death of Athenian democracy at the
hands of the Peripatetic philosopher, Demetrius, of
Phalerum. In their dying both became myths for us.
wanted. This position of Socrates' is a rational criticism
of democracy. He saw that the movement to rationality,
which, as we have seen, played so large a part in the
subsist in their moral life on the gnomic pronouncements
of the sages, buttressed by the ambiguous declarations
of the oracles. As soon, however, as the success of the
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
27
�There is a curious difference, however, in our reception
of the myths. No one, I suppose, would hold that Socrates'
death is a warning for us not to seek knowledge. Yet there
have been many who have held the death of Athenian
democracy a warning not to practice democracy. To a
certain extent this difference may be due to the dialogues
of Plato. In them Socrates is hero and democracy villain,
at least as many read the dialogues. But Plato is not
melodramatic. The death of Socrates is as much the
tragedy of Athenian democracy as it is of Socrates. Plato,
I think, makes it clear that this is his feeling. One has
only to read his loving and hating satire on democracy
in the eighth book of the Republic and compare it with
the coldly disinterested treatment of oligarchy, the unmitigated contempt of tyranny, to see that Plato was no
oligarchical reactionary. In spite of Platds anti-democratic
profession we gain from him a sense of the power of the
democratic myth to make itself the standard by which
all other forms of government are judged.
One point the myth puts immediately before us for
decision. Are we going to understand democracy as a
government of the many or of all? This, as we have seen,
was the tragic uncertainty in Greek democracy. Thucydides has shown the irreconcilable division that drove the
democrats more and more in the direction of many rather
than all. It is not primarily an intellectual confusion, but
a real difficulty. Walter Lippmarm has stated the difficulty
for our time in his recent book, The Public Philosophy. In
it he shows what confusion surrounds the term "the people" in our political thought. It is not a semantic or intellectual confusion, though he uses a semantic device
to make it clear. It is the kind of confusion that cannot
be cleared away, because the people means both things
at once that Mr. Lippmann tries to separate. His two
senses are, the electorate at any given election, "the peepul" of political satirists, and the whole host of the nation, the ancestors, ourselves who now are living, and
the unborn generations to come. Government belongs
to all the people in this latter sense, while the electorate
of the moment is but a temporary trustee for the whole
people. Yet in so far as a generation is the product of
its ancestors and holds its beliefs from them (in large part)
while also having in its heart hopes for its progeny, it
is impossible to separate the people from the People. And
on the other hand the larger People is itself a temporary
part of humanity. Its habits and beliefs may be, in a larger
context, as momentary as the people in any given election year. It seems to me that, just as ancient democracy
both lived and died through the tension of few and many,
so our democracy lives in this same tension, extended
through time. Whether it will eventually die from the
tension is not for us to say. Mr. Lippmann has done us
a service by reminding us that it exists. Aware of it, we
know better where we are and, possibly, how we should
act.
Mr. Lippmann's analysis brings to light another problem in democracy that has its analogue in the Athenian myth. He is concerned with the encroachment of
28
the legislative on the executive. From this point of view
the history of Athens is eloquent. By the time of Pericles,
and in large part owing to his policies, the Athenian
assembly had acquired untrammeled supreme power. By
force of his personal persuasive powers Pericles guided
the policy decisions of Athens. While he lived Athens was,
according to Thucydides, ('in name a democracy, in fact
a government by the first citizen." The story of the corruption of affairs by demagogues after the death of
Pericles is too familiar to need retelling. We have seen
it repeated here under the name of McCarthyism. Demagoguery thrives because of the tendency of the people
to forget that it is not the People and the second problem is the outgrowth of the first.
Whether the cure for these conditions is possible
within the democratic framework is not settled by
reference to the myth. A slogan used by ardent democrats
that "the remedy for the ills of democracy is more
democracy" is an expression of faith and hope, but hardly
a prescription. One asks how will "more democracy" work
its curative effect. Moreover, the demonstration that cures
attempted by non-democratic :means, the ancient oligarchies, the modern fascisms, are invariably remedies worse
than the disease merely displays another slogan. It does
not help point to a solution.
Perhaps Plato offers a solution in his conviction that
politics is a science, an episteme. For Plato this discovery,
which he generalized from Socrates' claims to statesmanship, led to the conclusion that monarchy or aristocracy
(of the wise) was the best government. Since only a few
can be wise, therefore, only a few can govern. In this way
democracy is put out of court. In the Politicus, however,
Plato in despair puts all human government out of court,
by showing, against the Republic, that a wise king must
be a god, no man having sufficient wisdom for the task
of kingship. Platds desperation is our opportunity. Having once and for all disposed of government by an elite,
Plato forces us to the only possible course of action, which
is to discover how to make do with what we have.
If Plato is driven to despair because the science he
held politics to be was beyond human capacity, the fault
may lie in Platds conception of science rather than in
human nature. Plato sets up a rigid alternative: either
an all-wise king or an unchangeable code of laws, embodying the unchanging principles of political conduct.
The dialectic of wisdom and reason, out of which we saw
the myth of democracy grow, is replaced by complete
separation of them into mutually exclusive realms. In the
myth of the dialogue, the Statesman, they are placed in
different eons of the world, kept apart by a cosmic
catastrophe.
In trying to escape Platds dilemma, let us first agree
that politics is a science, that is, that a government will
be successful in achieving justice only when it is conducted by men of intelligence, possessing wisdom and
knowledge. I shall further premise that a dictatorship or
an oligarchy, however intelligent, wise, and knowing its
leaders, necessarily rests in the end on extra-rational foun-
SUMMER 1984
�dations and will ultimately rely on force to keep its power,
in other words, to exist. This means that opposition to
the government, however rational, will be a crime. All
such governments are therefore unjust. Hence, only
democratic government can, in principle, achieve justice.
Can democratic government achieve justice in practice? I do not know, but before fleeing with the despairing Plato to Utopia, I would consider what means may
exist to make democracy worth a try.
I would first see whether the rigid alternatives of Plato
are really so separate. Considering his first alternative,
the all-wise king, we can see that, if his wisdom is to succeed in making just decisions in particular disputes, it
is not sufficient for the decisions to be abstractly just.
They must be accepted as just by the parties to the
dispute; otherwise, the king will have to use force and
to that extent his government will be unjust. His subjects therefore must have at least the intellectual capacity
to recognize justice. But so they will be intellectually
above the standard supposed by Plato to measure the
capacities of all but a few men.
In the case of the other alternative, rigid laws governing by general principles admitting no exceptions, there
is no chance at all for justice, since no particular case
exactly fits a general principle. Therefore, the standard
for men is even higher. The men in this society must have
the wisdom to recognize that everyone must accept a little
injustice for the sake of others.
I have pointed out these consequences of Platds position in the Statesman because I believe they reveal two
demands that just government makes on its citizens, one
that they know what justice is and the other that they
accept something less than justice for themselves in any
given situation. These seem to me to be the presuppositions of the Social Contract, but they do not depend for
their existence on the theory of the Social Contract. It
is rather the other way around. The Social Contract is
a myth to account for these two inescapable demands of
society. It now remains to show that they can be met by
a democratic society, and to suggest some of the means
available to a democracy for meeting them. That they
cannot be met by a society other than democratic has
already been stated as a premise.
The first demand requires the assumption of human
rationality, while the second requires the assumption of
human wisdom. You will notice that Platds hypothesis
of an all-wise ruler entails rational subjects, while his
hypothesis of pure rationality of government entails wise
subjects. Insofar as democracy is government in which
all rule and are ruled in turn, both presuppositions are
entailed. You will notice too that the government of
wisdom is personal government, while the government
of rationality is institutional or government of law. I think
you will now see how I will argue that democracy meets
these demands. A government of laws is no respecter of
persons, but any government other than democratic is
a respecter of persons, insofar as it distinguishes a ruler
or ruling class from the other members of society. The
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
condition that makes the injustices inherent in human
government bearable, however, is that they be justly
distributed without respect of person. So the second demand is met by democracy.
You may well say here that I have fled to a Utopia,
only I am in the company of John Stuart Mill instead
of Plato. I admit at least to idealizing, since I would be
hard put to show that our own or any democracy is now
practicing or ever has practiced these principles. I do
believe that our practice under the constitution comes
within nodding distance of them and I will say what
means seem to me to have developed in the course of
history since the days of Athens to make them less
unrealistic.
The two principles are that men are capable of acting rationally and of acting wisely, that is, capable of
knowing principles and having the skill to apply them.
The means to establishing democracy are the ways of converting these capabilities into actualities, of bringing it
about that men do as they are capable of doing. From
Aristotle on, teachers have recognized that men learn by
doing. This fact makes sense to me of the slogan that
the cure for the ills of democracy is more democracy. If
democracy operated by rational discussion, the way to
learn the art of rational discussion is through discussing
rationally the problems encountered in society.
The foundation, then, for bringing democracy into
being and maintaining it is the liberal arts. There are
two practical problems here. One is to have liberal arts
in one's tradition, the other is to make them available
to all citizens. On the first count we are in one respect
more fortunate than the Athenians. They were inventing the liberal arts while they were inventing democracy.
The positive work of the sophists was their invention of
the liberal arts. Sophocles, Herodotus, Euripides,
Aristophanes, the whole list of classic Greek authors
testify to the lively effect of this invention. Thucydides
and Plato confirm it, while they portray its somber side
of failure. We are more fortunate in this, that having the
tradition that they invented, we are less dazzled by the
brilliance of the invention and can use it more soberly.
On the other hand, we can lose the liberal arts by reducing them to routine, as the Greeks reduced the wisdom
of their early sages to conventional opinion. Nevertheless,
because we have the Greek authors, we can go back to
them, and have done so from time to time to light again
the fires of the liberal arts.
Secondly, to make the liberal arts available to all has
been the work of the universities and of educational institutions. Although education has all too often seemed
to divide society into the educated and the uneducated
and so to become an instrument of aristocracy, this has
not really been the case. Even when education has subserved aristocracy as in Europe, where university training became the road to wordly prestige in church or government, the very possibility of acquiring this prestige
drew men of ability from all ranks into the upper classes
and so promoted a movement towards democracy. For,
29
�however perverted the use of the liberal arts, the simple
lesson they propounded remained the indifference of
reason to false distinctions of pride. When education at
times became completely perverted, offering itself as a
mark of culture, it generated its own antithesis in the
class of self-made men, self-graduates of the "school of
hard-knocks;' and the resulting discussion brought education back to its true purpose. The very existence of educational institutions tends to universal education, which is
the first prerequisite of democracy.
In addition to educational institutions as a ground
of possibility for democracy today is a difference in the
material of education. This is the shift from the spoken
word to the written word, and the accumulation of a great
number of books. At first sight these changes might seem
irrelevant to democracy. The first great library was built
by the Macedonian kings of Egypt. The decline of speech
in favor of writing reflected the withdrawal of intellectuals from political activity in times of monarchy and
empire. May this not, however, be an instance of
Toynbee's "withdrawal and return." The oratory of Athenian democracy was partly the cause of its instability.
Books gave a haven to the liberal arts and preserved them
for a better day. They gave a stable form to the tradition
of rationality. Whatever harm there was in the medieval
deference to the authority of an Aristotle or a Galen, their
books conveyed still more the authority of reason. Even
before the barriers to learning had been broken by the
printing press, and increasingly thereafter, there was a
rational authority to rally around that could and did oppose the blind authority of despotic governments. The
Bible, of course, was the spiritual center of the bookish
tradition. Quite fortunately, the Bible never despotically
blotted out the books of the secular tradition, as the
Koran had done in the Muslim world, but Revelation
took reason as its handmaiden.
One consequence of this for the preparation of the
new experiment in democracy was the demarcation of
the political sphere from the spiritual. The Athenian experiment foundered in part because the polis demanded
the whole of men's energies. As Ernest Barker has said,
the polis was both state and church. Thus political conflict among the Greeks led to irreconcilable opposition
and the formation of Platds two cities. The church
drained away some of this passion and, by pointing to
an otherworldly standard, made it possible (after much
confusion, it is true) for men to differ rationally and not
always feel compelled to attempt to murder one another.
The church became the guarantor of wisdom in human
affairs and enabled it to avoid entanglement in conflict
with reason, which, as we have seen, was the confounding of Greek political life. The result of the Christian
belief in the temporary nature of this life led to a
30
tempered effort to ameliorate evil conditions and prevented the doctrinaire insistence on immediate, wholesale solution of problems, the kind of attitude that so often
has wrecked the order of society.
Democracy, of course, was not an immediate consequence. What I mean to suggest is that our democracy
is the heir to a tradition that contained it in seed, because
it preserved and nourished the two conditions of wisdom
and reason, so delimited that they could work together.
This is manifest especially in the law. The law came to
depend on written records of a peculiar sort. Where the
Athenian courts pretended to the wisdom to discover absolute justice in every case they had to decide and had
no concern with rational precedent, our modern law
learned from the written record of justinian's Roman law
the lesson of the rational adjustment of principle and particular case. Plato had proposed as a desperate remedy
for the masquerade of Athenian courts as omniscent kings
a rigid law which could never be changed. Roman
jurisprudence had set itself the task of discovering law
as a science and had transmitted this ideal to the modern
world. In the concept of law that can be interpreted to
fit different cases, jurisprudence gave an answer to Platds
contention that democracy cannot work because government is a science and the many are not wise. By granting an appeal from the unwisdom of the momentary majority to the institutionalized wisdom of the lasting majority, the law made an answer to Plato. This is. Lippmann's "tradition of civility."
I have all too briefly sketched some of the materials
that democracy has to work with in the human attempt
to achieve justice. In conclusion, let me say what I think
I have been saying. Democracy is the best form of government because the people insist on governing themselves,
and any attempt of men to govern other men against their
will begets injustice, which is the negation of the end of
government. People can govern themselves, because they
can be wise and reasonable. Athens once made a brave
attempt at democracy and left us a myth from which we
can learn about democracy. Moreover, she left us the
beginnings of the liberal arts, which, once given to the
world, took to themselves the discoveries of Romans, of
Jews, of Christians and have transmitted to us the
paradigms of the science of government, especially in
education, law and religion. I hold neither to the law of
progress, which would affirm that democracy is the inevitable final stage of history, nor to a biological analogy
which places democracy as one stage in some cyclically
unfolding course of events. I think that men can and
sometimes do succeed in governing themselves; that by
rational self-criticism they may prolong their success; that
a genuine education will sustain their self-criticism.
SUMMER 1984
�Bandusia, Flower of Fountains
for Martha
(Horace, Odes, Book III, 13)
Bandusia, flower of fountains,
clear uprushing of waters,
due thick, sweet wine with roses,
tomorrow's rite; due this kid
whose tipped brow and goatish play
hint the loves and the battles to comenever! His hot, thick blood
will curdle with dark your bright fall.
No rage of midsummer can quicken
your quiet; dispensing cool ease
you soothe the meandering cattle,
heal the yoke-weary ox.
Fame will mirror your beauty
when I speak the ilex branched over
the riven rock, whence loquacious
clear rivulets chatter and leap.
Richard Freis
An alumnus of St. John's College, Annapolis, Richard Freis is currently
collaborating with the composer, Alva Henderson, on a new opera, Achilles.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
31
�On Mimesis*
Victor Zuckerkandl
T
he motif of this lecture-"motif' in the sense of
what set it in motion- is Aristotle's definition
of tragedy as imitation- mimesis- of human
action, and in gen'eral of the arts of painting,
sculpture, poetry-narrative, dramatic, lyric
poetry-music, and dance as mimetic arts, imitative arts.
This is the group of arts which we today call by the unfortunate term of fine arts. (I am not going to use this
term; I shall call them, with Aristotle, the mimetic arts,
or briefly, the arts; for the context of this lecture, then,
the arts means the so-called fine arts. One of them is missing from Aristotle's list: architecture; so I will not refer
to architecture either.)
All these arts, Aristotle says, are mimesis, imitation.
They represent, so to speak, different species of the genus
imitation. The imitative element is not something secondary, accidental in them; it is their essential quality. A work
of art is what it is, namely, a work of art, because it imitates; the artist is essentially an imitator. Take away from
a work of art the element of imitation, there will no longer
be a work of art; deprive the artist of the imitator's skill,
he will no longer be an artist.
This theory seems to rest on solid ground, to be in
sound agreement with the facts. Nobody can deny, for
instance, that every painting, every sculpture, shows
something, represents something, and in this sense imitates that which it shows. (This is true for non-objective
painting, too; the only difference there is that the things
shown are not objects of external visual experience, but
1
The late Victor Zuckerkandl came to St. John's College, Annapolis, in 1948.
He taught at St. John's for over a decade. On Mimesis was delivered as a formal lecture at St. John's College, Annapolis, in 1955.
32
objects of the imagination.) Every tragedy or comedy represents an action, and in this sense imitates the action
and the people involved in it; every narrative poem tells
a story, every lyric poem expresses some idea; they imitate the story, the idea. It is not as obvious with music
and dance, but Aristotle states, as Plato did before himand he has a large following through the ages- that music
and _dance express, and in this sense imitate, emotions,
passwns.
We can grant all this and immediately move on to
the directly opposite position: there is no imitation in
the arts. When Aristotle looked at the paintings which
decorated the walls of Greek houses, what did he see?
Colors and shapes covering a two-dimensional surface.
The things represented are three-dimensional. How can
two dimensions imitate three? By the art of perspective,
we say, which creates an illusion of depth on a surface,
and which the Greeks of course knew. There are no more
Greek wallpaintings to be seen; they are gone. But we
know the art of painting of the Greeks from the vases
that have been preserved. There is no attempt at perspective here; everything is strictly two-dimensional. Would
Aristotle maintain that a mediocre wallpainting which
makes skillful use of perspective is a better work of artbecause it is a better imitation- than one of those perfect
vase paintings? When he walked up the great steps leading
to the Acropolis and looked at the Parthenon, what did
he see? Among other things, the long series of marble
reliefs-the remnants of which we still see todayrepresenting the long procession of men and horses at
the festival of the goddess Athene. Men and horses in
motion-do the sculptures imitate them? The marble
does not move. How can sculpture, frozen in time, imitate motion, change in time? When Aristotle went to
the theatre to see a tragedy, what did he see? Figures on
the stage wearing huge masks. If they were intent on im-
SUMMER 1984
�itating human beings, why should they hide the only visible testimony of their being human, their faces? When
the chorus sang and danced, did they intend to imitate
emotions, say, of mourning, or fear? People who experience these emotions do not dance or sing. Aristotle
must have been either very naive or very unresponsive
to the experience of works of art if he could hold that
theory. How responsive or naive Aristotle was, I do not
know. But he certainly was not that naive. We can safely
assume that he was aware of these circumstances. Naive
in this case is not Aristode's understanding of the arts
but our understanding of Aristotle, more specifically, our
understanding of the meaning of mimesis.
When Aristotle says "the arts are mimesis," he did
not mean that they produce mechanical duplicates,
replicas, copies that might be substituted for the real
thing. When he called the artist an imitator, he did not
class him with the man who knows how to bark like a
real dog. He understood mimesis in a wider sense which
might be translated, "making of images, imaginative imitation." Image in this sense is never a mechanical
duplicate; it involves a transfer into another medium, a
sort of translation or transformation. The painter
transforms three-dimensional things into twodimensional colored shapes; the sculptor transforms moving things into unmoving stone, bronze, wood; the poet's
medium, into which he transforms actions, events,
characters, are words; the musician's, tones; the dancer's
gestures. In the process of transformation the maker of
the image may be led very far away indeed from his
model; elimination, condensation, on one hand, extension, elaboration, on the other, may produce an image
which is anything but a mechanical substitute of its model
(e.g., Steinberg). But always will the image be recognized as image, that is, as representing something. Its very
significance rests on the fact that it is an image, that is,
related to that which ·it represents. The adequate
understanding of an image is not plainly to see it, but
at the same time to see through it to its model, to see
the relation of image to model.
A closer scrutiny of the evidence, however, will show
many discrepancies between even this refined mimetic
theory of the arts and the observed facts. (I am not going to review the whole evidence; I merely mention a
few points.) First of all, the artist himself is very inadequately described as an imitator, in any sense of the word.
The young man or woman who decides to become an
artist -we assume that the decision is justified- does not
do so out of any desire to imitate anything-or rather,
the one thing he desires, passionately desires, to imitate
is another artist. The decisive events in a future painter's
life are visits to art galleries, not hikes in the country;
the future dramatist's fate is determined by evenings in
the theatre, not by reading the newspapers or witnessing a murder. Andre Malraux, whose PsycholOgy of Art
is the most comprehensive presentation of the visual arts
from a non-mimetic viewpoint- it has nothing to do with
psychology as we understand the term; it is a
THE
S1~
JOHN'S REVIEW
philosophy- puts it very pointedly: "The composer loves
compositions, not nightingales; the painter loves paintings, not sunsets." It is always art that makes the artist,
not nature, or life. The arts therefore have no
beginning- no more than language- or, in other words,
the beginnings of the arts are mythical.
Before we go on I want to clarify further these
concepts- image, and maker of images. The prototype
in a way is the demiurge in Platds Timaeus, who fashions
the universe as the image of the ideal model. All the essentials are here. Where there is an image, there must be
a model. The maker has his sight set on the model; he
takes his bearings from the model. The image is derived
from the model. The model is prior to the image, not
only in time (which is obvious- the image can hardly
precede the model) but also in rank: the model is more
than the image- if in no other respect, then because it
is the real thing; the other is 'only an image.' As Plato
puts it at another place, the image is farther removed
from truth than that of which it is the image. One might
object that many works of art glorify, idealize, their
model (for instance, in the case of an idealized portrait).
But in this and all similar cases the actual model is not
the real object in front of the artist, but an idea developed
from the contemplation of that object-in the case of a
person, the idea of his unrealized potentialities, or the
idea of what this man should look like in order to look
like a great man.
With this understanding of image it seems hard to
admit that a work of art is essentially an image. In the
strictest sense there is no model. The role of the model
in the making of a work of art is of the most trivial sort.
This becomes evident when we watch artists at work. A
famous example is Beethoven's shaping of the melody
of the last movement of the Ninth Symphony, the Hymn to
Joy. We have the testimony of this working process in a
few sheets of sketches. If a melody is an image of an emotion, then the model here would be the emotion of joy.
It is perfectly clear that the composer is not concerned
with joy or any other emotion, but with the relations between tones; if there is a model, he certainly is now working with his back to it. Nor is he now engaged in matters of secondary importance, like the search for the right
means to express an emotion. He is now struggling with
the essential problem; success or failure of this as a work
of art will not be determined by the finding of the right
relation between tones and an emotional model, but by
finding the right relation between tones and tones. This
corresponds to the fact that when the melody is heard
for the first time in the symphony it makes perfect
sense- I still have yet to find the person who would find
any relation between the melody there and the emotion
of joy. The model, if there is one, is as unimportant to
the understanding of the melody as to its making.
Recently I read a paper which analyzed the seven different versions of a famous German poem- successive
stages of development from a crude beginning to a finished work of art. The poet: Conrad Ferdinand Meyer;
33
�the title of the poem: Dead Love. The model is clearly
recognizable from the very beginning: two people returning from a walk one evening, and realizing that their love
had died, and that they themselves had killed it. The
whole development has nothing to do with the relation
to the model-like trying to tell the story clearer, throwing more light on the relationship between the two, and
so on. It has to do exclusively with rhythm, verse, rhyme,
syntax, choice of individual words- choice of words not
for the sake of a better relation between words and story
but between words and words. And again, the development is not concerned with means, secondary matters;
the changes mark the difference between a very poor and
a very good poem, that is, with the essence of poetry.
As these changes have nothing to do with the realation
of the words to the model, the poem cannot essentially
be an image. Even more disturbing is this: the story at
the end, after all the changes, is no longer exactly the
same as it was at the beginning; but it is quite clear that
the changes in the poem were not adjustments to a
changed story; it seems rather the other way, the changes
in the words, rhythms, etc., changed the story. So if we
want to call the poem an image, it would be the rather
extraordinary case of the image changing the model, or
even of the image making the model.
Or take a tragedy, Hamlet. Where is the model of
which this is an image? Is it the story Shakespeare read?
The chronicle which reported the events of bygone days?
The vague, uncertain figure, the real Hamlet? Was
Shakespeare's sight set on any one of these as the model
of which he wanted to make an image? It is clear that
if there is a model of which Shakespeare's Hamlet is the
image, it could only be Shakespeare's Hamlet againthe idea of such a man, such a character which
Shakespeare formed in his mind and then made the central figure of his play. If this is the case, the essential
achievement is not the making of the image but the forming of the idea; Shakespeare would be the artist he is,
not because of his capacity to make images but because
of his power to produce models. But is this a reasonable
account of the process? That he first figured out the man
and then wrote the play about him? I would rather say
that the writing of the play was his way, the only possible way, to figure out the man. By making the image he
produced the model- if you want to put it in this
paradoxical way. When Phidias made the statue of Zeus,
what was his model? His idea of the ruler of the gods?
Where did he get this idea? It was certainly not a current idea -witness the statues of the preceding generation. It was an idea generated in his own mind. And
again, it does not make sense to me to imagine that he
first figured out his idea and then made the image. Most
likely he did not begin with the idea but with a block
of material; he then uncovered the idea in the material
on which he worked. If we call it an image, then the model
comes into being together with the image. Those who
saw it did not understand it because they knew the model;
they understood the model because they saw the image.
34
That is, the statue gave them a new understanding of
Zeus. The image makes the model. Not even with
painters like the impressionists and their followers who
turn again and again to nature in order, as it seems, to
be as close as possible to their models, is the case as simple as it looks. When they leave their studios and go out
into the open, it is primarily to effect a break with an
outworn tradition; what they expect from nature is
delivery from the dead weight of convention. Nature tells
them what not to do, but as to nature being the modelwe have only to look over their shoulders and see what
they do, what they mean when they say 'true to nature.'
True to their own nature, maybe. Otherwise it is much
less a transformation of the model into an image thanand I use once more Malraux's words- the secret destruction of the model for the benefit of the construction of the canvas.
I think this is enough to give an idea of the evidence
contradicting the image theory of the arts. The evidence
in turn supports the diametrically opposed theory: the
work of art is not an image. Still it is important, meaningful, significant. The significance of an image lies in
its relation to something outside itself; the work of art,
not being an image, has no such relation. Its significance
therefore must lie wholly within itself. It is a completely
autonomous construct, closed within itself, without any
essential relation to anything beyond itself, carrying its
full meaning strictly within itself. I quote (this is Clive
Bell, the protagonist of this theory; he refers mostly to
the visual arts, but the implications are that the theory
extends to all the arts): "He who contemplates a work
of art inhabits a world with an intense and peculiar
significance all it own; that significance is unrelated to
the significance of life . ... The representative element
may or may not be harmful; always it is irrelevant. For
to appreciate a work of art we need bring with us nothing
from life, no knowledge of its ideas and affairs, no
familiarity with its emotions ... for a moment we are
shut off from human interests ... to appreciate a work
of art we need bring with us nothing but a sense of form
and color and a knowledge of three-dimensional space
... I appreciate music, a pure art with a tremendous
significance of its own and no relation whatever to the
significance of life.... The contemplation of pure form
leads to a state of extraordinary exaltation and complete
detachment from the concerns of life."
To me this seems a theory of despair. I fail to see how
anything completely detached from the concerns oflifeand one of them is the search for truth- can be in any
way important, significant. This theory builds a wall
around the arts, isolates them completely from the totality
of human experience, makes of them a world of their own.
It leaves the fundamental question wide open. No matter how self-contained a construction the work of art is,
tones related to nothing but tones, colors to colors, words
to words, there must be at least one relation to something
which is not tones, words, colors, namely, me. Granted
that music is tones related to tones, but their being so
SUMMER 1984
�related must be related to me, the listener; otherwise,
why should I bother? The same for the other arts. The
statement about the work of art being meaningful in itself
is no answer; it merely pushes the problem further back,
and makes it in a sense insoluable.
I understand the force of the argument which pushed
the theory in this direction. The work of art can only
be either an image, related to something outside itself
and meaningful because of this relation, or not an image, not related to anything outside itself and meaningful
only within itself. If the evidence against the image theory
gets too strong-as it did -what remains but the other
alternative? At this point we have to recognize that this
whole alternative- image or no image- is phony. There
is no either/or situation here. We have not yet fully exhausted the meaning of mimesis.
It is Aristotle himself who sets us on this track. In
a paragraph of his Metaphysics he uses mimesis in a very
much different meaning. In Chapter 14 of the Vth book,
when he talks about the concept of quality in reference
to number, he mentions composite numbers. For the
benefit of those who have not yet read the VIIth book
of Euclid or have forgotten it, I have to explain what composite numbers are. The Greeks distinguished between
linear, plane, and solid numbers. The linear or onedimensional number is simple number as we think of
it when we imagine the units, so many of them as there
are in the number, all lined up in one straight line; the
plane or two-dimensional number is the number we get
when one number is multiplied by another number: so
many times so many-like a rectangle contained by two
sides; the solid or three-dimensional number adds one
more factor: so many times so many times so manylike a solid figure contained by three sides. For instance
24, if considered as so many units, is a linear number;
considered as 3 times .8, it is a plane number; considered
as 3 times 2 times 4, a solid number. A number like 25,
5 times 5, or 81, 9 times 9, is called a square number,
for obvious reasons; 27, 3 times 3 times 3, a cube number.
All the numbers which are not linear are together called
composite numbers. Now Aristotle says: "composite
numbers which are not in one dimension only, but of
which the plane figure and the solid figure are the
mimema':_ the word mimema means the result of
mimesis; the Greeks have two words for our one, "imitation;' which means both the process of imitating and
the result of that process, the thing which imitates.
It is clear that none of the meanings of mimesis we
have so far considered apply here. A square, for instance,
is not an image of a number like 25, 36, and so on. The
number is not the model of the square. The square is
not derived from number, is not meaningful because of
its relation to number. We do not understand a square
by recognizing its relation to number. And the maker
of the square, so to speak, is no image-maker, did not
have his sight set on any number, did not make the square
as an image of a number. The square is, W-as made as,
and is understood as an element in the autonomous con-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
text of geometry. It is even impossible to understand a
square otherwise than in the context of geometry; the
study of the square-and of the plane figure, or the solid
figure- involves only references to geometric figures, no
reference to anything outside of geometry. Whatever
meaning a geometric figure has, this meaning is completely contained within the figure as an element of
geometry.
On the other hand, there is, over and above this
meaning of the geometric figure which we now call its
immanent meaning, another, a transcendent meaningand I am using the word transcendent literally, without
metaphysical connotations, that is, going beyond one's
limits. The meanings of all words are transcendent: the
meaning of apple pie, for instance, is transcendent, as
the word is something audible, while the things belonging to it lie beyond the limits of the audible in the edible. So square or plane figure or solid figure have, in addition to their immanent, a transcendent meaning, a relation to something which is not figure but number, and
this is the meaning Aristotle refers to. This meaning is
not arbitrarily assigned to the geometric figures as we
arbitrarily assign meanings to words or symbols; the relation seems to arise from the nature of both geometric figure
and number, and therefore, when it is called up, it throws
a new light on number, and reciprocally also adds to the
significance of geometric figures.
I would like to clarify this new meaning of mimesis
further, by using a quotation of a more modern thinker.
Pascal writes: The numbers imitate space. Here space
does not mean geometric figures but extension, the great
receptacle, that in which all the extended things of the
universe have their place. In what sense can number be
said to imitate space? Numbers are not images. 17 cannot be the image of 17 things as we have no 17 things
without first having 17. Number is pure construct, a construct which knows only its own inherent laws, takes no
regard of anything outside; numbers are primarily related
to numbers, not to something which is not number. Their
system is a perfect example of an immanently meaningful
order. Still we all know, are all aware, that mathematics
is not a beautiful game of numbers, that it has over and
above its immanent a transcendent meaning. I do not
refer here to the usefulness of mathematics but to its
truthfulness. What this transcendent meaning is, is of
no concern to the mathematician or to the student of
mathematics; in the making as well as in the understanding of mathematics we are exclusively concerned with
numbers in relation to numbers, not with numbers in
relation to other things. This does not mean that the
transcendent meaning is less important; without it,
mathematics would not be what it is, namely, true. But
the question of that meaning is no longer a mathematical
question. When the transcendent meaning crystallizes
in a philosophical mind- that of a person or a
generation -as it did for instance in that thought of
Pascal, then it becomes clear that the pattern of this meaning is not that of an image. If it were, we would have
35
�to say that number is the image of the order of universal
space. How could it be this, as the very idea of a universally ordered space, is the outgrowth of our having
numbers. The mimema here is not derived from its
counterpart but reveals, or almost produces, its counterpart. This is a very disturbing observation, that a pure
construct of the mind discovers itself as in profound
agreement with a universal order. It is as if we were
writing a test and then discovered that we had written
a translation.
We can now try to formulate the difference between
image and mimema in this new sense. The image has
its origin in the model and its significance in the relation to the model; the mimema has no model. Its origin
is in its own context- number from number- and its
significance is twofold. Primarily it is pure construct. It
is nothing but construct, determined solely by the inherent logic of the construction, not by any outside factor. Its transcendent meaning is of an entirely different
type from that of image. The relation image-model is
a one-to-one relation- image of this, not of that -like
that between a word and its meaning, a sign or symbol
and the thing signified or symbolized (and this takes into account the possibility of one word having different
meanings, etc.). The relation of the mimema to its
counterpart must be different, as we see from what we
have said: the mimema made and understood without
any regard to its counterpart~ the mimema revealing or
even producing its counterpart, and so on (this is-like
saying to a foreigner: you listen only well to the sound
of 'apple pie' and you will understand what it means).
What precisely this relation is, is the problem which I
will raise and maybe clarify a little, but not answer. The
main thing, it seems to me, is to show that such a problem exists. We are so caught in the meaning pattern
of words and symbols that we take this to be the pattern
of meaning. Statements like: "I know this is meaningful
though I do not know what it says," sound foolish to us.
They would not to less positivistic minds. Socrates did
not doubt that the sentences spoken by his inner voice
were meaningful, although he had sometimes a hard time
finding out exact1y what they meant. The ancient world
was full of oracles which were supposed to speak the truth
even though it was very difficult to understand what they
said. And even today, the Christian does not doubt that
the sentences of the Bible speak the truth, irrespective
of whether or not he understands what they say.
Let us come back to the mimetic arts. I would now
say this: Aristotle is right in defining painting, sculpture,
poetry, music, dance as kinds of mimesis- provided
mimesis is understood as we do it now. I would not flatly
say that Aristotle did understand it in this way when he
applied it to the arts. But it might have been a marginal
possibility in his mind. After all, we gathered this meaning of mimesis first from his own use of the term.
We recapitulate. What have we got? Two theories.
One asserting that the work of art is essentially image,
significant because of its relation to the model, a transcen-
36
dent relation. The other asserts that there is no such
essential relation of a work of art to anything outside
itself, and that therefore its significance lies all within
itself, is immanent. We have now a third possibility: the
work of art is mimema as we now understand the term.
The work of art has both transcendent and immanent
meaning. Primarily it is pure construct, nothing but construct, made and understood without any reference to
anything outside. This construct has by nature a counterpart outside, and the relation to the counterpart makes
it what it is, a mimema. Accordingly the question: What
does it mean? (namely, over and above the immanent
context), is a legitimate one. Only we must not forget
(as we usually do) that the relation between the work of
art and its counterpart, which is in question here, is not
the same and not even similar to that between the image and its model.
The art to which this interpretation most easily and
most naturally applies is of course music. The element
of construction is very much in the foreground in music,
perhaps more so than in any other human activity with
the exception of mathematics. It comes as close as possible
to the idea of a pure construct- its material, the tones,
have relation only to each other, not to anything else (the
opinion that the tones of music are kinds of idealized
sounds of nature, need not be taken seriously); we express this also by saying that music is pure form, form
without content, or-as this seems to imply empty
form- that in music form and content are the same.
Music is essentially tones-in-relation; whatever meaning
there is in a tone points to another tone, not to something
which is not tone. A perfect example of immanent meaning. Yet we are also aware that this statement, "Music
is tones-in-relation;' -is not an adequate or satisfactory
answer to the question which the phenomenon of music,
its presence among us, puts to us. We are aware that in
this answer something has not been accounted for; in
other words, we are aware of the fact that music is
mimesis, of the fact of its mimetic significance. Not all
the threads of meaning that attach themselves to music
coil inwards; some of them lead outwards, and they hold
the whole construct in its proper place, as it were, the
place of mimema. But although without an awareness,
however dim, that there are such threads of transcendent meaning there is strictly speaking no musical experience, the knowledge what they are, where they lead
to, is in no sense a prerequisite either for the making
or the understanding of music. The question: What does
it mean? referring to the transcendent, not the immanent meaning, is no longer a musical question. The composer does not ask it, at least never when he writes music,
only when he philosophizes, which he rarely does. And
the study of music, if it is to lead to an understanding
of the works of the tonal art, is the study of tones-inrelation, of immanent meanings. Of course the question
of the transcendent meaning is a valid question -a question for philosophy. But before even admitting it as valid,
we must make sure that it is not asked in a thoughtless
SUMMER 1984
�way: What does it mean?-with 'what' I usually ask for
a 'this' or 'that', and so I tacitly introduce the assumption that the relation between music and its mimetic
counterpart is of the same kind, of the same type, as that
between a symbol and a thing, an image and a model,
a word and its meaning. This way, the very asking of
the question would prejudge the answer. The problem
is precisely to find out what kind of relation prevails between music and its mimetic counterpart. You see, from
the outset we get deep into philosophy; and so we understand why good answers to this question do not usually
come from musicians but from philosophers. One of these
answers, a famous one, I will now quote, not because
I want to suggest that this is it, but because it helps us
to understand the nature of the questions.
In his Harmonies of the World Kepler writes:
The movement of the heavens is nothing but a certain everlasting polyphony (intelligible, not audible) effected by dissonant tensions comparable to
those syncopations and cadences wherewith men
imitate those natural dissonances, tending towards
certain and prescribed clauses, each involving six
terms (like the six parts of polyphonic music),
demonstrating and defining with these notes the immensity of time. It is therefore not too astonishing
that man, the ape of his creator, should finally have
found the knowledge of polyphonic song which was
unknown to the ancients, so that in some short part
of an hour, by means of an artful harmony of many
voices, he might play the everlastingness of created
time, and thus to some extent taste the satisfaction
of God the Workman with his own works in the
sweetest feeling of delight which comes from the experience of music, that imitation of God.
The word imitation appears here twice. Certain
elements of music, syncopations (which then meant a type
of dissonance, not a rhyth,mic irregularity) and cadences,
are called imitations of the motion of the stars; and music
as a whole is called an imitation of God- Dei imitatri
Musica. Clearly imitation stands here for mimesis, in the
sense we try to understand it. It has nothing to do with
image. Otherwise the study of composition would have
to begin with Ptolemy or Copernicus. And no listener,
however familiar with astronomy, has yet-as far as I
know-discovered in a polyphonic piece any reference
to the motions of the planets. Neither is music an image
of God; atheists can be excellent composers, and religious
faith is not a prerequisite to the enjoyment and
understanding of music. Also many of those polyphonic
songs Kepler referred to were written to decidedly nonreligious words (to say the least) and in this sense were
certainly no images of God. Still, by being music, mov-
composer produces a piece of music according to the laws
of the tonal construct. By doing this, he produces an imitation, a mimema, of the heavens, of God. He did not
know it, he did not intend it, he could not help it happen. It happens behind his back, as it were. The listener
hears tones-in-relation. In hearing this he becomes aware
that this is an imitation of something which is -not tones,
a mimema. What it imitates he does not know and need
not know; yet he may have a sense of direction in which
to look for that counterpart. In some mind this awareness
may crystallize into an act of mimetic recognition in
which the counterpart of the mimema is apprehended.
Kepler saw it in the stars, in God. The result is a new
recognition of the universe, of God. I would even say,
more strictly, it is the recognition of a new universe, a
new God. The Universe, the God, whose imitation we
recognize music to be are not the same as they were
before. Not only did the man who made the music imitate something he did not know, which nobody knows,
but also the imitation produced the thing imitated. This
is like saying: a man writes a text and later finds out he
has done a translation; or: a man is charged with writing
a translation, but he gets no text; when he asks for the
text, he is told that the text does not exist, but that it
will come into existence by way of his translation.
These are fantastic propositions. I will try a metaphor
to make them more manageable. Imagine a man working on some material, some block of metal. His intention is to produce a perfect surface -whatever he may
consider a perfect surface. This he accomplishes. When
he has done it he discovers that his surface shows a reflection-. He-discovers that he has produced a mirror. It was
not his intention to produce a mirror, he did not even
know that there are mirrors. (I do not think here of mirror
in the conventional sense, as a surface reflecting visual
images, but of mirror in the most general sense, in the
sense in which a magnetic needle might be called a mirror: its existence "reflects" and thus makes apparent the
existence of a magnetic field. In the case of our man's
metal surface, the reflection may for instance assume the
form of vibration.) The reflection may be vague, not well
defmed. The chief thing about it is that it is not the reflection of a thing that was there and seen before; it is the
reflection of something so far unseen: the mirror receives
the reflection from a direction where there was emptiness
before. The reflection leads to the discovery that there
is something there to be reflected. Considering the very
special shape of the surface which seems to be the condition for its functioning as a mirror, one might even
ing according to those dissonant tensions, cadences, and
suspect that the thing reflected had an interest in becoming manifest in the reflection, and secretly guided the
hand of the worker so that the outcome would be as
desired. This sounds a little mystical. I refer to the everrecurrent comment of artists that while at work they feel
the other rules of tonal motions, it imitates God. There
is also the profound remark that the musician in truth
enacts a play the subject of which is everlasting time; but
this I won't take up now. So what are the inferences? The
themselves as instruments, as tools of some power whose
source is located outside themselves-a sort of Socratic
diamonion for workmen. However this may be, returning to music, the tones are the surface; if they are in the
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
37
�right relation, they will become a mirror; there will be
a reflection from somewhere, testifying that there is
something out there to be reflected. To Kepler's eye the
thing reflected, revealed in the reflection, was divine
order. The order of tones appeared as 'imitation', as the
mimema of a divine order.
What about the other arts? What happens if we apply our interpretation of mimesis to them? The application there is not as obvious as in the case of music. The
painter or the sculptor certainly do imitate in the conventional sense of the word, do produce images; yet if
the work of art is essentially miinesis in the other sense,
then the imitation in the conventional sense cannot be
essential. The painting, the sculpture, are essentially, like
a piece of music, free constructs, that is, determined by
the laws of the construction, not by anything coming from
outside. That the painting is a likeness of something is
a secondary, an accidental factor; it is not that which
makes the painting a work of art, a mimema. In other
words: insofar as the painter makes an image he is not
an artist, and insofar as he is an artist he makes no image. On the other hand, as mimema, the painting has
also transcendent meaning, a counterpart; but this
counterpart cannot be that which the painting represents,
of which it is an image. A good painting of a chair is
not essentially an image of a chair; it is essentially a construct of shapes, lights, colors, which happen to look like
a chair-the reference to the real chair is non-essential.
The likeness is merely an element in the construction;
it belongs to the immanent meaning. The transcendent
meaning has nothing to do with 'chair', real or ideal. In
the terms of our metaphor: the chair of the painting is
mirror, not thing mirrored; it is not a reflection, but a
reflector; and what it reflects is certainly not 'chair'.
I look at a Greek statue, say, of the god Apollo. I
know, I have been informed, that this represents that particular god. I understand what the statue is an image
of. Whether the model of this statue was a real person
or an idea does not matter. I can deduce from this statue
all kinds of thought regarding Greek art, religion, culture.
With all this, I have only seen the image, not the
mimema. I try to see better, that is, to do nothing but
see, forget all information, speculation, rationalization,
give the eye a chance to find its way undisturbed. After
a while, the statue so to speak takes me over, takes over
my body. My body assumes the attitude of the statuenot actually of course, and not in imagination- this has
nothing to do with imagination- but in what I would
call body-thought; my body consciousness becomes the
inner. counterpart of the external attitude of the statue;
I have the experience of body which the statue would
have if it had consciousness. In this case the experience
is of body at rest- not of body, the thing, in a state of
rest, but of body and rest as absolutely one. This is contrary to our normal experience where rest is felt, when
there is no consciousness of body, in complete
relaxation- body being the source of perpetual unrest.
Here, however, there is full presence of body, full·
38
awareness, awakeness of body-the statue stands-and
perfect rest. In other words, it is rest not as absence of
tension but as equilibrium of tensions. This is a revelation of a previously unknown mode of body existenceand this, not the God Apollo, or the Greek idea of a god,
or Greek culture, is what this statue is the mimema of.
Let us lastly consider tragedy. Aristotle defines it as
imitation, memesis, of human action -a certain kind of
action- done in the medium of language- a certain kind
of language. As long as the word imitation is not taken
too literally nobody will quarrel with this. Every tragedy
has a plot, action involving people, and in this sense imitates, represents human action; and the making of a
tragedy is concretely a writing- tragedies are writtenwritten language is the medium in which it comes to light.
The only question is: is this, as Aristotle seems to say,
that which makes a tragedy what it is? Is written work
a tragedy because it is this particular kind of imitation,
representation?
I would deny it. If tragedy is mimesis in the sense
in which we now understand it, it is primarily an
autonomous construct, a language construct, not a
representation. The representation in it is not its essential quality. On the other hand, as mimema it does have
transcendent meaning, is significantly related to a
counterpart. But this counterpart is not the story, the plot,
the people, is not that which it represents-and this includes ideas, the moral, anything that can be deduced
from it.
This requires some clarification. The term "language
construct" seems to imply that we consider a piece of
poetry, such as a tragedy, primarily from the viewpoint
of syntactical construction, rhythm, meter, verse, rhyme,
sound- from a purely formal standpoint. We would then
deal with them as organized sounds in time- organized
according to certain formal patterns, not according to
meanings. We would then detach the constructive element from the meanings, consider words apart from
meanings. This would be a misunderstanding of the term
language construct. Words arc not sounds plus meanings; they are meaningful sounds. Words divorced from
meanings are no longer words, no longer language. If
language is the material of my construct, then meanings
are a part of the material. In handling this material I
cannot but always handle meanings too. A language construct is a construct of sounds and meanings. To call
tragedy a language construct does not therefore mean
that it is considered, as we say, from the formal stand. point only, apart from the content. The content- plot,
people, action- is itself an element of the constructionthe most important element-along with the language.
The writing of a tragedy is not the making of an image
of people in action, or the search for the most convincing (persuasive) way to present people in action; it is
primarily a construction of people in action, whose chief
means of communication is language. These people and
their actions and passions have no existence apart from
the words; in tragedy, as in music, form and content are
SUMMER 1984
�one. The words are the tones, the people are the melodies;
it is as impossible to think of these people apart from
the language as it is to think of melodies apart form tones.
So if tragedy is mimesis, the so-called content belongs
entirely to the context of immanent meaning of the
mimema; the plot, the people cannot be that of which
the tragedy is the mimema. Again in the terms of our
likeness: the people and their action are not that which
is mirrored, they are the mirror; not the reflection but
the reflector; or as Aristotle would say, they are not that
which is imitated but that which imitates.
With this in mind we can face the question how to
understand, how to explain to ourselves, the peculiar
quality of the experience of a tragedy, the difference between being a spectator in the theatre, having the thing
represented really happen to oneself, watching it happen to others, reading a report about it. These other
possibilities- misfortune befalling oneself, observing
misfortune befall others, reading or listening to a story
about such misfortune -are certainly most depressing
experiences. The experience of tragedy leaves us in a state
of elation. We desire it. How can we understand this?
Take Oedipus Rex. Why should we expose ourselves
to it? The story we know well enough. Of course, knowing the story, and being made actually to live through
it-which is what happens in the theatre-are different
things. But for what purpose should we be made to live
through it? What else could this be but a torture? It is
true that this is theatre, that it is not a real story, real
happenings which we observe on the stage-and there
are certain styles of representation which emphasize this
quality of non-reality. But no matter how realistic or
unrealistic the representation, if that story does not come
fully alive on the stage and make it come alive in the spectators, we might just as well stay home and not go to
the theatre at all. So what does it profit us to live through
it? Aristotle's answer is: only by living through it can we
learn from it; we learn through imitation. I confess I am
not convinced. What can I possibly learn from Oedipus
Rex-and I take the word learn to mean what we usually
understand as learning? I do not want to make any cheap
remarks. Seriously, the idea is that by living through
Oedipus' experience and at the same time reflecting on
it-as we can because we are not really living through
it-we might detect the point on his way where he
possibly erred and where the choice of another course
might have saved him from his tragic fate. But is this
really the moral of Oedipus? Does the tragedy not do
the very opposite to us, namely, drive home with the
greatest possible force that no matter what you do, how
hard you try, fate cannot be avoided, that there is no
escape from fate, and if this fate is fall, then fall one must.
The whole impact of this tragedy seems to me the experience of the inevitability of fall. And what could such
an experience be but of most depressing kind: still, this
like any other tragedy leaves us elated.
In its pattern the experience of tragedy is similar to
the experience of a work of the visual arts as I have tried
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
to describe it. It is not an illusion- believing something
to be real which is not real- nor can I ascribe it to
imagination -lending the color of reality to something
which I know to be not real- it is an experience of participation. As I experience a tragedy I remain what I am
and where I am; at the same time my consciousness
spreads out and goes over into the people involved in the
dramatic action- into all of them; in reference to the
words, I am at the same time hearer and speaker. The
words, the people, the action are all together, as we said,
the construct of tragedy. By participating in them I
become one with the construct, I become mirror, and
I receive the reflection of something-whatever it may
be- that of which tragedy is the mimema. I become
aware that the immanent order of the construct is order
also in relation to something else, that there is
something- not a thing, rather a state, a mode, a dimension of human existence whose order is revealed in :;
tragedy, in reference to which tragedy is in order. In this
sense we can say: we experience tragedy as true. This is
the source of the elation. Take away tragedy- there is
the suffering, dejection, despair, the great visitations, the
inscrutable catastrophies- the whole chaos of human
misery. This chaos tragedy transforms into order. Tragedy
does not explain suffering, or justify it, or give it to us
as a fact to which we have to resign ourselves; but it
bridges the gap between suffering and reason. Oedipus
Rex is not an explanation or a justification of fall; it is
I would say the logos of fall. This is then one way to
redeem fall, and tragedy on the whole, one way to redeem
the suffering of man. We understand that tragedy
originated in the cult of the god Dionysus, the redeeming god of the ancients. We understand also why in a
truly Christian world there is no room for tragedy. The
Christian finds redemption in other ways.
I want to come to a conclusion. In the last analysis
the problem will boil down to the question about the relation between a work of art and reality. We have mentioned one theory which denied there was any relation
between them. If we admit a relation, there are two possible interpretations of mimesis: as image, where reality
is the source from which the work of art is derived; and
mimesis as reflection, where the work of art is the source,
the detector, of new realities. I will close with two legends
which 'imitate', better than I would be able to, the two
different views. One is the well-known story of the most,
famous painter of Greece, Appelles; it is said that wheEL
he painted grapes, birds would come and pick at them.
The other is the story of one of the great painters of old
China. When he became old he began to work on a painting which he showed to no one; he worked on it for years,
and finally he called in his friends and pupils, and there
it was: showing a .landscape with mountains and a road
leading from the foreground back towards the hills. They
looked at the painting and at the old man, and suddenly
they saw the man enter the painting, begin to walk on
the road, getting smaller and smaller until he finally
disappeared in the mountains.
39
�The Archimedean Point and the Liberal Arts
Curtis Wilson
T
he subject of the lecture is, in accordance
with tradition, the liber.al arts, liberal artistry.
And I wish to point out, to begin with, that
these words "art" and "liberty" are difficult
words; they do not designate anything you
can point at with the index finger; they belong, not to
the order of motion and perception, but to the order of
action and idea. They are, as I shall try to explain later
on, dialectical words. And the question arises, how are
such words to be defined? Where should one begin? What
standpoint should be taken in setting out to define these
words? These are not merely theoretical questions; wars
are fought between those who understand words like
"liberty;' ')ustice;' "right," "obligation;' in different ways.
Archimedes, the mathematician, is said to have said:
Give me a fixed point on which to stand, and I shall move
the world. He was referring, of course, to the power of
the lever; to the law according to which the ratio of the
two forces is the same as the inverse ratio of the lever
arms. All that Archimedes requires, then, is a fixed pivot
or fulcrum, a lever of extraordinary length, and a place
to stand, and he will be able to move the earth.
This claim would not be stated in quite the same
terms by modern scientists, beginning with Newton; I
shall not go into the modifications required, but only state
that they are required precisely because, in a sense that
is both real and figurative, man has now discovered the
Archimedean point, the point outside the earth, the
knowledge of which permits us to unhinge the earth. And
Curtis Wilson is a tutor at St.John's College, Annapolis. The Archimedean Point
and the Liberal Arts was delivered as the Dean's opening lecture in the fall of
1958 at St. John's College, Annapolis.
40
this point, being a place to stand, is also a standpoint
from which man attempts to view himself. Kafka
somewhere says that, while man has discovered the Archimedean point, he uses it against himself; that it seems
that he was permitted to find it only under this condition.
Modern science, beginning with the Copernican or
heliocentric theory, is a return to Archimedes, and was
so regarded by its founders, particularly Galileo. Copernicus discovers in the sun the fixed point from the standpoint of which the earth moves. He looks upon the earth
as though he were actually an inhabitant of the sun. He
lifts himself, by an act of the mathematical imagination,
by means of ratios and geometrical diagrams, to a point
from which the earth and its earthbound inhabitants can
be viewed from the outside.
The Archimedean point'is shifted yet once again, or
rather made infinitely mobile, when Giordano Bruno announces the infinity of the universe. What is characteristic
of the thought of Bruno is the fact that the term "infinity"
changes its meaning. In classical thought the word "infinity" is understood negatively. The infinite is the indeterminate, the boundless; it has no limit or form, and
is inaccessible to human reason which lives in the realm
of form. But according to Bruno the word "infinity" no
longer means a mere negation of form. It means rather
the immeasurable and inexhaustible abundance of the
extended universe, and the unrestricted power of the
human intellect. Man no longer lives in the world as a
prisoner enclosed within the narrow walls of finite ordered
cosmos. He can traverse the air and break through the
imaginary boundaries of the celestial spheres. The human
intellect becomes aware of its own infinity through
measuring its powers by the infinite universe.
Einstein has insisted that we may assume with equal
validity that the earth turns round the sun or that the
sun turns round the earth; that both assumptions are in
SUMMER 1984
�agreement with observed phenomena, and that the difference is only a difference of the chosen point of
reference. Thus the Archimedean point is moved a step
farther away from the earth to an imaginary point in the
universe where neither earth nor sun is a center. We are
no longer to be bound even to the sun, but move freely
in the universe, choosing our point of reference wherever
it may be convenient for a specific purpose.
This shift of standpoint, from the earth to a point
outside the earth, received a certain kind of corroboration in Galileo's telescopic discoveries, the discovery of
the moons of jupiter and of the phases of Venus. These
discoveries did not prove the truth of the Copernican
theory; theories are never proved, only confirmed. And
in fact, if we accept the theory of Einstein, we can no
longer ask about the truth of the Copernican theory, for
the Archimedean point becomes infinitely shiftable. But
for those of Galileo's contemporaries who already accepted the Copernican theory, his telescopic discoveries
were a confirmation of the power of the human intellect,
which, by means of man-made instruments and mathematical theories, can free itself from the earth, and break
down the age-old barrier between the sublunar and the
celestial spheres.
One cannot fail to note, in the works of Kepler and
Galileo, a certain exhilaration, a sense of the power of
the human mind. According to Galileo, ". . . the
understanding is to be taken in two ways, that is, intensively, or extensivefy; and extensivefy, that is, as to the
multitude of intelligibles, which are infinite, the
understanding of man is as nothing, though he should
understand a thousand propositions; for a thousand in
respect of infinity is but as a cypher: but taking the
understanding intensively, I say that human wisdom
understandeth some propositions so perfectly, and is as
absolutely certain thereof, as Nature herself; and such
are the pure Mathematical sciences, namely, Geometry
and Arithmetick: in which Divine Wisdom knows infinite
more propositions, because it knows them all; but I
believe that the knowledge of those few comprehended
by human understanding equalleth the divine, as to the
objective certainty, for that it arriveth to comprehend the
necessity thereof, than which there can be no greater certainty."
By mathematics Galileo understood implicitly the
science of physics, since the book of nature, as he says,
"is written in mathematical characters." For both Kepler
and Galileo, man becomes a god, travelling through
space, able to calculate for his own displacement, and
so to arrive at knowledge which, intensively considered,
is perfect.
I shall not attempt to retrace the vicissitudes of this
scientific faith through the last three centuries. It would
be a complex story, I would even say a dialectical story,
a romantic biography, as it were, of a recently deceased
friend. The aim was to express qualities through figure,
to substitute a geometrical configuration for each primordial quality, to explain all things by figure and move-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
ment considered as situated in an infinite matrix of time
and space. The doctrine of atomism was part and parcel
of this scientific faith, the notion of an inert matter or
stuff cut up into tiny shapes. But it was soon found
necessary to attribute occult qualities to the matter of
the atoms, mysterious dynamic qualities like gravitation,
and the atoms were gradually transformed beyond recognition. The geometrized space of Galileo has become with
Einstein a symbolic space-time matrix. The development
of theoretical structures has been constantly in a direction away from the simple geometrical object, which the
mind's eye can see with the certainty that it is there. Einstein has to deny that at a definite, present instant all
matter is simultaneously real. Whatever theoretical
physics is talking about today, it is not something which
is imaginable with the eye of geometrical imagination.
I am told that you can learn the fundamentals of quantum mechanics in about six months; then it takes another
six months to understand that you understand it, though
you cannot imagine what the theory is supposed to be
about. The tension between the empirically given and
the imaginable on the one hand, and the content of theoretical physics on the other, has increased to the breaking point. The mirror of nature that scientific faith
endeavored to build has been shattered, and the scientist finds himselflooking straight out into the unknown.
Already in the seventeenth century the new conception of the world- the world as viewed from the Archimedean point- had given rise to a reaction of doubt and
fear. "The eternal silence of these infinite spaces frightens
me;' says Pascal. Pascal's distinction between the esprit
de geometrie and the esprit de finesse is directed against the
geometrical and astronomical view of the world. The
geometrical spirit excels in all those subjects that are
capable of a perfect analysis into simple elements. It starts
with axioms and from them derives propositions by universallogical rules. Its excellence lies in the clarity of its
principles and the logical necessity of its deductions. But,
Pascal would say, there are things which because of their
subtlety and variety defy the geometrical spirit, which
can be comprehended, if at all, only by the esprit de finesse,
the acute and subtle spirit. And if there is anything which
thus defies the geometrical spirit, it is the nature and
mind of man. Pascal holds that contradiction is the very
essence of human existence. Man has no "nature;' no
homogeneous being; he is a mixture of being and nonbeing. His precarious place is midway between these
poles.
The discovery of the Archimedean point produced
a crisis in man's knowledge of himself. Self-knowledge
has almost always been recognized as the highest aim
of philosophic inquiry. It is impossible to penetrate into
the secret of nature unless one also penetrates into the
secret of man. The discovery of the Archimedean point
demanded that man view himself from a totally alien
standpoint, that he understand himself ultimately in
terms of geometrical figure and the impact of atoms. The
seventeenth-century philosophers were fully aware of this
41
�cns1s, and attempted to meet it in different ways. But
the most obvious and crucial step, the step which was
already implicit in the Copernican shift of standpoint,
was taken by Descartes: the removal of the Archimedean
point into the mind of man, so that he could carry it with
him wherever he went, and thus free himself entirely from
the human condition of being an inhabitant of the earth.
Descartes says: I think, therefore I exist; or: I doubt,
therefore I exist. Beginning with the idea of universal
doubt, he concludes that there must be something which
doubts, which thinks; and this something is what he is.
He identifies himself as a mind, a thinking thing. And
this thinking thing is the fixed and immovable point from
which all else must be derived, the existence of God and
of other minds, and of things which have extension or
occupy space. Descartes himself recognizes the connection of his thought with the Copernican revolution, for
he states that if the earth does not move, then all of his
doctrines are false.
Unfortunately the Cartesian removal of the Archimedean point into the mind of man fails to assuage the
Cartesian doubt. Descartes' argument, cogito ergo sum) I
think, therefore I exist, is faulty. For as Nietzsche pointed
out, it ought to read: cogito ergo cogitationes sunt) I think
therefore there are thoughts. It does not establish the existence of a something which thinks; it can only end with
what it begins, namely thinking. And the questioning
and doubting remain; universal doubt, not in the sense
of really doubting everything all at once, which is impossible, but in the sense of the indefinite possibility of
doubting things one by one as they occur in thought.
And so one becomes a question to himself, asking who
he is- which is one sort of question- and what he is,
which is another sort of question.
Both the successes and failures of the scientific revolution have resulted in an anarchy of thought with regard
to the nature of man. The Archimedean standpoint leads
to theories of man in terms of impulses, forces which are
analogous to mechanical forces, the sexual instinct for
,_ Freud, the economic instinct for Marx. But the different
theories contradict one another. No age previous to ours
was ever so favorably placed with regard to the empirical
sources of knowledge of human nature, and yet never
was there so little conceptual agreement. And it becomes
the task of modern man, if he is to avoid the piecemeal
response of dissipation, and the one-track response of
fanaticism, to inquire once again into the being that he
is, and that he can become.
I make a new start, not from the Archimedean point,
but right in the middle of things.
And let me begin this time with the obvious, with
the observation that man is a linguistic animal. He
speaks; also, he uses writing as a substitute for speech.
The word "linguistic" is derived by a metaphorical extension from the word for a bodily organ, the tongue.
The tongue is used in articulating the voice. The Homeric
epithet for men was oi lltpo:n:e~ iivepw:n:ot; !ltpo:n:e~ is
from llepi~w, the verb meaning to divide; and the phrase
42
means those who divide or articulate their voice.
This does not, of course, tell us what a language is,
or in particular what human language is. A chimpanzee
can articulate most of the sounds used in human speech;
his tongue and lips can be used to articulate sound in
the same way as the human tongue and lips; but he is
not a linguistic animal in the same sense as man is. The
chimpanzee uses gesture and voice to express rage, terror, despair, grief, pleading, desire, playfulness, pleasure;
he expresses emotions. Man also utters cries expressive
of distress, pleasure, and so on, but these interJections) as
they are called, are quite frequently vocal sigus of a higher
order, the use of which as interjections comes about by
a degradation from their proper use; in fact, they are
quite frequently vocal signs borrowed from the language
of theology.
Man articulates his voice with the conscious intention of signifying, or sign-ifying, something to somebody.
The notion of a sign is, ordinarily, wider than that of
language. With respect to the relation between sign and
thing signified, we can distinguish three kinds of signs.
First, indexical signs, or indices. Here the sign is causally
connected with that which it signifies; thus smoke is a
sign of fire, because it is. produced by fire; the direction
of a weather vane is a sign of the direction of the wind,
because the direction of the weather vane is determined
by the direction of the wind; and the position of a
speedometer needle indicates the speed of the automobile,
because it is causally connected with the rotation of the
wheels. Secondly, there are iconic signs, or icons, which
are significant of something to somebody because they
are similar to that thing in some respects. Examples of
such signs are photographs, replicas, geometrical
diagrams, images of every kind. Finally, there are conventional signs, often called symbols; and under this
heading fall most of the words of human language. Symbols are all those signs which are signs only because they
are interpreted as such by some organism or mind; there
is no other connection between sign and thing signified,
as there is in the case of indices and icons.
Sometimes the word "language" is taken in a broad
sense, as any set or system of objects or events which are
significant for some being, or which are such that certain combinations of them are meaningful or significant
for some being. In this case, we should have to include
as special cases the language of looks and glances, the
language of the bees, and the language of the stars.
The incredible navigation feats of migratory birds,
such as the white-throated warblers which migrate between northern Europe and Africa, have been shown
recently to depend on celestial navigation, a reading of
the stars as indexical signs oflatitude and longitude. The
experiments were performed in a planetarium, and it was
shown that during the migratory period the birds decide,
on the basis of the look of the sky and an inner time sense,
exactly in what direction to point in order to be aiming
toward their destination. If they are so far put off course
as to have, say at midnight, the midnight appearance of
SUMMER 1984
�the Siberian sky over their heads, they know in what
direction to point in order to regain their course.
The language of the bees, on the other hand, consists in significant actions which are mostly iconic. As
the researches of von Frisch have shown, a honey bee
that has returned after successful foraging for food goes
through a strange and complicated dance, and this dance
is so designed, by the direction of the step and tempo,
as to show to the other members of the hive both the
direction and distance of the find.
None of these systems of signs is strictly comparable
to human language, which differs in essential respects.
But all of them consist of signs, and a sign is a very special
sort of thing, which would not come into focus if we stood
at the Archimedean point.
Wherever there is a sign, there is a relation which
is at least triadic in complexity, that is, a relation which
relates at least three things. The sign stands to somebody
for something. The something may be called the object
of the sign; but it should not be supposed that the object
is always, or even ordinarily, what we call a physical object or thing, something that is spatially bounded, capable
of existing for a stretch of time, and movable. The object of the sign is just whatever the sign signifies, which
might be redness or horizontality or justice. The
somebody, human or not, for whom the sign is a sign,
interprets the sign as signifying the object; or we may say
that the sign produces in this somebody an interpretant
or thought. Thus the three things related in the signrelation are (1) the sign, which will be a physical object
or event in any particular case; (2) the object, or thing
signified; and (3) the interpretant.
A triadic relation, such as we have in the sign-relation,
cannot be reduced to any sum of dyadic relations, that
is, relations relating two things. Dyadic relations can be
diagrammed by means of a letter with two tails, thus:
-R- . It is understood that something has to be written
in at the ends of the tails, to indicate the two things
related. Hitting is a case of such a dyadic relation, as
when we say "a hits b." Triadic relations, on the other
hand, have to be diagrammed by means of a letter with
three tails, thus: -1}-. An example of such a relation
is the giving involved when john gives the book to Mary;
the giving is a relation between three things, John, the
book, and Mary. Similarly a sign signifies something to
somebody.
Now it is easy to show that the combination of dyadic
relations only leads to further dyadic relations; for instance, by combining the relation "uncle of'' (- U-) with
the relation "cousin of'' (-C-), we only obtain the relation "uncle of cousin of' (-U -C-) or "cousin of uncle of'
(-C-U-); and the diagram shows that the combined relation has only two tails. Therefore triadic relations cannot be built up out of dyadic relations. Hence the sign
relation is not reducible to anything involving only dyadic
relations. As a consequence, no theory about the world
which seeks to account for everything in terms of dyadic
relations, such as we have in the impact of atoms or
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
gravitational attraction, is adequate to account for sign
relations. Lucretius, for instance, is wrong.
Now given the irreducibility of signs to things which
are not signs, we have yet to advance another step before
we reach the level of human language. We have, in the
first place, to understand the distinction between a sign
which is a signal or operator, and a sign which is a designator
or name; between a sign which serves as stim.ulus to a
motor response, and a sign which serves as an instrument of reflective thought. Man is a naming animal.
Human language is characterized by a freedom of
naming. Man can devise a vocal name for anything that
he can identify or distinguish as. being, in some way, one.
This freedom of naming depends, for one thing, on the
manifoldness of the sounds which the human voice can
produce and which the human ear can distinguish; and
it depends for another on leisure and reflectiveness.
Among peoples whose mode of life grants them little
leisure, the naming of things may be very restricted; thus
Malinowski found that among the Trobrianders of the
South Seas there are no special names for the various
trees or bushes which provide no edible fruit, but all of
these are alike called by a name we may translate "bush:'
When leisure intervenes, however, the reflective botanist
or zoologist, or in general the reflective namer, makes his
appearance, and nothing is safe from being named, not
even the Nameless, which after all has that name.'
The identification that goes with naming is like the
drawing of a circle, which separates all that is outside
the circle from all that is inside. Among the words which
name, I include adjectives and verbs as well as nouns,
for all such words have the general function of identification, of signifying something that is, in some way, one.
Corresponding to every adjective or verb there exists, or
can be invented, a corresponding noun; in English, for
instance, we frequently turn adjectives into nouns by adding N-E-S-S, and verbs into nouns by adding T-I-0-N.
All such words are called, traditionally, categorematic terms.
And the key to the categorematic terms, the key noun
or noun of nouns, is "monad" or "unit;' which Euclid
defines as that in accordance with which each of the
things that are is said to be one; and which was also defined by the ancients as the form of forms, dlirov ellio~.
The categorematic terms are of different sorts, depending on the kinds of thing they designate. Some of the
things they designate can be simply located in space and
time, and others cannot.
There are, for instance, terms for simple qualities like
"red;' "bitter;' "shrill." The awareness of such a quality,
considered by itself, is unanalyzable and incommunicable; it is just what it is and nothing else. I can
never know that my neighbor's awareness of the redness
of the curtain is the same as mine; if he uses the words
"red" and "blue" on the same occasions as I do, this only
means his classification of colors corresponds to mine. The
identification of qualities by name presupposes acts of
comparison and classification.
There are names for physical oqjects, "horse;' "chariot;'
43
�"Hektor!' A physical object has unity insofar as it is
bounded in space, persistent for a stretch of time, and
capable of moving or being moved. It is identified as an
invariant within a spatial and temporal framework. The
character of the spatial framework is determined by the
character of possible motions. Motions are reversible, so
that one can return to his starting-point; and motions
are associative, so that one can change direction, add motion to motion. In other words, motions form what
mathematicians call a group of operations. The character
of possible motions implies that space is homogeneous,
that it constitutes a uniform background against which
physical objects can manifest their unity and invariance,
that is, their boundedness, persistence in time, and
mobility.
There are names for materials, such as gold and
water, and names for such strange beings as rivers and
streams; whatever a stream or river is, it is something
you can step into twice, though the water is never the
same.
There are names for happenings, events, motions;
running, grasping, twisting, leaping, coronation,
assassination.
All the kinds of name I have mentioned so far
designate things that can be pointed at. But the meaning of such words cannot he defined simply by pointing;
pointing by itself is totally ambiguous; if the pointing
is to be understood, something else must be understood
at the same time. For instance, we have to understand
that it is a physical object that is meant, or a color, or
a shape, or a material, or a motion. The tree is not only
a tree, but is green-leaved, tall, branched, and so on. In
whatever direction one points, there is manyness, plurality of aspect.
All such naming, then, presupposes and implies an
act of comparison and classification, the isolation of
something from a matrix or background of possible
meanings. Man is an animal who compares, finds ratios;
he is a rational animal.
There are names for things which cannot be localized
in time and space, names like "law;' "liberty,"
"art;' "nature," ')ustice," "knowledge," "wisdom." Such words
belong, not to the order of perception and motion, but
to the order of action and idea. We ascend here to a new
level which, once again, is not discernible from the Archimedean point. These words cannot be defined through
classification, through specification of genus and differentia. They are polar or dialectical words, which take up
their meanings in relation to the meanings of other words
of the same kind. The word "freedom" presents different
facets to the word "tyranny" and to the word ''slavery";
and any one of these words requires the services of the
others.
Most if not all of the dialectical words are borrowed
from the realm of the corporeal, visible, and tangible;
the original reference is forgotten, and only the metaphorical extension survives. Both the Greek 0iK11, justice,
and the Chinese word i, morality, originally meant a way
44
of life, that is to say, a particular way of life. But there
are many ways oflife, and the adjudication between rival
opinions requires a universal meaning. The universal is
then grasped in the particular. The definition of the
dialectical words depends on representative images or
anecdotes, like the Hobbesian state of nature, or the state
constructed in Platds dialogue, Republic.
In all cases, naming involves the location of a kind
of commonness, law, regularity, invariance- something
on the basis of which one might classifY or predict. And
in all cases the commonness, law, regularity, invariance,
makes its appearance in a matrix of relations. Whenever
anyone has managed to grasp such an invariance or
regularity or commonness, he has thereby in some
measure released himself from the tyranny of diversity.
As Aristotle says, the soul is so constituted as to be capable
of this process. And he adds that it is like a rout in battle, stopped by first one man making a stand and then
another, until the original formation has been restored.
The human freedom of linguistic formation is not
limited to naming. Human language is combinational;
it permits the combination of sign with sign to form a
complex sign called the sentence, the proposition, the affirmation or denial, or-to use the Greek word-the logos.
In order really to say something, one must say something
about something. The fundamental type of expression
with complete or independent meaning is the sentence;
a meaning is completely specified only if it is imbedded
in an affirmation or denial, something that could be an
answer to a question.
Words that, in a broad sense, name or identify, can
be answers to questions. They have a certain possible completeness of meaning, which becomes actual when they
are uttered in a context of other words or in a non-verbal
situation which serves to specify the way in which they
are being used. The single word "fire;' for instance, may
have different meanings depending on the situation in
which it is uttered; whether, say, by a neighbor whose
house has caught on fire, or by an artillary officer, or
by Pascal in his study, in an attempt to express a theological truth.
Or to take a case where the context is verbal: the
meaning of the word "man" in the sentence "Some man
is a liar" is not entirely the same as its meaning in the
sentence "Man is mortal;' and is different again from its
meaning in the sentence "Man is a species!' In "Man is
mortal" the word stands for all things which it is capable
of signifying, all men who ever were, or are, or will be,
this man and that man and so on. In "Man is a species"
the word stands for a certain nature which it signifies; and
it is not possible to descend to individuals, to assert that
this man or that man is a species. In "Some man is a
liar;' the word "man" stands not for all things it is capable
of signifying, but only for an indeterminate individual,
this man or that man. We may say in general that while
any categorematic term is capable of signifying, the
precise way in which it signifies is determined by its use
in an assertion, a sentence.
SUMMER 1984
�Every sentence contains, besides categorematic terms,
other signs which are called syncategorematic signs,
words like "if;' "with;' "by;' "the;' "is;' "every;' "because;'
"not;' and signs which consist of inflectional endings or
word order. These signs are not names; they determine
the range of meaning of other terms, or the mode of connection of terms in sentences; they express instrumentality, the modalities of the possible or probable, tense,
negation, conditionality, and so on. In translating from
one language to another, these signs present the greatest
difficulty, for they are most likely not to translate into
a completely analogous form in the second language. The
conditional "if;' for instance, can be expressed in German by a mere inversion of the order of subject and verb;
Greek and Latin can express the instrumental "by" or
"with" by means of case endings of nouns; .and Latin
somehow- though not very happily- manages to get
along without a definite article. Nevertheless, we can expect that any adequate language will supply the connective and determining functions in some way.
The crucial syncategorematic sign is the sign of assertion itself. In the Indo-European languages this is supplied by the finite verb form; the verb has, in addition
to its function of naming or identifying, the function of
indicating that sometlllng is to be affirmed of something.
In Chinese there is no verb "to be;' and instead there is
a little particle "yeh;' which may be translated "indeed?'
Thus one says ''Tail long indeed;' meaning The tail is long,
and ''Boat wooden-thing indeed;' meaning Boats are made
of wood. The particle "yeh" may be taken as an epitome
of the business of the sentence, to assert or declare.
There is, then, a freedom of linguistic formation in
human language, freedom in the formation of names and
sentences. And this freedom extends to the subject-matter
of language itself; we can talk about language, use
language to describe language. This peculiar atop-theatopness is characteristic pf human capacity. Thus we
can make machines which make tools, which are used
in turn to make macliines. And according to Kant, man
is the only animal who can read a sign as sign. This implies that man is the only animal who can make signs
of signs; the only animal that has a hierarchical or selfreflexive language. And it implies also that he can become
aware, as by a sidelong glance, of his own linguistic activity, and raise it to the level of conscious artfulness,
liberal artistry.
Because of the triadic relation between the sign, the
object, and the thought or interpretant, we can distinguish three branches of linguistic artfulness. Grammar will
deal with linguistic formation, with the conditions which
any sequence of signs, and in particular any sentence,
must satisfy if it is to be meaningful. Logic will deal with
the conditions which any sequence of signs must satisfy
if it is to be true of any object, and in particular with
linguistic transformations which preserve truth, with the
derivation of one sentence from another in such a way
that if the first sentence is true of any object or objects,
then so is the second. Rhetoric will deal with linguistic
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
transformations that are persuasive, with the conditions
under which one thought or interpretant leads to another
in the mind of the interpreter. The focal topic of grammar is the sentence; of logic, the argument; of rhetoric,
the trope or figure of speech.
Grammar has to do with the conditions of meaningfulness, or conversely, with the avoidance of nonsense.
Meaninglessness or nonsense is to be distinguished from
absurdity. A word heap like king but or similar and is meaningless, and so is Gertrude Stein's A rose is a rose is a rose,
unless a comma be inserted after the second occurrence
of "rose"; an expression like round square or All squares have
5 comers, is absurd or countersensical, though meaningful.
The avoidance of nonsense is the business of grammar;
the avoidance of absurdity is the business of logic.
Grammar has to do with the recognition and distinction of forms and modifications of meaning which any
adequate language must be capable of expressing, the
existential sentence, the hypothetical antecedent, the
generic sense of a common noun, negation, the plural,
the modalities of the possible and probable, past, present, and future, and so on. If a language is to mirror
truly, in its verbal materials, the various kinds of possible meanings, then it must have control over grammatical
forms which permit the giving of a sensuously distinguishable "expression" to all distinguishable forms of
meanings. Different languages may differ with respect
to their adequacy. It is the task of the grammatical art
to see through the grammatical forms of particular
languages to essential distinctions of meaning, and to the
ways in which meanings may be combined so as to result
in the completed meaning of the sentence.
Logic is concerned with relations between sentences,
with transformations of sentences yielding new sentences,
in such a way that if the original sentences be true of
any objects of thought, then so are the derived sentences.
Wherever logic is being employed, the logical function
will be expressible in terms of a sequence of sentences,
of which one or more will be regarded as antecedent,
and one or more' as consequent.
Among sentences, some are denials or contradictions
of others; in fact every sentence has a denial, and the
denial of a denial is the same as the original sentence
denied. Everyone who cares to speak or assert anything,
has to take it as a rule that a given sentence cannot be
both truly affirmed and truly denied; on pain of contradiction, we say, he cannot both affirm and deny
something of something at the same time and in the same
respect. This principle, called the law of noncontradiction, cannot be proved. Anyone who dares or
cares to deny it cannot be talked with without absurdity, for his very denial would imply a denial of his denial.
He is, as Aristotle says, no better than a vegetable.
There are sentences which are consistent or compatible with one another, so that one can be denied or affirmed without our having, on pain of contradiction, to
affirm or deny the other.
And there are sentences which are related as antece-
45
�dent and consequent, where the affirmation of the one
requires us, on pain of contradiction, to affirm the other.
In this case, the antecedent is said to imply the consequent.
Implication always depends on syncategorematic
words, words which do not name, but which connect or
modify the meanings of names, words like "and;' "or;' "ifthen;' "all;' "every;' "some;' and so on. For instance, if p
and q are two sentences, and if I assert the sentence "If
p then q," and also assert the sentence "p;' then I am forbidden on pain of contradiction to deny the sentence ((q."
Or if A, B, and C are objects of thought, and if! assert
that all A is B, and that no B is C, then I am forbidden
on pain of contradiction to deny that no A is C.
In all applications of logic there are signs- either
categorematic terms or sentences- which occur vacuously; all that is required of them is that their meaning
should remain self~identical. The implication depends
solely on the connective and determining words, the syncategorematic signs.
The logical art enables us to pass from sentence to
sentence, to draw out the consequences of what has
previously been asserted, to construct the tremendous
deductive sciences of mathematics and theoretical physics.
An omniscient being would have no need for such an
art, but man is a discursive animal, who can only pass
from truth to truth in some consecutive order, in time.
Rhetoric has to do with the ways in which one thought
leads to another. As rhetorician, one is concerned with
linguistic transformations which occur in daydreams and
reveries, in jokes and poems and myths, in the formation of opinion, in the coming about of discoveries and
insights. While the task oflogic is to look through signs,
so to speak, toward the self-identical character of objects
of thought, the task of rhetoric is to look through signs
toward the polar character of thoughts.
Every identification of meaning involves the drawing of a circle which includes and excludes. Every
sentence involves affirmation or negation. The fundamental polarity in thought is that between same and
other.
There is an ancient Pythagorean table of opposites,
contrarieties, polarities: odd-even, unity-plurality, rightleft, male-female, rest-motion, light-dark, good-bad, and
so on. These polarities rest not only on the law of contradiction, but on the polarized character of man's life,
the erotic character of his linear voyage through time and
space. The other polarities become invested with Eros,
the desire for pleasure, for honor and power, for community, and for knowledge.
Wherever there are poles, there are tropics. The word
"pole" comes from the Greek word n6Ao<;, meaning pivot.
Wherever there are pivots, one expects to find something
that turns; and the Greek word -rp6n:o<;, from which we
derive the word "tropic;' means a turning. Thus the
tropics of the earth turn round the poles. Wherever there
are polar oppositions of terms, one may expect to find
what are called tropes, that is, turns or figures of speech,
similes, metaphors, metonymies, ironies.
46
In the 15th book of the Iliad, there is a point at which
Hector is seeking to break the ranks of the Achaians, but
is unable, we are told, for they endured like a tower, 'just
as a rock in the sea endures despite wind and waves:' The
rock in the sea is a simile, of course, for the endurance
and courage of the Achaians. The polarity here is between man and rock. I read into the rock the human endurance, and then I turn round and read into the human
endurance the steadfastness of the rock. I look at each
from the standpoint of the other; I use each to obtain
a perspective of the other. The movement is from man
to rock and back to man. I obtain an echo of man from
the rock.
As I pointed out earlier, the words for moral notions
and for the activities of the mind are derived by metaphor
from words for visible or tangible things and motions.
Poetry involves a regaining of the original relation in
reverse, a metaphorical extension back from the intangible into a tangible equivalent. It involves the discovery
of what T. S. Eliot calls an objective correlative of the interior life; that is, the finding of a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events, which will be the formula of a
particular feeling or thought, so that when the external
facts are given, the feeling or thought is immediately
evoked.
Modern science can also be viewed, on the theoretical
side, as a gigantic trope or series of tropes, a series of
models or images whose meanings are drawn out by
logical inferences. Thus one may conceive electric current after the analogy of a river, or electric oscillations
after the analogy of mechanical oscillations, and other
aspects of electricity suggest other metaphors which in
turn acquire corresponding mathematical formulation.
Modern mathematics and mathematical physics overlies
a mass of disjunct imagery which it does not appear possible to unify; instead, imagery is used dialectically to transcend imagery, in successive stages of formalization.
Finally, let me not fail to mention the trope of irony,
the dialectical trope par excellence. Irony is an elusive trope;
its essence lies in simulation or dissimulation, in the use
ofthc tension between what appears and what is. It can
be savagely or gently mocking, but it also contains the
seeds of humility. When Newton* sees a criminal being
led to the gallows and says "There but for the grace of
God go I;' he is not congratulating himself on not being
a criminal; he reads himself in the other and the other
in himself, and the irony lies in this peculiar combination of"yes" and "no;' as these two are connected by means
of the God-term. When Socrates says "I know that I do
not know;' he combines affirmation and denial in such
a way as to produce a peculiar transcendence. Irony is
here the net of the educator.
The possibility of irony rests on the tension between
what appears and what is. Man exists at the horizon be-
*The hymn-writer.
SUMMER 1984
�tween appearance and idea; his being is an intermediate,
a metaxy, as Plato would say (co l!oca~u). And the task
of education, starting in the middle of things, is to use
the appearances, the images, the names and the
sentences, to produce a development toward hierarchy
and wholeness which uses all the terms.
I have but a few more words to say. Man is a being
who is constantly in search of himself; this is the human
condition. Socratically speaking, he is a questioning
animal, a being who, when asked a rational question,
can give a rational answer. So questioning and responding, both to himself and others, man becomes a responsi-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
ble being, a moral being. In the image of the Republic,
the movement of dialectical or dialogical thought, as
guided by Socratic irony, is upward, from darkness into
light, from partiality to wholeness, from appearance to
intellectual vision. The Socratic irony produces a transformation of terms, a hierarchy, a perspective of perspectives, in which the contradictions of pOlitical life, and of
the soul which is an inner political life, are resolved by
becoming hierarchially related to the idea of knowledge.
The Socratic irony punctures pretense, and points
beyond, to the unity of knowledge and to the great dialectical interchange which has yet to be carried out.
47
�The Program of St. John's College*
in Annapolis, Maryland,
and Santa Fe, New Mexico
Eva T. H. Brann
I. Principles and Parts of the Program
I. The Principles and Parts of
the Program
Authors
Arts
The Community of Learning
II. Problems and Questions
Concerning the Program
The Place of the Program
in American Education
The Omission of Certain
Studies
Study Modes of the Program
Institutional Difficulties
"Real Life"
Eva Brann is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis. The Program of St. John's
College, was written for the Rockefeller Foundation Conference KToward the
Restoration of the Liberal Arts Curriculum;' September 28, 1978.
48
E
very plan of education, whether borne up by a
passing trend or bound into a long tradition,
is fraught with implicit philosophical principle.
Since the program of St. John's College is
devoted to that peculiar kind of learning which
of necessity includes a reflection on its own conditions,
most members of the college accept the obligation- or
yield to the fascination- of engaging in ever-recurrent
discussion and review of the philosophical bases that
underlie their activity. A part of the life of the college
(some say too much, some too little) is devoted to such
reflection. To mention this activity is a matter of minutes,
while to reproduce even a sample of it would require not
hours but, probably, years. Furthermore, precisely
because it is a living inquiry, it is impossible for one
member to state the results in behalf of the whole college. That would be tantamount to announcing that we
had communally determined the answer to such questions as "What is learning?", ''What are the objects of
learning?", "What is human nature?", and "What is truth?"
Such an announcement is, judging from good precedent, not in itself unthinkable, but it would be absurd
in view of the central aim of the college, which is the
pursuit of what I can only call radical inquiry. The college certainly has other and, it sometimes seems, conflicting aims. If the usual purposes of institutions of higher
learning can be said to be: 1. training for scholarship or
research; 2. pre-professional preparation, 3. broadening
of views and sharpening of intellectual faculties and
development of the sensibility, 4. initiation into the
cultural tradition- then the college eschews the first
almost completely, does the second fairly adequately, succeeds in the third but erratically (that is to say, about
SUMMER 1984
�as well as other good schools), and accomplishes the last
superbly, albeit according to its own lights. But, however
well the college may do any of these things, it does them
only incidentally to the central aim, which is to us the
very purpose of liberal education.
By radical inquiry I mean the attempt to delve as
deeply as possible into the roots of the world, to bring
to light not only the nature of things but also the nature
of thinking. When I say that it is the central aim of the
college, I do not- God forbid- mean that every waking
moment is devoted to first philosophy, but rather that
philosophical questions are always in the background, are
always welcomed, are always on the brink of being entertained, even when the subject at hand is highly technical
or acutely esthetic.
Now precisely because such an inqu~ry is a search
for truth and substance, it needs to be free, free in the
sense of being conducted in a setting that imposes the
fewest bars and the least presuppositions possible. The
program of the college embodies an attempt to provide
such a setting. If the actual life of the college is difficult
to describe succinctly, its formal aspect, this very plan
oflearning, should be quite capable of coherent and concise presentation.
Now the program of the college consists of an almost
totally prescribed course of studies. It sets not only the
books to be read but the exact order in which they are
itself. I shall try below to set out our approach to the intellectual world, an approach that still accords it enough
integrity so as to engender in a faculty the confidence
to derive a plan of studies from it.
The enabling freedum which is essential to our sort
of inquiry depends on a program explicitly embodying
strong but minimal notions- strong enough to help and
sparing enough not to hinder inquiry.
We have agreed on two approaches as meeting these
demands. They stem from an old tradition. But it is not
because they are old that we adopt them; on the contrary, they are, presumably, long-lived because they contain much pedagogical wisdom. These approaches have
the medieval designation of Authors and Arts.
AUTHORS
The wisdom of the West is handed down in a collection of books by individual authors, books of words, symbols, notes and images, books of philosophy, science and
poetry, books of intellect, reason and imagination. I
believe that the existence of such a written tradition is
an accepted fact among all educated people. The issuing of definitive lists of these books has been a favorite
activity of pedagogues since the Renaissance, and the
zestful debates concerning the inclusion or exclusion of
items have usually confirmed a perennial core. We tinker
with our list-which we find in the main satisfactory-
to be studied and even the times, to the hour, when and
for various reasons. The main cause is that far more
the people with whom they are to be discussed. It requires its students to forego all notions of being born a
books by right belong on it than can be read in four years.
(We now have an informal rule obligating anyone who
wishes to add a book to the list to point out- at his
peril- the one to be dropped to make room for it.) Again,
humanistic or a scientific type, makes the silent speak
and the speech-makers be quiet, imposes dozens of
earnest formalities, requires teache.rs to teach what they
certain texts turn out to be unsuccessful in discussion.
do not know well to students who did not particularly
choose to be taught by them, and requires relentless activity in the name of true leisure. And all these constraints
Also, the splintering of the tradition in recent times makes
the modern choices much less settled. So, while we invariably begin with the Homeric epics, our final readings
vary. When I last taught seniors about to go forth into
the so-called world, we ended most appropriately with
that perfect conflation of thought and action embodied
in Supreme Court decisions.
These books form a coherent tradition because their
are imposed, I must now try to show, in the interests of
intellectual freedom.
It is not, of course, academic freedom in the usual
understanding, that is, the students' right to study what
they please and the professors' right to say what they
think. In the St. John's community, the latter is not so
much a right as a duty, though a duty mitigated by a
pedagogic tact. The former freedom is, except for small
choices, confined to the initial decision to come to the
college, though that decision is never permitted to be
made sight unseen. Electives, which the program ex-
common mode is response, repudiation, revival. Each
book is explicitly or implicitly a commentary on, or a
critique of, preceding books. Much as we regret having
affixed to ourselves the fatuous formula of a "great books"
college (and exactly 100 of them, forsooth!), the irrefutable experience seems to be that these books are
great, that they are inexhaustible in their depth and
cludes, are the most characteristic feature of modern
university organization, introduced into this country
definiteness, in their responsiveness and self-sufficiency.
significantly by Thomas Jefferson. They were devised,
on the one hand, to take account of the individual talents
(and what often weighs more, the supposed inabilities)
of the students, and on the other, to make up for the loss
It is, after all, by these criteria that the educated consensus has chosen them and guarded their survival.
What makes the study of these books relevant to practical inquiry is that they are all occupied with versions
of consensus concerning a universally enforceable educa-
of the same root questions. Arguments have been made
in this century claiming that these questions are radical
misdirections of human effort, and that the tradition is
tional plan. The St. John's program, on the contrary, is
based on the assumption that certain fundamental studies
are still universally accesssible, reliably exciting and formulable as a plan to which a whole faculty can commit
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
in need of a respectful but merciless dismantling, but such
critiques are, and mean to be, themselves within the tradi-
49
�tion. In short, these books are helpful only on the simple working assumption that human questions are so continuously transformed as to remain fundamentally the
same now, then, and tor all time. If that is false, the study
of these books-and indeed any book not written here
and now-is a mere antiquarian amusement. I should
add an observation essential to the enterprise: The
acknowledgement that there are perennial questions is
the very antithesis of the claim that such questions have
no answer-a presumptious supposition which implies
that one has seen deeply enough into the well of things
to know that it has no bottom.
One chief characteristic of these works is that they
are original in both senses of the term: very much the
author's own product and very much at the beginning
and origin of an intellectual development. Such texts differ from text books by communicating the order and
the difficulties of discovery rather than delivering prepared packets of knowledge. Hence, precisely by reason
of their originality, they imply a certain arrangement of
studies, or better, they obviate the principal organizational features of modern university studies, which is the
department corresponding to a field of study.
The department is the expression of a thoroughgoing
intellectual prejudgement, namely the Baconian division
of the intellectual world into parcels of ground, fields,
areas, within which can occur that concentrated cultivation, that intensive specialization, and that well-defined
research, which make possible the advancement oflearning and the accumulation of intellectual products.
Without attempting here to sketch out the intellectual
revolution which made such a division of labor possible
and profitable, let me simply say that this college, as an
undergraduate teaching institution, is willing to forego
all its advances for the sake of radical reflection. For us,
students "make an original contribution" when they go,
for themselves, to the origin of things. We want them
not so much to think something new, as to think anew,
not so much to discover truths for the world as for
themselves.
These books, then, in their o~iginality, precede the
fixing of the divisions of studies. In the language of hindsight, in them philosophy is not yet one of many equal
specialties, poetry is still a source of wisdom, physics and
theology are still continuous. Hence the reading of
authors involves fewer assumptions than the study of
fields and permits the more natural pursuit of those questions otherwise so frustratingly formulated as
"interdisciplinary?'
The order in which the books are read is by and large
chronological. This observation of the given order again
embodies a minimum of prejudgement. In addition it
makes obvious sense for the student to have read what
the author has read. As Hegel knew his Aristotle or
Milton his Homer or Stravinsky his Bach, so, perhaps,
ought the student. In certain, though by no means all,
cases it is even indispensable to be so prepared.
Contrary to appearance, this temporal order is not
intended to have anything to do with the "history of ideas".
50
We have no interest at all in having students learn how
different notions have succeeded each other. Indeed, in
distinction from every school I know of, we have no interest in the past whatsoever (though a good many of
us are privately avid readers of history). The fact that
some of these books are written by authors who happen
to be physically dead is perfectly peripheral. For insofar
as the books really do form a tradition, their matter has
entered into the present. It has done so in at least two
ways, which correspond to the two old senses of the word
tradition: It signifies a process of handing down but also
of traducing- of preservation, but also of subversion.
Hence the matterrofthe older books is always there, either
as an absorbed and digested element of the development
or as the forgotten cause and motive of an antithetical
formulation.
The attitude toward the books which the college tries
to foster is one of respectful~ attention combined with
vigorous independence. We demand such respect even
for the small number of lesser or even shoddy books
which we include not on their own account but for the
influence they have had. This respectful listening and
critical responsiveness are meant to be carried over into
the communal exercise which seems to us most appropriate to the study of tradition.
We call this institutional device the seminar and
regard it as the central class of the college. It is a discussion group of no more than twenty students, which-meets
twice a week throughout the four years of the program
on a set text. It is emphatically not intended as a rap
session or an encounter group, or as some exercise in
group dynamics. In fact, there is no manipulation and
no method which properly belong to the seminar; on the
contrary, the rule is the great Heraclitan saying, "Listen
not to me but to my speech." There is, however, a certain structure. There are two seminar leaders who alternate in asking an opening question. The object of having two is to prevent the unopposed profession of
authoritative opinion and to encourage students to address each other rather than the teacher. Every member
of the seminar is expected to contribute to the discussion and to do so responsibly, responsively, and civilly-all
members use a formal mode of address. The seminar
may work at explicating the text or attempt to determine the truth. These two and a half hours can be vapid
and they can be vigorous, silly or sublime, rambling, sequential, hilarious, serious. In accordance with the ancient discovery that speculative loquacity flourishes after
dark, the seminars are held at night.
Juniors and seniors are given a ten-week break in the
middle of the year to join the only elective class of the
college, the preceptorial. It is a small study group on
a book or a theme, offered by a tutor and chosen by the
student.
ARTS
Our second approach to reflective inquiry is through
the liberal arts. The liberal arts are traditionally, and,
I think, rationally, divided into the arts concerning speech
SUMMER 1984
�and the arts concerning learnable objects, that is, the
medieval trivium (grammar, rhetoric, logic) and the
quadrivium (four grades of mathematics and natural
science).
The arts of language and of mathematics are root
skills. By adapting the way of these arts, the college hopes
to overcome the vexed question concerning what fields
of study the institution should offer and which of these
a student should be allowed to avoid. As I understand
this question, it has, from the pedagogical point of view,
two aspects. First, a modern university offers numerous
wonderfully ingenious and equipotent studies among
which young students have scarcely any way of choosing but by mere and unmatured preference. It also harbors certain dubious offerings, advertised in the language
ofpiffie-land, which the same student has hardly any way
of exposing but by bitter and expensive experience. Hence
the choice of goods and the avoidance of trash pose an
equally baffling problem to young learners, one whose
acuteness increases with their obliviousness of its existence. Second, the serious studies usually require of
those committed to them steeply increasing sophistication and specialization, and it is not clear that such learning is, in the language of educational psychology,
transferable; indeed it often seems that a high degree
of early specialization depresses rather than raises both
the students' willingness and ability to bring learning to
bear widely.
The arts, on the other hand, are eminently transferable, for although they are always wedded to a defmite
matter- the grammar is, say, French grammar and the
mathematics is, say, projective geometry-the skill and
the matter together can be continuously elaborated and
adapted to any use. What is more, they are eminently
defensible as required subjects for their own sake, for
they are by nature elementary, and that means that,
aside from the boom of their general accessibility, they
display an inviting combination of simplicity and depth.
At least our students seem to be won by some such quality
when they get absorbed, for instance, in the mysteries
of the copula "is" and why a certain type of Greek sentence does without it, or again, when they recover the
mental leap which leads from the naive to the formal
meaning of the mathematical limit notion.
Once more the use of the arts in the program serves
to avoid prejudgements. For these arts are antecedent,
both in time and in thought, to the debilitating split between the humanities and the sciences which dominates
modern schools. The skills of the trivium and the
quadrivium involve continuous and complementary
human abilities: It is not only that the art of mathematics
can be most humane and the art of language ought to
be very precise, but that the elements of both are rooted
in one and the same human power, the power of thought.
Furthermore, the arts help us avoid the necessity for those
"methods of analysis" courses with which schools attempt
to reintroduce some sort on generality into their studies.
We want to circumvent them because each such method
embodies an enormous amount of intellectual prepara-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
tion which students are scarcely sophisticated enough to
to discern. For example, the tremendous intellectual
predeterminations involved in the application of quantitative methods to the social sciences can hardly become
perspicuous to students unless they have thoroughly
reflected on the nature of quantity and the process of
quantification itself- one of the very intentions of our
mathematical program which can, however, hardly be
achieved without some detailed but reflective study of
pure mathematics.
In accordance with the twofold way of the arts, the
program provides for two kinds of day classes called
tutorials: a language tutorial and a mathematics
tutorial. These are recitation classes, most of which meet
four times a week, and they are devoted to various exercises, above all to translation and demonstration.
The language tutorial uses translation as the chief
learning device. The languages studied and used are
Greek and French. An ancient language is useful to us
precisely because it is "dead;' that is to day, completely
fixed and literary. Greek in particular is chosen first,
because it is, in illuminating contrast to English, a highly
inflected language; next, because of its intimate relation
to our seminar readings; again, because of its literary
riches; and finally, because most of the faculty has quite
shamelessly fallen in love with it. The choice of French
is more arbitrary. German or Russian might do as well,
although it is argued that French poetry, in its artfulness,
best lends itself to rhetorical analysis. The work of the
language tutorial almost always begins with some sort
of translation exercise.
The object of the tutorial is above all to reflect on
the relation of language to thought, of the languages to
each other, of correctness to persuasiveness, of logic to
grammar, of form to meaning. It is secondly to support
the seminar by a slower and more detailed reading of
some of the central passages of seminar books, and last
(though, by our own intention, least) it is to learn the
language in question, for without some concrete medium
the discussion would be mere hot air. Hence the tutorial
always, and sometimes rather inefficiently, shifts back and
forth between the necessary rote learning and the desired
reflection, the more so since language, unlike mathematics, cannot be learned by advancing in a linear sequence from agreed beginning to desired conclusions;
it has no clear given "elements:'
The mathematics tutorial is apparently the pedagogically most successful part of the program, and, many
of us think, the most gratifying to teach.
First of all, it ought to be said that in the tutorials
the injunction against the use of textbooks is of necessity somewhat relaxed. As it happens, the most appropriate beginning mathematics textbook is also a work
of originality and subtlety: Euclid's Elements. All
freshmen begin their mathematical studies with a consideration of its first definition: "A point is that which
has no part;' and they end up, four years later, with the
four-dimensional geometry of Einstein's special theory
of relativity.
51
�On the way, they study mostly original texts. It may
seem surprising that in so unquestionably progressive
a study as mathematics and mathematical physics (the
tutorial includes both, especially astronomy) the original
sources are good teaching tools. But suppose one thinks
of it in this way: Einstein, in the famous 1905 paper which
sets out special relativity, explicitly presupposes a
knowledge of Maxwell's work. Maxwell cannot be understood without Newton, who, in his own phrase, "stands
on the shoulders" of Kepler and Galileo. Galileo advocates
Copernicus' system.
Copernicus revolutionizes the
Ptolemaic cosmos. Ptolemy's theories cite Appolonius'
Conics and Apollonius is inaccessible without the
Elements of Euclid. These are, in reverse order, some
of the very texts used in the tutorial. Seen in this light
the so-called "genetic" approach makes immediate sense.
And yet, regarded as textbooks, these works are often
cumbersome and complicated. They are frequently not
conducive to efficient learning and technical proficiency.
But then, it is not our object to train productive or
problem-solving mathematicians, though we acknowledge and want all the benefits usually attributed to
mathematical studies: precision of thought, logically valid
reasoning, the power of demonstration, and an appreciation of intellectual elegance. Once again, however, the
chief aim is reflection on the nature of mathematics and
the possibility of its application to nature. And for that
the original texts are almost indespensible, providing only
they are not approached in the spirit of the history of
science, that is, as repositories of past and surpassed forms
of thought. Instead, we look to them as setting out both
enduring intellectual acquisitions and accounts of the
revolution of intention and understanding which accompany their continual displacement and absorptionrarely refutation- by subsequent discoveries. In particular, we follow with fascinated care the development
of mathematical structures from those humanly immediate objects of the natural intellect which engage the
ancients to the sophisticated high-level abstractions of the
constructive reason which preoccupy the moderns. This
implied view-that the ancients and the moderns are at
once separated and connected by a deep intellectual rupture whose thorough apprehension is crucial to the
understanding of modernity-is perhaps the one substantial interpretative dogma built into the program.
For three years a full fourth of the students' time goes
into the laboratory. It is a most problematic, and yet
an absolutely essential, part of the program. While the
tutorial and the seminar take off from written texts, the
laboratory is concerned with what its early modern proponents, eager to assimilate the direct study of nature
to respectable learning, called the book of nature. But
at the same time they also spoke of putting nature to the
test of torture to extract her secrets. Contained in this
figure of speech is the necessity for a laboratory, literally a workshop, in which strange tools are usedinstruments not of production but of contemplation, instruments of observation and measurement. Close and
52
careful study of the appearances was certainly practiced
among the ancients, but the elaborately prepared and
controlled kind of experience which marks the central
device of the laboratory, namely the experiment, is
peculiar to the moderns. That is why this class is a
separate and problematic exercise in a program devoted
to interpretive reading.
Pedagogically, too, the laboratory has its special difficulties. The first function of the experiments is the determination of new truths of nature. In asking students to
repeat experiments, albeit crucial ones, we run the danger
of mounting a deliberately rickety reenactment with
unrevealing results, or of getting slick reconfirmation of
predetermined laws. Add to this the necessity, in more
sophisticated experiments, of using the notorious '~lack
box;' the instrument whose insides are a dark mystery
to the user, and it will be obvious how hard it can be
to engender and maintain thoughtful excitement in this
class.
Our aims are clear enough. We want to reflect on
that enormously powerful activity called science which
has arrogated to itself the name of knowledge simply;
to think about the changes in meaning that the word
"phenomenon" has undergone, from the ancient injunction to astronomy to "save the appearances" to Heisen-
berg's uncertainty principle; to consider the term "hypothesis'~ for example, to understand what Newton means
when he announces: "I make no hypotheses"; to understand how nature must be transformed to undergo
mathematization; to think about time as the beat of the
soul and the reading of a clock; to study force considered
as acting at a distance and as a field; to understand energy
in its continuities and discontinuities; to ask what life
is; and so on and on. I might add that the problem of
"scientific method;' much beloved of philosophers of
science, seems, somehow to fade away before the
brilliance of original natural inquiry.
The actual laboratory sequence remains somewhat
fluid even after thirty years of practice, mostly on account
of the embarrassment of riches from which to choose.
At present it begins in the freshman year with the observation and classification ofliving things and the atomic
constitution of matter, that is, roughly, biology and
chemistry. These subjects are taken up again in the senior
year and pursued beyond the threshold of ordinary observation as molecular biology and quantum mechanics. In
between there is a year of classical physics. Wherever
possible the preparatory readings are original papers,
from Aristotle to Monad, from Galileo to Schroedinger.
In the sophomore year a music tutorial replaces the
laboratory. Music is traditionally the coping stone of the
liberal arts, the juncture of the theoretic with the fine
arts and even with theology. Here mathematics becomes
qualitative in the ratios which govern consonances; here
grammar becomes passionate in the tone relations which
constitute a musical rhetoric.
The music tutorial is generally regarded as the most
difficult class to teach, because, our fond dogma to the
SUMMER 1984
�contrary, previous preparation and ta1ent are necessary
to the tutor and make disturbing distinctions among the
students. We do require all freshmen to sing together in
the chorus and to learn some musical notation, but that
is not quite adequate.
The music class begins with the elements of music.
The theory of proportions, which has been studied in
the mathematics tutorial, is applied to the construction
of the Western, diatonic scale, and rhythm, melody and
harmony are taken up. Then musical texts are subjected
to detailed analytic listening, partly in preparation for
the seminar, which includes a number of musical works.
One example is Bach's Matthew Passion. The seminar
might respond to the fact that Bach was a learned
theologian by asking how the arias of the musical passion comment on the Gospel text -an inquiry for which
the music tutorial has provided the preparation.
Finally, all members of the college are expected to
attend one formal weekly lecture on any subject, which
is given by a visitor or a tutor, and is followed by a
(sometimes interminable) question period in which the
mood ranges from puppy-dog aggression to deep cooperative probing. This exercise in listening and responding
to connected discourse is quite important, especially for
students who are so much called on to engage in
conversation.
It goes without saying that we have various special
devices for examining students beyond their daily performance and for reporting to them our opinion of their
work. The most important formal test is the senior essay,
which is intended to be a work of reflection rather than
research; these essays vary in quality from dispiriting to
exhilarating.
One last observation on the program as a whole:
Because of the many factors that have to be juggled, the
integration of the parts is in stretches so loose as to be
hardly discernible. HapP.ily there are other occasions
when it is satisfyingly ~patent, when the tutorials,
laboratory and seminar immediately and essentially bear
on each other. The details of the schedule of studies and
their relations are set out in the catalogue of the college,
a frequently revised document to whose authority we attach great importance.
THE COMMUNITY OF LEARNING
It remains to say something of the community of
learning in which this program is realized, that is, the
students, the faculty and, briefly, the administration.
First, our students. We have always maintained that
the program is intended for students of widely varying
intellectual capacities, and that there is no distinctive St.
John's student. Since our progress is stepwise and patient and almost all the work is elementary, there should
be few parts that are technically beyond anyone's range.
Indeed, a slow and naive student may contribute more
searching questions than a quick and sophisticated one.
·We find that, except for occasional sad cases, self-selection
is the best guarantee of aptitude; the desire to learn
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
outweighs the question of talent. Our students, consequently should and do come from everywhere-as they
end up doing practically anything. As it turns out, they
do, in fact, perform so very well on the standard national
tests (in which we, nonetheless, place little faith) as to
make the college appear far more selective than we intend it to be. There is, moreover, good corroboration that
the program is indeed universally accessible. It comes
from our Graduate Institute in Liberal Education, a summer- version of the program intended in the main for
school teachers. Our graduate students, who teach in
large part in inner-city schools, whose academic training is usually neither very recent nor, often, very good,
and who are preoccupied with urgent practical problems,
take to the program with great gusto and gratifying
success.
The faculty, on the other hand, has undeniably over
the course of time grown into a certain distinctiveness,
which is largely the consequence of the one circumstance
we have most difficulty in explaining to the academic
world. Just as we expect the students to study the whole
program, so we expect ourselves to teach it. Naturally,
not everyone has done every part of the program, but
it is an aim to be attained, though over decades. It means
constant new learning, sitting in on each other's classes,
phoning for help. It sometimes means being only hours
ahead of the students. But I think, on the whole, it makes
us better teachers, closer to the students' difficulties and
more apt to find the most revealing way out. What
characterizes the faculty is, therefore, a certain proud
shamelessness about admitting ignorance and engaging
in public learning. One way to describe this group might
be to say that it is recalcitrantly unacademic: No departmental politics-we form, if you like, one large department. No imperial references to "my field" or "my century" or "my material'!.._ we have a common subject, the
program. No pride of competence or rank- our single
rank and title is tutor, that is to say, "guardian" of learning. In spite of royal battles over matters of principles
and gently simmering personal animosities, the faculty
engages in continuous common study and conversation.
When I say "faculty" I include our administrators. Our
deans are, according to the college policy, chosen from
among the tutors, and the other administrators, including
the president, have always (as much as they could) joined
in the learning and the teaching-a circumstance of incalculable value to the college. I think that most of us
would say that this happy collegiality is simply a reflection of the integrity of the program.
This then is a sketch of the plan and the people that
constitute St. John's College. Now might be the moment
to ask why a community should feel entitled to devote
itself to the kind of inquiry I have described. I think our
communal answer- briefly formulable but not briefly
defensible- might be that such activity is both the
mark and the source of human excellence. And if we
are told that that is all very well, but that there are more
urgent and iinmediate tasks for a college, solid, realistic,
53
�practical aims, and if we are asked how we can, in good
conscience, set them aside, we might answer with some
counter-questions: Have any of those myriad accom-
modations to the times into which schools have been
driven made education one whit more immediate to life?
Have the educators' urgencies in any way made the stu-
dent a better judge of the right action? Is realism in
education practical? Does it work? Ever?
II. Problems and Questions Concerning
the Program
Of course, rhetorical questions do not adequately
dispose of the many difficulties raised about the college
by friendly and not-so-friendly observers, and most intensively, by the faculty and the students themselves. Let
me briefly list what seem to me the chief topics of debate,
and indicate some first answers.
THE PLACE OF THE PROGRAM
IN AMERICAN EDUCATION
We are often asked, and have to ask ourselves, why
St. John's College has not been more widely imitated,
and of what use, beyond its own minuscule enterprise,
it can be to American education if it is indeed inimitable.
There have, in fact, been a number of programs modelled
on ours, but by and large, the departmental organization of American schools is simply too rigid to accommodate the radical modifications demanded by this program, while the propitious conjunction of factors
fession, especially law and medicine. By their own report,
after an initial disorientation, apparently comparable to
that of Adam and Eve after their ejection from paradise,
they find their years at the college both professionally
and personally helpful to life in the world- though
"helpful" is too bland a word for the effects of the program. It would be more candid to report that some
students say they feel crippled by the habit of reflection
they have acquired, while others- far more- claim that
the world belongs to them as, they think, it does not quite
belong to their peers.
THE OMISSION OF CERTAIN STUDIES
One of the apparently inevitable questions at the
orientation session which the Instruction Committee, the
faculty group charged with the supervision of the program, has with the incoming freshmen is: Why do we
study no Eastern books? The answer is threefold. First,
four years barely suffice even to begin with our own
Western tradition. Nothing worth doing could possibly
happen in the time we might squeeze out. Second, it is
by no means clear that the Eastern books can be fitted
into a Western, academic, institutional framework
without making a travesty of them-that they do not demand to be approached within their own living discipline.
Third, we have reason to distrust available translations,
because by an undiscriminating use of metaphysical terminology they seem so often to turn Eastern wisdom into
a pale and unoriginal reflection of Western philosophy.
In the case of Western texts we are alert to the fact that
translations will tend toward the higher gibberish and
necessary to a new founding is very rare. I think we
we have the communal competence to counteract this
should not yield to the implication that institutions that
are good in themselves are not doing their social duty
unless they are also exerting wide influence around them.
Nonetheless, the college does have a wider role to play
difficulty- not so with Eastern works. We have similar
hesitations about Islamic texts. It is not from disrepect
but from the exact opposite motive that we omit these
traditions.
in American education, namely, as one distinctive point
of reference: a self-confident but receptive center of
the very notion of "encountering other cultures;' especially
debate, an established repository of experience and a will-
as an undergraduate enterprise. Our deeper difficulty
The fact is that we have the greatest misgivings about
ing source of well-tested working devices for the restora-
is with the concept of culture itself, which can, notor-
tion of the liberal arts.
iously, include anything from menus to metaphysics. The
The imputation of elitism is sometimes made in this
context, but we must simply reject it. The program is
intended for all literate human beings and most particularly for citizens of a republic-our style of learning is eminently participatory, and questions of political
philosophy play a large role in the program. If smallness
and intimacy is a sin, one might as well accuse the family
of elitism. As for the expense of such an education, if
the true costs of public, large-scale, higher education were
ever honestly reckoned, this college, which has, as it were,
only one single large department and no need for fancy
hardware, might look good.
Finally there is the problem of vocationalism, of
preparation for careers. Is this kind of education nothing
but a respectable luxury on the educational scene? In
fact, way over half our students go on to graduate and
professional schools and they enter every conceivable pro-
54
more immediate pedagogical problem, however, concerns
the idea of "encounter" or "exposure." Surely it is not safe
to encounter strange ways when one is not yet solidly
grounded in one's own, nor is it sound to approach alien
traditions when one cannot afford to pursue them in
depth and detail.
The other major omission of the program which is
often questioned is that of history. Even observers who
accept the fact that we do not study any of a number
of other worthwhile fields wonder how we can read the
texts without a "historical background." Our answer, far
too abruptly stated, would be, first, that such capsule
history conveys very little except a prejudgement, and
second, more importantly, that the works are intended
by their authors to be directly accessible and selfsufficient, and that this claim must be, at least to begin
with, respected.
SUMMER 1984
�STUDY MODES OF THE PROGRAM
Our students seem to have little difficulty in accepting an all-required program which they have, after all,
chosen, which has a fairly explicit rationale, and which
has the adherence of their teachers. Indeed, they turn
out to be the most orthodox defenders of the program
against the inroads of elective elements. What they do
complain about is the lack of choice in tutors, since they
are assigned to classes and discouraged from asking for
transfers. It is a necessary hypothesis of the college community that all tutors are about equal in their ability to
guide classes which do not, supposedly, depend so much
on the teacher as on the text and the students. Of course,
the hypothesis is not quite true; our classes depend a great
deal on teachers, and also all the tutors are not equally
competent and exciting; a few are not even very good
teachers. This is one of the perennial problems of a college whose faculty thinks of itself as primarily a teaching
faculty. The best that can be said is that we do agonize
over the situation.
On our part, we worry about the amount of spoon
feeding and handholding our students absorb and wonder
whether it strengthens them or unfits them for making
choices and working independently. We are never quite
sure what we ought to do in this respect.
Our students, again, tend to suspect us- sometimes
with irritation and sometimes with a kind of intellectual
frisson- of propagating some esoteric dogma through the
classes. Nothing can resolve these suspicions except constant readiness on the part of the faculty to make explicit
and to discuss the assumptions behind our studies.
An academic critic might question the complete
absence of scholarship and reasearch. Truth to tell, the
students do not miss them, and they do get the benefit
of their teacher's fuller attention. Perhaps there is some
loss in the absence of ongoing intellectual productivity
(though many of us do write quite a bit), but we comfort ourselves with the thought that there is something
very timely indeed ab6ut our ambition to recollect and
revivify our intellectual inheritance and our reluctance
to join in the further accumulation oflargely unabsorbed
rational artifacts.
Finally, the scantiness of our contemporary readings
is often criticized. I think that, like everybody else, we
are simply embarrassed by the fragmented enormity of
the material. We would excuse ourselves from fully resolving this difficulty by pointing out that the appreciation
and critique of modernity, which is indeed one of our
central preoccupations, is best initiated with the aid of
earlier, more fundamental texts.
INSTITUTIONAL DIFFICULTIES
Pressure is the chief difficulty in realizing the pro-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
gram institutionally: the pressure of doing difficult daily
preparation, the frustration of racing through extensive
seminar assignments, the weariness of continuous involvement in that contradiction of terms, the scheduled conversation. We used to call the week between semesters
"Dead Week!' Tutors and students alike felt like zombies.
By way of relief we have been slowly cutting down
the program, shortening the readings and giving
ourselves some long weekends. But oddly enough, the
final fact of the matter seems to be that, endless complaints notwithstanding, people like it this way.
The one aspect of this problem that observers most
often notice is the relentless, strenuous intellectuality of
the college. Again there is some relief in the art studio,
the drama groups and in amateur music. Also students
have the choice of being at the Western campus, which
is said to be somewhat more relaxed. But the condition
itself is not curable, since it is the consequence of a pro-
gram that has no intention of educating "the whole person" (an enterprise which is part impertinence, part im-
possiblity), but addresses itself mainly to what is selfaware, rational and communicable, in sum, to what is
traditionally called free in human beings. The faculty's
contribution must be a great effort to ensure that it is
not a dry and brittle but a passionate and absorbing intellectuality that dominates the community.
"REAL LIFE"
Our students persistently bring to us a perplexity
which we share, though more occasionally and less
acutely. Who is there who spends his life with objects
of thought and does not sometimes feel a panic of fright
that reality is not being reached, that life is going on,
but elsewhere? Young students are especially vulnerable
to such suspicions, because they are the most afflicted
with idealism, a propensity for pitching ideas too high
for action and too shallow for truth. But the sporadic
fear that thought and life are forever disjoined -which
has nothing to do with such mundane worries as being
prepared to make a living- is an endemic anxiety of any
serious community of learning and particularly of St.
John's College.
Now the ultimate relation of thought to things and
theory to action is precisely one of those perennial questions of the inquiring tradition with which we are incessantly preoccupied. Hence all we the faculty can immediately do is to urge melancholic students to engage
in lots of sports (we have a lively and inclusive intramural
program) and to refrain as much as possible from being
mere intellectuals- I mean, people who stake out arrid
claims in a ghostly, self-sufficient environment of abstractions. Probably the best we can do is ourselves to show
fairly unfailing trust, not to say faith, that thinking can
reach the world and that learning is indeed possible.
55
�OccASIONAL DiscouRsEs
Summer 1984
Sermon Preached at St. Anne's Church,
Annapolis
]. Winfree Smith
W
hen the latest edition of Tieline reached
me in Santa Paula, California, the first
thing that met my eyes was an
announcement that the St. John~ Program
had been adopted by St. Anne's Church
School. That, I thought, is taking too far the intimate
relationship between St. John's College and St. Anne's
Church which we are this day celebrating. Then, of
course, a careful reading of Tieline showed that the St.
John's Program mentioned therein was a program
developed for pre-school children at St. John's Cathedral
in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and, being for pre-school
children, differed in some particulars from the St.John's
College program.
There certainly has been an intimate relationship between St.John's College and St. Anne's Church, so much
so that Tench Tilghman in his recently published Early
History of St. John~ College in Annapolis could say that from
its earliest infancy St. John's College was haunted by
Episcopal clergymen. During the first century of its existence under charter as St. John's at least five rectors
of St. Anne's were also principals or vice-principals of
the college. Those were the titles given by the charter
to those who nowadays would be called presidents or vicepresidents. The Reverend Ralph Higginbotham, who had
taught in the King William School, was the first principal or president of the college to be also rector of St.
Anne's, having been elected rector in 1785, the year after
the college was chartered. That the intimate relationship
was not always a happy one is shown by the fact that Higginbotham's reputation suffered because it was thought
by some in the St. Anne's congregation that he gave too
For over four decades, the Reverend
St. John's College, Annapolis.
56
J.
Winfree Smith has been a tutor at
much attention to the college and not enough to the
church.
There were also presidents of St. John's who were
Episcopal priests but not rectors of St. Anne's. The most
noteworthy of these was the Reverend Hector Humphrey
who was president of St. John's for 26 years just prior
to the Civil War. He is the only one of all these clergymen,
whether rectors or not, to whom there is a memorial in
this building, the second window along the south aisle
starting from the chancel end.
In 1941, when I came to Annapolis, the St. John's
baccalaureate service was held in St. Anne's Church, as
it had been over the years and decades.
It has, however, been more than a hundred years since
a rector of St. Anne's has been president of St. John's
and more than forty years since the baccalaureate service was held in this building. And so one begins to
wonder whether the intimate relationship still exists, as
far as any institutional offices or formalities are
concerned.
But on this occasion it might be well for us to think
rather about a deeper relationship that might exist between what St.John's stands for and what the Episcopal
Church stands for. There is, as you may know, a motto
of the Virginia seminary: "Seek the truth, come whence
it may, cost what it will." This is a good motto for St.
John's, but it is a bad motto for the seminary or for the
church, and I know at least one seminary Professor who
agrees. It is a good motto for St. John's because what
Sf' John's stands for is the search for the truth, and there
is no presupposition as to the source of the truth or as
to what the truth might be if it were to be discovered.
St. John's as such is not hostile to Christianity or even
indifferent to it. But, unlike the Roman Catholic college
where I now am, it has no religious commitment. The
church, on the other hand, is not in the position of merely
SUMMER 1984
�seeking the truth nor is there for the church any question as to the source of those truths which are most im-
portant for human beings to know. The church rests on
the assumption that God has revealed the most important truths for human beings to know and that the source
from which we receive them is the Holy Scriptures of
the Old and New Testaments.
In spite of this assumption that there is divinely
revealed truth and that it is to be found in the Holy Scrip-
lead them to deny the truth of the articles that give them
difficulty. We have recently read reports of a poll taken
among bishops of the Church of England that disclosed
that a majority of them do not believe that Jesus is God
or that he was raised from the dead or that he was born
of a virgin. Now the reports did not give any account
of the reasons why these bishops have made these denials,
i.e., what they have found so difficult as to be impossible in the articles having to do with the incarnation, the
tures, there is considerable confusion at the present time
resurrection, and the virgin birth. These three articles
as to what the Episcopal Church stands for. My claim
during the whole of my long ministry has been that the
Book of Common Prayer is the guide to what the
Episcopal church stands for and that the Nicene creed
do not all stand or fall together. One might well believe
that Jesus was truly God and completely human and
believe that even now He is truly God with only a human
soul without believing that His human body was raised
from the dead and without believing that He was born
of a human mother without a human father. I happen,
as Archbishop William Temple did, to believe in all three
articles, but I recognize that some Episcopalians might
in one of these see a difficulty that they would not see
in the others. I would claim, however, that what is
definitive of a Christian is the acknowledgement that
Jesus Christ, while being completely human, is God,
recited as part of our act of Eucharistic worship contains
those revealed truths in which Episcopalians, indeed in
common with other Christians, put their trust.
This claim has been challenged by several Episcopal
priests on the basis of a little change in the English text
of the Nicene creed as it apprears in the Prayer Book.
The little change is the change from "I" to "We;' from
"I believe" to 'We believe" at the beginning of the creed.
The commission that made this change did so for no
other reason than that they wanted the English version
to be an exact translation of the original fourth century
Greek version of the creed. But these priests understand
whatever one may believe about the resurrection or the
up what they consider the burden of the faith. Accord-
virgin birth.
Does the New Testament say that Jesus is God? Yes,
the first verses of the Gospel ofJohn say that Jesus, who
is there called the Word, not only was with God but was
God in the beginning and that through him creatures
ing to them, when we say "we believe;' we don't mean
came into being. Do those verses say that Jesus is of one
that I believe everything that we believe. When we say
"we believe" we mean rather that the Episcopal Church
believes all those things that are in the creed while I may
believe only in God as creatorwithout believing anything
about Jesus or the Holy Spirit and some other Episcopalian may believe something about Jesus without believing that Jesus is God, of one being with the Father, or
perhaps even without believing that God exists. If this
is the right way to understand the change from "I" to "we;'
should we not, when the Prayer Book is next revised,
substitute for "we" the words "The Episcopal Church'' so
being with the Father? No. Does the New Testament say
that anywhere explicitly? Nowhere explicitly. Yet if the
Gospel of John has Jesus telling the truth when he says
in that Gospel, "All that the Father has is mine;' do we
not have to conclude that, ifJesus has all that the Father
has, that all must include the very being of the Father?
I do not know what the nay-saying English bishops
would reply. Perhaps they would raise questions about
the authority of the Gospel of John. A while ago I said
that the church rests on the assumption that Holy Scripture is the source of divinely revealed truth. That does
that each of us could say out loud "The Episcopal Church
not necessarily mean that every single sentence in Scrip-
believes" but where necessary and sotto voce "I don't" or
"God knows what I believe"? Is it not absurd to make
maybe is not so absurd. The articles of the creed are not
ture is true. It may be that the pure gold of the word
of God in Scripture is mingled with the dross of the
human authors of Scripture. But how do we separate the
gold from the dross? Sometimes it seems that all the skill,
a commendable human skill, of the Biblical critics is
needed to make that separation, a skill which one can-
easy to accept. Different articles present different dif-
not expect to average Christian to have. Also sometimes
that the shift from "I" to ''We" means that we can divvy
such a separation between the faith of the Episcopal
Church and the faith of Episcopalians?
But behind this absurdity there is something that
ficulties. Even Thomas Aquinas, who, one might sup-
it seems that the presuppositions of the Biblical critics
pose, would find it rather easy to accept the articles of
are themselves questionable.
the creed, on the contrary maintains that the articles are
There is a rather widespread modern dogma that is
the source of one difficulty that people in the modern
age have with the resurrection and the virgin birth. That
to be distinguished precisely according to the distinct difficulties they present.
Whatever difficulties Thomas Aquinas may have
seen, there are certain difficulties which modern
Episcopalians, including bishops and priests, as well as
laymen, encounter. The difficulties do not lead them to
say "Lord, I believe. Help thou my unbelief." Rather they
THE ST JOHN'S REVIEW
is the dogma that modern science has made it impossible for modern man to believe in miracles, that modern
science has shown that miracles are not possible. This
dogma lies behind all the talk about demythologizing
Scripture. Modern science, of course, has not shown what
57
�it is alleged to have shown. To show that miracles are
impossible one would have to prove the non-existence
of an omnipotent God. No one, as far as I know, has
ever done that. For if God is omnipotent, everything that
happens is within His power, and though things may for
the most part happen in the way science or ordinary experience says, they may by the will of the omnipotent
God happen differently.
If the difficulty is that we cannot believe anything
unless it is evident to our senses or evident of itself to
our intellect or made evident to our intellect through
reasoning, then, to be sure, we cannot believe the articles
of the creed, though we may not be in a position to deny
them either. But here we touch upon something fundamental. For the very reason that we say that it is faith
that grasps the truth of what is divinely revealed is that
such truth is not evident to the senses or the intellect.
It is not evident that there is a God. It is not evident
that God is the omnipotent creator of heaven and earth.
If we think we can believe only what is evident or can
be evident to our senses or intellect or that faith is not
a way of grasping the truth, then we should give up Christianity altogether.
I maintain that the articles of the Nicene creed as
a whole, with all the difficulties they present, lay a claim
upon every Episcopalian. Surely they need the whole context of Christian thought and life if they are to have
fullness of meaning. But these articles represent a fundamental part of what the Episcopal Church stands for.
Does the truth revealed by God exclude searching for
the truth? No. It provides a rich field for such a search.
The human intellect has much to do in exploring the
meaning of what is revealed, in tracing its presuppositions and consequences for Christian thinking and doing, and so in discovering truths that are involved in the
explicitly revealed truths. It also has much to do in seeking truths not revealed in Scripture and the ways they
may be related to those that are. St. John's College may
be instructive for Christians as regards the discipline of
thought necessary for any search and hence for this search
that presupposes revelation. There is also another way
in which St. John's might be an example both for
58
theologians and for inquiring Christians generally.
Among present day theologians there is often the prejudice thatthe theological thought of the past is of merely
historical interest, that the theology of the Fourth century fathers or of the Medieval theologians or of the
reformers or of the Anglican divines like Richard Hooker
or Lancelot Andrewes is old-time stuff. It is a mere prejudice that in the age-old mainstream of Christian
theology there are no or few permanent insights into
Biblical revelation, that in the words of a ridiculous hymn
"we must keep abreast of truth;' that in theology the new
supersedes the old (as it seems to have done in modern
physics, not in theology), that in the present day the
theologian must devise a theology compatible with what
is alleged to be the thought of the present day. Liberation theology, to take one example, is based on the
premise that it is only on the foundation of the teaching
of Karl Marx that justice for the poor and the oppressed
can be achieved, and so that theology, which rightly seeks
justice for the poor or the oppressed, identifies God with
the historical process as understood by Karl Marx and
his twentieth-century followers, an identification that
would be rejected by Marx and is to say the least doubtfully Christian.
"Seek the truth, come whence it may?' A good motto for
St. John's College. St. John's is open to the possibility
of new truth hitherto unknown and wherever it may come
from. But, as everyone knows, St. John's people read old
books. They read them not because they are old, not in
order to find out what this or that person or people
thought in this or that past age, but because those who
thought well in the past raised questions that are relevant in all times and gave answers worthy of consideration at all times. It may be well for theologians and inquiring Christians of the present day to forget about hopping on contemporary intellectual or philosophical bandwagons and seek to recover the thought of the great
theologians of the past because of its perennial relevance.
This thought, as all Christian thought must, centers in
the question "what think ye of Christ?" and in the answer
that He is both the truth and the way to the truth that
He is.
SUMMER 1984
�The Golden Ages of St. John's*
Eva Brann
F
riends of the college, Fellow Students and
Fellow Tutors:
The theme tonight is "Liberty and Liberal
Education:' but the occasion is the two-hundredth anniversary of the founding of our college. Late in 1784 a bill, no. 37, was introduced into the
Maryland Senate, entitled "An act for founding a college on the Western Shore of this State and constituting
the same, together with Washington College on the
Eastern Shore, into a university by the name of the
University of Maryland:' The "college on the Western
Shore" was to become St. John's. (The fascinating tale
of its naming has been convincingly reconstructed by our
former librarian, Charlotte Fletcher.) So St. John's was
first conceived as one of the two colleges of a state university. We have the honor of having Professor Fallaw here
tonight to represent our intended sister school.
I will spare you the protracted, fitful and even
tumultuous history of St. John's metamorphosis into a
private college. The legacy of its public origin is the
Charter of 1784 which remains in essence our charter:
It proclaims that "institutions for the liberal education
of youth in the principles of virtue, knowledge and useful
literature are of the highest benefit to society, in order
to train up and perpetuate a succession of able and honest
men for discharging the various offices and duties oflife
both civil and religious with usefulness and reputation ... ?' The charter expresses the prevailing view in
the early republic, propagated in numerous essays, that
liberal education is the necessary support of a republic,
*Eva Brann delivered this talk as part of a symposium on "Liberty and Liberal
Education" held at St. John's College, Annapolis (September 20, 1984), for
the Two-Hundredth Anniversary Colloquium.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
that tyranny and ignorance, liberty and knowledge are
to be equated. In this spirit, a frenzy of college founding followed the Revolution; nineteen colleges were
established between 1780 and 1799, among whom St.
John's was one of the earliest, being chartered in the very
first year "of the present favorable occasion of peace and
prosperity;' in the words of the charter.
The legislature's expectation for public usefulness
were amply fulfilled. Between the first graduation in 1793
and 1806 (when its troubles with the state became acute),
there came out of St. John's four future governors, seven
United States senators, five representatives, judges galore
and one governor of Liberia. That time was later termed
the "Golden Age:' So also is an early Golden Age attributed to the "New Program;' our present program, on
the principle that the time is always goldener on the other
side of this generation. Actually, it seems to me, the whole
near half-century of the New Program, constituting
almost a quarter of the college's history, is a second
Golden Age, though it has a distinction different from
that of the first founding. Let me therefore propose a
question to you which has a certain charm for me: Is
this present college of ours an old school or a new school?
To begin with I want to entertain you- I hope you
may be entertained- with several circumstances which
induce this question, some more wonderful than significant, but some significant as well as wonderful. For example, the first grammar master was called Peter
McGrath; who knows but that our Hugh McGrath is
his reincarnation? Similarly there was a friendly but unofficial relation between St.John's and St. Anne's Church
in the person ofthe Reverend Ralph Higginbotham, the
last master of the King William School and rector of St.
Anne's, who was one of the stalwarts of the first founding. Now we have our Winfree Smith. What is
remarkable about this relation is that it is scrupulously
59
�unofficial (though there have been lapses between the first
and second founding). The college charter stood early
in a developing tradition of religious liberty which prohibited religious tests for students and forbade that they
be urged to attend any particular religious service. St.
John's went even further: It was the first school, I believe,
to have a principal who was not a clergyman, ] ohn
McDowell, St. ] ohn's first president (though three
clergymen, a Roman Catholic, an Episcopalian, and a
Presbyterian had taken a major part in its organization).
Could this same spirit of religious liberty, a spirit whose
merit it is that it manages not to be anti-clerical, not to
be attributed to the present college?
To descend from the spirit to sticks and stones, there
is McDowell Hall, a half-finished ruin in 1784, which
became the college's first building, containing class rooms,
the library in the octagonal room under the cupola, and
the dormitory. Each student was furnished with a
chamber pot under his bed, a service which has been
dicontinued. McDowell burned down in 1909 but was
faithfully restored. Do we inhabit an old or a new
building?
have been played out all the perenially absorbing institutional issues of American liberty: the rivalries of local
with centralized foundations, ofwell-offwith poor man's
schools, of public with private establishments, of religious
with secular education. It matters even if we, tutors and
students, have more urgent things to do than to absorb
the history of this little local phenomenon. I would have
to be an Edmund Burke to say well and clearly why the
antiquity of the college matters to the cause of liberty,
but I will try to say it briefly: First, in its phoenix-like
propensity for reprise and revival the college is an offshoot and an index of American liberty, which seems to
me quintessentially characterized by that second chance,
that new departure, which does not kick its springboard
under but rather preserves and absorbes its ground. And
second, through its continuity, through the simple fact
that it was there with its liberal tradition, the college could
offer a home to a program which made a conscious and
deep connection between liberty and liberal education.
It is the making of that connection in the New Program which is the new wine, tart and heady, in the old
bottle of the classical college. Let me conclude by say-
But, of course, the question becomes really fascinating
ing, quite superficially, what I conceive that connection
with respect to studies. In those early days the college
proper (there was a preparatory department attached)
was called "the philosophy school:' The curriculum was
prescribed and unified. The students read original texts
and studied mathematics as well as '~natural philosophy;'
that is, science. The languages were Greek and optional
to be.
The idea that political liberty and education go hand
in hand was an article of faith with the educational writers
of the early republic, a matter of preachment rather than
inquiry. There was, however, much debate about the kind
of education the republic required: Should it be primarily
utilitarian training or liberal education, at least for youths
destined for leadership? (Since Aristotle's book on educa-
French. For example, the novitiates, or freshmen, read
Plato and studied Euclid and the juniors read Aristotle
and studied fluxions, that is, calculus. While we marvel
at these detailed similarities to the present program, we
must, however, remember that at that time these studies
were but a version of the normal classical American college curriculum, with account taken of the science of a
hundred post-Newtonian years. In histories of education
our New Program is sometimes described as reviving the
classical college curriculum. But granting- even revel-
tion, "liberal" in this context has properly meant "nonvocational.") But even in this discussion it was repeated
to weariness that, to quote our character, "institutions
ling in- the apparent parallelism, is it really such a
understood that liberal education somehow made for in-
revival?
Let me try an answer: the present St. ] ohn's is, to
coin a phrase, new wine in old bottles, and that has some
dividual enlightenment. For example, the Marylander
Samuel Knox wrote in an essay (which won a prize offered by the American Philosophical Society in 1799) that
"the one great object of education should be to inculcate
independence of mind and consequently an aversion to the
embracing of any species of knowledge, moral, physical,
bearing on the theme of liberty and liberal education.
First, the antiquity of the bottle matters. It matters
that the physical place remains recognizably the same,
that an alumnus of the first graduating class of 1796 could
nostalgically poetize the liberty tree:
And many a frolic feat beneath thy shade
Far distant days and other suns have seen.
(Dr. Shaw)
It matters that this tiny, tough college has sprung back
from two closings and several nadirs of mediocrity and
that it has throughout the centuries attracted the oddly
intense sentiment-accompanied, to be sure, until re-
cently by rather more subdued financial solicitude-of
its alumni. It matters that it is a microcosm in which
60
of liberal education are of the highest benefit to society?'
My point is: In the large enthusiasm of the founding such
fine-grain question as just how the liberality of education was to underwrite the liberty of the republic fell
through the cracks of the argument. To be sure, it was
or religious, without examinat~on and consequent conviction." (This same Samuel Knox, incidentally, nearly
did us in. Belonging to what might be called the] effersonian faction in education, he prefaced his essay with
an address to the Maryland legislature urging them to
support local academies, that is, secondary education in
the counties, rather than a college for the wealthy in the
state capital. This advice was what it had long been looking for: It withdrew financial support and the college fell
into its first decline.) But how one might implant liberty
in a mind was as dark then as "teaching students to think
for themselves" is now. It was a time not for theory but
SUMMER 1984
�for turning out competent citizen-rulers, and that is just
what the college did in its first Golden Age.
In its second Golden Age it was right and timely for
the college to ask the perennial question "what is the relation of liberty to learning?" and to make the ground of
the inquiry the hypothesis that the connection may be
found in the soul of the learner. Its doing so was timely
because thus the college acknowledged that the easy and
immediate relation of those early days between liberal
learning and republican statesmanship had long been
ruptured. And it was wise because thus the college
brought forward the oldest and the newest, the most persistent and the most urgent, of all political questions:
What is the relation of thought to action?
So the hypothesis which discerning critics who charge
the college under the New Program with being an "ivory
tower" would have to refute are these: That we do live
in a country in which there is liberty and that liberty
is both exercised and preserved by true action, namely,
free action. That such action is by its very nature preceded by thought, from which it follows that human beings, the young especially, ought to have a period of reflective learning as a prelude to both private and public
action. That this pedagogical prelude should take the
form of liberal, that is to say, non-vocational, education,
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
not only because such learning is a deep need and a perennial possibility of the human soul, but even more
because the theory that is meant to precede action cannot be pursued otherwise than freely, that is to say,
spontaneously.
The St. John's Program, then, is nothing but a
coherent set of occasions for encouraging liberal learning. The question of real interest, just how it is specifically
designed to induce liberty of soul, I leave, as is fitting,
to one of the most characteristic of these occasions, the
question period.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Charlotte Fletcher, "1784: the Year St. John's College Was Named",
Maryland Histon'cal Magazine, Vol. 74, No. 2, June 1979.
Richard Hofstadter, Academic Freedom in the Age of the College, (New
York 1955).
David Ridgely, Annals of Annapolis, 1649-1812 (Baltimore 1841), pp.
237-244.
Essays on Education in the Early Republic, ed. Frederick Rudolph (Cambridge 1965).
Bernard C. Steiner, History of Education in Maryland (Washington 1894).
J. Winfree Smith, A Search for the Liberal Arts College, (St.John's College Press 1983).
Tench Francis Tilghman, The Early History of St. John's College in Annapolis, (St. John's College Press 1984).
61
�William Smith: Godfather and
First President of St. John's College*
Arthur Pierce Middleton
0
n Wednesday, November 11, 1789, an event
occurred in Annapolis which the college's
historian, Tench Tilghman, has described
as the day that St. John's College officially
began its academic career. Members of the
General Assembly, the Chancellor, judges of the General
Court, gentlemen of the bar, and the worshipful corporation of the city, followed by the students and a "numerous
and respectable concourse of people;' went in procession
from the State House, through North Street, to what is
now called College Avenue, and then to Bladen's Folly,
which had been converted into a suitable building to
house St. John's College. There-presumably in the
Great Hall- Dr. William Smith, who had been named
the day before president pro tern of the College, preached
what the Maryland Gazette described as "an elegant sermon;' and the Rector of St. Anne's Parish and former
Master of King William's School, Ralph Higginbotham,
gave an oration on the advantages of a classical education.
Why William Smith was an excellent choice- indeed
the obvious one- for both president pro tern of the infant college and for preacher on this auspicious occasion
is what I am here to explain. And I may add that it is
strange that such an eminent figure in the intellectual
circles of eighteenth-century America needs any introduction at all. But the sad fact is that he is not as well known
today as he deserves to be- or as he was to his
contemporaries.
A Colonial historian, Canon Middleton is a former Director of Research for
Colonial Williamsburg, and former Research Associate and lecturer at the
Institute of Early American History at the College of William and Mary. This
discourse was delivered in the "'lCa and History" Series, King William Room,
The Library, November 6, 1984.
*An address given in the "Tea and History" Series, King William
Room, the Library, November 6, 1984.
62
Born in Aberdeenshire, Scotland, in 172 7, William
Smith was the son of a small landholder and the grandson of a physician and astronomer. His sister married
an officer of the Royal Navy who later acquired fame
as an admiral who defeated a Dutch fleet in 1797 and
was elevated to the peerage as Viscount Duncan of
Camperdown. One of his brothers settled in Philadelphia,
practiced law, and eventually became a judge of the
highest court in Pennsylvania.
William Smith was educated at King's College, Aberdeen, just at the beginning of the great Scottish
renaissance of the eighteenth century. After serving as
a schoolmaster for a time, he came to New York in 1751
as a private tutor to the sons of a wealthy gentleman on
Long Island. While there he published poetry in the New
York and Pennsylvania newspapers, a letter in defense
of freedom of the press, and a pamphlet on education
urging the creation of a college in New York City.
In 1753 he published his magnum opus, a pamphlet,
(of 86 pages) entitled A General Idea of the College of Mirania,
with a Sketch of the Method of Teaching Science and Religion.
Intended for the proposed college in New York, it set forth
Smith's concept of the curriculum and methods of
teaching appropriate to a liberal arts college. And it was
a real breakthrough for the twenty-six year old scholar,
for, as we shall see, it fell into the hands of Benjamin
Franklin and led to Smith's appointment as head of the
Academy of Philadelphia, which was about to be made
into a college.
Smith was a strong believer in a classical education,
but, in the characteristic vein of the Age of Reason, he
proposed rejecting some things commonly taught at colleges and adding others. Inspired by a quotation from
Archbishop John Tillotson (1630-94 ), he held that "the
knowledge of what tends neither directly nor indirectly
to make better men and better citizens, is but a knowledge
SUMMER 1984
�of Trifles: it is not learning, but a specious and ingenious
sort ofidlenessc' Consequently, Smith rejected the "Rubbish" of the vast tomes of ancient Rabbis, Schoolmen,
and modern Metaphysicians, and also "the polemic
writers about Grace, Predestination, moral Agency, the
Trinity, Ec Ec;' and added that "The years of Methusalem
would be far too short to attain any Proficiency in all
the Disputes and Researches of this kind, which have so
long puzzled the learned world, and are still as much
undecided as at first. Almighty God seems to have set
the knowledge of many Things beyond our present Ken,
on purpose to confound our Pride."
Instead, Smith recommended "rejecting Things
superfluous and hypothetical" and urged that we "mount
directly up to fundamental Principles, and endeavour to
ascertain the Relations we stand in to God and universal Intelligence, that we may sustain, with dignity, the
Rank assign'd us among intellectual Natures, and move
in Concert, with the rest of Creation, in accomplishing
the great End of all thingsc'
Such a distinction was a little daring for a college
erected in a colony in 1753, where the natural tendency
was to avoid anything novel and to cleave, instead, to the
accepted ways of the Mother Country. Smith made
another distinction that was, perhaps, even more daring, by dividing the whole body of prospective students
into two categories: those who had an aptitude for the
learned professions, and all the rest- including those
whose aptitude inclined to the mechanic arts. Different
training, he thought, should be provided for the two
groups. The classic languages, for example, would be of
use to the former, but a waste of time for the latter.
The book had no immediate results. King's College,
which opened in New York six months after the book
appeared, was, as Smith ruefully observed, "on a plan
somewhat different:' But the copy of the College of Mirania
that he sent to Franklin did produce results, and Smith
was invited to be the head of the Philadelphia Academy.
Before taking up his post, however, he returned to
England where he was ordained a priest of the Church,
and where he conducted a highly successful fund drive
for the Academy of Philadelphia. Upon his return in
1754, he set about to transform the school into a college,
and began his long and distinguished career as its provost.
During the next quarter of a century, William Smith
became a fixture in the intellectual life of the City of
Brotherly Love, and one of the chief promoters of the
new liberal cultural movement in the fields of belleslettres, art, music, and drama that developed there in
the second half of the eighteenth century. His students
at the college formed a nucleus of a group that included
Francis Hopkinson (musician, composer, poet, and later
a Signer of the Declaration of Independence and designer
of the American flag); Thomas Godfrey, Jr. (poet,
playwright, and author of the "Prince of Parthia" c.
1758-59), and Benjamin West (whose aptitude Smith
discovered, and who studied art in Italy in 1760, and
became the court portrait painter to George III and
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
ultimately president of the Royal Academy). In the realm
of law and politics, one of Smith's students who later made
good was William Paca, lawyer, Signer of the Declaration of Independence, governor of Maryland, and a
Federal judge. One of the ways in which Smith sought
out and encouraged literary ability was by founding a
magazine in 1757 which, though short-lived, proved to
be a vehicle for many rising young men of talent.
Culturally, it was the most influential periodical in colonial America-and was entitled The American
Magazine, or Monthy Chronicle for the British Colonies.
As Smith's biographer, Alfred Gegenheimer, has said,
the almost simultaneous production by three proteges
of Smith of one of the earliest American musical compositions, the first American drama to be professionally
performed, and the first American painting of permanent worth is a phenomenon-and William Smith was
the catalyst of this outburst of musical, dramatic, and
artistic talent.
Smith's fame spread far and wide, eventually reaching
his fellow countrymen in Great Britain. While he was
there, raising money for the college in 1759, he received
the degree of Doctor of Divinity from Aberdeen, Oxford, and Dublin universities-an uncommon distinction
for a colonial.
Liberal though he was in cultural and intellectual
matters, William Smith was somewhat conservative in
matters political. Almost as soon as he arrived in
Philadelphia, he began to participate in public affairs,
writing pamphlets, publishing letters, and preaching sermons. Though sharing many cultural and educational
ideas with Franklin, Smith soon quarreled with him on
political grounds. Franklin belonged to the antiproprietary or country party, whereas Smith identified
himself with the proprietary party and frequently
castigated the Quakers, who dominated the legislature,
for refusing to appropriate funds to defend the frontier
settlements against Indian attacks. On one occasionin 1758-he was arrested by the Assembly, convicted of
libel, denied the right of habeas corpus, and sent to prison.
Supported by the trustees of the college and by the proprietary governor, Smith taught his classes in moral
philosophy through the prison bars. Released by the
courts, he went to England and appealed his case. It took
a long time and a great deal of money, but eventually
the King-in-Council sustained his appeal and directed
the governor to declare His Majesty's "High Displeasure"
at the Assembly's unwarranted disregard of habeas corpus. Smith was completely vindicated and British justice
triumphed.
As the controversies that led to the Revolution unfolded, Smith readily sympathized with the grievances
that the colonists expressed after the Stamp Act debacle,
but he was very slow, indeed, to accept the idea of independence, holding to the increasingly forlorn hope that
sooner or later the British Government would make
amends and grant sufficient autonomy to satisfy the
Americans and to reconcile them to a continuance within
63
�the British Empire. But such was not to be, and his reluctance to embrace the concept of seceding from the Empire until after July 4, 1776, got him into trouble with
the patriot party. On January 6, 1776, he was called
before the Philadelphia Council of Safety charged with
speaking disrespectfully of the Continential Congress.
There being no evidence, the charge was dropped.
Curiously enough, the next month Congress invited him
to give an oration commemorating General Montgomery
and the men who had fallen with him in his unsuccessful
attack on Quebec. Smith also defended the colonists' action at Lexington and Concord as justifiable selfpreservation. And on December 8, 1778, Smith preached
in Christ Church, Philadelphia, to a Masonic gathering
in the presence of George Washington. Hence, he could
scarcely have been considered a loyalist at that time. The
moderation of his views, which caused some to suspect
him of being a loyalist, led others to look upon him as
a rebel. On December 20, 1776, the loyalist, Samuel
Seabury (later to become Bishop of Connecticut), wrote
to the English ecclesiastical authorities that Smith, like
other Philadelphia priests, "rushed headlong into the
Rebellion:' This perception of him by others as being
something other than what he felt himself to be did
nothing for his volatile disposition and probably provoked
him to register his resentment in rather strong language.
During the Revolution, soldiers were quartered on
the college grounds, and most students returned to their
homes. When the British troops approached Philadelphia,
the college was shut down for nearly two years. It reopened in January, 1779, shortly after the British
evacuated the city. But Smith's adversaries in the
Assembly persuaded that body to dissolve the trustees
and faculty of the college, and to substitute a new board
that was more under the control of the legislature.
It must have been heartbreaking for Smith to be cast
out after nearly thirty years of devoted and distinguished
service to the college. In 1780 he left Philadelphia and accepted a call to Chestertown, Maryland, where he became
Rector of St. Paul's and Chester parishes. Since his stipend of 600 bushels of wheat per annum was inadequate,
it was understood that he was free to accept a few private
students, and shortly thereafter he was put in charge of
the Kent County Free School, of which Charles Willson
Peale's father had been the master forty years before.
Within two years Smith had conceived of the idea of a
University of Maryland composed of two colleges, one
on each shore of the Chesapeake Bay, and he raised funds
and persuaded the Maryland Assembly to charter
Washington College in Chestertown. By May 14, 1783,
when the first commencement took place, Smith had
raised more than £10,000 Maryland currency, and the
list of subscribers was headed by the national idol,
General Washington, who gave £50 and permitted his
name to be used for the college. At its third commencement- in 1785- nine men were awarded Doctor of
Divinity degrees, including the Jesuit, John Carroll, who
had helped Smith draw up the charter of St.John's Col-
64
lege the year before, and who later became the first
Roman Catholic bishop in the United States and the first
Archbishop of Baltimore.
Meanwhile, Smith published a pamphlet in 1788 appealing to the Pennsylvania Assembly to reinstate the
violated charter of the College of Philadelphia. Now that
the rancors of the Revolutionary War were beginning to
subside, many prominent men exerted influence in
Smith's behalf. In 1789 the Assembly reinstated the old
trustees, faculty, and provost. Smith was vindicated once
more, but it meant that he must forsake his fledgling college in Chestertown and return to Philadelphia. Oddly
enough, in the year 1789 when he served as president
of St. John's College, temporarily and for ceremonial
reasons, he was also president of Washington College,
Chestertown, and of the College of Philadelphia as well.
I wonder how often in our history one man was president of three institutions of higher learning at the same
time!
When Smith created Washington College in 1782, the
preamble of the charter described it as a part of a projected university which was to include a sister college on
the Western Shore, the two to be united under one
jurisdiction. Since this concept of a state university
bestride the Chesapeake (like the Colossus of Rhodes)
was the product of his fertile brain, it is only natural that
Smith, the most eminent academician in the United
States, should have been in the forefront of the move to
create a college on the Western Shore to balance the one
in Chestertown. A group of gentlemen met in Annapolis
on December 3, 1784, to hasten the project. They appointed six men- three clerics and three laics- to a committee to "complete the . . . bill for founding a college
on the Western Shore, and to publish the same immediately:' Imagine how long it would take today! But
in those halcyon days, the job was done in less than two
weeks. ''A Draught of a Proposed Act ... for Founding
a College on the Western Shore of this State, and for constituting the same, together with Washington College on
the Eastern Shore, into one University, by the Name of
the University of Maryland" was published, and later
enacted by the House of Delegates on December 30,
1784.
In passing, it is worth noticing that pursuant to the
Maryland Declaration of Rights of 1776, which swept
away all the civil and financial prerogatives of the
Anglican (or Episcopal) Church, the three ecclesiastics
on the committee respresented the three principal subdivisions of Maryland's Christian community: Dr. Smith
the Episcopalians, John Carroll the Roman Catholics,
and Patrick Allison, a Presbyterian divine, the Protestants
generally, and especially the dissenters from the former
Established Church. The Draught borrowed large portions of the Washington College charter which had been
written by Smith. After the charter of the new college
in Annapolis was enacted, Smith declared that he and
his Roman Catholic and Presbyterian colleagues had
draughted it "happily and with great unanimity:'
SUMMER 1984
�This ecumenical concord, together with the toleration engendered by the Age of Reason, Jet them to write
into the charter that all qualified students were to be admitted "without requiring or enforcing any religious or
civil test" and "without urging their attendance upon any
particular worship or service, other than what they have
been educated in, or have the consent and approbation
of their parents or guardians to attend:' But there was
no idea of trying to eliminate religion from education.
The college was to nurture students in their own church
affiliations and provide them with opportunity to frequent
their particular foJ.ms of worship in the churches in
Annapolis.
While all this was going on in the 1780s, Dr. Smith
was active and influential in the Church in Maryland
and on a national level. Four months after arriving in
Chestertown in 1780, he presided over a convention consisting of three priests and twenty-four laymen, which
made the first move towards organizing the Diocese of
Maryland. This was the first convention of the Episcopal
Church in any of the thirteen American States that was
composed oflay representatives as well as clergy and that
undertook to cope with the changes brought about by
the Revolution in the polity and liturgy of the Anglican
Church in America. Annual conventions were held in
Maryland thereafter, and Smith was chosen to preside
over every one of them until he left the State and returned
to Philadelphia in 1789. These conventions erected the
diocese of Maryland, created a constitution and canons,
and, in 1783, chose Dr. Smith as biship-elect of Maryland.
On the national stage, too, Smith emerged as one of the
leaders, along with William White (first Bishop of Pennsylvania) and Samuel Seabury (first Bishop of Connecticut). Smith's organizing talent, impressive intellectual
stature, and speaking ability resulted in his election as
president of all the early general conventions of the
Church, and his selectiol'l as chairman of the committees that formulated the constitution of the Episcopal
Church and produced the first American Book of Common Prayer in 1789-the very year in which he served
as President pro tern of St. John's College, participated
in its opening ceremonies, and preached his "elegant Sermon." These are indications of his eminence in the eyes
of his colleagues and contemporaries.
William Smith's life and career were crowned with
success and recognition, and he became one of the
foremost celebrities of his day. But he suffered several
adversities, and they, rather than his triumphs, give us
insight into his character. One was when he was imprisoned unjustly by the Pennsylvania Assembly. Another
was when he was ejected from his provostship of the College of Philadelphia by the political machinations of his
enemies. In both cases he resolutely resisted and ultimately obtained vindication, which indicates his con-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
fidence in justice and his strength of character. After all,
the classical authors whom he taught had said that as
fire tests gold, so adversity tests brave men!
But his other great adversity, the chagrin and humiliation of being denied consecration to the Episcopate,
reveals him to be a man whose faith was even greater
than his pride and his ambition. All the reasons for this
disappointment are not known to us, but it appears that,
like many eighteenth-century gentlemen, Smith was accustomed all his life to imbibe hard liquor in liberal
amounts. He was certainly not an alcoholic-his active
life and prodigious achievements make that quite clear.
Although he did not habitually overindulge-at least in
public- he was reported to have done so once, while attending the General Convention in New York. Smith
denied the allegation and called for proof, which as far
as we know was never forthcoming. The Maryland Convention dismissed the allegation as unproven-and even
unlikely- but the charge hung over him like a cloud, and
he never again applied to the General Convention for
confirmation of his election or for recommendation to
the Archbishop of Canterbury for consecration.
This darkest hour, I think, proved paradoxically to
be his finest hour. He was, in effect, considered guilty
until proved innocent, which is a cr~el reversal of the
juridical axiom. And his undeniable contributions to the
Church, and especially his organizing and liturgical
abilities, seem to justify his consecration as the first
Bishop of Maryland. Much as he yearned for the lawn
sleeves of a bishop, Smith did not allow what in his view
was unwarranted rejection to curtail his devoted service
to the Church. He continued to serve in any way the
Church could use him. And he remained one of the most
prominent priests of the Church, being chosen to preside
over every convention in Maryland until he left in 1789,
and over every House of Deputies of General Convention until 1801 when ill health prevented him. In addition, he had the high honor of being selected to preach
the sermon at the burial of his old political enemy, Benjamin Franklin, and he was chosen to preach at the consecreation of the first three bishops of the Episcopal
Church that were consecrated in America: Thomas John
Claggett of Maryland, Robert Smith of South Carolina,
and Edward Bass of Massachusetts. Moreover, he remained on friendly terms with Bishop White, who opposed his consecration, and with Dr. Andrews, who made
the allegation against him in the first place. It would seem
that love of Christ and his holy Church took precedence
over egotism, righteous indignation, and- ambition. There
is perhaps no better illustration of his Christian character
than this. And this eminent and impressive academic and
churchman was the first president pro tern of St. John's
College.
65
�BooK REviEw
The Early History of
St. John's College in Annapolis
Tench Francis Tilghman
Annapolis, St. John's College Press, 1934.
XIII+199 pp. Illustrations. $13.00
hen Tench Francis Tilghman
wrote The Early His tory of St.
John's College some forty years
ago, he wanted to use it as a "kind of glass
to view the changes in American educa-
W
tion as they affected the smaller college."
What emerges in the telling is a conservative St. John's, more faithful to a liberal
arts curriculum adopted in 1789 than
responsive to the winds of educational
change blowing through other early
American colleges. Referring often to
passing educational fads in American colleges contemporary with St. Johds, Dr.
Tilghman details the insubstantial
changes made in St. John's original curriculum until, following the lead of other
American colleges, its board in 1923
adopted an elective program.
Dr. Tilghman writes wittily, irreverently, and ironically about the college's trial and perils throughout one hundred and fifty years. He describes the
state of student morals, faculty woes and
board resilience amid the snares of
sociable Annapolis, the "ancient city;'
which grew more provincial while
Baltimore developed into the metropolis
of Maryland. The book offers an entertaining slice of Maryland history, a
chronicle of youth at the Western Shore
college attended by many Eastern
Sharemen, where students studied,
drilled, frolicked and sported. Their life
styles were influenced by a series of
presidents, but most profoundly by three
outstanding ones: John McDowell, a
graduate of the College of Philadelphia,
a gentle disciplinarian who led by example; the Reverend Hector Humphrey, a
66
graduate of Yale, a stern disciplinarian
with puritanical leanings; and genial
Thomas Fell, educated at King's College,
London University, Heidleberg, and
Munich, who presided when sports and
dances became an integral part of college
life at St. John's and other American
colleges.
Private citizens and the Legislature
made generous pledges to launch St.
John's in 1784: the Legislature by charter
promised it a perpetual grant of 1750
pounds per annum. When St. John's and
King William's School merged in 1786
(Dr. Tilghman questions that it was a
merger), the King William's board
pledged two thousand pounds and agreed
to close their school, called the Annapolis
School, when the college opened. Because
of this agreement, St.John's felt a special
obligation to educate Annapolis youths,
and in 1789 it opened a grammar school
which operated as part of the college until 1923.
Between 1789 and 1805, years later
called the "golden age;' the college prospered. Then in 1806 a republican Qeffersonian democratic) majority in the
Legislature rescinded the charter provisions which promised St. John's and
Washington colleges adequate taxgenerated incomes "forever." The
Republicans favored the founding of
county academies over supporting the two
colleges founded by the Federalists. PresidentJohn McDowell resigned in protest.
Those who could have provided the
needed financial support, though outraged by the perfidy of the Legislature,
followed its example: they gave nothing
from their personal wealth to run the college. Thereafter the board was forced to
beg at each biennial session of the
Legislature for what little money it
received.
Twenty-five years later in 1830 the
board (helped by an alumni aSsociation
composed of men educated in the
McDowell years) persuaded the Reverend
Hector Humphrey to become president.
Under his administration the buildings
on St. John's campus known as Humphrey and Pinkney were built. He imposed strict rules of conduct on grammar
school and college students alike. He continued a voluntary military program
begun in 1826, partly for discipline, partly
for exercise (there was no athletic program), and partly for career training.
Like the grammar school, the military
program, compulsory at times, continued
until 1923. Dr. Tilghman believes that the
grammar school and the military program hindered the development of St.
John's as a college.
During the nineteenth century, student fees and state grants plus fees received from the pasturage of cows at fifty
cents a head per month, a fee later raised
to two dollars, made up the college income. The board converted each grant into scholarships. For instance, in 1850,
when the state granted $15,000, the board
offered one hundred and fifty scholarships
worth one hundred dollars each. What a
student was charged over and above the
amount he received as a scholarship was
reserved for faculty salaries, and a teacher
was assigned the job of collecting it. Once
in desperation an unpaid teacher sug-
SUMMER 1984
�gested that scholarships be sold to produce revenue. Dr. Tilghman remarks,
"How anyone could sell a scholarship, and
yet have it remain a scholarship, is more
than a little puzzling."
Out-of-state students would have
brought money to the college but none
enrolled. In 1853 Professor EJ. Stearns
resigned in disgust saying that St. John's
remained a small provincial college
because the faculty was horribly overworked and underpaid; antiquated textbooks were studied instead of original
works; and "young men will not come to
be treated under school-boy discipline."
Yet the presidents and faculty were
not provincial in either background or
outlook. They came from respected colleges and universities, and when they left
Annapolis many joined prestigious
faculties elsewhere. St. John's offered "a
complete and general education, that
which fits a man to perform justly, skilfully and magnanimously all the offices,
both private and public, of peace and
war," like Milton's ideal college, a model
cited in a letter written by President
Henry Barnard. In truth many St.John's
alumni filled important offices in the
state, church, and military services.
The early college almost expired
several times for lack of money. During
the Civil War the college campus was
commandeered as a Union parole camp
and hospital. Until the college reopened
in 1866 Professor William Thompson
held classes in town, thus fulfilling a college obligation by charter amendment
always to teach at least five foundation,
or charity, boys.
In 1809 the U.S. Supreme Court had
ruled for Dartmouth College against the
state of Massachusetts for breach of contract. The St.John's board, believing that
the state of Maryland had acted unconstitutionally, like Massachusetts, when
it refused in 1806 to continue an annual
grant promised St. John's by charter, sued
the state in 1859. Subsequently, the
Maryland Court of Appeals ruled that the
state had indeed breached a contract, but
because the college had continued to accept a lesser state money under an "Act
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
of Compromise" agreed to in 1830, it no Dean Scott Buchanan, and the colonizlonger had claim to the original grant. ing expansion to Santa :Fe, New Mexico,
Years later, in 1880, the St. John's board under President Richard D. Weigle, in
declared that state pride alone prevented the early 1960s.
it from taking its case to the U.S. Supreme
Dr. Tilghman's history and Reverend
Court. This veiled threat worked: "The J. Winfree Smith's The Search for a Liberal
Legislature rose nobly to the occasion," CoLLege, which covers the early years under
restored the arrearage accumulated since the New Program, both published by the
1861 and approved an annual appropria- St. .John's Press to celebrate the college's
tion plus a five-year grant.
two-hundredth anniversary in 1984,
When Thomas Fell became president should be read tog·ethcr. Interesting
in 1886, the college consisted of sixty-eight parallels are immediately obvious. Viewstudents and a campus full of dilapidated ing St. John's of the New Program era
buildings. The student body grew and through the glass Tilghman provides, we
three buildings- Woodward (the sec the Dartmouth College case cited
Library), Randall (a dining-room and again in the 1940s, by President Barr
dormitory), and Iglehart (the gym- when he defended the St. John's campus
nasium) -were built during his ad- against encroachment by the U.S. Naval
ministration. When he resigned in 1923 Academy. Earlier board efforts to unite
"he took with him the affection of hun- two colleges within a university under the
dreds of old students."
1784 charter preceeded the founding of
Dr. Tilghman divides the one hun- a second St. John's College in New Mexdred and fifty years of St. John's history ico in 1960 under that charter. In 1890 a
into eight epochs and describes in detail proposal that women be educated at St.
the curriculums adopted in each. The John's was introduced by trustee-alumnus
first, designed by President John ] udge Daniel R. Magruder: women were
McDowell and the Reverend Ralph Hig- admitted to St. John's in 1950. In 1891
ginbotham, was the most rigorous of all. President T'homas tell unsuccessfully
It required proficiency in the ancient solicited private donors for an endowlanguages, mathematics, natural philoso- ment: President Weigle made many sucphy, and logic. To graduate, a student had cessful solicitations in his administration
to undergo a public examination. In the (1950-1980). A good curriculum underlate 1860s President James Clarke Well- girded the early college just as the curing introduced English literature with the riculum known as the New Program
reading of Shakespeare, Milton, Spenser, undergirds today's college.
Hooker, and 'T3.ylor; and he added Plato's
I disagree with Dr. Tilghman's view
dialogues and the Greek dramatists to the on the relationship between King
list of Greek classics read.
William's School and St. John's College.
Dr. Tilghman treats the eighth epoch I believe that a new corporation was
(1923-193 7) very briefly. I hope some day created by a merger between the two ensomeone will cover this period more fully. tities in 1786 and that St. John's College
For in 1923 the board discontinued the is a continuation of King William's
grammar school and military program, School. This view has been more fully
making St. John's solely a four-year liberal developed in a paper that has been acarts college. Four teachers appointed in cepted for future publication.
this period- George Bingley, Ford K.
Charlotte Fletcher
Brown, John S. Kieffer, who served as
both president and dean under the New
Program, and Richard Scofield -were to
help steady the college at two critical junctures in its twentieth-ce/ntury life: the Charlotte Fletcher was librarian of St. John's College, Annapolis, from 1944 until 1980. Her article
transition to the New Program in 193 7 1784: The Year St. John's College waJ- named was pubunder President Stringfellow Barr and lished in the Maryland Historical Magazine in 1978.
67
�The Old Gods
What titanic captive, god in chains
smokes the earth with his dire
breath that scorches? All are bound
in blood, lapping rock with flame
which flares towards the sources, then
reverses to fall back into the cave
where puppets dance in mockery
of truth.
Dolphins hammer the sea
to dints of foam, pressing a shield
for the adamant depth; who knows
what immortal agony exhorts them
to friend the singer as a brother.
How seeps that song of harmony
filtering through fault's abyss?
Stricken priestess chants her office,
mad eyes trail a clue of destiny.
Whose altar is the overwhelming will?
The answer blinds us, leaves us asking still.
Gretchen Berg
Gretchen Berg is a graduate of St. John's College, Annapolis. She lives in
Vermont where she pursues her interest in writing and painting.
68
SUMMER 1984
��The St. John's Review
St. John's College
Annapolis, Maryland 21404
Non-profit Org.
U.S. Postage
PAID
Permit No. 66
Lutherville, Md.
�
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<em>The St. John's Review</em><span> is published by the Office of the Dean, St. John's College. All manuscripts are subject to blind review. Address correspondence to </span><em>The St. John's Review</em><span>, St. John's College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, MD 21401 or via e-mail at </span><a class="obfuscated_link" href="mailto:review@sjc.edu"><span class="obfuscated_link_text">review@sjc.edu</span></a><span>.</span><br /><br /><em>The St. John's Review</em> exemplifies, encourages, and enhances the disciplined reflection that is nurtured by the St. John's Program. It does so both through the character most in common among its contributors — their familiarity with the Program and their respect for it — and through the style and content of their contributions. As it represents the St. John's Program, The St. John's Review espouses no philosophical, religious, or political doctrine beyond a dedication to liberal learning, and its readers may expect to find diversity of thought represented in its pages.<br /><br /><em>The St. John's Review</em> was first published in 1974. It merged with <em>The College </em>beginning with the July 1980 issue. From that date forward, the numbering of <em>The St. John's Review</em> continues that of <em>The College</em>. <br /><br />Click on <a title="The St. John's Review" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=13"><strong>Items in the The St. John's Review Collection</strong></a> to view and sort all items in the collection.
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St. John's College
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thestjohnsreview
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The St. John's Review (formerly The College), Summer 1984
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1984-07
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Sterling, J. Walter
Parran, Jr., Thomas
Walsh, Jason
Freis, S. Richard
Sachs, Joe
Stickney, Cary
Wilson, Curtis A.
Sachs, Joe
Brann, Eva T. H.
Killorin, Joseph
Buchanan, Scott
Thompson, William
Klein, Jacob
Zuckerman, Elliot
Kieffer, John S.
Zuckerkandl, Victor
Smith, J. Winfree
Middleton, Arthur Pierce
Fletcher, Charlotte
Berg, Gretchen
Description
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Volume XXXV, number 3 of The St. John's Review, formerly The College. Published in Summer 1984.
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The_St_Johns_Review_Vol_35_No_3_1984
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College
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English
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St. John's Review
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Text
THE
St. o
'sReview
I
:
... ::: ............... ~--'~---1. ....... .
. . .
I
··.. . .
·.. :•. .
'
I
.•
.
..
)·<··
. · _:.-··
-
Winter, 1985
'·
�Editor:
J. Walter Sterling
Poetry Editor:
Richard Freis
Editorial Assistant:
Jason Walsh
Editorial Board:
Eva Brann
S. Richard Freis,
Alumni representative
Joe Sachs
Cary Stickney
Curtis A. Wilson
To the editor:
At the urging of alumni and colleagues, and with the co-operation of
Mrs. Klein, I am undertaking to
gather material for a brieflife of jacob
Klein. I shall be pleased to have
documents, reminiscences, or other
memorabilia.
I would be particularly pleased to
hear from alumni who were members
of his classes in his first years of
teaching, especially his first seminar.
Wye J. Allanbrook
St. John's College
Unsolicited articles, storieS, and poems
are welcome, but should be accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed
envelope in each instance. Reasoned
comments are also welcome.
The St. John's Review (formerly The College) is published by the Office of the
Dean, St. John's College, Annapolis,
Maryland 21404. Edwin J. Delattre,
President, George Do'skow, Dean.
Published thrice yearly, in the winter,
spring, and summer. For those not on
the distribution list, subscriptions:
$12.00 yearly, $24.00 for two years, or
$36.00 for three years, payable in advance. Address all correspondence to
The St. John's Review, St.John's College,
Annapolis, Maryland 21404.
Volume XXXVI, Number 1
Winter, 1985
©
1985 St. John's College; All rights
reserved. Reproduction in whole or in
part without permission is prohibited.
ISSN 0277-4720
Composit£on: Fishergate Publishing Co. 1 Inc.
Printing: St. John's College Press
Cover: A Black-Figured Amphora
from the Boston Museum (Drawn,
measured and analyzed by L.D.
Caskey).
�THE
StJohn's Review
Contents
2 ...... The Parable of Don Quixote
Joe Sachs
10 ...... Politics and the Imagination
Eva Brann
19 ...... Five From The Old Testament (poem)
J
Kates
22 ...... James Joyce's Soul
Joseph Engelberg
27 ...... Watching Plains Daybreak (poem)
Richard Freis
28 ...... Self-Portraits
Elliott Zuckerman
36 ...... The Opera Singer as Interpreter:
A Conversation with Sherrill Milnes
Susan Fain
40 ...... Dynamic Symmetry, A Theory of Art and Nature
Howard J Fisher
56 . . . . . . The Song of Timaeus
Peter Kalkavage
68 . . . . . . A Note on Eva Brann's "Roots of Modernity"
Chaninah Maschler
BooK REviEw
77 . . . . . . Rhythmic Gesture in Mozart: Le Nozze de Figaro and Don Giovanni
John Plato.ff
79 . . . . . . The Presence of Grace and Other Book Reviews by Flannery
O'Connor
Victor Gallerano
�THE ST. JoHN's REviEw
Winter 1985
The Parable of Don Quixote
Joe Sachs
n the twenty-fifth chapter of the first part of Don
Quixote, the fortunes and spirits of the book's hero
are at their lowest. He has been bruised and
laughed at, and has lost part of an ear and most
of his teeth. He has mistaken an inn for a castle,
whores for maidens, and windmills and sheep_ for
enemies. His intervention in the affairs of others has led
a servant boy to be beaten worse than before, and has
set loose on Spain an entire column of convicts who have
made him and Sancho the first of their new victims. Even
the simple-hearted Sancho has lost his trust in his master.
" 'God alive, Sir Knight of the Mournful Countenance;
said Sancho, 'I cannot bear in patience some of the things
that your Grace says! Listening to you, I come to think
that all you have told me about deeds of chivalry ...
is but wind and lies, all buggery or humbuggery, or
whatever you choose to call it. When anyone hears your
Grace ... , what is he to think except that such a one
is out of his mind?' " Shortly Don Quixote will be left
alone, sunk in gloom, in the Sierra Moreno, the Dark
Mountains. He had entered that lonely place partly out
of fear of the police, a fear which could influence him
because of his disappointment over the behavior of those
he thought he was helping. But even at such a time, Don
Quixote has an answer for his squire.
" 'Look, Sancho; said Pon Quixote, 1Jy that same God
I swear that you have less sense than any squire in the
world ever had. How is it possible for you to have accompanied me all this time without coming to perceive
I
Joe Sachs is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis. His lecture The JtUry
of Aeneas appeared in the Winter '82 issue of the Review. The Parable of Don
Quixote was origin<>.lly delivered as a formal lecture at St. John's College, Annapolis in September, 1982.
2
that all the things that have to do with knights-errant
appear to be mad, foolish, and chimerical, and everything
happens backwards?' "It is Don Quixote's standard evasion when things go wrong or he is proved wrong: we
are enchanted. Our senses are not to be trusted, and
things are not as they seem. In this case he is ·driven to
claim that everything is exactly the opposite of the way
it seems, and he is right.
The remainder of Part one, after Don Quixote enters
the Sierra Moreno, is the long unfolding of a series of
happy endings of stories yet to be made known to us,
and which come to pass without any effort on Don
Quixote's part. His last action in Part one is the freeing
of the convicts in Chapter twenty-two, with thirty chapters
remaining. Yet none of the good that is done in those
thirty chapters could have happened were it not for the
earlier deeds of Don Quixote. And the happy endings
do not come about by some comic reversal of Don Quixote's intentions. They grow out of his deeds directly in
the spirit of those deeds, by a Quixotic contagion. Finally,
it is not the case that Don Quixote's actions are justified
only by unforeseen cons~quences, but each of his acts
is, for those who have eyes to see it, good in itself, and
exactly the opposite of the way it seems.
Pairs of contrasting opposites in Don Quixote are often
remarked. The book combines the conventions of romantic fiction with all the ugly, smelly facts of real life. Of
the two main characters, one is tall, thin, energetic, and
spiritual, the other short, fat, lazy, and corporeal. The
main character acts like a lunatic but speaks like the wisest
of men. But the most important contrast in the book is
less often noticed. It is that between the story the narrator understands himself to be telling and the one he
tells, and it points the way to the underlying distinction
on which the book is built: the distinction between fact
and truth.
WINTER 1985
�Cervantes puts between himself and his story a
historian who comes from a nation known for lying
(I.9,II.3), a translator, and perhaps one or more other
people; it is the sort of matter about which Cervantes
is not a very careful bookkeeper. But there is one consistent voice which presents to us all the episodes in the
book, including those which precede the beginning of
Cid Hamete Benengeli's manuscript and those for which,
as Sancho notes with awe, there was no human witness.
The narrator through whom we know all that we know
of Don Quixote tells us that when his character decided
to become a knight he looked around for a make-believe
beloved just as he looked for a sword and helmet; but
the same narrator gives a careful reader all the information he needs to see that Alonso Quixano has been
secretly and hopelessly in love with Aldonza Lorenzo for
twelve years (I.1,I.25). The narrator mocks Don Quixote's speech about the Golden Age as nonsense which
only occurs to him by an association with acorns (I.11),
but the goatherds to whom it is addressed are moved by
Don Quixote's eloquent respect for their way oflife, and
repay him with all the gifts in their power. When Don
Quixote defends Marcela (I.14), the beautiful girl who
chooses not to marry anyone, the narrator tells us that
he is playing at defending a damsel in distress, but anyone
who listens to what he says will hear him give the reason
for which he became Don Quixote: that beauty demands
a response from us, an effort not to possess it but to be
worthy of it.
Cervantes writes in the guise of someone who never
sees the things that matter amid events he describes in
meticulous detail. In belittling his hero, Cervantes belittles
himself, and it is left to us to discover whether we are
cut to the measure of that same littleness. It is a simple
rhetorical trick that Cervantes plays, gently manipulating
his readers by appealing to our vanity, our pleasure in
feeling superior to the stupid narrator by seeing things
to which his coarse sight does not penetrate. A most
generous author, we are dealing with, who allows us for
the most part to indulge in superior laughter at the crazy
knight and the gullible squire, and still to have someone
tO look down on when we see those characters more
deeply and truly.
The narrator's misunderstandings begin practically
on the first page of this book, when he tells us that the
gentleman about whom he is writing has gone crazy. It
is certainly the most widely held opinion among those
who meet Don Quixote, but there are three exceptions.
In Part two, three sensible people come to know him and
come to other conclusions about his sanity. Don Diego
de Miranda, the gentleman in the green greatcoat,
decides that Don Quixote is "a crazy sane man and an
insane one on the verge of sanity" (II.17). And later, at
an inn, which he takes for an inn, when he is on his way
to Saragossa, Don Quixote meets Don Juan and Don
Jeronimo, who are finally unable "to make up their minds
as to just where they were to place him in the vague realm
between sound sense and madness" (II.59). It is no ac-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
cident that this pair of judgments is made available to
us, for together they mean that the categories mad and
sane break down when applied to Don Quixote. He must
be said to belong to both, or to neither. He is unlike other
men, but the distinction between the mad and the sane
does not illuminate that difference.
The truly illuminating distinction is given to us by
Don Quixote himself, whose judgment is always the most
trustworthy in the book. When the gentleman in green
is worrying about what to make of his companion, Don
Quixote 6'llesses his thoughts, and breaks in on them in
a kindly way. He forgives his friend for thinking him
foolish and mad, and does his best to explain why he does
what he does. "Even as it is easier for the prodigal to
become a generous man than it is for the miser, so is
it easier for the foolhardy to become truly brave than
it is for the coward to attain valor. And in this matter
of adventures, you may believe me, Sefior Don Diego,
it is better to lose by a card too many than a card too few."
Prodigality, we shall see as we go on, is one of the
most important words in the book. When Don Quixote
appears ridiculous, which is most of the time, it is not
for lack of wits but for his deliberate choice to be prodigal. With what is he prodigal? With money, of course,
but with all the things that constitute himself. When, in
his fiftieth year, Alonzo Quixano became Don Quixote,
it was not because his brain dried up but because he
judged his safe and settled life to be a miserly one, a driedup life. From that time on he ceased to hoard his
capacities to act, to befriend, and to benefit. He gives
his reason for doing so again and again in a single word,
the most important word in the book: gratitude. As he
says to one of the shepherdesses in Part two, "My profession is nothing other than showing gratitude" (II.58).
Gratitude is the reciprocal response to grace. In his
discourse on arms and letters (1.37), Don Quixote explains that the highest achievement of human letters and
learning is distributive justice. He has chosen instead the
higher calling of the soldier, which aims at bestowing the
grace of peace. The middle-aged Alonzo Quixano decided
to stop living a life which received grace but returned
none.
In Part two, Don Quixote asserts that the greatest
sin is not pride but ingratitude. This has already been
shown in Part one. The whole of Don Quixote is a parable,
and its first part contains two parables-within-a-parable.
The captive's story is constructed as the parable of the
prodigal father; ingratitude is revealed in the parable of
the curious impertinent. While Don Quixote sleeps in
the inn to which he is taken from the Sierra Moreno,
his companions read aloud a story about a man who is
curious about the wrong things. His name is Anselmo.
Let us listen to him describe his complaint to his friend
Lotario (1.33).
"You may think, my friend, that in return for the
favors God has shown me by giving me such parents as
mine and bestowing upon me with no stinting hand what
are commonly known as the gifts of nature as well as
3
�those of fortune, I should never be able to thank Him
enough, not to speak of what He has done for me by
giving me you as a friend and Camila for my wife ....
Yet with all these advantages ... I lead the most empty
and fretful existence of any man in this universe. . ..
The thing that so tortures me is the desire to know
whether or not my wife Camila is as good and perfect
as I think she is, for this is a truth that I cannot accept
until the quality of her virtue is proved to me in the same
manner that fire brings out the purity of gold. For it is
my opinion, my friend, that a woman is virtuous only
in the degree to which she is tempted and resists temptation."
Can you hear why he is called Anselmo? I will remind you of the words of Saint Anselm in the first chapter
of the Proslogium.
"Lord, thou art my God, and thou art my Lord, and
never have I seen thee. It is thou that hast made me, and
hast made me anew, and hast bestowed upon me all the
blessings I enjoy; and yet I do not know thee. Finally,
I was created to see thee, and not yet have I done that
for which I was made."
"0 wretched lot of man, when he hath lost that for
which he was made! ... We suffer want in unhappiness,
and feel a miserable longing, and alas! We remain empty
. . . . I wished to smile in the joy of my mind, and I
am compelled to frown by the sorrow of my heart.
Gladness was hoped for, and lo! a source of frequent
sighs!"
Anselm puts an end to the torment in his soul by finding a proof of the existence of God, but Anselmo, who
also cannot enjoy blessings which rest only on faith, when
he seeks proof of Camila's love, destroys his own life and
those of everyone around him.
Anselmo insists that Lotario try to seduce Camila,
and try again and again while Anselmo keeps himself
absent from her. Since no human quality is infinite, and
since every time Camila resists temptation Anselmo
causes it to be increased, and since he himself is never
present to his wife to help her be his wife, Anselmo finally
achieves the only result that can come from his actions.
He makes Camila unfaithful. He does not prove her unfaithful, because she was not so until he made her so.
A wife's love is not a neutral fact to be ascertained by
experiment, but a living thing sustained in part by her
husband's faith in it. When Anselmo decides that his faith
is an insufficient foundation for his marriage, he loses
it, because there is no foundation other than faith for
a marriage to rest on. And it is important (Cervantes
underlines the importance by breaking the story off) that
the marriage continues for a while on a foundation of
deceit. The deception does not last because Camila's maid
joins in it, and the chain of corruption inevitably
lengthens until it pulls all of them down.
Anselmo's curiosity is impertinent or misplaced
because a wife's love calls not fo.r curiosity but for
gratitude. In his inability to appreciate the wife he has,
Anselmo removes himself from her, so that she has no
4
husband and he has no wife. The subsequent infidelity
and deaths only turn into fact the truth that was already
present in Anselmo's lack of faith. Don Quixote's village
priest pronounces the story implausible (1.35), proving,
for one of the innumerable times in the book, that he
does not know how to read a story. Every marriage is
founded on faith alone, but it is the unlikely and imaginary story of Anselmo that reveals that truth. And
once one has gotten hold of the truth behind the implausible facts, one sees that it is a truth about more than just
marriages. At that point Cervantes' story comes into its
own as a parable.
The story of the curious impertinent illuminates the
larger story of Don Quixote, but the characters in the
one do not stand for characters in the other. That is not
the nature of a parable. The myths Socrates tells in Platds
dialogues are intended to be interpreted, to be destroyed
as stories and transformed into their philosophical content. They have no use but to invite interpretation. The
allegory Dante tells in the Divine Comedy is always speaking of two or more things at once. The principal story
holds together as itself, but its principal meaning depends
upon the recognition of allegorical counterparts. A
parable differs from both. Its content is not intended to
refer to anything but itself. It is told because someone
who understands it will be in a position to think about
some other subject which is the teller's chief concern, and
because anyone who cannot understand it would not be
able to get anything out of any direct talk about that matter of chief concern. The parable draws on things close
to one's experience, to prepare the imagination to deal
with things less familiar.
The parable of the curious impertinent reveals that
there are things in the world which are invisible except
to the eyes of faith, things which genuinely exist but can
be destroyed if they are not believed in. In an important
exchange immediately preceding the reading of the story
of the curious impertinent, the priest declares that there
never were knights errant in the world. The innkeeper
replies that he knows there are none now, but that they
surely lived in those days. Sancho worries that one of them
might be right, but makes up his mind to wait and see.
If there is a knight errant in the world, only Sancho will
have his eyes open to see him.
Don Quixote's first encounter, the first time he leaves
home, is with two whores at an inn (1.2). He sees gracious
ladies, and addresses them with courtesy. Their first
response is coarse and cruel laughter. If the scene ended
like that, we would have to agree with the narrator that
Don Quixote suffers from delusions and sees not what
is in front of him but what he wants to see. But something
happens while no one is looking, and when we return
from the stables with the innkeeper, we find the young
women treating Don Quixote with kindness and bearing themselves with modesty. They have become the
gracious ladies that no one, including themselves, except
Don Quixote, saw them as. It is a very small and very
important event, even if it has no lastirig effect on the
WINTER 1985
�women's lives. For a short time at least, they were not
the sluts they had thought themselves to be, but free beings, capable of accepting and returning courtesy. Their
graciousness was nowhere to be seen until Don Quixote's
faith and their works brought it into being, but he saw
it while it was still nothing but possibility.
Do you see the connection with Anselmo? He
doubted the virtue his wife had, and thereby destroyed
it. Don Quixote believes in the virtues the two women
do not have, and thereby brings them into being.
Anselmo withdraws himself from his wife. Don Quixote
involves himself with total strangers. Anselmo does not
know how to love the woman he is in love with. Don
Quixote may have the secret of loving everyone in the
world.
But Don Quixote's subsequent acts of charity, with
the boy Andres and with the convicts, seem to be not
mad but naive, a mockery of the very notion of doing
good. When he prevents Andres from being beaten, and
leaves his master on his honor to pay the boy his just
wages, the result is the worst beating Andres has had in
his life, and the loss of his job. When Andres tells him
what has happened, and curses him for it, Don Quixote
is deeply troubled. When he frees the convicts, it is Don
Quixote who is beaten, by the very men he tried to help,
and robbed of everything he carries and wears. It is that
episode which sends him into the mountains, where, for
a time, he is not himself. For the narrator, there is nothing
troubling about these results. They merely confirm what
every grown-up in the world except Don Quixote already
knows. For Don Quixote they are severe tests of his faith
in people, but tests which he survives, and rightly.
Don Quixote has benefitted Andres by forcing an end
to a situation in which the boy regarded himself as someone who could be beaten at the whim of another, so long
as the beating was not too bad. Like the two whores,
Andres had taken himself at the valuation of others. They
are startled to be taken for ladies. Andres is angry at being forced to be a man. We see him last on the road to
Seville. We do not know what will become of him there,
but we know that it will be what he makes of himself.
Andres had accepted and made the best of a slavish role
into which he was born and in which he was remaining
by inertia. From Don Quixote he suffered the painful
gift of his freedom.
With the convicts, Don Quixote worries that some
might be innocent, convicted only because they were poor
and without friends. Others he sees to be guilty, but of
no very serious crimes. But his motive for freeing them
does not depend on the facts about them. Don Quixote
is outraged that, whatever they have done, the king should
make slaves of them. Don Quixote believes in punishment; he spends much of the book dealing it out. But
he does not believe in punishment that precludes
forgiveness. The king's justice rests on the ultimate in
impertinent curiosity: on the question whether a man
shall be allowed to continue to be a man or shall be
created a slave. The convicts had not used their freedom
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
well, but they had it not on human sufferance but by
God's grace. Don Quixote does not find a solution to the
problem of human ingratitude, but he does prevent its
multiplication, and hence rights a wrong.
'I'he two craziest of Don Quixote's deeds in Part one
seem not explicable as acts of faith or charity, because
they do not involve other people. They are his attacks
on the windmills and the sheep. There is a clue to the
meaning of these episodes in Part two, when Don Quixote
tells Sancho, "In confronting giants, it is the sin of pride
that we slay" (II.S). I suspect that, in attacking both the
windmills and the sheep, Don Quixote was ineffectually,
but literally, confronting giants- private companies of
great wealth which, under royal patent, were exploiting
the land of Spain on a gigantic and unheard-of scale. One
windmill is sufficient to knock Don Quixote off his horse,
but it is a clump of thirty or forty of them at which he
charges in anger. And it is not a flock or herd of sheep
at which he charges, but a vast assemblage of them to
which his word army is appropriate. There must be
wrong with the unbounded commercial development that
is beginning to change the face of Spain, because it is
founded on pride. On the other hand, every deed of Don
Quixote rests on faith in the Gospels. It should be becoming clear in what way the story of Don Quixote is itself
a parable.
At this point I have just about made good my claim
that Don Quixote's actions in Part one are all understandable and good. I have not mentioned several encounters
in which he gives and receives lumps and bruises. The
most serious injury he causes is a broken leg, to an arrogant young priest who speaks rudely and treats him as
though he were nothing. {I.19) Until he is in pain and
unable to move, Alonso Lo_pez is too wrapped up in
himself to recognize Don Quixote as another like himself
to whom elementary courtesy is due. And as soon as Don
Quixote sees that the man needs help, he is quick to give
it. Alonso Lopez has learned his own importance from
his theological education, but he has not learned who
his neighbor is. If he is capable of! earning such a lesson
at all, both the anger and the kindness of the crazy knight
could teach it to him.
Don Quixote is meddlesome, but his meddling always
takes the form of pertinent curiosity. Though he talks often
of the privileges of rank, he acts always as though every
human being deserves honor. He is entitled to teach manners to a priest, to insist that the king accord even a
criminal minimal recognition as a member of his own
species,- to require a master to treat his servant with
respect, to make that servant and prostitutes aware of
their own dignity, and even to strike a few blows at gigantic faceless companies which do their business in indifference to what they do to the world they share with ordinary people. Don Quixote earns the right to interfere
with everyone by recognizing every human life as a claim
upon himself. His curiosity is pertinent because when
the test comes he always acts as though the good of
another pertains to him. And we are entitled to wonder
5
�All of which I will make plain to him, to the
if, in Don Quixote, we are witnessing a man who loves
of a whore.
his neighbor as himself.
When Don Quixote enters the Sierra Moreno he is
far from believing that he has done anything worthwhile,
but his influence is already present in the world and working its own effects. He himself is miserable and alone.
He spends his time imitating the penance of Amadis of
fullest extent, with my sword.' "
Soon Don Quixote is drawing Sancho ahead of the
others they are travelling with, to question him in insa-
tiable detail about Dulcinea. As always, Sancho's
disloyalty has strengthened Don Quixote's faith, and Don
Quixote's healing anger at his squire has strengthened
Gaul, an episode noteworthy because it makes one realize
Sancho's devotion to his master. Those two are then
that nowhere else in the book does he imitate anyone.
Only in this brief, dark retirement from the world does
Don Quixote ever try to remember something a knight
in a book did in order to mimic it. Ordinarily he is the
wholly themselves, while those riding along behind them
opposite of an imitator, the most original of men, in the
nobleman Don Fernando, who has run away from home
sense that his deeds originate in himself out of the true
array of possibilities before him. It is the rest of us, who
has ended up in the Sierra Moreno in despair, is now
have, without knowing it, become new beings in Don
Quixote's image.
Dorotea, who has been seduced and deserted by the
and twice trusted men who then tried to rape her, who
judge and act out of habit, custom, and inertia, who are
in the company of three new knights-errant. Don
the imitators. The enchantment of which Don Quixote
speaks is primarily the siren song of habit which prevents
us from truly encountering the things and people before
us. We take them for what everyone else always takes
them for. In a chapter which Cervantes calls" one of the
most important in the entire history" (II.6), Don Quixote's niece tells him to act like what he is, a man who
Quixote's curate and barber, who, contemptuous of his
behavior but concerned for his welfare, have come hunt-
is old, sick, and poor. In the Sierra Moreno, that is just
society, has regained his sanity and hopes, and sworn
how he acts.
that Don Fernando will either marry Dorotea or fight
him. Two men for whom the idea of chivalry is matter
only for mockery, but who are in the Sierra Moreno on
When Sancho returns to him in the mountains, he
finds his master thinner than ever, jaundiced, fainting
from hunger, and sighing for Dulcinea. But when he tries
to speak to him of his beloved, Don Quixote will only
say that he is not worthy of her grace (I.29). When his
priest, for a joke, says he has heard of a mad sinner who
will undoubtedly be damned for setting free some galley
slaves, Don Quixote hangs his head in silent humiliation. It is his wonderful friendship with Sancho that
brings him back to himself. Here is the colloquy which
brings him out of his melancholy and restores his sanity.
(I.30)
"'Faith, Seiior Licentiate; (said Sancho,) 'the one who
performed that deed was my master. Not that I didn't
warn him beforehand and advise him to look what he
was doing, it being a sin to free them, for they were all
of them the greatest rogues that ever were: "
" 'Blockhea,d!' cried Don Quixote upon hearing this.
'It is not the business of knights-errant to stop and ascer-
tain as to whether the afflicted and oppressed whom they
encounter going along the road in chains like that are
in such straits by reason of their own crimes or as a result
ing for their friend to bring him home, have found
themselves distracted by Dorotea's distress, and each has
sworn himself to her service (!.28,29). Cardenio, who has
also been misused by Don Fernando, and had run away
to the Sierra Moreno to escape his troubles and all human
account of Don Quixote, and two despairing victims, who
are brought out of their solitude by Don Quixote's friends,
are now a band united by mutual faith, by the giving
and receiving of charity, and by the hope that life may
still hold some unlooked-for good for a young woman
in distress. The four of them connive at an elaborate
pretense of knight-errantry to patronize Don Quixote,
while none of them notices that they are living the actuality of it.
For the remainder of Part one, Don Quixote sleeps,
listens, holds back from disputes to be a peacemaker,
allows himself to be carried homeward in a cage, and,
after one abortive attempt in the last chapter to return
to knight-errantry, chooses the prudent course of returning home to await more propitious times. He, the most
active of men, is for the most part con,tent with his return
to passivity. We are never told why directly, but Cervantes
shows us why through the Captive's story, which is Cervantes' parable of the prodigal father.
Luke's story of the prodigal son begins with a young
of misfortunes that they have suffered. The only thing
man's heedlessness of others, the Captive's story with his
that does concern them is to aid those individuals as persons in distress, with an eye to their sufferings and not
to their villainies. I chanced to meet with a rosary, or
father's heedlessness of self. Each leads to the premature
distribution of an estate. The prodigal father, worried
that he will waste what he has, sells his lands, divides
string, of poor wretches and merely did for them what
my religion demands of me. As for the rest, that is no
affair of mine. And whoever thinks ill of it- saving the
dignity of your holy office and your respected person,
Senor Licentiate- I will simply say that he knows little
of the laws of chivalry and lies like an ill-begotten son
6
the proceeds among his sons, and sends them out into
the world. One pursues trade, and becomes wealthy; a
second pursues letters, and eventually becomes a judge.
The Captive, in the image of his father, becomes a knight.
After twenty-two years the family is reunited, the father's
faith justified, the wealth he denied himself multiplied,
WINTER 1985
�the sons whose presence he sacrificed returned to him
freely out of love. But this summary of the story leaves
out the most important character in it, the Moorish
maiden Zoraida. When the prodigal father lets go of his
property and his sons, he cannot know that a stranger
is waiting in the world whom only his deed will save.
Of the many quixotic characters in Don Quixote, the
most quixotic of them all is the Moorish princess Zoraida,
who cannot take any pleasure from wealth, a loving
father, or the society of her own people, because in her
childhood she heard stories of the Virgin Mary from a
Christian slave. She gives up everything to go with the
Christian knight to a country where the Virgin Mary
is worshipped. Upbringing, language, heritage, custom,
and ritual do not produce faith in Zoraida; the inspiration of the imagination by stories does. The prodigality
of the Captive's father, and of the Captive himself, who
returns most of his inheritance and embarks on a soldier's
life, · make possible her rescue from a country not
hospitable to her spirit. The band of knights-errant
descended from Don Quixote, and already enlarged, gives
her that reception to a Christian country of which she
has dreamed.
Between Don Quixote's return to the inn and the
Captive's arrival there, four more lives have been saved
from unhappiness. Don Fernando, who arrived breathing
threats and murder at Luscinda, who betrayed him after
he had betrayed Cardenio and Dorotea for her sake, has
relented and amended his life, making it possible for
Cardenio and Luscinda to marry, and returning himself
to Dorotea. Don Fernando's conversion is brought about
by the unanimous and whole-hearted urging of the group
in the inn, which includes the curate and barber, now
involved in the lives of others by the same pertinent
curiosity that took Don Quixote away from his home.
As Zoraida was waiting in the world for the liberating
act of the prodigal father, so, it turns out, was Dorotea,
lost, alone, and in danger in the Sierra Moreno, waiting
for the liberating, infectious generosity of Don Quixote.
She acknowledges as much, when, finally abandoning
all pretense with Don Quixote, she ~ays to him, "I am
convinced that had it not been for you, sir, I should never
have had the good fortune that is now mine, and in this
I speak the veriest truth, as most of these worthy folk who
are present can testify." (I.3 7) The long chain of entangled
lives which extends to the Captive's brother's teenaged
daughter and her boyfriend, which is linked in mutual
generosity to realize the highest possibilities of each,
which is the exact inverse of the chain of corruption extending from Anselmo, owes its existence to Don Quixote. In the parable surrounding the parable, he is the
prodigal father.
Don Quixote, having chosen not to hoard the grace
his own life contained, made it available ih unpredictable
ways to people unknown to him. Contributing also to
that transmission is, of course, an immense element of
coincidence, as, one after another, nine people who are
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
in various ways making one another unhappy arrive at
the same place. But perhaps coincidence is one of those
categories under which things appear to our enchanted
sight as other than they are. Cardenio and Dorotea are
both in the Sierra Moreno because it is the place of
despair, but they are not there together until Don Quixote's friends bring them together. Until that time, the
latent truth that their interests coincide cannot become
a fact, and that is why they are in despair. The coincidence of their connection with each other only has consequences in the world when the utterly disinterested
curate and barber choose to make their cares coincide
with those of two strangers. Similarly, the Captive and
his brother might have spent the night at the same inn
without knowing it, had Don Quixote's friends not been
there to ask each for his story, and to involve themselves
in those stories. If the truth of coincidence is that all lives
coincide, then the fact of coincidence ceases to be surprising. Arrival at the inn where the steadily multiplying good will begotten by Don Quixote works its effects
is for Don Fernando "like attaining Heaven itself, where
all the misadventures of earth are at an end" (I.36). In
contrast to Don Fernandds way of recognizing the truth
behind the facts, Don Quixote's taking the same inn for
a castle is modest understatement.
I have said that Don Quixote does not do anything
in Part one after he frees the convicts. He is present in
the subsequent deeds as the Captive's father is present
in the lives of his sons, in just the measure that they are
independent of him. But it is now necessary for me to
qualify what I've said, because Don Quixote, for a brief
moment in Chapter forty-five, does something important. He leads an army. He leads it in a conflict in which
no one is hurt because he quickly puts a stop to the
fighting. But it is an episode in which, while nothing happens, the participants reveal themselves for what they are.
It is thus like those Platonic dialogues which Mr. Klein
has called ethological mimes. Before describing the
episode I will mention two others of the same kind from
earlier in this book.
In Chapter four, during that first brief sally in which
the whole truth of Don Quixote can be read, he encounters some Toledo merchants on their way to buy silk.
For a moment they stand opposed, Don Quixote commanding them to swear that Dulcinea is the most
beautiful woman in the world, one of the merchants insisting that they be shown her, or at least her portrait,
before being required to commit themselves. In anger,
thoroughly provoked by the rude jokes of one of the merchants, Don Quixote lowers his lance and charges. As
happens as often as not with Rocinante, his horse
stumbles, and he is a loser without combat. But Don
Quixote on the ground, beaten by servants, with the merchants on their horses, laughing in a slightly embarrassed
way, is just the enchanted appearance, the merely factual outcome of the episode. The truth of it is one man
understanding that the beauty that is worth declaring
7
�and defending is the beauty that is invisible, while a group
of others think of the beauty of a beloved woman as they
do of the quality of a sample of silk. It is the soul of a
knight and the soul of a merchant that are set before us.
In Chapter twenty, Don Quixote and Sancho run
afoul of another phase of the textile industry, the sounds
of the hammers of a fulling mill. I am disregarding Don
Quixote's advice in speaking of it. "I do not deny;' he says,
"that what happened to us has its comical aspects; but
it is best not to tell the story, for not everyone is wise
enough to see the point of the thing:' The point of the
thing is that Don Quixote is truly brave, because he is
effects of such books. But what, exactly, are those harmful
effects? Four chapters of the text are devoted to a mammoth debate on the subject (1.47-50). The curate, of
course, contributes his characteristic argument that such
books foster mistaken notions among the uneducated
about the facts of the past. People might even be moved
by accounts of miracles which never happened. But a
new character, more elevated in the hierarchy of the
Church, a canon of Toledo, is introduced to carry the
principal responsibility for exposing the evils of the books
which have corrupted Don Quixote.
brave in the dark. The fact of the matter is that he, like
It is not right, the canon argues, that amusement ever
be entirely separated from instruction, and not possible
Sancho, spent a night in terror of something that could
not harm them, and had to endure Sancho's laughter in
events in an episodic presentation and a crude style. The
the morning. But does one who fears in the night have
the right to mock in the daylight? Night will always come
again, and will hold terrors, and Don Quixote has proved
that he can face them with courage. The revelation of
courage does not require a solemn occasion; for those
with eyes to see, it is compatible with events that are
ridiculous.
In Chapter forty-five, as in the flaring of a match or
a lightening-bolt, there is the briefest of military
engagements: the battle over Mambrinds helmet. The
battle has no outcome because Don Quixote does not
allow it to. The point of the thing is the drawing of a
line between the two sides, and the revealing of the
genuine willingness of each to fight. There is no issue
present worth fighting over, as Don Quixote says. But
there is the utmost importance in discovering for what
one is willing to fight. On one side is an army of police,
peasants, and servants, fighting in defense of the proposition that a barber's basin is a barber's basin and belongs
by right to the barber. On the other side is an army of
caballeros, Don Luis, Don Fernando, the judge, and their
natural and rightful leader, Don Quixote. One combatant seems to be on the wrong side, for Sancho Panza
fights with the knights. But Sancho is no longer the
cowardly peasant of twenty-five chapters earlier. Just five
pages before the battle begins, Don Quixote has noted
that Sancho has become a true man, and deserves to be
dubbed a knight. (I. 44) The knights fight to defend the
that pleasure could come from books that depict unlikely
canon knows that the books of knight-errantry violate
all these rules of good writing, because he has begun
reading practically all of them that have ever been printed.
In fact, he has enjoyed reading every one of them, but
has always caught himself in time to remind himself that
they are worthless, and incapable of affording true
pleasure. He has never allowed himself to finish reading
one. He once tried writing one himself, which observed
all the rules of good writing, but he left it unfinished when
he realized that most people wouldn't like it. Now the
canon is an honest man, and if he were to hear his opinions presented as briefly as this and all in one place, he
would find himself as peculiar as he finds Don Quixote.
Spread over twenty pages, and supported with abundant
examples, his discourse is in fact very impressive.
Don Quixote, of course, mops the floor with him,
but listen to the surprising way he does it. " Do you mean
to tell me that those books that ... are read with general
enjoyment and praised by young and old alike, by rich
and poor, the learned and the ignorant, the gentry and
the plain people- in brief, by all sorts of persons of every
condition and walk in life- do you mean to tell me that
they are but lies? Do they not have every appearance of
being true?" Don Quixote does not say that the books
are good, but that they are true. What is true about them?
They are in touch with the deepest springs of our common humanity. There are incessant references in the book
to the truthfulness of histories, by which everyone else
proposition that honor exists wherever one stakes one's
honor, even in the homeliest of objects. Don Quixote's
means some sort of authoritative assurance of a matching-
dignity elevates the barber's basin, just as his love elevates
Dulcinea above the sight of merchants and his courage
elevates a fuller's mill beyond the comprehension of a
coward. For the only time in the book, Don Quixote has
an army to lead, and the one thing he does with it, the
instant it comes into being, is disband it. The battle he
fights is against the automatic taking of the things in the
ote sees that a more important truth lies in what mat-
world at their lowest valuation, and it is both won and
lost as soon as the sides are drawn.
Don Quixote has learned to see the possibilities which
do not appear and the truths which facts never disclose
by reading books of knight-errantry. Cervantes, of course,
claims that he wrote Don Quixote to combat the harmful
8
up with a dead and inaccessible past. Only Don Quixches up with the buried longings and unrealized
possibilities in all of us.
Cervantes' discourse remains parabolic, but it is time
for our own to become direct. The effect, harmful or
otherwise, of books of knight-errantry, is not the subject of chief concern. The canon, showing the monstrous
improbabilities the romances ask us to swallow, mentions
a seventeen-year-old boy killing a giant, an army of a
million men defeated because the book's hero is on the
other side, and a tower full of knights miraculously scattered all over the earth, and concludes that books full
of such things have no place in a Christian state. Is it
WINTER 1985
�not clear that the canon is talking of one thing while
Cervantes is thinking of another, and that the name of
that other is the Bible? The canon tells Don Quixote to
turn to the Book of Judges if he wants to read about
knightly exploits, attributing its superiority to its accuracy. But even if the story of Samson and Delilah is
more factual than that of Amadis of Gaul, does the worth
of the Bible depend on its quota of facts?
In the first chapter of Part two, Don Quixote gives
a lesson in how to read, which is wasted on his audience
of the curate and the barber. He says, "the truth is so
clear that I can almost assure you that I saw with my
own eyes Amadis of Gaul?' Is Don Quixote talking about
be willing to let him die. We are left alone at the end
of Part two, in a way that we are not at the end of Part
one. We have only ourselves to rely on, and no longer
Don Quixote, to assimilate and come to terms with our
encounter with him. If we are to carry away anything
of importance from that encounter, it must survive a
passage through his inexplicable abandonment of
everything he believed. But Cervantes is too good a
storyteller to make even half a book entirely painful to
his best and most trusting readers. He gives as compensation for our ordeal Sancho Panza, for Part two is
Sancho's book.
With the many ways in which Don Quixote and
amusement? About instruction? Those two categories do
Sancho are obvious opposites, one is apt not to notice
not exhaust the purposes of writing, and it is only because
the canon thinks they do that he is so confused about
his own experiences with books. Stories that affect us set
how much they are alike. Each has left home and submitted himself to adventure and the workings of providence, Don Quixote because he longs to be
acknowledged and accepted by Dulcinea, Sancho because
he longs for an island, where he would be an important
man, see his children honored, and not have to do any
our imaginations to work. That activity can disclose
ourselves to us: what we care about, what we fear, what
we long for. The combination of disclosure and stimulation may, as it does with Don Quixote, inspire action.
Even when it doesn't, it may enrich the interior realm
from which thought and action can be nourished. It is
not possible for a work of fiction to relieve boredom for
a time, and then vanish as though it had not been.
Because the work of ou·r imaginations is an indispensable
partner in the presentation to us of a work of fiction,
reading or listening to one is always an experience which
must leave some mark. Under the word fiction I include
history, if it is formed into stories.
It follows, then, that stories cannot be received by us
passively or identically. And finally, it follows that the
Bible cannot be what it is, mostly stories, and be
understood for the many by a learned few who would
control the rightness of beliefs. In our vulnerability to
stories, we are all alike, and the canon cannot rise above
his own humanity. In our response to stories, where the
possibility of faith lies, we are independent and free, and
the canon cannot rise above us. Cervantes' book is a
parable of faith, written at the time of an Inquisition.
You may have noticed that I have not had much to
say about Part two, and you must realize by now that
I am not going to. In fact, I have used Part two as though
it were Cervantes' commentary on Part one. It is more
than that. In it, Cervantes magnifies Don Quixote's
mistakes, failures, doubts, and miseries, so that we will
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
work. Within their enormous sameness, their differences
make their friendship the most stable of self-maintaining
communities. When they pull against each other it is
always for the sake of the same goal, that grace without
which a life, whether devoted to honor or to pleasure,
is incomplete. In the course of his companionship, his
fights, and his reconciliations with Don Quixote, Sancho acquires habits which will sustain his quixotic long;
ings after he has lost his friend.
He has progressively become brave enough to fight
in defense of his master (I.24), alongside his master (I.45),
and finally in rebellion from his master (II.60). He has
likewise absorbed enough of his master's wisdom that he
is able, on his own in charge of his inland island, to resolve
a paradox that would defeat Bertrand Russel (II. 51). But
most important of all, association with Don Quixote has
liberated Sancho's imagination. What Sancho sees from
the flying horse Clavileno has nothing to do with knighterrantry, since his imagination has been differently
nourished than has Don Quixote's. A mustard seed from
the Gospels, some garbled astronomy, and memories of
his boyhood as a goatherd combine in Sancho's visions
(II.41). With the eyes of an imagination thoroughly his
own, set free in him by Don Quixote, Sancho sees that
his longing is for no earthly island (II.42).
As Don Quixote is a lover of honor, so is Sancho a
lover of pleasure, with sufficient imagination always to
be grateful and never to be satisfied.
9
�Politics and the Imagination
Eva Brann
T
he topic "Politics and the Imagination" is at
once larger and more restricted than "Politics
and the Arts;' the theme of this Tocqueville
Forum.* It is more restricted because I mean
to exclude the practical problem of the relation between the arts and public life. Indeed, by politics
I mean here not the working processes by which public
affairs are carried on, but a fundamental sphere of human
interest, namely that which is concerned with the wellbeing of a whole civic community as a whole. I think
that in this country even politicians in the narrow sense,
who are absorbed in the machinations of power, have
some inkling of this meaning of politics, while it plays
a large role in the thinking of all people who regard
themselves as citizens.
On the other hand, the topic "Politics and the Imagination" is larger than "Politics and the Arts" because,
although almost all works of art are works of the imagination, not all imagining actually results in works of art;
fOr example, dreams and daydreams have no actual
product.
I should also say what I mean by the imagination. I
take the term for present purposes in the most basic of
its usual senses, namely, as our ability for forming interior images, for envisioning eventful scenes and peopled
places. Such interior sights must certainly be derived from
exterior perceptions, but our imagination reshapes them
and infuses them with feeling. This is not the place to
'This essay was commissioned by the Tocqueville Forum of Wake Forest University for the 1983-84 series on 'Politics and the Arts: Robert Utley, director.
Publication of the series in a book is planned.
Eva Brann is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis.
10
pursue the fascinating philosophical analysis of our
strange ability for forming an interior world, except to
mention one of its important characteristics: the imagination is often thought of as a mediating faculty between
our blind desires and our directed activity, a testing
ground in which we shape our wishes into images and
prepare them for execution as works in the material
world.
This imaginative faculty seems to me to have a
definite, although limited, relation to politics. Most
political reflection is concerned with the relation between
hUman passion and human reasoning, with what we want
and how we contrive to get it. Of course, these activities
often bring the imagination into play, but they are not
specifically imaginative; they do not have their origin in
the imagination.
It seems to me, however, that there are two definite
ways in which the imagination as such has to do with
politics, corresponding to the two aspects of the imagination as a place for shaping wishes and as a ground for
planning works. In the first case the image remains an
unrealized dream, essentially interior;' in the second case
it is externalized and becomes a work of art.
The first case is exemplified by that peculiarly political
product of the wishful imagination, the utopia. A utopia
is an imagined political community, where the emphasis
is on the fact that it is imagined; it may be presented in
words, but in words which depict, which are images. That
is to say, a utopia is not a mere conception of reason
(though its life may be presented as eminently
reasonable), but the depiction of a wished-for community,
communicated with as much vivid detail as the author
can make plausible. It is a city painted in words.
A utopia will, .of course, present itself as the imagined incarnation of the author's ideas, but that is part
of an illusionistic technique used by utopian authors: at
WINTER 1985
�bottom it is not the image which follows the idea, but
the idea which was distilled from a vivid dream.
Now insofar as the utopian image is written down
in a book, the dream is, to be sure, externalized and
worked up. Nonetheless, utopias are in their very nature not
works of art, or at least they are not primarily such, for
what is crucial about art works iS that they are meant
to be the final realization of the maker's internal image,
and fulfillments or ends in themselves. Most utopias, on
the other hand, pretend to be nothing but beginnings,
mere sketches or blueprints for communities to be wished
for in the world. Although it is no proof, it is at least
an indication of this fact that among the score or so of
the best known utopias only one is generally acknowledged to be a work of great literary distinction, namely,
the book that gave its name to the genre, Sir Thomas
More's Utopia. By and large utopias give no more esthetic
satisfaction than does an account of a daydream: the
energy is in the wish, not in the work.
The first part of my talk will therefore be about that
application of the imagination to politics which produces
an imaginary community, a political wishjuljillment.
However, while the utopian imagination shapes and
encompasses imaginary communities, the art-producing
imagination may inform real communities from within.
Thus, the second way the imagination and politics
intersect is precisely insofar as the realized works of the
imagination, that is to say, works of art, become of concern to a political community.
Yet the relation of art to politics seems to me to be
of necessity primarily negatioe. Just as a gardener can only
select the seeds and choose the site, and thereafter can
only water and wait and weed out unwanted growth, so
a community can wishfully choose and encourage certain kinds of art, but it can effectively only exclude and censor what it opposes. Again, a sign of this fact is the exceedingly modest role accorded to works of art in most
utopias: just as they are not generally themselves real
works of art, so they admit such activity only in a very
subdued fashion, for example, in encouraging styles in
the crafts which are in harmony with the communal image. The grander arts, which depend more on individual
gifts, are evidently considered to have too intractable a
relation to the civic community.
The point I am making, that the arts are related to
politics most determinately through censorship, is not
quite the same as a familiar argument made by David
Hume when he lays it down as a principle that it is impossible for the arts and sciences to arise among a people that is not blessed with free government, claiming
that monarchy is positively injurious to the arts. He
himself says that this theory cannot account for a Homer,
and no more can it account for Shakespeare or any great
poet who takes for his subject the incomparably great.
So I am not arguing that political freedom is necessary
to art-a manifest falsehood-but, on a different level,
that a political community can never produce art: it can
only prevent it from coming on the public scene. If politics
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
interests itself in art positively, it must perforce be by way
of censorship.
Accordingly the second part will be concerned with
censorship of the arts in various political settings.
I. Utopia
A utopia is, as I have defined it, an imagined and
imaginary political community, envisioned rather than
conceived, a desire-filled depiction of a well-shaped communallife.
The name "Utopia'' was invented by Thomas More
and is the title of his little book, written in the beginning of the sixteenth century, the first full-blown utopia.
It is a Greek formation and means "No-place." Utopias
are no place in two senses: First, they are inaccessible.
More's Utopia is an island in the New World, but the
playful claim is that its coordinates have been lost; it is,
of course, a fantasy island. Second, it is no place because
it is a community which never could and, as surely, never
should be realized. The author comments at the end of
his fictional narrator's report that, while some Utopian
features are rather to be wished for than expected in
England, yet others are absurd and in themselves unacceptable. It is not hard to discover what features More
built into his fantasy city which are either unrealizable
or undesirable or both. For example, the Utopians live
in handsome houses which are reallocated every decade,
since there is no private property on the island. Now there
are passages in the Utopia itself and in More's other works
which make it clear that he regarded communism as unsanctioned by religion and impractical in this world. But
More's most serious reservations concern not what the
Utopians do but what they are; namely, cheerful pagans,
unwitting Epicureans, unphilosophical followers of all
natural, reasonable pleasures. They worship Mithras, an
ancient Persian sun god, while practicing religious toleration to the point of indifference. Now More was a devout
Christian and a devoted reader of philosophy who could
not and did not approve of these easy opinions and loose
practices for a living polity.
When then did he invent the fantasy? The answer
is that his Utopia is a subtle and revealing exercise in
delineating delightfully a community which might be
good if human beings were natural rather than spiritual
beings, if they had only enemies worse than themselves,
if they had no pride and knew nothing of original sin.
It is instructive to imagine the kind of community such
people might have, and part of the instruction is the faint
repulsion we are expected to feel at the lives of weightless
beings who do not share the fallen condition of real
human creatures. More gives the narrator and discoverer
of the island a Greek name meaning the "Babbler;'
Hythloday, but behind his babble stands the discerning
imagination of the author.
The word "utopia'' is, as a prefatory letter to Utopia
explains, to be heard also in a second way. Utopia means
11
�not only "no-place,'' but also the ('good place;' eu-topia (as
in "eulogi'). For, on the surface, life on the island, with
its fifty square-walled hillside cities in which each house
has a garden, cities watered by pure fresh rivers fronted
by solid piers and spanned by splendid bridges, is secure,
pleasant, and good.
This second aspect of utopia comes to be preponderant in later utopias which are no longer half-ironic images, but real wish-projections, indulgences of the author's
fancy; these are, for all their intended charm, slightly
repellent, as imaginary spaces dominated by someone
else's dreams of perfection always will be.
A fine example of such latter-day utopias is William
Morris's News from Nowhere, written at the end of the last
century. This Victorian Nowhere takes place right in
England, and instead of being unreachable in place it
is inaccessible in time; it is set in the future, but a future
shaped by Morris's nostalgia for a medieval past. It is
in fact a pre-Raphaelite dream, a future to return to. (I
might observe here that writers of utopias naturally
always play with the two .necessary coordinates of reality, space and time, and, having more or less run out
of uncharted lands on earth, they go to future times, and
latterly to outer space; the first futuristic utopia is Mercier's Memoirs de !Jln 2440 of 1770.)
The chief feature of this future-past is the achievement of a perfect integration of human beings and
nature, a m,achineless but productive pastoral, in which
work is pleasure. In fact one of the mild worries of the
Nowhereans is that they may use up their share of work
too quickly. Work is either of the type called "easy-hard;'
namely, healthy outdoor labor, or it is craftsmanship. The
country is gently and tolerantly anti-intellectual. Children
may read books avidly if they must, but this bookwormish affliction is expected to disappear in maturity. Books
were for a time when intelligent people could take no
pleasure in life but had to rely on the imagination of
others. The genuinely amusing work is housebuilding,
gardening and producing craftsrnanlike objects. The
N owhereans are uncompromisingly egalitarian and look
back with a shudder at the old ways when machines were
used for ordinary work while the intelligent elite followed
the higher forms of art.
Morris's Nowhere has in common with More's Utopia
those features which seem to belong to the very nature
of an imaginative polity: its life is somewhat subdued,
pastel-colored, so to speak. Morris acknowledges that passionate extremities may suddenly intrude into the
peaceful pastoral, but these are incidents to be quickly
resolved. Evidently, when the imagination applies itself
to shaping a perfected political community, it naturally
excludes just those eruptions of human extraordinariness
which are the chief occasions for grand art. And, of
course, that makes good sense, since the utopian imagination means to impose a certain coherence of atmosphere,
a pervasive communal tranquility which naturally excludes private outbursts. The political imagination can-
12
not help but bleach out the passions and contract the
private sphere.
Accordingly most utopias are communitarian: More's
Utopia is a tightly organized, rather herdlike, communist
republic. (At least one of its magistracies is an assimilation of an English office to Platds pig city: the lowest title
is that of "sty-ward;' that is, steward.) Morris's Nowhere
is an idyllic socialist anarchy, which is to say that there
is really no political structure to speak of: all problems
are regarded and solved as social problems.
Again, the ways of utopia are apparently inevitably
anti-philosophical, and this feature, too, lies in the nature
of the genre, first, because the imagined city is often
dreamed precisely in opposition to the harsh and difficult
reasonings of the philosophers, and, second, because its
idyllic internal life alleviates those human predicaments
which give rise to troubled quests. Of course, something
similar holds for religion: utopian religions are by and
large exceedingly tranquil since the suffering which intensifies religious feeling has been eliminated. The inventor has, so to speak, pre-empted all the passion and
has led his creatures into the promised land.
Where the two utopias differ most fundamentally is
in the attitude of their authors towards them. More
himself appears in his book as the somewhat sceptical
listener, and as author his stance is one of ironic delight.
Morris, on the other hand, depicts himself as literally
dreaming the dream in which he enters Now here, and,
when he awakes from it, his heart is heavy with nostalgia
for a time that never was. Most post-Morean utopias are,
then, unironic political dreams, and the dream politics
may consist precisely in dreaming of a community
beyond politics.
As political dreams, utopias are naturally shaped
about the intimate preoccupations of their authors, and
one among these is almost intrinsic to utopian imagining. Since utopian writers are themselves inventors and
contrivers of human nature and human environments,
their imaginations are particularly drawn to inventions
and contrivances, in short to technology, which they see
sometimes as a sinister spoiler and sometimes as the
bright savior of political communities.
There are then, first, the wholeheartedly optimistic
utopias of technological process,-whoSe optimism can be
either complexly serious or simple-mindedly shallow.
Early in the seventeenth century Bacon wrote the first
of the positive technological utopias, the New Atlantis. It
is the prototype of a research polity. Its management is
surrounded with slightly sinister mystifications, but
Bacon's insider's awe before the human mastery of nature
which is in the offing is palpable. In the early twentieth
century, on the other hand, H. G. Wells wrote A Modern
Utopia which lightheadedly celebrates an international
technocracy, endlessly on the move but strictly controlled by an ascet~c elite called, infelicitously, the "Samurai."
Morris's News from Nowhere was in fact one sort of reaction to utopian celebrations of technology, namely the
WINTER 1985
�pastoral. But there is also a very different kind of antitechnological utopia, an imaginary community which is
not a dream but a nightmare. This kind of anti-utopia
is not an invention of modern times. Plato depicts such
a place, the mythical island of Atlantis, whose image
Bacon meant to correct in his New Atlantis. The old
Atlantans are the ancient enemies of Athens, corrupt halfdescendants of Poseidon, the god of oceans and earthquakes and city walls. They inhabit a geometrically
circular island surrounded by concentric ditches and built
over with square castles with fantastically devised walls.
These earthmovers keep elephants for bulldozers. Their
island is amazing and awful.
In this century the fear of a now successful technology,
combined with the horror of totalitarian politics, gives
rise to a new political image, an image of the perversion
of the polis, namely a collective of isolated, terrorized,
technologically manipulated, lost souls. By the middle
of our century the number of published utopias stood
at about two hundred and fifty, and the most serious of
these belonged to the new type, which was labelled "dystopia" or "bad-place."The most famous of these are Aldous
Huxley's Brave New World, which imagines an England
genetically manipulated and controlled by an orgiastic
drug, and George Orwell's 1984, published in 1949, which
imagines a thoroughgoing totalitarianism in which
privacy has become a persecuted political sin: there is
no sanctuary from Big Brother's spying eye.
1984 has come and gone. Decades have passed since ·
the publication of 1984 and "dystopia' has not been realized, at least not in the West. It seems to me that the
dystopias themselves have had a small but effective part
in this blessed fact, perhaps primarily by causing intellectuals, whose political imaginations are notoriously weak,
to imagine terror and to learn to cherish what political
blessings they have. Indeed the type of dystopia cannot
help but be in general more effective than eutopia,
because while eutopias are intimate hopes to which an
author tries to win converts, dystopias are projections
of real, fearful possibilities to which the author tries to
open the world's eyes.
But while it is in general the case that utopias have
had minimal political effect, there is a small scale exception to this observation. In the nineteenth century ther.e
flourished in this country, in the New World where
Thomas More and Francis Bacon had once located their
utopias, scores of utopian communities. There were not,
of course, utopias exactly in my sense, both because they
were not, strictly speaking, independent political
communities- they had the American Republic as their
political ground- and because they were not imaginary
but very much flesh and blood. Yet they were usually
based on utopian blueprints, such as those devised by
Owen, Fourier, Cabet. Most of these realized dreams
were brief; many ended in disaster. In fact, the more suc-
as I mentioned, the latter were usually rather insipidly
religious.
Before concluding the section about utopias, I should
say that, once the utopian genre had become established,
it was used to clothe with imagined shapes all sorts of
notions and speculations. There are, for instance,
cosmological utopias in which the community mirrors
a hypothesis of the heavens, psychological utopias which
embody a theory of human control, and ideological
utopias based on issues such as feminism or ecology. The
genre is irrepressible.
Yet, a short generation ago, utopia was declared dead.
It had been discredited too long and in too many ways:
in the nineteenth century by the failures of its many attempted realizations, and, more severely, by the Marxist attack mounted against "utopian" socialism in behalf
of"scientific" historic principles of revolutionary develop-
ment. Utopias are but small-scale editions of the New
Jerusalem, the Communist Manifesto says sarcastically. Thus
in our century its decline has been mourned; bloodied
by the Marxist critique, it was said to have been killed
off by that political pessimism which caused utopia to
be displaced by dystopia. But these reports of utopias
demise are premature. The genre is, as I said, irrepres-
sible. Although the best known recent utopias are rational
constructs, (for example Nozick's libertarian utopia),
romantic, imaginative utopias continue to be written, and
even the founding of utopian communities still goes on.
Prolific as the utopian genre is and, no doubt, will
continue to be, it has not, I have argued, and it cannot
have, much political potency. The reason is inherent in
its origin in the wishful imagination. That makes utopias
finally rather private, even idiosyncratic, and certainly
ungeneralizable constructions. The products of the imagination stand each alone; it is only the intellect which
can discover universals. And therefore, even when there
is wide-spread utopian activity, it cannot have the unity
or coherence of an intellectual movement. Utopian visions
do not reinforce one another, nor dm one imagine utopian
politics arising except under the aegis of a political
framework based on more universal principles, as was
the case for the utopian communities in the United States.
That is not to say that utopian activity is not, just in itself,
therapeutic and vivifying. However, an activity which
matters as an activity, rather than because of its content,
is precisely what we call play, and, in the last analysis,
that is what utopianism is: the imagination at play, as
irrepressible and as salutary as play is a political
recreation.
I want to conclude by mentioning a role the imagination plays in politics in which it is not so spontaneously
inventive as in the construction of imaginary com-
munities, but perhaps correspondingly more powerful.
cessful and long-lived settlements were usually religious
I mean its role as imaginative memory, which contains
our common past and our common beliefs. Most people,
citizens and politicians, who love their country have a
foundations and not primarily social or political utopias;
vision compounded of its founding myths, its pristine
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
13
�principles and its historical high-points, which at crucial
moments informs their political action. This vision is
precisely not utopian because it is not inherently nowhere;
on the contrary it is the ideal behind the here and now,
the potent, practical image of a living political
community.
II. Censorship
When a strong imagination becomes productive and
by means of an adequate technique realizes it works for
their own sake, its products are works of art. Such works
in turn affect and shape the imagination of others. Thus
art, intentionally or unintentionally, enters politics in-
sofar as politics is the sphere of concern with the community as a whole.
Now I have argued that communities are powerless
to elicit the art which seems to them to preserve and
is its worth in itself, apart from rewards?" Next it is
decided that justice is better investigated "writ large." That
is to say, instead of searching for justice in its original
seat, the human being, the interlocutors will construct
a perfectly just political community and then articulate
the meaning of justice. Several books are devoted to the
developmental stages of this city which correspond to the
progressively higher parts of the soul as Socrates discerns
them. The high point of the construction occurs right
in the middle books, the fifth and sixth. It consists first
in the scandalous notion that the governors of the city,
corresponding as they do to the rational part of the soul,
should be philosophers, and then in the detailed description of the philosophical education of these philosopher
kings. There follows an account of the stages of decline
and fall such a city is subject to and their causes in the
souls of the citizens. The Republic ends with a cosmic myth
displaying an answer to the question whether justice is
a worth in itself.
The imagination and its works are discussed twice:
strengthen them, for the productive imagination is simply
not at their disposal. Communities can do but one thing directly
and effectively: they can proscribe aberrant artists and their art.
The classical justification for the control of works of
the imagination is to be found in Plato's dialogue The
Republic, written in the earlier fourth century B.C. It is
on the way to the perfect city (Books II-III) and again,
symmetrically, after its fall (Book X). This last treatment
is the most radical and most fundamental attack on imagining and on art that I know of. It could only make sense
where it occurs, namely, after the philosophical educa-
a twelve-hour-long conversation mainly between Socrates
is explicitly founded on a view of our world as being but
an image of true being; indeed the whole realm of things
present to us is a hierarchy of images from shadows and
mirror images through the natural objects which they
copy and which are in turn only images of their ideal
originals. Accordingly, the education of the guardians
of the city begins by turning the "bringing-up" of the
young into a "bringing-around" (the Greek words are agoge
and peri-agoge), by wrenching them away from absorption in the multitude of seemingly vivid images to those
unique, substantial thought-originals which will teach
them to keep the city harmonious and unified. In the
light of this philosophical understanding of the world,
image-making in general is a distracting and falsifying
and Plato's two brothers. In the course of it, they find
occasion for devising a small political community such
as the Greeks called a polis, a city. (In Greek the dialogue
is actually called Politeia, meaning "political framework;'
or "city-constitution.")
I should point out here that the city of Plato's Republic
is not strictly a utopia. To be sure, it too is "nowhere"
on earth; Socrates refers to it as a "pattern laid up in
heaven:' (In fact, Plato wrote another work containing
a "second-string" constitution meant more for practical
application.) But the city of the Republic differs from a
utopia in not being an imagined place; indeed, it is severely
lacking in imagined detail. It is rather, as Socrates says,
tion of the governors has been set out, for this education
a city "in reason:' an intellectual construct. One of
activity. Since visual images are the exemplary images,
Thomas More's friends, who recognized Utopia as being in a kind of respectful competition with the Republic,
made just this point in his prefatory poems: Plato's city,
he says, is a philosophical invention and full of philosophy
Socrates attacks particularly painters and, by implication, sculptors. One may well ask what possible political
harm could be done, for instance, by the Parthenon frieze,
a severely choreographed depiction of the sacred procession celebrating the goddess of the city of Athens, in
which human beings are shown in decorous beauty and
the gods, reverently depicted a little larger than men,
watch graciously from Olympus. The answer is that
Socrates is here attacking not the subject or style of any
art, but art itself as diverting the attention by a procession of images from those self-same unities of thought
whose contemplation keeps a community whole.
It is necessary to say that this radical proscription of
while N a-place,
its successful rival, embodies its
philosophy in an unphilosophical way (namely, as a fleshand-blood fiction).
The case must be put more strongly. Not only is the
city of Republic not a city of the imagination, but its very
building is framed by two massive and deep attacks on
all works of the imagination and on the imagination itself.
In Platonic dialogues where a point is made often
determines its interpretation, so let me give a rapid sketch
of the structure of the work, which is, in fact, rather
strictly symmetrical. There are ten books. In the first
of these are brought out the depths and the difficulties
of the controlling question: "What is justice and what
14
the imagination is to be taken in its context. Socrates
himself is, as I have mentioned, about to launch into the
telling of a magnificent myth, a huge and brilliant cosmic
image. The attack on the imagination is intended seri-
WINTER 1985
�ously enough within the intellectual exercise he and
Plato's brothers are engaged in: the thinking out of a city
which would realize a philosopher's understanding of the
human soul and which would therefore be safe for
philosophy. But it is not, I think, meant for practical
political implementation.
The censorship which is closer to possible political
practice is the one discussed earlier in the dialogue, at
the beginning of the building of the city, in connection
with the upbringing of the children. Socrates, first and
last, aims at the epic poetry of Homer-a bold and scan·
dalous attempt, since the Homeric poems were the great
primers of Greek education. What Socrates blames
Homer for is primarily the portrait of the gods to which
he has accustomed the Greeks: they are lustful, quarrel-
Plato thinks that it will stimulate and excite them and
lead to boisterousness followed by lassitude in the citizens.
Plato's Socrates deems the arts politically indigestible.
The second remarkable fact is that the problems
Socrates raises are very much our own. It is, for exam-
ple, a much debated problem of our time whether the
images children see affect their behavior and whether the
shows they watch work their feelings off or work them
up. Similarly some of us wonder what the social effects
of our popular modes of music and dancing really are:
How, to try a comical experiment of the imagination,
would our public life change if we made every seven-year·
old learn to dance the minuet? So the Socratic problems
are much alive even if his solutions are out of tune with
our society.
some, unstable, mendacious, and unjust-a fact, inciden-
Plato's Republic has been seen as a prototype of
tally, to delight and puzzle a post-Christian reader. Fur·
totalitarianism, for several reasons; because Socrates' intellectual exercise has been mistaken for a practical proposal, because Socrates' city is not a democracy (as if no
thermore, the Homeric heroes are indecently woebegone
and fearful of death; both gods and men are intemperate
in laughing and weeping. The tragedians are attacked
in addition for the very form of their poetry: its dramatic
format requires the actors to do all but turn themselves
into the person of the drama and so to lose their dignity
and selfhood in histrionics. All these productions are to
be banished from the city. Music too is to be purged of
all those modes which are not tonic but relax and slacken
the soul. What is left are tales of human excellence and
reverent hymns.
This precisely delineated call for a civic censorship
of the form and content of the arts may not seem to be
so radical as that subsequent attack on the imagination
itself which I have just summarized. Yet that is not really
the case, for what Socrates here criticizes about the arts
is what it is in their very nature to be and to do: they
absorb and inform the participant; they are concerned
with what is human-all-too-human even when imaging
the divinities; and above all, they burst the bounds of
tranquil dailiness in depicting what is extreme, ex-
cruciating, and passionate. The subdued decorum that
dominates utopias and that Socrates too recognizes as
a condition of civic tranquility is rarely .a cause of a theme
or a characteristic of art.
These arguments for political control of the arts are
above all remarkable in that they constitute a testimonial
to the knowledgeable seriousness with which Plato and
his Socrates take the arts (although they make little of
the artist himself). They share this attitude with their
fellow Greeks. For example, the public importance of
music, the power of its various modes to dispose the soul
and shape the schemata of the body, was recognized
throughout the Greek cities, where music and dance were
part of the city's life. Thus Aristotle ends his great book
on politics with a disquisition about the function of the
decent third possibility between totalitarianism and
democracy was thinkable), but- most weightily- just
because of those censorship provisions we are discussing.
Totalitarian states do, of course, have censorship of
the arts-and all sorts of other censorship Socrates never
proposes. I shall very briefly sketch the nature of the cen·
sorship practiced in the two chief totalitarian states of
our century to show how utterly different it is from the
classical case.
I mean, of course, Nazi Germany and the Soviet
Union. The two cases differ in one important way: Nazi
censorship appears to have been devoid of articulable ra·
tional foundations, and appealed instead to misty but
emotion-loaded semi-ideas and watchwords, while Soviet
censorship is rigidly based on an ideological frame, shift·
ing only as the Central Committee of the Communist
Party declares changes in interpretation. The documents
of both are scoldingly rancorous and brutally threaten·
ing toward offending artists, although the Nazi literature
on censorship exceeds the Soviet documents in a vulgarity
that is scarcely communicable in English. The human
plane of either is simply incommensurable with Socrates'
gently ironic proposal to anoint and crown the poets and
politely speed them on their way to another city.
I should mention that the previous observation con·
cerning the inability of states to engender art is borne
out by the censorship literature itself: there are con·
tinuous small-voiced complaints that politically pure art
of real stature which is to replace the censored art has
failed to appear.
The explicit object of Nazi censorship was to purge
the arts of all elements not conducive to readiness for
sacrifice, obedience to Adolf Hitler, and the submersion
of the self in the totality, the State, the Race. For this
musical modes in citizen training. What is peculiar to
last purpose a new subject, called "race-style-science,
Plato, and where he differs from Aristotle, is his view
of the effect of very intense experiences on the soul. While
Aristotle supposes that attendance at a tragic performance
will work a purgation and transformation of the passions,
(Rassenstilkunde) was invented, and Nazi estheticians
debated whether the tango or the minor mode or chamber
music might be admitted as Germanic while proscribing atonal music for its rootless intellectualism and in·
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
15
�ternationally popular hits for their supra-national
cosmopolitanism. Effeminacy, decadence and the Jewish
spirit were to be rooted out in all the arts. Bookstores
were required to remove proscribed books on pain of being blacklisted. Of course the most notorious early act
of censorship was the government-supported book burning of 1933. As the books were consigned to the flames
a speaking chorus of brownshirted students would call
such lines as "For discipline and morality in Family and
State I give to the flame the writings of .. :• and supply
the name of the blacklisted authors, mostly novelists.
As for Soviet censorship, Lenin set the tone long
before the revolution by proclaiming that all literature
is party-literature, and that literature is not an individual
concern but belongs to the proletariat: "Down with nonpartisan literature, down with literary supermen." The
creation of art was to be organized, for art is, above all,
the organization of the emotions of persons, groups,
classes, nations. Stalin later summarized this view in a
politics. A totalitarian state is, or means to be, a different
whole than is a Greek city, whether it philosophical or
actual. The former is, so to speak, an embodied abstraction which attempts to pervade life totally from the top
down and absorbs rather than bonds its individual
elements; strictly speaking, its relations are not political
at all because they are that of an amalgam or a collective and not of persons. Its censorship tries to reinforce
this condition: the aim is not, as in the Socratic city, to
shape self-possessed citizens, but to meld a people into
a fervent mass.
The third point of difference lies in the contrasting
conceptions of the virtues that the arts are to be made
to instill. To cite just the Nazi list of affirmations as
revealed in the watchwords recurring incessantly in the
marching songs which were the most voluminous pro-
duct of the revised arts: loyalty, obedience, flag, flame,
race, blood, bullet, drum, submission and the love of
death. Compare to these the virtues of Socrates' citizens:
much quoted phrase to the effect that writers are the
engineers of the human soul. In 1920 Lenin sketched out
resolutions for Proletkult, the bureaucracy in charge of the
new proletarian culture: there are, he said, to be no new
and special ideas but the traditional culture is rather to
be appropriated by Marxist ideology. There are
manifestos stating that the working class has the leadership in literature; fellow travellers may be tolerated for
their expertise in technique, but all appearances of
courage stemming from a knowledge of what is truly to
be feared, temperance understood as a proper selfadjustment of the soul, justice interpreted as a knowledge
counter-revolutionary ideas are to be ruthlessly
concern with controlling and even excluding some arts
eradicated. Under Stalin followed attacks (which have,
incidentally, been lately revived) against formalism or
so-called abstract art, for example, in behalf of socialist
realism. Socialist realism demands that art always display
a proud and life-affirming optimism, while works with
for the sake of its own integrity. For these cities a decent
of one's proper part in the community, and wisdom to
be attained in the course of a long effort of learning.
The object of this comparison of obnoxious
totalitarian and benign Socratic censorship is to point
out what it seems to me we sometimes forget: that a cer-
tain kind of political community may have a defensible
censorship is conceivable, and Socrates initiates the
living people a dogmatic pseudo-myth of race or an
discussion of its rationale. A prime example of such a
debate in more modern times is the open letter, published
in 1758, whichJeanJacques Rousseau sent to d' Alembert
in response to his article in the Encyclopidie advising the
Republic of Geneva to establish a theatre. Rousseau wrote
as a citizen of this small republic, and his chief argument, which was directly influenced by Plato's Republic,
is that such an alien and sophisticated amusement will
undermine the simple and close communal life of the
no edifying content, which divorce art from socialist
truth, are declared undesirable.
Now let me point out the elements in which Socratic
censorship differs from totalitarian censorship.
First, whereas the totalitarian censorship enforces on
ideology of class, Socrates proposes his constraints on the
Genevans. Rousseau, like Socrates, recognized an ir-
poets as a philosophical exercise, a possibility to be considered on the basis of an ever-renewable inquiry into
reconcilable conflict between the arts and the political
community, a conflict perhaps less deep but correspond-
the conditions of a political community; the issue is,
ingly more extensive in ffiodern times when the drama
is no longer a great sacred public occasion but a mere
amusement. For it is just such a diversion which by its
agile worldliness, its artful excitations and its isolating
therefore, not this or that work or style, but the very
nature of art and its relation to communal life. The
Socratic attack on poetry is far more radical in thought
and far less disruptive in deed than totalitarian
censorship.
Second, there is a deep difference between a
totalitarian state and a political community in Socrates'
sense. In the former the dubious bond of race or class
if considered to underlie, precede and supercede the relations of individuals, while the very device on which
Socrates builds his city, namely that of a soul writ large,
displays his assumption that a city is ultimately shaped
and determined by the souls within it, and that the
political bond is one of individuals: "psychology" precedes
16
spectatorship may loosen the bonds of a small community.
What then about censorship of the arts in our own
political community,
in a national representative
democracy? It seems to me that it has no place whatsoever
with us. Indeed it is a dead, or at least a dormant, issue
(except with respect to pornography; and acknowledged
pornography, which is for the sali.e of sexual arousal, does
not come under my definition of art as a product of the
imagination which is not primarily an instrument of
anything). As its censoring role in the arts ought to be
nil, so the government's positive function can be only
WINTER 1985
�minimal. It can and should encourage the arts in general,
for example, by modest funding, but it can never rightly
make itself responsible for furthering a specifically communal, a truly political, art. In short, the proper attitude
American republic had been formed, and formed in conscious contrast to the classical model. In an ancient city
the primary bond is the political bond, and public life is
not only a means to human fulfillment but its very end.
of democratic governments to art seems to be friendly
tolerance or supportive indifference.
How can it be that an intense and critical relation
The modern model, however, interposes between private
and political life a social realm, "society;' a word of far
between politics and the arts is justifiable in classical com-
tween the individual and a determinate ideal whole,
more weight with us than politics. Political bonds are be-
munities while in our democracy a loose and tolerant
namely the laws, traditions and public spaces of the
relation is required? The answer seems to me to lie in
the change of meaning both terms, politics and art,
underwent in the century just before the founding of the
American Republic. Let me briefly outline the related
changes without attempting to articulate their deep common root.
First, the notion of Art. I have been using the word
as if its connotations for us were the same as in the
classical context- misleadingly, for just about the time
this country was founded there came to a climax a
development which transformed the meaning of the term.
Its original unpretentious sense was that of craft, of knowhow, of the ability to manage and produce objects of all
sorts. In the later eighteenth century the notion of a "pure
art work" came to the fore. Such a work of art was thought
to originate in the independent esthetic realm of the
radically free imagination, a world not bound to ordinary
given reality, a world of free play and autonomous illusion. Correlatively the craftsman was elevated into the
''Artist;' the godlike creator of this world, a genius, an
extraordinary being. And instead of the work of art as
a skillfully made object there arose ''Art" simply, namely,
that specially precious class of objects which is the product of the artist's absolutely self-determined imagination. Naturally this new artist claimed great authority
for himself and his imaginative realm. The German poet
Schiller, for instance, proposed that the problems of
politics could be solved if mankind were given an "esthetic
education;' so that human beings might live in the mode
of an artist, by the free play of the imagination (though
without themselves producing art). But although the artist's claim becomes one of universal human authority,
it is not hard to see that this new understanding makes
art essentially private. The final source and the final
arbiter not only for the form, but, above all, for the matter
of his products is the artist's own solitary imagination;
such works of private creation are not made to be put
in the service of the community and its divinities- the
artist would consider anathema any attempt at control
(as, for example, the ordinance of the Second Council
of Nicea proclaiming that the substance of religious scenes
is not left to the initiative of the craftsman but that the
craft alone belongs to the painter). So just as the
American republic was born, art became an essentially
personal enterprise, and the artistic mode came to be
privately over-valued and, with good cause, publicly
ignored.
In a parallel development that conception of a political
community which was to underlie the formation of the
community. Social relations, on the other hand, are between individual and individual; society as a whole is
an indeterminate abstraction. It is in terms of social rela-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
tions that the bulk of our life, and especially our religious
life, takes place. Accordingly, the political sphere is not,
for most of us, the place of our fulfillment. It is rather
reduced to administration, that is to say, to essentially
negative governmental functions which are meant
precisely to protect the private and social realms from
disturbance and intrusion. A political sphere which is
so restricted and which is, by a special provision of the
constitution, devoid of any legitimate religious dimension, is not naturally going to give rise to a very exten-
sive or elevating art- though such a thing is not impossible: the major speeches of Abraham Lincoln constitute
a political art of real grandeur. But while we may always
hope for more such works, especially for a renewal of
great political rhetoric, we scarcely expect it. John Dewey,
for example, who is, after all, the proponent par excellence of a democratic fulfillment of life, wrote a book
called Art ar Experience, devoted to bringing art back from
the estheticism I described before into ordinary life. But
he never remotely considers the possibility of a public
art celebrating our free political institutions. For him,
art belongs altogether to the social realm.
Of course, the fact that our art is rarely political does
not mean that it cannot be thoroughly and characteristically democratic and American. Tocqueville, after whom
this forum is named, foresaw in 1835, with marvelous
acuity, what the sources of poetry in a democratic land
might be: how when faith in positive religion is shaken
the idea of providence and historical destiny assumes a
more imposing appearance; how when life is crowded
with petty business the march of the American people
across the continent subduing nature on the way is invested with special romance; how the democratic poet
concentrates more on passions and ideas than on con-
crete individual men, always looking to the inner soul- in
short how American poetry is suspended between grand
massive movements and the most private passions of men.
Is this not a near-perfect anticipation of Walt Whitman?
Yet ohe would not claim that Whitman played the role
in America that the tragedians, say, played in Athens.
He is the poet of America as a democracy rather than
as a republic; he celebrates a social rather than a political
fellowship.
To conclude. If the privatization of art and the
socialization of politics cut the ground from under a com-
17
�munal art, is there then no public place left for the arts?
Not so.
I have been speaking of politics in the largest sense,
meaning the national political community. But in this
country the actual business of life is largely carried on
in the cities, and it is in the cities that a civic life in the
fulfilling, antique, sense is to be found. The cities too
are the natural seats of the arts, because they are the communities in which the arts are cherished and in which
the artists flourish, and so it is the cities which have the
symphony halls, the art centers and the theatres.
Therefore, it is in the cities that the arts and civic life
still intersect, and here too those classical dilemmas concerning the divergences of the judgment of the citizen
and the imagination of the artist may on occasion come
to life.
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Morris, William, News from Nowhere (1890)
Morrow, Glenn P., Plato's Cretan City, Princeton 1960
Musik im Dritten Reich, Documents, ed. Joseph Wulf, Rowohlt 1966
Nozick, Robert, Anarchy, State and Utopia, New York 1974
Plato, Critias, Laws, Republic (first half, fourth century B.C.)
Plato, 10talitarian or Democrat? ed. T. L. Thorson, Englewood Cliffs 1963
Rousseau, Jean:Jacques, Politics and the Arts, Letter toM. D:Alembert
on the Theatre,· trans. Allan Bloom, Glencoe 1960
Sennett, Richard, The Fall of Public Man, New York 1977
Schiller, Friedrich, Concerning the Esthetic Education of Mankind, m a
Series of Letters (1795)
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, A Difmse of Poetry (1821)
Die Sowjetphilosophie, Wendigkeit und Bestimmtheit, Documents, ed.
Wilhelm Goerdt, Darmstadt 1967
Theories of Education in Early America, 1655-1819, ed. Wilson Smith,
Indianapolis 1973
Tocqueville, Alexis de, Democracy in America (1835)
Utopias and Utopian Thought, A Timely Appraisal, ed. Frank E. Manuel,
Boston 1967
Der Utopische Roman, ed. R. Villgradter and F. Krey, Darmstadt 1973
WINTER 1985
�Five From
The Old Testament
Jacob
This sequence is from a forthcoming
book of poems based on Old Testament figures. 'Gideon' has previously
appeared in Shirim, 'Aaron' in
Kansas Quarterly.
I crossed the river feeling for sink- holes
with a crooked staff and a blind man crying
"Thief1 Thief1" while my brother wept,
the beggar, hungry as a hunter.
He is coming to meet me.
The desert trembles, he is still too far away
for me to see his hands.
Angels camp at the Jabbok ford.
I have offered him everything I ownnothing I claim is mine by right,
All I keep is the blessing I stole.
J.
Kates, widely published as a poet, is currently writing a novel about the
civil rights movement. Kates lives in Jaffrey, New Hampshire.
Who are you, dressed like my brother Esau,
straining in my smooth arms,
begging me to let you go?
for Peter
]. Kates
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
19
�Aaron
Samson
He has stones between his teeth.
Lisping, spluttering, stuttering,
the words of freedom fall out of his mouth
like broken nutshells, admonitions
and commandments like the cracked pits
of luscious fruit.
I dropped like an empty bucket
into her bed. Three times I tried,
three times failed the test;
I had not guessed my own riddle.
He can do anything with his arms,
he has only to lift thembut his fingers are too subtle,
rebellious, fluttering like his tongue,
afraid to touch what moves suddenly.
Who you are and why you come
to lead me in my traces like a mill- ox
mashing the dull chaff under my bare feet
I know, my boy,
He has held his staff over his head
conducting God's glory, opening
passage through the water, wells
in the desert; I have bent down
to pluck it writhing out of the dust.
I am not so stupid as you think.
Your hair will grow, your beard thicken
and you will find some comfort
in the arms of women.
From private gold I fashion public images,
talking all the time.
I do tricks to distract the multitudes
while he stumbles up the mountainside alone
and returns shimmering,
speechless.
J
20
A man who has never known sweetness
in his belly grows sick of strength,
of swinging a dry bone.
J
Kates
Kates
WINTER 1985
�Saul
Gideon
Once I towered over the best of my tribe.
When I walked out, even on trivial errands,
men who were thinking of kings
whispered my name.
While I was threshing wheat behind the winepress
and keeping secret, he said to me,
If I can strike fire from the rock
I will make a man of valor out of you.
·The force of my arm drove all enemies down.
Now I lift my left hand only with trouble,
the right drums like five fools on the table.
My sons are treacherous archers
who shoot deliberately to miss the target.
All this was done with words
like a stick against the flesh,
nothing but noises dashed against each other
to let the light shine through.
There is an empty seat, a gap in the company,
a missing tooth throbbing in my jaw.
Where is the young hero who should be here,
the lad who would swagger out against giants?
Have I withered to a mote in his eye
now that the oil is dried?
An old man can shit, can sleep, be pitied
So I went against the dumb thing of Midian
with ten men only like a small stand
of flaming trees, and we cast it down
into its silence.
We are a division of the god of number.
As the man is, so is strength
multiplied by the trumpet of his speech
and the silence of the fearful.
because he is harmless, a king of wandering asses.
An old man can fling a spear at a hole
and watch it quiver in the mud wall
J
Kates
but miss the music he needs
to lull him into the morning.
And also the song King David sang sh'ivering in the
arms of Abishag.
]. Kates
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
21
�James Joyce's Soul
Joseph Engelberg
piece of writing becomes a work of art when
it is rich in meaning, when it embodies level
upon level of understanding. As in an archaeological investigation a hierarchy of artifacts waits to be uncovered: the equivalent
of bits of doth and shards of pottery; jewelry and pots;
murals and statues; rooms and houses; streets and cities;
etc. Nabokm.t 1 enjoins us not to overlook in the archaeology of any literary masterpiece the beauty and
greatness which can reside at the lowest level: in the
details, the literary shards and bits. This is a wise admonition, but an unnecessary one for scholars of James
Joyce. Much of their scholarship justly celebrates Joyce's
magnificient and suggestive detail. There are, however,
also in his works higher levels which await contemplation. Indeed, at the level of joyce's entire opus there lies
a theme which overarches all his works. It is the subject
of this essay.
The story of any human life is the story of an awakening and of a falling asleep: an emergence out of unconsciousness into consciousness (paralleling the rise of
consciousness in biological evolution), followed by a descent into unconsciousness and extinction. The works of
James Joyce, followed chronologically, retrace this cosmic
scheme. 2 Against the panorama of a civilization Joyce
depicts the birth, travail, and decline of a soul. It is the
story of Stephen Dedalus' soul, but it may as well be the
story of Joyce's soul, or of the soul of our time.
A
Joseph Engelberg teaches Physiology and Biophysics at the Albert B. Chandler
Medical Center of the University of Kentucky.
22
The Soul
For millenia the word "soul," a word rich in connotation, was common in our civilization. It was in use as
much in common life as in the most refined works of
literature and religion. Then recently- suddenly- it
disappeared from our midst. Why did it leave? Had we
become so old and wise as to no longer need words from
our spiritual childhood? Had the word "soul" become
meaningless and superfluous like the word "protoplasm"
in biology, "phlogiston" in chemistry, and "humor" in
medicine? Had mankind begun to conceive of the human
being as a machine, lacking any meaning beyond that
of a bag of parts- hearts, kidneys, livers, lungs: its destiny
to rust out and end on a scrap heap?
What might be meant by the word "soul"? When we
remember someone we may recollect some characteristic
part of the body, perhaps the hands or face; some disposition of the body, such as the gait, gesture, or posture;
some aspect of the inner self, such as mind, intelligence,
emotion, superego, unconscious, character. But each of
these is but a fragment of one's being, and "soul" does
not refer to any one of them. "Soul" may be said to stand
for the undivided, unitary, integrative essence of a person. That is why we cannot specify where in the body
the soul resides, or what its mass and chemical composition are. Like any attribute of an entire systempopulation size, gross national product, entropy,
volume,- it cannot be localized within the system.
The "soul" represeJ?.tS a unity. Yet it -is not selfcontained. It is embedded in, and draws its life from
family, friends, and society; from those that have lived,
live now, and are yet to live; from history, tradition, and
cosmos. To these the soul is connected by a myriad of
bonds- the greater their number and variety, the greater
its vitality, vibrancy, solidity and extension.
WINTER 1985
�Should some of the bonds be cut the soul loses size
and strength, and when many bonds are severed, it
shrinks, becomes vestigial; the body remains, but consciousness recedes. The organism withdraws from existence and gravitates towards automatism, somnolence,
sleep, unconsciousness, extinction. The body may be the
first to fail, and, failing, carry the soul to its destruction.
But the destruction of the soul can precede that of the
body. When isolated from the influences which nurture
it and give it life, the soul atrophies, leaving behind an
abandoned body adrift towards a physical doom.
Stephen Dedalus' Soul
What the scientific instrument is to the student of
nature, the work of art is to the student of human existence. It makes visible what is invisible to the naked
eye. James Joyce's trilogy, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young
Man, Ulysses, and Finnegans Wake, is such an instrument,
such a work of art. It can be likened to the vast mirror
in a telescope, which collects and focuses a myriad of
subliminal light impulses, enabling the eye to penetrate
the reaches of the macrocosm. Joyce's trilogy brings
together the subliminal impulses of a civilization. It is
an instrument with which one can probe the microcosm:
the soul of modern (post-enlightenment) man.
The Portrait opens with the first stirrings of consciousness, the awakening of a soul from a deep,
cosmological sleep. This consciousness unfolds; it
culminates in the person of Stephen Dedalus. In scenes
of Stephen's childhood in the Portrait, the word "soul" can
scarcely be found. It is in descriptions of his adolescent
years that it makes a frequent appearance. 3 Whenever
the adolescent Stephen falls into an introspective mood,
the word "soul" is likely to appear in his musings.
Where was his boyhood now? Where was the soul that
had hung back from her destiny, to brood alone upon
the shame of her wounds and in her house of squalor
and subterfuge to queen it in faded cerements and in
wreaths that withered at the touch? 4
before him, that the more scrupulously he tries to satisfy
the demands of his faith, the more he sins. He is disillusioned; he falls; he breaks with his religion. It is the first
of a series of sunderings from the formative influences
of his life. Thereafter the word "soul" appears less and
less frequently in the text.
The story of the unfolding of Stephen's consciousness
is one of anguish and bitterness. It portrays his relentless
struggle against the mass of social, moral, and intellectual traditions which limit his existence. He feels trapped in a tangle of family and friends, the Dublin social
order, Jesuit education, the Roman Church, Irish history
and nationalism, bourgeois values, heroic ideals, British
political and cultural ascendancy.
From early childhood on Stephen finds himself entangled in this thicket of disparate and conflicting influences thrust upon him by society. He strives with the
ardor of genius, and in the light of a gifted imagination,
to reconcile them. He fails. Later, at the height of perplexity and despair, he is graced at the seashore by a revelation which begins to lead him out of the mist of questions, conflicts, and introspective confusion in which he
had been enveloped since childhood• It is a liberating
vision yielding him the understanding that reconciliation is impossible, that incommensurables cannot be
reconciled, that there is a higher sphere to which he must
rise. What he cannot reconcile he will abandon. One by
one he cuts the bonds which tie him to society, country,
religion, tradition, friends, family. In a release of emotions long dammed he feels his being affirmed; in the
agitation of a newly-found freedom he sets out to recreate
the world. The Portrait ends on a heroic note.
"He would create proudly out of the freedom and power
of his soul ... a living thing, new soaring and beautiful,
impalpable, imperishable ... To live, to err, to fall, to
triumph, to recreate lifE: out oflife! ... Welcome, 0 life!
I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of
experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. 6
Somnolence
"Soul" appears some 170 times in the Portrait. Where
it appears it represents some emotion-laden, deep, inward experience.
Her image had passed into his soul forever and no word
had broken the holy silence of his ecstasy. Her eyes had
called him, and his soul had leaped at the call. 5
The use of the word reaches a crescendo in the
descriptions of a series of sermons on salvation, sin, and
hellfire preached by a priest in school at Eastertime. The
sermons, and the ambience of the season, serve to raise
Stephen to the level of religious exaltation. He enters
upon a period of piety, but finds, as did Saul of Tarsus
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
At the conclusion of the Portrait, as we have seen,
Stephen is about to go forth to triumphantly forge the
conscience of his race. Joyce's next work, Ulysses, takes
up the story two years hence. It centers on a trinity of
persons: Stephen Dedalus, Leopold Bloom, and Molly
Bloom. The Portrait had led us to expect to find the hammerblows of heroic creation. This expectation is
unfulfilled. Ulysses opens on an early morning with a feeble, drowsy Stephen in his temporary domicile, the
Martello tower at Dalkey near Dublin.'
Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms
on the top of the staircase ... B
23
�Later that morning he is at Mr. Deasy's school, where
he languidly and dreamily performs the functions of an
assistant teacher, a job which he is about to abandon.
In the afternoon he defends an abstruse doctrine in the
National Library, and in the evening he carouses with
medical students in a hospital. Midnight finds him in
a brothel, drunk and hallucinating. Later, as the night
draws to a close, bucked up by a cup of coffee and a stale
roll, tired but sober after a long walk through the deserted
Dublin streets and a visit to an acquaintance's house, he
seeks a place to sleep.
Ulysses appears to gravitate towards sleep. As it draws
to a close, it is not Stephen alone who seeks rest: all the
major characters are preparing their entrance into the
world of dreams. The last chapters portray Stephen's
journey towards sleep, the ruminations of Leopold Bloom
as he prepares for bed, and the stream-of-consciousness
of Bloom's wife Molly, who, in bed, in a state suspended
between wakefulness and sleep, reminisces upon the
events of her life and the day just past. It is the end of
a long, wearying day, and one would not attach great
significance to all this turning to sleep were it not for
the fact that Joyce's next work, Finnegans Wake, to which
he devoted eighteen of the last twenty years of his life,
is set entirely in the world of sleep, dreams, and phantasmagoric language.
In all this, far from the smithy in which an uncreated
conscience is to be forged, it is a drowsy, listless, passive,
vulnerable, defenseless, diffident, defeated Stephen we
find- a Stephen unequal to the onslaught of life; a
Stephen in retreat, sunk into himself, detached from those
he encounters, acted upon by circumstances but incapable
of acting.
The Fading of Consciousness
Joyce died January 13, 1941, some 24 months after
the publication of Finnegans Wake. In his works he
systematically traced the rise of a human soul to the very
heights of consciousness, and then its subsequent descent into torpor and sleep. Had Joyce lived to write
another work, what might have been the next step in this
soul's journey? Might the oblivion of sleep been succeeded
by the oblivion of death, leaving behind a universe devoid
of consciousness-as it eXisted before humankind made
its appearance on earth? It is said that Joyce was planning another work which was to have as its setting the
Sea. 9 Had this work been completed, Joyce's opus would
have retraced on the scale of a humble city, Dublin, the
cosmic drama of the birth and rise of consciousness, and
its decline into unconsciousness- the Portrait being the
story of the coming to life of a human soul; Ulysses, a
journey towards sleep; Finnegans Wake, the world of sleep;
Joyce's projected last work, unconscious nature. The goal
of life, according to Freud, is death ( cf. Beyond the Pleasure
24
Principle). Joyce's imagination appears to have gravitated
towards unconsciousness, human extinction.
Stephen Dedalus could not reconcile with the realities
of his time and place, his idealized visions of religion,
love, family, and society. Failing in this reconciliation he
chose to break his connections with them. For them he
would substitute the integrity of his self and soul, and
build upon this foundation. Liberated from the smothering influences of his paralyzed homeland and people, and
energized by an abundant spirit, he would build a new
reality.
Ironically, as long as he had been a part of this land
and its people, his soul had burned with an ardent flame.
After he cut himself loose, paralysis and torpor descended
upon his consciousness. This is anticipated in the Portrait
in words of a prophetic nature:
The snares of the world were its ways of sin. He would
fall. He had not yet fallen but he would fall silently, in
an instant. Not to fall was too hard, too hard: and he
felt the silent lapse of his soul, as it would be at some
instant to come, falling, falling but not yet fallen, still
unfallen but about to fall.lO
To sin is to break up that which needs be whole.
The passage brings to mind the powerful ending of
"The Dead;' a story in Dub liners, of the collapse of a soul
under the illusions of a lifetime and the events of an
even1ng:
His soul had approached that region where dwell the
vast hosts of the sea . ... His soul swooned slowly as he
heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and
faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon
all the living and all the dead. 11
The protagonist of this story is said to be at least in part
the young Joyce's conception of what he might have
become in middle age had he remained in Dublin and
become a conventional success there. 1 2 The story begins
with an energetic, confident Gabriel Conroy as he embarks, with pleasurable anticipation upon an evening of
festivity, self-exaltation, and amorous adventure. He is
a teacher at an Irish college (i.e., high school), financially
secure, socially established; a reviewer of books for a
prominent newspaper; a possessor of a fine wife, home,
and children; a man of authority and social standing.
But scarcely has he arrived at the house of his aunts for
their traditional Christmas party than he suffers a series
of psychic blows. These blows undermine his sense of existence, of his understanding of who he is, of who his
wife is, and of what life expects of him. As the evening
comes to a close, sitting at the window of an· unlit hotel
room, his wife fitfully asleep beside him, he feels his identity fading: he swoons as his soul tumbles towards the
cold, snow-covered, eternal land of the dead. It is another
depiction of the extinguishing, through isolation, of
consciousness.
Still another example is found in ''A Painful Case;'
WINTER 1985
�a story in Dubliners, written by Joyce in his early twenties, where he speculates as to what might become of
him by middle age were he to continue to live in a
society which he despises while systematically and scrupulously isolating himself from its influences. 13 The story
relates the progressive involvement of a Mr. Duffy with
a married woman, and his final scornful rejection of her
passion. Over a lonely dinner, one evening, he learns that
she has died. The news comes to him in an article describ-
ing the inquest into her death. He leaves his dinner half
eaten. As he walks out into the cheerless cold of a gloomy
evening, he meditates upon his own nature:
His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased
to exist, became a memory- if anyone remembered him .
. . . He felt his moral nature falling to pieces . ... No
one wanted him; he was outcast from life's feast. He
turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river winding along
towards Dublin . ... He could hear .nothing: the night
was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent.
He felt he was alone. 14
Mr. Duffy had labored to be free. Fate had granted his
wish. He was alone.
Whose soul is departing?
Have we been speaking of James Joyce, or only of
Stephen Dedalus, an object of his creation? Some consider Stephen to be Joyce:
We ought to know a lot about Joyce, seeing that he was
at great pains to tell us all he could. He put himself into
all his books. He is the unnamed boy in Dubliners,
Stephen Dedalus in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
and Ulysses, Richard in Exiles, and Shem the Penman
in Finnegans Wake, and, if Joyce painted them himself,
who shall say that any of them is a bad likeness?
(Frank Budgen) 15
Others consider Stephen to be Joyce's creation:
... my brother was not the weak, shrinking, infant who
figures in A Portrait of the Artist. He was drawn, it is true,
very largely upon his own life and his own experience,
... But A Portrait of the Artist is not an autobiography;
it is an artistic creation.
(Stanislaus Joyce)••
No matter: the works of a literary artist inevitably
reveal to us something about himself and about the times
in which he lives. Joyce bridges the end of the previous
century, and the beginning of the present one. It was a
moment when, everywhere, young, sensitive, gifted intellectuals awakened to find, on the one hand, stagnant
social realities, nightmarish histories, and ancient,
hypocritical religions; and, on the other, the promise of
a liberated, secure, enlightened future based upon imagination, science, and reason. They thirsted for release,
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
for a fresh start, for escape from the smothering ambience
of tawdry traditions. They felt themselves to be living
at the very interface of a nightmarish past, and an iridescent future. They vowed to forget the past, to create
a new future, a future based upon freedom, honesty,
beauty, spirit, and justice. Like Stephen, they dreamed
of severing their bonds to existing history, tradition,
religion, culture, and society. In the end they found, as
he did, in place of liberation, in place of a new, pure,
and exalted life, that an unkind fate had granted themsleep, that is to say, a lower form of consciousness. 17
Ours is an age of sleep. The seemingly feverish activity around us is that of a troubled dream. There is
a great striving for sleep on earth and an eternal rest in
the world to come. There is a yearning for diversion,
anesthesia, alcohol, narcotic~, sleeping pills, and tranquilizers; for mental disciplines which would take us out
of this world and never bring us back; for sharing the
rest of the dead while yet alive. Genius appears to be falling asleep, consciousness to be departing. Its departure
is reminiscent of the mystical doctrine concerning the
Shechinah, the divine presence of God on earth. 18 When
humankind feels that everything can be under its complete control, when it relies only upon itself and thinks
that it does not need anything higher, the Shechinah turns
away, and departs, as if to say "You do not need me now.
I will go away and come back some other time:'
The Knight of Faith
Joyce reveals to us in his works the travails of Stephen's
soul, of his own soul, of his age's soul. To these revelations, he joins in Ulysses the legend of Leopold Bloom,
the narrative center around which other characters trace
their orbits. Bloom is seemingly a scandal and a stumbling block: a mediocre, vulgar, uncultured, unassuming,
undistinguished, canvasser of advertisements- hardly the
counterpart of the Ulysses of Homer's Odyssey. Yet joyce
saw Bloom as an embodiment of an ideal type: the good
man, the complete man. 19 In what sense can Bloom be
taken to be a good man, a complete man?
We have spoken of the "soul" as a core of personal
being measured by its capacity to integrate the "I" with
the "other!' Bloom, indeed, has a rich soul. He is luxuriously connected to the world around him, the world
and cosmos of Dublin and its people. In this he contrasts
with other characters in Ulysses. These, leading pinched
lives, are locked within themselves amidst clouds of personal obsession. They perceive the world which lies outside themselves to be contorted and an intrusion upon
their inner being. Not so Bloom whose mind and vision
are clear, whose heart is responsive to those around him,
who exults in the world. As we follow him on his
peregrinations, we become aware of the myriad connections which bind him with an inexhaustible sympathy
to the city and its inhabitants. 2 Food being a prerequisite
°
25
�for existence, he feeds the hungry: in the morning his
cat and wife; later the seagulls over the Liffey, the dogs
in Nighttown; and, in the early hours of the next morning, a debilitated Stephen. He consoles the orphans and
the widows: at Glasnevin Cemetery he leaves for the
family of a deceased acquaintance an offering considered
generous for a man of his means, and shows concern for
their receiving the life insurance. It is not the body alone,
however, which must be fed, but also the soul. Wherever
he goes he enters with sympathy into the lives of those
he meets: Stephen's sister, underfed and in a tattered
dress; Stephen wandering about the vast reaches of his
own intellect; Mrs. Breen shepherding a deranged husband; the elderly, deaf waiter at the Ormond Cafe;
romantic, lame, Gerty MacDowell at Sandymount shore;
Mrs. Purefoy in prolonged labor at the Lying-in Hospital
on Holies Street.
If Bloom is prodigal in entering such relationships
it is not because he is spared affiictions of his own: there
is his father's suicide, and the death of his only son; the
separation from his remaining child, a daughter, who
lives in a distant city; his being an outsider in the Dublin
scene; his lack of commercial success and social status.
Yet, in spite of such adversities and losses, there is
no hint, as he touches upon the experiences offered him
by this Dublin day, that he longs for a release from life,
that he wishes to escape its exigencies through sleep or
death.
In this Bloom recalls to us the "Knight of Faith;' the
Abraham-like figure in Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling
who lives for the infinite yet is firmly rooted in the daily
round of a finite world. 21 What is remarkable about this
"knight" is the extraordinary presence he brings to bear
upon the everyday events and encounters of his life. Yet
he seems commonplace to others, his special nature being
unperceived by those around him. Bloom is such a
knight. He is a life-force which vivifies the narrative of
Ulysses and invests its earthbound finiteness with infinite
longings.
26
Life, Joyce seems to tell us, lies with the "Knight of
Faith" solidly rooted in existence; somnolence, sleep and
death follow the cutting loose of the soul from its
moonngs.
NOTES
1. V. Nabokov, Lectures on Literature, Ed. John Updike, New York
Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1980, p. 373.
2. Cf. julian Huxley in Teilhard de Chardin, Hymn to the Universe.
Teilhard views each coming to life of a human being as a cosmic
event: with the arrival of humankind the universe became conscious of itself.
3. The implicit suggestion that the "soul" is something acquired during adolescence is reminiscent of the Talmudic dictum that the
child is born with an "evil inclination;' and that the "good inclination" begins to develop only at puberty (cf. (18), p. 89).
4. J. Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, New York: Viking
Press, 1964, p. 171.
5. Portrait, p. 172.
6. Portrait, p. 170, 172, 252.
7. Cf. Wyndham Lewis, Time and Western Man, New York: Harcourt Brace and Co., 1928.
8. ]. Joyce, Ulysses, New York: Modern Library, 1961, p.3
9. L. Gillet, Clayhookfor jamesjqyce, trans. G. Markow-Totcvy, London and New York, 1958, p. 119. Cited by S. L. Goldberg,Jqyce,
Abeland.Schumann: New York, 1972, p. 114.
10. Portrait, p. 162
11. ]. Joyce, Duhiiners, New York: Modern Library, 1954, p. 288.
12. C. H. Peake,JamesJqyce: The Citizen and the Arlist, Stanford, Calif:
Stanford University Press, 1977, p. 343.
13. Cf. S. L. Goldberg, Jqyce, New York: Capricorn, 1972, p. 40.
14. Duhliners, p. 145-147.
15. F. Budgcn, James Joyce and the Making of Ulysses, Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1972, p. 18, 118.
16. S. Joyce, My Brother's Keeper, New York: Viking Press, 1969, p. 17.
17. Cf. S. Zweig, Die Well von Gestern, Stockholm: Bermann-Fischcr
Verlag AB, 1944.
18. A Cohen, Ever)'man:r 'lidmud, New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., 1979,
p. 42.
.
19. Budgen, p. :H:1 loc cil.
20. Peake, p. :124<129 lot: . .:it.
21. A. Goldman, Tht Joyce Paradox, Evanston, I11.: NmLhwestern
Uniw1·si!y Pres:-;, 1966, p. 76.
WINTER 1985
�Watching Plains Daybreak
for Erick Hawkins
Antelope, buffalo, hawk.
Avatars of Eden,
these gentle, millenia! beasts
dance on dawn-bleached grass
ceremony and enigma.
Their masks do not simply create an aesthetic distance,
inviting us to rest in contemplation; they are spurs
to a certain psychic motion.
Habit blinds us. These masks and stylized movements,
erasing the veil of familiarity in a revelation
of essence, restore to us the instrument of wonder,
the dishabituated eye.
Love moves between the two poles of unity and separation;
this distance is the place of wonder.
This dance thus works its conversion; quietly coerced to wonder,
we are awakened, one and new,
into the revealed Peaceable Kingdom, and drawn awake
to the things of this world in love.
Open your eyes!
Nothing has happened bifore!
This is the first daybreak ever.
Richard Freis
Richard Freis, an alumnus of St. John's, Annapolis, has published poems in
Poetry, The Southern &view and other magazines. President of the First and
Vice-president of the Second USA International Ballet Competitions, he is
a longstanding admirer of choreographer Erick Hawkins.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
27
�Self-Portraits
Elliott Zuckerman
started painting again in the fall of 1977, after
not having done more than an occasional picture
in twenty years. As a young man I had never
painted portraits or self-portraits, but since I
started again faces have been the only subjects
that interest me. When painting other people I enjoy the
effort to get a resemblance; but when I succeed, the
delight in the captured look seems to end my interest
in finishing the picture.
Only in a few of the earlier self-portraits have I been
primarily interested in resemblance. Once a new picture
is begun, the person on the canvas seems to me to be
someone else, someone not-quite-me, usually looking at
me, who may or may not reflect an aspect of my feelings, permanent or transient, about myself. I do not
reproach myself with excessive self-infatuation, because
it is not I who matters but the fellow in the picture.
There are now more than seventy self-portraits.
Those reproduced here were painted in oils and are all
of the same dimensions: 20 X 24 inches.
I
EDITOR'S NOTE:
It is at my urging that Mr. Zuckerman has
permitted these self-portraits to be reproduced
here, even though we could not afford to present them in color. I have asked him to write
a brief preface.
Elliott Zuckerman is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis. His lecture,
Beyond the First Hundred Years: Some Remarks on the Si"gnificance of Tristan, appeared
in the Winter '84 issue of the Review·
28
WINTER 1985
�Self-Portrait number 8
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
29
�Self-Portrait number 35
30
WINTER 1985
�Self-Portrait number 46
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
31
�Self-Portrait number 31
Self-Portrait number 33
Self-Portrait number 48
Self-Portrait number 26
32
WINTER 1985
�Self-Portrait number 51
Self-Portrait number 11
Self-Portrait number 29
Self-Portrait number 4 7
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
33
�Self-Portraii number 24
Self-Portrait number 16
Self-Portrait number 18
Self-Portrait number 28
34
WINTER 1985
�Self-Portrait number 39
Self-Portrait number 41
Self-Portrait number 50
Self-Portrait number 10
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
35
�The Opera Singer as Interpreter:
A Conversation with Sherrill Milnes
Susan Fain
R
ecently I had the opportunity to speak with
Sherrill Milnes, leading baritone with the
Metropolitan Opera. Our talk centered
around the peculiar position of the opera
singer, standing between composer and audience. For twenty years Milnes has performed on the
stages of all the world's major opera houses. Most often
seen in the popular Italian repertoire, he has also received
much critical acclaim for performances of Thomas'
Hamlet and Saint.Saens' Henry VIII. Of towering height,
strongly sculptured facial features, and a unique and
powerful vocal timbre, Milnes dominates a stage
whenever he appears. In talking with him about his
thoughts on opera, one is first struck by the specificity
of his insight. The statements he makes are usually accompanied by examples from a particular work, and often
even a specific passage is sung in support of the thought.
· Opera, to Milnes, is a much bigger-than-life medium.
It has a power to reach out to an audience in a way that
cannot be ignored.
The music takes longer to develop. In a play you say,
"I love you~ In an opera that's a ten minute scene. There's
no such thing as, "I love you;' and "I love you too;' and
then you go on, which is the norm in a play. However
long it would take in a play, in an opera there would
be pages and pages of music, with one emotion going
for that duration of time. The music is like a two-byfour over our heads which is undeniable in its power.
You can't ignore it. To take a simple example, I suppose
you could go to a play being tired or angry at something
else in your life and really not enjoy it at all. And the
play would not demand your attention. The opera would.
In general, the music in opera, opera music (symphony
Susan Fain is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis.
36
really because it is the orchestra there that is really compelling; a piano wouldn't be as much so though still the
music would be more compelling than the spoken word)
will just take your attention. You could hardly sit there
and ignore it. It makes all of the emotions stronger, bigger, longer-lasting.
For Milnes, opera characters are thus simpler than
characters in a play, yet the presence of the music makes
them also more powerful. One cannot layer an operatic
character with multiple levels of meaning. "You can be
Sherrill, being I ago, pretending maybe one other thing.
But that's about as far as you can go in duplicity or triplicity of meaning!' More complexity simply confuses the
audience and there is no opportunity in an opera for a
long soliloquy of explanation. The Franco Zeffirelli production of Otello at the Met was a case in point.
Franco had a very definite idea about !ago; that he is
almost controlled, or consumed by ·some evil force that
is inside him, and over which he has only limited power.
Somewhat like an exorcist kind of thing, but Franco
didn't say it that way. When Iago says the "Credd:....!'I
believe in a cruel God who created me in his own image, out of the original slime, and after death there is
nothing;- Franco imagined that this is the first time that
Iago has ever said this; that it is this spirit that is saying
it, and that in fact, he is almost shocked at the words
that are coming out of his mouth, over which he has no
control. So that at the end of the "Credo;' Iago doesn't
laugh, but rather emits a horrified scream: "E vecchia
fola il Ciel. (Oh my God, what have I said?) AH!" And
then I cover my head with my cloak.
When you laugh at the end of the "Credd:_as is
traditionally done- then you have to think of the aria
as if it is the hundred and fiftieth time I ago has thought
this. There's a big difference in the way you do the aria
if you consider that he's never said these words before,
and that he's listening to some other voice speaking from
WINTER 1985
�within. And that scares him. But I also found that audiences, however, didn't always understand that. And it
makes the end of the third act (where Otello has swooned
and Iago stands over him proclaiming "Ecco illeone . . :')
a problem if you have rendered the ~~credd' in this
manner.
Instead of the traditional kicking of Otello, or putting my foot on his chest, Franco had me start to choke
the unconsCious Otello; to start to kill him, which is also
very different. Even though Iago says, "Chi puo vietar
che questa fronte prema col mio tallone?" Franco had
me start to choke him instead. Then at some point in
choking him, all of a sudden he realizes what he is doing. He is killing, he is choking Otello, and he realizes,
"This is my leader?' In a way, Iago chickens out. He
always talks about being the number one, but in fact
he doesn't really want to be the number one. He wants
a leader next to him. It's kind of a hate and love relationship. In the hate part he's strangling him, and then
he realizes, "Oh my God! What am I doing? I want
Otello to be there. I don'( want to be the number one:'
He wants to be the number one of the number one, but
he doesn't want to replace his boss, really. So he backs
off from choking Otello and sort of cringes away.
All of those things had a certain curve and validity,
but people didn't understand it. Franco was critical of
there being too many layers, and yet he had this Iago
very layered. As I recall the original performances, I and
the concept were sort of clobbered. They didn't get it
at all. Or else they got it- though nothing they wrote
indicated they did -and didn't like it. It was very untraditional. There are certain things that people want
to see. So now, even in that production, I do the traditional laugh.
For Milnes there is little doubt about the rightness
of yielding to the audience on these kinds of matters.
Because he sees his purpose as communicating a
character to the audience, rather than educating them
about the possible ways to think about a character, he
is sensitive to the audience's understanding. If the concept of the opera, for whatever reason, fails to effect that
commun.ication, then the singer has not achieved his pur-
pose. Milnes then related the story of Nicholai Gedda
and the "Flower Song" from Bizet's Carmen.
"Bizet wrote a very difficult, but very beautiful dimi-.
r;uendo f~r the final B flat of the 'Flower Song; but traditiOnally, singers unable to execute the diminuendo have
sung it loud and to great applause [Milnes then
demonstrates the "Carmen, je t'aime" in booming voice].
Gedda was able to diminuendo that B flat gorgeously,
almost as no other smger could, but the applause was
mtmmal. The question might be asked, why lower
yourself to accommodate the taste of the masses?" For
Milnes, and for Gedda, there is no question about the
answer. Gedda subsequently sang the ending loudly and
everyone raved. Why is this not merely pandering to applause? As Milnes put it, "If you're reaching out and turnmg on the audience, that's part of what it's all about. The
music is there to move the audience. It was written to
that end. Part of the performer's responsibility and obligaTHE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
tion to the composer is to elicit that very response, as
long as the means used are valid."
This led us into a discussion of whether or not operas
should be performed come scritto (as written, i.e., exactly
as the score indicates) or whether there is room for interpolation and transposition.
Ordinarily I would only interpolate high notes if I think
they are supported by the drama. Various conductors
around the world-especially Muti in this day-want
only come scritto; never mind even the understood
tra':lspositions like that in La Traviata [which Milnes explamed and demonstrated]. For example, Muti has a
recording of Leoncavallds I Pagliacci where the Prologue
is performed just as written: "Pari di voi spiriamo l'aere!
Incominciate!" so that the voice goes down at the end
of the phrase instead of up. I think that the come scritto
in this instance is foolish. Someone might say, "Leoncavallo didn't write that. Verdi didn't write that" and so
forth, as if to say that we know for sure that what is on
the printed page is the only one that the composer liked.
Lots of cadenzas and other stylistic things were
understood and expected to be done. Certainly in the
bel canto period you had to do that. Sometimes the com-·
pos~r would just put a corona and you were supposed
to smg measures and measures of improvised music.
Various people showing off; that was the idea. Less valid
perhaps in Verdi's time, but I can't believe for a minute
that interpolations were not expected. These composers
were ve~y prac~ical guys, and often they were writing
for particular smgers who they knew would be singing
the part for the first short span of the opera's life. If those
singers didn't have great A flats, of course they weren't
going to write a high A flat in there. That's one factor
to consider.
There is an interpolated high A flat in the "Pieta"
in Act IV of Verdi's Macbeth: "Pieta, rispetto, amore." It's
a little angular to do it. It makes a double dominant
chord. You have two dominants before you go to the
tonic. That's a little angular musically. But Macbeth is
pouring out his heart at that point. "Is my only epitaph
to be a curse?" All of this is inside Macbeth and he is
wailing his soul at that moment. In that context, to take
an extra high note to accentuate the pain of his soul
seems perfectly appropriate. Macbeth is looking back
over his life and thinking, "I did all these things, but all
I ever wanted was pity, respect, and love:'
Milnes than talked about what he refers to as the
"craft" of singing: the limitations imposed by costume
staging, and the singer's own body. How does Do~
Giovanni, or Simon Boccanegra, or Scarpia move about
the stage? The desired answer is provided by the music
and the drama, but to execute that movement requires
the "mechanics" of singing.
~n the case of Simon Boccanegra [who is a young man
m the Prologue and twenty-five years older in Act I] the
problem is how do you move _as a young man? How do
you go from the younger to the older? Those are
mechanics. You can't just think yourself younger and
thereby become younger. You have to be able to make
37
�younger gestures. I have never found that a psychological
concept like younger or older can be immediately
translated into a physical reality just by thinking it. How
do you move older? Thinking older? What is thatthinking older? How do you think older? You have to know
what muscles to relax. You have to learn how to sit down
tired; which muscles aren't as elastic. Gestures have to
slow down. I use a cane as Father Germont [in La
Traviata] because it slows me down and stops muscular
gestures. No one on the operatic stage nowadays is so
old as to be able to portray old men simply by reason
of being old. The operatic stage is energetic in its nature.
But you have to slow certain things down. Simone, in
the Prologue, has to be more energetic and evidence
more off-the-top-of-the-head kinds of gestures than the
older Simone. And then you're poisoned and you're
slowly dying. How do you do that? There's still muscle
in the music. You have to use the curves of the music.
You have to get your energy up, say a big important
phrase, and then be weak again'. You try to portray the
death with a certain amount of physiological correctness
by using the curves of the music.
Movements are also determined to a large degree
by the clothes you are Wearing. You have to move in a
certain way because the costume demands it. Therefore,
we as singers have to learn artificially how to move in
the appropriate way since we no longer wear clothes like
that. When you get up out of a chair you cannot push
yourself up and wiggle your shoulders. That's very inelegant. As nobility you had to move smoothly. The older
operatic -characters can afford to flop into chairs and
struggle to get up from them. Simone does so only when
he is dying since he's still a vital man at forty-five.
Characters are often portrayed differently in different
productions when they are wearing different costumes.
Milnes spoke of some of the differences between a traditional Scarpia [in Tosca] and the concept ofScarpia [and
the opera] that he encountered with German director
Gotz Friedrich.
Operatic characters often show different faces in different
scenes and sometimes I'm not so sure that there is a connection. Scarpia is definitely one man in the church [in
Act 1]. That's his external, public face with the things
he says to Tasca assumed to be private, even though there
is the crowd coming in for the mass. The operatic
assumption is that they're not paying attention or hearing what's going on although I do, as Scarpia, from time
to time check to see if anyone's watching us, because I
think he should. I don't. think that the character should
assume that no one is looking, even though you know
that they're not staged that way, because it's not supposed
to be staging from the character's point of view. But that's
his external face.
In a certain way, what he does in the first act doesn't
so much determine what he is going to do in the privacy
of his own living room [in Act II], although his sensuousness is basically the same. Various Scarpias would
have to manifest that sensuality differently. If a singer
is short and heavy and paunchy he would have to be very
careful with the way he evidences his desire for Tasca.
In fact, it's even determined somewhat by costume. In
38
the GOtz Friedrich production the black, stark kind of
costume stayed for both the first and second acts. The
second act opens and Scarpia is there, with his fingers
tapping on the table, just staring into space. The curtain opens and he's just staring. He's not eating his food
as is traditionally done. He's staring into space and
thinking to himself, "I've got to get Angelotti; What am
I going to do? Well, Tasca may· be my best falcon;' and
so he speaks aloud his first line, "Tasca e un huon falco?'
The concept of the whole opera was that Scarpia himself
was under time pressure. If he didn't get Angelotti back
within a certain time, a day or a couple of days maybe,
his own head could roll; someone is looking over his
shoulder. Of course, none of this is in the opera but it
also makes perfect sense. So Scarpia is thinking to .
himself, "I gotta get him. I gotta get him. I just missed
him by two minutes in the church," and meanwhile there
is this sense of time ticking away. Maybe he's even
perspiring. He's worried. Internally he's worried. That's
a terrific concept. And you're just staring into space and
thinking, "How am I going to get him? Tasca e un huon
falco. I'm gonna use her. And if I do this and this and
this maybe I'll get Mario and Angelotti both?'
In the Met production, however, the costume in the
second act, very unlike the first act, is French Revolution foppish. Also correct as the style of the time. But
the false elegance of the costume negates somewhat that
sense that time is ticking away; that very intense kind
of portrayal. So I started thinking that maybe the intense number wasn't right with the look of the
costume- that false elegant, almost foppish kind of thing
with vest, long coat and all that. So I went back to the
also valid, more traditional, eating food. With that, instead of the driven thoughts of the Friedrich concept,
Scarpia is just thinking calmly, 'Well, Tasca is probably
my best falcon," as he's eating his food and drinking some
wme.
This concept [with Scarpia calmly eating] sets up
something that I do later in the second act: throwing
the wine in Spoletta's face. 'It's a good bit but the Spoletta
has to say it's all right. I usually ask. The actual act of
doing it is dramatically powerful because people aren't
expecting it. If Scarpia takes a bite or two of the banana,
a couple of sips of wine right away, and then goes into,
"Tasca e un huon falco;' then when he goes back to do
the throwing of the wine, it's much more set up than
if he were only to take it into his hand right before he's
going to throw it in Spoletta's face. Then it looks a little
bit like you're picking it up because the stage directions
say so. Also there's a practical consideration. You drink
it down so that there is only about a half an inch of wine
and you don't have liquid all over the stage. If you threw
a whole glass of wine the Spoletta would be drenched.
&arpia is a very special part. In a way like Iago, there
are many ways to do it. I don't mean many ways from
A to Z. There are not a lot of totally different concepts
in terms of the whole arch of it. But there are a lot of
ways to go from A to B and from B to C -the little curves
all along the major curve of a character. Iago the same
way.
Once the vocal line is secure and the technical aspects
of a part are in place, is it necessary for the singer to
understand his character as a human being? For Sher-
WINTER 1985
�rill Milnes, the answer is often "yes!' At the time of our
conversation, Milnes was preparing to sing the title role
in Verdi's Simon Boccanegra-a beautiful but complicated
opera about a young man who loses his daughter and
then finds her again twenty-five years later, having in the
meantime become the first plebeian Doge of Genoa.
There are such good human values in Simon, especially
in the relationship between the father and daughter. It
is the kind of role for which a singer should be older
himself. Vocally, it's very difficult for a young singer
because the center of the part sits low and yet you have
to be able to dominate. Vocally it requires maturity, but
also because of the special character of the father and
daughter relationship. The more you can feel about real
children, particularly having children of your own, the
better that will work.
Simone was also almost too good a man. If he had
been a little more savvy, a little meaner, he would have
dumped Paolo and never have allowed him the opportunity to poison him. Somehow he couldn't believe that
anyone could do something as heinous as that. So in a
way, Simone is naive.
Once on stage, the performer does not have the opportunity to think about who his character is; but part of
what sets Sherrill Milnes apart from less talented singers
is his ability to understand the man he is embodying.
Though operatic characters are indeed simpler and
louder and larger than life, for Sherrill Milnes they seem
never to cease to be human, even an enigma like Don
Giovanni. How evil is Sherrill Milnes' Don Giovanni?
There's a balance. In a Salzburg production by JeanPierre Ponnelle he staged it so that at the end, when
Giovanni goes to hell, my body is still there on stage and
Leporello covers me with my cape. Each person comes
up to me and sings their parts and there's almost a sense
that, "Gee, it's almost too bad he had to ... No, no, no,
he was an evil man and the right thing happened:' There
was a little sense that life was more interesting with him
around. There was just a touch of that. But the Giovanni
must also be dangerous enough to merit his demise. If
he's just a happy-go-lucky Giovanni who likes the girls,
and likes to play jokes a lot, then he's not an important
enough representative of the forces of evil to merit
everlasting damnation. He has to be dangerous. Funloving, but mercurial. He doesn't mind killing. He's
rather amoral, although that's not really true. I think
he does have his own code of ethics. When he kills the
Commendatore he senses for the first time in his life that
something may be going awry. He has broken one of
his codes. He has fought an old man although he had
tried not to. He still does it. He doesn't run away.
Someone from his own rank. An old man. And I have
the feeling that some kind of an alarm goes off inside
Giovanni even when he runs him through, and certainly
in the recitative right after. He doesn't exactly feel
remorseful, because I don't think he knows how to feel
remorseful. But for the first time in his life he may be
worried. A little alarm goes off, so that in the first
recitative, "Leporello, ove sei?" he evidences his concern.
Leporello asks, "Who's dead? You, or the old one?" and
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Giovanni responds, "Que demando la bestia? Il vecchio!"
In that response, especially if one pauses between the
phrases, one can hear the warning going of£ I killed an
old man though he forced me into it. I could have
avoided it. It was wrong of me. Of course I was going
to beat him. And I shouldn't have done it. It is this little
alarm that seems to keep pushing Giovanni through the
entire opera. All operas at that time were 24 hour operas.
Everything took place in 24 hours. And Giovanni is propelled through this time as if he's saying, 'We're going
to have fun even if it kills us." He and the time keep racing on. For all of Giovanni's recitatives I would almost
run onto the stage. He's racing around through the town
as if saying to himself, "Why did I do this? What am
I going to do?" And he's worried. He's never been worried before. Now sometimes he forgets this alarm, like
when he sees Zerlina and is distracted. But for the most
part, it's always there driving him onward.
Mr. Milnes was then asked about the difference between Mozart's Don Giovanni and the Don Juan stories
and legends that can be read in books. What happens
to the story when it becomes an opera?
The beauty of the music is of course the first thing, and
then the emotional power of this story being presented
as an opera. One is hit over the head with the emotional
power of the story when it is accompanied by Mozart's
music. You don't seem to get emotionally tied to the
various Don Juan stories in the same way. The great
beauty of the music creates bigger-than-life emotions so
that it can reach out in a much more overt and powerful way to say Something that the stories cannot say by
themselves.
One thing that is striking about Don Giovanni is that
even though the Don is the title role in what is often
considered the 'perfect opera, from a performer's standpoint, Don GioVanni himself is very shy. When you take
away the recitatives, as you do when the singers rehearse
just with the orchestra, Giovanni has very little to say.
And yet he is the driving force. The opera has to hinge
on him. Yet it is the other people in the opera who have
all the big set pieces. He has only the ~h'}inpagne aria
and the serenade, and in the serenade he is disguised.
And both of those pieces are very s~ort. The most satisfying scene with the orchestra is the supper scene where
Giovanni really gets to sing. At all other-times he'S plways
playi?-g at. s<_>n:ething el~e, ~ven playin~ at being <?iovanm. So It IS m the reCitatlves that he has· the most to
say and where he is most hill¥'elf. This is the hardest
part to communicate to the audie-nce-the conversational
things- because it is pure language. Yet this is where
Giovanni is most himself. And with Leporello he is
always himself.
When you are playing Giovanni onstage, you are not
thinking about the question of good and evil that governs
the opera. You are doing the human things that a
Giovanni would do in this stylized story. We have to
assume that he spent three days with Elvira and couldn't
stand her anymore. And he doesn't get to Zerlina for
a variety of reasons. In the opera, during those last 24
hours, Giovanni succeeds with no one. It's really the rise
and fall of Don Giovanni and the opera deals with the
fall- the last 24 hours of his life.
39
�Dynamic Symmetry,
A Theory of Art and Nature
Howard J. Fisher
J
ust before the onset of the 1920s there began to
be promulgated a certain theory that was partly
mathematical, partly historical, and partly
aesthetic. This theory was the invention of Mr.
] ay Hambidge, who was an artist and designer,
and by it he set out to explicate some remarkable
characteristics he had found in classical Greek and Egyptian designs. He propounded the theory under the title,
"Dynamic Symmetry." This name was meant to be a
translation of the Greek mathematical expression &uv<i.~Et
aUJ.LJ.LE'tpm, a term we know from Euclid. The Euclidean
expression describes a relation between magnitudes
which, though incommensurable directly in length, are
"commensurable in square!' The side and diagonal of a
square are two such magnitudes. As we well know, these
two magnitudes have no common unit. But the squares
constructed upon them respectively do have a common
unit; in fact the square on the diagonal is just double
the square on the side, as we learn in Meno.
"Dynamic Symmetry;' then, is a study of magnitudes
that are commensurable in square only. It is too bad that
both words have acquired meanings that are rather distant from their Greek cognates, as it makes the name
of the study somewhat non-explanatory today. But the
name "Dynamic Symmetry" has survived; and in any
case, respect for ] ay Hambidge's steadfast pioneering
probably dictates that we should retain it.
Hambidge did not take a mathematician's approach
to the incommensurables. His study was applied exclusively to problems of design and proportion in archi-
Howard Fisher is a tutOr at St. John's College, Annapolis. Dynamic ~mmetry,
A Theory of Art and Nature, was originally given as a lecture under the title,
A Grecian Uf?l, at St. John's College, Annapolis in April of 1984.
40
tecture, pottery, sculpture, landscaping, furnituremaking, typography, and other arts. In fact he regarded
Dynamic Symmetry as a rediscovered ancient art of
design and composition which had been perfected by
Egyptian and, especially, by Greek craftsmen long before
its more refined appearance as a ·theoretical science in
the mathematics of Euclid and others.
According to an account which Hambidge accepted,
Greek artisans had obtained from the Egyptians their
techniques for correlating design elements during the 7th
and 6th centuries B. C. E. They perfected this knowledge
as a practical geometry which for some 300 years provided the basic principles for design in the Classic period.
Traces of this practical geometry survived, in a more
highly evolved, mathematized form, in Euclidean
geometry; but the secrets of its·original artistic application otherwise disappeared. Sadly, no accounts remain
that would reveal to us how the ancient craftsmen
developed their designs or what principles and elements
they may have employed. In the absence of historical
evidence, the principles that guided the makers must be
sought through examination· of the surviving works
themselves. This means that any theory of the design of
these things must begin by advancing a theory of analysis:
it must instruct the spectator how to approach the work
in order to understand it as a composition.
In this Egyptian bas-relief (Fig. 1) the goddess is supporting a formalized sky in the shape of a bar. The space
between the vertical_ bars on each side is in the original
filled with hieroglyphic writing, which is not shown in
the sketch.
To analyze this design, Dynamic Symmetry looks first
to the containing rectangle AE; then to subordinate rectangles such as AC, DE, and FB, that appear to indicate
an underlying scheme to the composition. Rectangles DE
WINTER 1985
�A
mathematical language in their reconstruction it is our
task to see through the mathematized version, so to speak,
and to recover what we can of the ancient practices in
their own terms. These practices, in Hambidge's view,
would have been exclusively empirical. They were, from
the first and always, directed to the ends of making, to
the employment of human powers in a world riddled with
other powers both active and passive.
I
\
I
\
\
\
\
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E
Figure 1
and FB are directly given by the hieroglyphic columns.
Rectangle CB (which is a square) is determined by the
tops of the columns. The goddess's head occupies the
space between the two remaining squares in the upper
corners.
In all cases it is the proportions of the rectangles, the
ratios of their sides, that the analysis seeks to uncover.
For according to Hambidge, all rectangles other than the
squares that were used by the classical designers have sides
that are not commensurable in length, but are only commensurable in square- 8uvcij.tm. cr(>~_q.t&Tpm.
The first labor of Dynamic Symmetry is, then, to
bring to light the elementary rectangles that govern the
classical designs. Yet this enterprise cannot proceed
without a simultaneous investigation into the geometric
properties of these rectangles, of their possibilities for
combination, subdivision, and exhaustion, as well as
other relations. Euclidean geometry is the science that
investigates these properties. I will therefore first set out
some of the elements of Dynamic Symmetry from a
geometrical point of view. Then I will discuss a few
examples of how these are thought to have been made
use of in the design of some works of Greek pottery and
architecture. Such is the order that Hambidge himself
followed in most of his writings; but it has this defect,
that it inevitably makes it appear that knowledge of
mathematical theory was prior to the design process, or
that the designer was striving to illustrate some
geometrical theorem in his work. Any such view would
of course be highly anachronistic, and is quite the reverse
of Hambidge's position. Nevertheless he has been
misunderstood on this point by at least one critic. 1 Let
me therefore emphasize that the Euclidean geometry shall
be only instrumental here. It is our indispensable pathway
to, as the only surviving remnant of, the ancient principles of design. But even if we are obliged to use a
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
If limited to the intended role of a translation from
the Greek, the expression "dynamic symmetry" properly
signifies only the mathematical character of commensurability. But Hambidge expanded his use of the
expression, playing as he did so upon a meaning which
attaches to the word "dynamic" in modern English. In
its modern signification, "dynamic" expresses the action
of force or the exchange of energy. Conformably to this,
Hamb1d15e tau!'ht that there were two kinds of symmetnes ·tn destgn. Opposed to "dynamic" symmetry
which carried overtones of life and activity, there was the
so-called "static" symmetry, suggestive of inertness. In thus
opposing "dynamic" to "static" (in the same spirit as did
Leibniz and the later physicists) he made the deliberate
and irrevocable step of tying the theorems of Dynamic
Symmetry to Nature- both human nature and nature
at large-and particularly to growing nature.
Let us turn to a thing in growing nature from which
we may make a beginning.(Fig. 2) This thing is the shell
of the nautilus, or rather the shape which that shell
preserves throughout its development. This shape is the
logarithmic or equiangular spiral, and though it can be
app_rehended under many of the different properties it
exhibits, we shall pay attention to its characteristic of continued proportion. The spiral (Fig. 3) can be understood
Figure 2
41
�as centering about a point or pole 0 (to which the curve
approaches indefinitely close). If, from 0, radii are drawn
meeting the curve in A, B, C, with the angles AO B and
BOC equal, it will be found then that the radius OB is
the mean proportional between OA and OC.
Now in particular let the equal angles AOB and BOC
be right angles\(Fig.4). Then since OBis the mean proportional it follows that if AB and BC be drawn, the angle
at B will also be a right angle.
Continued construction of the parallels meeting the
four radii, in both directions, results (Fig. 5) in the infinite "curve" called the rectangular logarithmic spiral. As
you see, this shape is strictly analogous to the smooth
B
c
~
A
~~
Figure 3
spiral curve, only it is constructed in jumps instead of
in the continuous progression that the nautilus shell
appears to exhibit.
Observe that since the angles at A, B, and C in this
rectangular spiral are all right angles, we may therefore
complete the rectangle ABCX in which AC is the
diagonal and in which, by hypothesis, OB is perpendicular to AC. This reveals the principle whereby a rectangular spiral may be constructed within a given
rectangle:
In the given rectangle (Fig. 6), draw the diagonal BD.
From a corner C drop CO perpendicular to BD, and
extend it to meet AB in E. Continue constructing perpendiculars EF, FG, and so on. Q E. F. Notice. that the particular proportions of the spiral- that is the ratios of its
c
successive radii or chords- are determined in advance
0
by the proportions of the given rectangle.
Now in the same diagram, extend EF to meet CD
in X. I say that rectangle EBCX is similar to rectangle
ABC D.
The similarity follows from the continued proportion
of the radii from 0. But here is a quicker way to see it.
Since the diagonal and all sides of the smaller rectangle
are respectively perpendicular to their corresponding
Figure 4
D~------------------~---------,C
c
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A
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~~
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Figure 5
42
~
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~"'
;'"
AL-------------------~E~--------~B
\/
X
Figure 6
WINTER 1985
�elements in the larger rectangle, rotate the smaller one
through a right angle. The two rectangles will then share
a corner and a diagonal, and so must be similar- by
Euclid VI.24. This rectangle EBCX which was constructed on one end of the given rectangle and also similar
to the given rectangle is called the reciprocal of the given
rectangle.
The term '~reciprocal" also has an algebraic meaning. Suppose we are confronted with a rectangle (Fig.
7) contained by sides equal to unity and m, respectively.
What will be the length of the non-unit side of the
reciprocal rectangle? By the similarity of the figures, it
must be x, where
x : 1 :: 1 : m
or, algebraically expressed,
x=1/m
or
m=1/x.
I leave it to you whether the geometric or the algebraic
expression is the more fundamental.
_,
.,
m
:
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B
Figure 8
I
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Figure 7
Every rectangle has two diagonals, as AC and BD
(Fig. 8), as well as two possible locations for its
reciprocal- one at each end. So in every rectangle there
are four "poles" or "eyes" where the diagonals of the
reciprocal rectangles intersect those of the given rectangle,
as the upper sketch shows. Joining the poles G,HJ,K produces one central rectangle and four rectangles at the
corners. These are all similar to one another and to the
containing rectangle, since they share diagonals with the
containing rectangle. A little later we will look at a Greek
vase whose design plan grows out of this idea.
Now every rectangle exceeds its reciprocal. But there
exists a series of rectangles that are integral multiples of
their reciprocals. Such are called "root rectangles." Here
are some examples.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Consider the rectangle ABCD (Fig. 9), which is double
its reciprocal FBCE. If we choose FB equal to unity, or
1, then DC equals 2. What then will be the length of BC?
As we have seen, the sides FB, BC, CD must be in
continued proportion, with BC the mean proportional;
hence
1 : BC :: BC : 2
or, algebraically,
BC'=2
BC = -J2 or "root two!'
Thus the ratio between the shorter and the longer
sides of each of these similar rectangles is the ratio of
one tb root two. For the rectangle ABCD in particular,
if we now take BC equal to 1 (Fig. 10) we then have the
longer side AB equal to root two. The rectangle is
therefore called the "root two rectangle:' Naturally its
reciprocal is also root-two, since reciprocal rectangles are
similar to one another.
It is easy to describe other root rectangles in the same
43
�D
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A
E
F
B
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Figure 11
A
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B
Figure 9
e:
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c.'
1', , / 1'\
)'"'
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,/
/
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Figure 12
B
A
Figure 10
unlimited; there are as many kinds of them as there are
integers. But we must distinguish between root rectangles
proper-such as root-two, root-three, and root-fiveand others which are root rectangles in name only. The
way. For example (Fig. 11), let the side AB of the given
rectangle be triple the side FB of the reciprocal rectangle.
Then if FB equals 1, AB equals 3; and we shall have
"root-four rectangle;' so-called, is actually just a double
1 : CB : : CB : 3
or, algebraically,
CB =
-J3 or "root three;'
which identifies the given rectangle (and its reciprocal)
as the "root-three rectangle:'
Root rectangles, then, have integral relations to their
reciprocals. The root-two rectangle is double its
reciprocal, the root-three rectangle triple its reciprocal,
and so on. Clearly the number of root rectangles is
44
square. Its sides are in the ratio two to one; thus they
are rational and directly commensurable. So with all
other root rectangles whose integer is a perfect square
number; they are all multiple squares, so we will not con-
sider them to be root rectangles, properly speaking.
There is a more methodical way to construct the root
rectangles, which is based on their serial evolution from
a square. Consider (Fig. 12) the unit square ABB' K,
with AB and KB' extended as necessary. Swing the
diagonal AB' down to AC and complete the rectangle
ACC 'K. I say that rectangle ACC 'K is the root-two rectangle. For it has been constructed upon the unit as one
of its sides; and its other side is equal to the diagonal
WINTER 1985
�of the unit square, which is of course
..J J2 + 1'
or ..fJ,.
Therefore its sides are in the ratio of one to root two.
QE.D.
By a similar application of the Pythagorean Theorem
to rectangle ACC 'K we see that its diagonal, AC ', must
be equal to root three. Therefore, swing diagonal AC'
down to AD and complete rectangle ADD' K; it is clear
that rectangle ADD' K is the root-three rectangle. In the
same way, rectangles AEE' K and AFF' K are seen to
be the root-four and root-five rectangles.
Once a single root rectangle has been selected, the
designer can construct innumerable related rectangles
according to a procedure called "application of areas." In
Euclid, as also in Apollonius, application of areas is a
method of comparing unequal areas by comprehending
them under the same height or in the same width; only
attention is paid not to the size but to the shape of their
difference. This, like other Euclidean topics, Hambidge
viewed as the outgrowth of an earlier body of empirical
knowledge or lore, supposedly serving the needs of
designers. Perhaps for this reason, Hambidge was a little careless with the Euclidean terminology, preferring
instead a locution that was simpler than but not fully consistent with Euclid's. I am going to follow Hambidge's
account, but remember that it is not quite the same as
Euclid's.
Application of areas is indicated in a classical design
whenever we find one rectangle superimposed upon a
second, so that it shares a side2 or end with the second
square AC is here applied to the side AG of the rectangle,
within the end AH as breadth.) It then falls short, and
the part left over is rectangle DB. If a square, as AF, be
applied instead to the side, AG, it exceeds by the rectangular area BE. It is by such application of areas that
many design themes are developed. Let us examine the
process as applied to the root-two rectangle.
If (Fig. 14) a square AB be applied to the end of a
root-two rectangle, it falls short and leaves the remainder
BC. If then to the end of this remainder a square CD
be again applied, it again falls short and leaves the remainder EB. I say that EB is also a root-two rectangle.
Thus application of areas preserves the proportions of
the original rectangle!
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rectangle but exceeds it or falls short of it in extent. As
in Euclid, attention is paid not to the size but to the shape
!:;!
of the excess or defect, "in order," as Hambidge says, "that
"V
'
the area receiving the application might be clearly
understom::l and its proportional parts used as elements
of design." 3
Suppose a square, as AC (Fig. 13), be applied to the
end AH of rectangle AB. (Euclid would have said that
£
M
B
Figure 14
We could prove this by the methods of Euclid, Book
I. But I will show instead a straightforward calculation
H
B
f--------j B
I
A
P
S9uore opplied to end
Figure 13
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
G
A
of the sort Hambidge employed. It is more adapted to
the needs of the craftsman in getting results for a particular case. Euclid himself does much the same in some
of the later books, where the circumstances are similarly
specific.
Let AM be unity, so that AB is the unit square. Then
by hypothesis, AC = ..fJ,, and NC and DE are each equal
to ..J2 -1. Moreover, DB= 1 - ND; and this reduces to
2- ..fJ,. Hence the ratio of sides of rectangle BE will be
G
Squo.re applied to s'1de
DB= 'l__~..fJ, =..J2
DE
..fJ,-1
QE.D.
45
�I
Calculation is easier, even in the age of digital electronic calculators, if we allow ourselves the use of rational
A
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I
/v
I
approximations to the irrationals involved, such as 1.414
in place of root two. But since inaccuracies are introduced
by the rounding process, I wanted you to see that in this
case, at least, the analysis is exact.
In the same way we can show (Fig. 15) that if a square,
as CB, be applied to the side of a root-two rectangle, as
CK, the space FB by which it exceeds the rectangle is
made up of two squares and another root-two rectangle.
If root-two rectangles CK and DB are applied to both
sides of the square at once, the rectangles will overlap
to the extent of DK, and we can see by the equality of
the sides of the square that this space comprises one
square and two root-two rectangles, as the sketch shows.
c
c
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/
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__....-
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A
1
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HJ
F
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8
Figure 16
F
-----
EF are root-two rectangles, for they share diagonals with
the containing figure. To each end of the upper rectangle
AC has been applied a square; so, as we just saw, each
..f1.
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K
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-- - - - -
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of the remaining rectangles AH and IC must be roottwo. These two overlap to the extent of rectangle IH,
which frames the goddess's head. (But notice the delicate
leftward shift of her face and throughout her figure.)
Now let us investigate the proportions of the remaining areas: IH, DE (which is the same as FB), and DK.
We proved (Fig. 14) that when a square is applied to the
end of a root-two rectangle the remaining area is composed of a square plus another root-two rectangle. But
in the goddess design, AH is a root-two rectangle, and
square AJ has been applied to it. Therefore the remainder
IH is made up of a square and a root-two rectangle. But
rectangle AC is a square plus a root-two rectangle; so
rectangles AC and IH are similar. And the end of one
of them is equal to the side of the other; therefore rectangle IH is the reciprocal of rectangle AC.
Turn now to rectangle DE. It is the excess area that
arises when square CB is applied to the side of root-two
rectangle DB. As the previous diagram (Fig. 15) showed,
it must be composed of two squares plus a root-two rectangle. And in the same diagram we saw that rectangle
DK has to be made up of one square and two root-two
rectangles.
There is a remarkable pervasiveness of the root-two
Figure 15
Application of areas is striking in the composition of
the Egyptian design that served as our first example.(Fig.
16) The containing shape for the composition as a whole
is a root-two rectangle, AE, sketched here as having been
evolved from square CB which is applied to it. DB and
46
proportion scheme throughout this design. We have first
the root-two rectangle itself, as AE, whose side -when
the end is taken as unity-is 1.414. We have next rectangle DK, with side 2.414, which is one plus root two.
Next, rectangle AC, whose side is 2.707; this is one plus
one plus the reciprocal of root two. Finally, rectangles
DE and FB, whose sides are each 3.414, or one plus one
plus root two. Serving as a common element in all the
foregoing rectangles-a kind of universal co-ordinating
element, since it does not belong to any single root family
WINTER 1985
�in particular- is the square, with side equal to one. Here
are the proportions, tabulated in order.
Length of Side
1:1
1
1:1.414
-J2
1 +-J'l
1:2.707
1+1+ 1/-J'J.
1:3.414
D
D
Ratio
1:2.414
Rectangle-Root-Two
Family
1+1+-J'J.
. These figures show the remarkable power of applicatiOn of areas to generate new rectangles which are still
expressible in terms of the fundamental rectangle. This
preservation of the proportions of the fundamental root
rectangle is what Jay Hambidge called the "theme integrity" of Greek design. Virtually all of the designs
studied by Hambidge show that the craftsman chose a
single root rectangle and held to it. We almost never find
combinations of root-two and root-three rectangles for
example, in a single piece.
'
Now the method of application of areas automatically preserves theme integrity among the resulting
rectangles- but only if the rectangle that serves as the
base of the s~stem is a root rectangle proper. Rectangles
with ratwnal sides cannot be classified into "theme" families
at all! 4 This is the mathematical reason why the root rectangles proper, rather than rational rectangles, were
favored by the Greek designers, according to Hambidge.
Only the root rectangles allow such universal harmonization between the elements and the whole.
I said earlier that the number of kinds of root rectangles is unlimi~ed. But clearly as we move to higher and
h1gher roots 1t becomes increasingly difficult to"
distinguish them visually from one another. Now according to Hambidge, the Greek artists seldom if ever made
use of a rectangle of an order higher than root five. It
would, however, be most rash to conclude that the reason
for this upper limit was imprecision with respect to sight.
I have here drawn (F1g. 17) the root-five and root-six rectangles side by side. They do resemble one another closely;
but I doubt that an>:one will maintain that the eye is
powerless to d1stmgu•sh between them, provided there
IS
of the music that is to be played. The criteria lie in the
intelligible forms, not in the sensory apparatus of the
beholder.
In fact there is a mathematical consideration, which
has nothing to do with visual discrimination, that singles
out the root-five rectangle. This is its close relation to
ano_ther rectangle which was regularly employed in Greek
des1gn- the rectangle of the "Golden Section!'
a sufficient artistic motive to do so. The considerations
h~re
are analogous to the tuning of musical scales. The
d1fference between the true diatonic pitches A-sharp and
B-flat IS small, to be sure. But we cannot know whether
it is insignificant until we know what are the tonal demands
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Figure 17
II
As we began our study of reciprocal rectangles by
reflectmg upo~ the appearance of the spiral in growing
nature, so ~gmn let us return to another phenomenon
of growth m order to approach the Golden Section.'
Although there are a host of actually-occurring natural
phenomena that could be chosen, I prefer to consider
a somewhat fanciful one, which was put forward as a problem by Leonardo of Pisa between 1202 and 1228.6 This
is the question: "How many pairs of rabbits can be produced from a single pair in one year?" Leonardo sup-
posed that every month each pair begets a new pair which,
the second month on, become themselves productive. With this supposition he found that the number of
pairs in successive months would be:
f~om
1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377, ...
These numbers follow the rule that each one after the
.
second, 1s the sum of the two that precede it.' This is a
summation series, but it is widely known as the Fibonacci
series· in honor of Leonardo who was the son of Bonacci·
that is, Leonardo Jiglio Bdnacci.
'
It is a remarkable trait of summation series that no
matter what chance number we may happen to begin
with, the series quickly begin to resemble one another.
For example, consider this summation series beginning
arbitrarily with the number 29:
29, 29, 58, 87, 145, 232, 377, ...
47
�In fact it is a theorem, which however I shall not here
prove, that all summation series, beginning with any
number whatever as the first term, approach without limit
the same ratio between successive terms. We can already see
that this ratio, whatever its exact value (a value which
is in fact irrational), can be given approximately by the
ratio of the last two terms of the two series which so nearly
resemble one another; that is to say, by 377/233 or
377/232 -which is a value around 1.61 or 1.62. Let us
designate the exact value of the ratio, whatever it turns
out to be, by the letter <p (for Fi-bonacci?). I will show
you later how to express it more exactly. And let us ask
the following question: "Is there a sequence which meets
both the requirements of continued summation and continued proportion simultaneously?" That is, is there a
sequence
such that for any three successive terms these relations
hold:
D
r
c.
E
'
'
"-
/
"-
"-
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' '
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"-
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"-
"-
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"-, ol
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'-
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A
'l'f
"-
"-
"-
B
Figure 18
(1)
and
?
(2)
If there is such a series, it will exhibit simultaneously
characteristics of the growth of the nautilus and also the
growth of a population of Leonardo's rabbits; for each
of its terms will be at the same time a mean proportional
and an arithmetic difference between the two neighboring
terms. I don't know if that remarkable combination is
enough to make you want to call it "Golden." It is in any
case reminiscent of the problem that faced the Demiurge
in Plato's Timaeus: the simultaneous control of geometric
and arithmetic means in the tuning of the Pythagorean
scale. Suppose then, that there is such a series; divide
the terms of equation (2) through by an+ 1> and we have
rectangle FC has the same relation to the given rectangle
as was set forth earlier in Figure 7, and thus it is the
reciprocal of the given rectangle. QE.D.
The rectangle whose sides are in golden ratio to one
another is called, it will come as no surprise to hear, ,the
"Golden Rectangle;' and we can state the following
theorem about it, which is merely a restatement of what
has just been proved: "When a square is applied to the
end of a golden rectangle, it is deficient by a space which
is itself a golden rectangle!'
By this same relation we are also in a position to
calculate <p. Since <p and its reciprocal must differ by
unity, or
<pi- 1/<p, = 1,
Multiply through by <p for the following quadratic
equation:
which can also be written
<p -1 =1/<p.
What this tells us is, <p has a value that exceeds unity
by its own reciprocal. No rational value of <p can satisfy
this condition. But we can give geometrical expression
to it as follows.
Consider a rectangle DB (Fig. 18) whose sides are
in the golden ratio to one another: let the sides be <p and
1, respectively. Then this rectangle must be composed of a square
plus its own reciprocal, according to the relation we just
derived. For AB = <p, and let square DF be constructed
so that AF = 1. Then FB = <p -1 =1/<p as above. Therefore
48
Reducing this by the quadratic formula (but ignoring
the negative root), we have
m= 1 +..J5,1618
2
.
'Y
which value is nicely in line with our earlier estimate.
We thus have the ratio of sides of the golden rectangle.
It remains only to show how to construct the golden
rectangle, since its dimensions are not rational. Euclid
gives two methods: Proposition 11 of Book II, To cut a
given finite straight line so that the rectangle contained
WINTER 1985
�by the whole and one of its segments is equal to the square
on the remaining segment; and Proposition 30 of Book
VI, To cut a given finite straight line in mean and extreme ratio. Either of these methods suffices, but here
is a shorter way that is given by Hambidge and many
other writers.
With AB as base (Fig. 19), construct the square
ABCD, and let BC be bisected at E. Join ED, and extend BC to F, where EF equals ED. Complete rectangle
AF. I say that rectangle AF is the golden rectangle; and
rectangle DF is the reciprocal, for it is deficient by a
square.
For let AB equal unity.
J
D
A
//
/
/
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/
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I
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vv
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":I
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H
B
E
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F
Figure 20
DE='-"(\1,) 2 +1'-
V,..j5
+ V,..j5
1 +..J5
BF= V,
or
BF=
cording to Hambidge, is found frequently in classical
compositions. In order to apply it to a particular exam-
2
ple, let us draw out a few more properties of this shape.
Let there be given the root-five rectangle AB (Fig.
21) with central square DC and flanking golden rectangles
AI and CH. Now rectangles AC and IH are also golden
and this, as we just saw, is cp. QE.D.
G
D
A
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B
E
C.
rectangles, because each is formed from a golden rect-
angle and the square on its side. Draw diagonals AC and
HI, intersecting at E. Through E, draw FG parallel to
the base, and draw also the vertical, EK.
We may then immediately identify four other golden
rectangles, namely EH, EI, AE, and EC; they are all
parallelograms about the diameters IH and AC, and are
therefore all similar to one another and to the golden
rectangles AC and IH.
A Greek drinking cup (Fig. 22) in the collection of
the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 7 illustrates the plan
we have just set out. What follows is one of more than
200 analyses which were published either by Jay Hambidge or by L. D. Caskey, late Curator of Classical Antiquities at MFA.
F
Figure 19
A
\)
H
In this same construction we see the close geometrical
connection that I said was to be found between the golden
rectangle and the root-five rectangle. In the same way
that we constructed rectangle DF in the previous figure,
construct (Fig. 20) rectangle JB on the opposite end of
the figure. I say that rectangle JF, formed of two golden
rectangles and a square, is the root-five rectangle.
For let AB equal unity. EH~EF~ V,..j5. But HF is
the sum of EH and EF; thus HF ~ ..)5, and rectangle JF
is the root-five rectangle. QE.D.
The root-five rectangle conceived as a square plus
two flanking rectangles is a design element which, ac-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
I
K
C
B
Figure 21
49
�A
,,
\
\
\
'-
''-
\
f
'
I
I
IE
angle. But it was the circumstance of the pedestal base
being equal to the overall height that brought the figure
forth as a square plus two flanking rectangles, rather than
some other of the myriad ways in which the root-five rectangle may be subdivided. In Dynamic Symmetry the
concern is not with line but with figure in the sense of
/
/
/
-\-
'N
Euclid. (This is not "area," which is a notion that carries
metrical connotations that are no doubt anachronistic.)
'-
'
M
drinking cup, the containing figure was the root-five rect-
H
D
I
K
""
c
B
L
Figure 22
From the point of view of figure, as Hambidge several
times notes, voids function in a design just as actively as
do masses. In our example, the "empty" spaces FI and
CG- each of which· can be shown to be a double
square- are part of the spatial structure of this piece.
In the sketch, we see the main design plan for the
piece: the root-five rectangle I AB! serves. as the contain-
ing figure for the cup (minus its handles), while the central square DC determines the diameter of the base. The
join between bowl and pedestal is fixed by the intersection of diagonals, so that the rectangle AB containing
the bowl and the rectangle NC containing the pedestal
are similar to one another. Each is composed of two
golden rectangles.
The handles extend beyond the root-five rectangle.
If spaces AM and HL are added to accommodate the
handles, it is found by measurement that each added
space is (nearly) congruent with the area NC and that
each is therefore also composed of two golden rectangles.
Observe also that the curve of the pedestal appears
to be fixed in part by the intersection of diameters NK
and EI. Finally, the lower extremity of the handle join
lies on a diameter of the flanking rectangle, as AI.
Such an analysis as this one raises a number of questions. Are the geometrical correlations really essential to
this design, or are they just accidental? Moreover, do they
Now let us take up a more complex treatment of the
golden rectangle. This time I will simply assert the proportions of the design plan. The calculations are
straightforward enough, but they are time-consuming.
You will remember that when we were talking about
the reciprocal rectangles I called your attention to the
four "poles" (Fig. 8) which every rectangle has- these are
the centers of the four rectangular spirals that can be
drawn in every rectangle. Through the poles (Fig. 23)
of golden rectangle XY draw lines parallel to the sides,
X
I'' ' ,
\
w
\
I
I
J ',
//
I/
/
'f...
\
I
I
\
I
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' I
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I,
H
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" "
'
'
:/
v
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/
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" / II
/-<..
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//I
J /K \
s/ /
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taining figure; we cannot credit the root-five rectangle
50
'
A
reflect characteristics that are uniquely pertinent to the
with this relation. On the other hand, they will be golden
rectangles only if rectangle AB is root-five.
It would have been equally appropriate to raise such
questions in the case of the Egyptian bas-relief. If they
seem of greater urgency here, it is probably because of
the greater variety of things that are being counted as
"correlations" in this analysis, for example, intersections
of diagonals at a particular feature.
Hambidge's theories have been subjected to vigorous
criticism on just such points as these. • With your permission, though, I would like to defer their consideration until we have seen more of the kind of thing Dynamic
Symmetry looks for in a composition. One central idea
is illustrated in this example. Dynamic Symmetry is not
just a theory of ratios, but rather of spatial relations which
certain select proportions make possible. Here, works are
viewed in respect of their containment by a figure, and in
respect of their implicit articulation of that figure. In the
'-
\
i\
/
I
\ I
root-rectangles, or are they merely relations that are of
general validity? For example, rectangles AE and EC have
to be similar, no matter what proportions govern the con-
u
A
\
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y
A
rp
<fJ
w
J
K
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G
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rp
rp
B
y
Figure 23
WINTER 1985
�as shown. We will then have golden rectangles at the corners and in the center, and squares WG, KZ remaining. Each of the areas AK and GB is composed of a
square plus a golden rectangle (Fig. 24). So we can
calculate the ratio of sides of figure AB; it is 3.618 : 2.618,
or 1.382.
A
A.
c
L
N E
--,
'I
''
/
J
!.,
I
L
E
/~
--
I,
/
~/
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t //
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'
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--
-- -/r----r,-- -/
'P
''
/'
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/
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K
M
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F
Figure 25
I
'P
',I
-
/
I
I
I
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'/ '
/
'
G
t
A
H
~-
the lower corner of the foot. The upper edge of a painted
decorative border coincides (nearly) with side G H.
The upper 2.618 rectangle functions this way: To the
applied squares AM and NK correspond respectively the
remainders LK andJN, both golden rectangles. The intersection of the square's diagonal, as AM, and the rect-
p
I
D
Figure 24
In his book on the Greekvase, Hambidge asserts that
many of them were constructed according to proportions
inherent in the 1.382 rectangle. Here9 is one of them (Fig.
25).
The containing rectangle AB is 1.382. Squares AH
and JB are applied at top and bottom to leave the remainders AK and GB which are 2.618. To the uppermost of these, squares NK and AM are applied; and
similarly also to the lowermost, as shown in the righthand sketch. The intersections of diagonals of the squares
determine the central rectangle CEFD, which is rootfive (for imagine it displaced to the right by the amount
FB; it will then be seen to consist of a square plus two
flanking golden rectangles). This central rectangle determines the width of the lip and the diameter of the bottom of the base.
The lower portion of the figure is governed by dimensions of the rectangle GB in conjunction with the central root-five area. The intersection of diagonal QD and
its reciprocal-producing perpendicular RS determines the
level of the top of the base. Diagonal DG passes through
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
angle's diagonal, as JN, determines the level of the upper edge of a decorative border.
Finally, consider a line PT which bisects the containing rectangle just above the vase's greatest width.
Diagonals PB and TV intersect at a level which determines the lower edge of the decorative border, while the
diagonal PD passes through the upper corner of the foot.
Our two vases illustrate that the classical mode of
employment of the golden rectangle was more subtle than
some investigators have appreciated. Although both pieces
depend decisively upon the compositional properties of
the golden rectangle, neither employs it as the overall
containing shape. In fact, of the rectangles that do function as containing shapes in Greek pottery, the golden
rectangle is by no means a predominating one, though
it is frequent. to
The golden rectangle has been characterized by a host
of writers- and researchers as the "most beautiful rect-
angle." Evidently, however, to the Greek designers a "most
beautiful" shape was not one to be slavishly perpetrated
at every possible occasion. Such an idea would be as
ridiculous as Socrates's comic example in the Republic
of the man who wanted to paint a statue's eyes purple
because "the most beautiful organs deserve the most
beautiful color:' Rather, as Hambidge observed, the
aesthetic significance of the golden rectangle in classical
design -lies in its value as a co-ordinating factor. 11 Its rich
system of relations and subtle potentials for transformation afford the designer immense scope of variation while
yet preserving the mathematical grounds of that unity
of theme which appears to have been so important in
Greek design practice.
51
�The methods of analysis used in these examples from
pottery are fully applicable in other arts. Except for the
dynamic symmetry. Nevertheless, Hambidge thought
relative difficulty of obtaining accurate measurements,
analysis of architectural works, for example, proceeds in
tually became the major part of his program to effect
exactly the same way and discloses identical geometrical
themes. In The Greek Vase Hambidge says: "There is no
essential difference between the plan of a Greek vase and
the plan of a Greek temple or theater, either in general
aspect, or in detail." 12 In all cases, Hambidge maintains,
analysis of Greek or Egyptian compositions shows that
the artist worked within a predetermined area:
The enclosing rectangle was considered the factor which con~
trolled and determined the units of the form. A work of art
thus correlated became an entity comparable to an organism
in nature.
Only such rectangles, simple or compound, were used, whose
areas and submultiple parts were clearly understood. If the
design for a vase shape were being planned the artist would
consider the full height of the vessel as the side or end of a
certain rectangle, while the full width would be the end or other
side. The choice of a rectangle depended upon its suitability
for a purpose, both in shape and property of proportional subdivision. A rough sketch was probably made as a preliminary
and this formalized by the rectangle . .. (The Greek Vase, p. 44)
that it was an inferior kind of symmetry, and it evena reintroduction of the dynamic techniques into contem-
porary design.
Here (Fig. 26) is a sketch of a ground plan that appears in one of Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks. It is easy
to see how the plan is based upon the multiple repetition of the little square as unit. This is severe static sym-
metry.14 What is most lacking in this kind of design, as
compared with the dynamic designs we have studied, is
the sense of governance by the containing whole. The
subdivisions in the Leonardo design are not obtained
from the containing figure but from the Cartesian grid
( ]_
~
,....., ,..-
,....
Of all the virtues that Hambidge found in designs
~
based on d)rnamic symmetry principles, this character
of governance by the whole was probably in his view the
-
cardinal virtue. Its mathematical basis is the recurrence
of the ratio of the fundamental rectangle when given areas
are subdivided by application of areas-a recurrence that
is peculiar to the root rectangles and which we have
already recognized under the name of "theme integrity!'
The intimate harmonization of whole and part was
for Jay Hambidge a reflection of the organic designs produced in nature, and this impelled him to play increasingly upon the word "dynamic!' Gradually abandoning
its original, severe role- the mere translation of the
mathematical adverb ovv<ii'H-he more and more began
to rely upon a more current usage, a usage increasingly
expressive of force, life, and energy.
Hambidge repeatedly contrasted the dynamic symmetry of figure and its associations with life and organism
with an inferior,\ arithmetic"\ kind of symmetry that is
based on the lineal unit, or direct commensurability of
line. This kind of symmetry he called "static." "Static" symmetry so-called is based on a fixed unit. It is the kind
of ubiquitous commensurability we come up with when
we design on graph paper. "Static" symmetry characterizes
the art of most of the great civilizations, ancient and
modern. According to Hambidge, only the Egyptians and
the Greeks mastered the practices of dynamic symmetry:
and even the Greeks seem to have gone through a stage
of "quasi-static" design before bringing the dynamic
techniques to full fruition -and later, in the Hellenistic
period, to have reverted to the static methods. Certainly
the great Renaissance artists used static rather than
52
\I
r7 "\.
\
I 1'\
"/ " '
v
/
I
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~ -
ltci
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v
./
/
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:,.-....
i'-'
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)
If.}_
Figure 26
(or "trellis;' as Hambidge calls it). In fact this trellis vies
with the containing shape for dominance and may even
appear to be logically prior to it. A Cartesian grid is essentially infinite 15 and is "contained" only in a most accidental
sense by the overall shape. "Limited;' in fact, rather than
"contained;' is probably a better word with which to ex-
press the relation of a statically symmetric shape to its
outline. There is no reason inherent in the Cartesian grid
why the overall shape should not have been wholly different; and if it were, the pattern of subdivision based
on repetitive units would be affected not at all.
When the grid pattern is as emphatic as it is in the
Leonardo sketch, we can easily have the sense that the
grid is threatening to break out of the square into elongations and extensions. This actually happens -as when
an addition is made to an existing building. In any case,
the static treatment tends to emphasize measured, counted
space over shaped space.
"Static" symmetry need not be based on the square.
It is imposed whenever there is used a repetitiVe element,
whatever that element may be. It could be (Fig. 27) the
WINTER 1985
�equilateral triangle, the hexagon, or even one of the root·
was an antecedent specification- this is one of the ques-
rectangles. The mere deployment of a root-rectangle does
tions at issue) may not have been successfully achieved
by the builder, in the case of an edifice, or may have been
altered in the firing process, in the case of a clay vase.
And we must admit the effects of vandalism, decay, ero-
not achieve dynamic symmetry unless its peculiar potentials for explication by application of areas are made use
of.
sion, and other ravages of time in obscuring even the
dimension that was in fact achieved. Next, is it possible
to give a retrospective analysis of a given geometrical
form, otherwise undocumented, that can ever be more
than speculative? For example, if a certain architectural
facade should measure, say, 69.52 feet by 39.93 feet, for
a calculated ratio of 1. 741- are we to understand this as
an intended construction of the root-three proportion,
1. 732, or of the simple Pythagorean ratio 7:4, which is
1. 75? Or of some altogether different significance- or
none at all?
Furthermore, what categories of geometric "facts" in
a design are to be regarded as having aesthetic
significance? We found a feature in one of the Greek vases
that fell neatly at the intersection of two diagonals. But
in the overall design there are dozens of diagonals, and
hundreds of such intersections. The likelihood of a chance
IIIIIII
I
Figure 27
coincidence between a design feature and one of these
intersections is high, as Hambidge's critics have noted,
perhaps so high as to deprive even the most conservative
analysis of any statistical validity.
All of these criticisms were amply voiced during Jay
Hambidge's lifetime. He and his collaborators were not
without a defense of their position, but it cannot be said
that the defense is satisfactory in all respects. There reIII
To conclude this talk, I would like to voice a few
thoughts about Dynamic Symmetry as an historical
theory. Understandably, it is the historical aspect of Hambidge's teachings that has commanded most attention apd
generated most controversy. He asserted that the Greek
designers did deliberately aim for governance and theme
integrity, and that they consciously and masterfully
cultivated a system of empirical geometry to further those
ends. Given the nature of the available evidence, this is
an extremely difficult thesis to establish. Only occasionally can its components be formulated in a clearly testable
way; and even then, the "test" is not always decisive. Ham-
bidge and his collaborators repeatedly tried to show that
analyses of Greek artifacts according to dynamic symmetry principles were in significantly better agreement
with the actual dimensions of their subjects than were
main powerful inducements to skepticism, both of a
methodological and of an evidentiary nature. But despite
its glamour and notoriety, I do not think that the
historical aspect was the main component of Hambidge's
program. His overriding aim was to restore Dynamic
Symmetry to a place among the practical resources of
the contemporary working artist.
Most directly serviceable to the artist was his setting
out of those design objectives that are advanced by the
distinctive geometry of the root rectangles: elevation of
area relations over line relations, efficacy of the containing
rectangle, and the unity of proportion theme. Hambidge
never tried to promote these attributes as eternal or
universal aesthetic values; still less did he believe that the
techniques for achieving them constituted a recipe for
the manufacture of beauty. But he did believe that any
activity that aspired to creative power demanded a
substantial fabric of know-how and collective intelligible experience if it was to achieve anything. This credo
other, competing, analytic systems. But these claims were
found voice in his many and vigorous exhortations to
just as vociferously by other parties denied 16
Fruitful pursuit of this controversy is even now
practicing artists to put dynamic symmetry techniques
to use in their own work. Hambidge's rationale for such
hindered by a lack of sufficient understanding of the very
a redirection of artistic attention was that it would restore
canons of evidence themselves. For example, what level
of precision is to be regarded as significant in the
measurement of otherwise undocumented artifacts? For
a vigor and direction that, he felt, had been lacking in
modern design. There was, he asserted, a malaise plagu-
we have somehow to take account of the likelihood that
the dimension specified by the designer (if, indeed, there
preoccupation with the individual, the superficial, the
unique and the gimmicky. It had its root in a cultural
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
ing twentieth-century art, in the form of an excessive
53
�malady that was more profound: our wholesale loss of
the vision of Nature as an objective but accessible intelligible order. For the artist, absence of such a public
Nature is equivalent to an emasculation of all the formal elements of his craft. Hambidge wrote:
Modern art, as a rule,.aims at freshness of idea and originality in technique of handling; Greek art aimed at the perfection of proportion and workmanship in the treatment of old,
well-understood and established motifs.
... this is the lesson that modern artists must learn; that the
backbone of art is formalization and not realism ... The Greek
artist was always virile in his creations, because he adopted
nature's ideal. The modern conception of art leads toward an
overstress of personality and loss of vigor. (The Greek Vase, pp.
44 and 142)
Hambidge's writings played down the real primacy
of his restorative program for the working artist. His
arguments were skewed to the historical question to a
degree that was partly unavoidable but partly needless
and misleading. He wrote as if it were the fact of the
Greeks' success with these methods-assuming it to have
been a fact- that made plausible a modern restoration
of the dynamic techniques.
The weakness of such an appeal is obvious; if the truth
of the historical claim is doubted, then so is the conclusion of superior merit correspondingly weakened. The
nature of the evidence, the evaluative tools of archaeology
and metrology, and the formulation of appropriate
statistical treatments were all in the 1920s too
undeveloped in the directions required by Hambidge's
study either to corroborate it or to refute it; and in such
a case weight remains with the skeptical position.
The situation is largely unchanged in the 1980s,
although comparable evidentiary and methodological
questions have begun to be addressed more adequately.
Much of this attenti9n has been in response to the work
of Alexander Thorn on megalithic monuments in Britain
and to other arChaeoastronomical investigations in
Britain, Mesoamerica, and the southwestern United
States.
Uncorroborated (but, I say again, equally unrifuted)
by other sciences, Dynamic Symmetry's appeal as a
modern design practice depended essentially on the persuasive powers of one man: Jay Hambidge. During the
short period of his public activity in this cause he was
active indeed. Besides his own research he inspired and
partly guided the research of others. 1 ' He published four
books (with two more that appeared posthumously) and
edited a journal, all devoted to Dynamic Symmetry. 18
He conducted classes and lectures for students in New
York and Boston, and he regularly addressed professional
associations of artists and designers here and abroad. His
influence spurred Tiffany's of New York to offer a line
of silver vessels made according to the "dynamic" ratios.
But Jay Hambidge died in 1924; and with his death the
54
influence of his ideas ceased to grow, despite the labors
of a company of dedicated followers whose numbers have
not vanished to this day.
I am sorry that obscurity has devolved upon Jay
Hambidge's work. Besides the metrological questions that
it raised, which archaeology and the other sciences of
antiquity will continue to address in one form or another
as their methods develop, there is that in Hambidge's
work which is particularly valuable to the spectator of
art, in expanding his observational powers. By forcing
our attention beyond the line and the curve, to the rectangular shapes they may imply, Hambidge opened up
what is literally a new·dimension in seeing. He once expressed the germ of this idea in the form of an aphorism.
It might be a little overstated- but evidently he didn't
think so. I leave it with you as a provisional final word: 19
"The line means nothing to design; the area means
everything."
FOOTNOTES
1. Rhys Carpenter, "Dynamic Symmetry: A Criticism," in
American journal of Archaeology, Second Series, XXV, 1
(1921). See especially page 35, where Carpenter assumes
that if the theory of Dynamic Symmetry is true,
"slaveborn humble artisans" would have to have known
a great deal about "all this geometry." For Hambidge's
opinion to the contrary, see The Diagonal, I, 1 (November
1919), p. 8 (note 11 below).
2. Generally I use "side" to denote indiscriminately either
the longer or the shorter of the lines that contain a given
rectangle. But when distinguishing them is important,
I shall use "side" to denote the longer line and "end" to
denote the shorter.
3. Jay Hambidge, Dynamic Symmetry: The Greek Vase, New
Haven, Yale University Press, 1920. Abbreviation for
references: The Greek Vase.
4. Rectangles with commensurable sides cannot be classifi"ed into theme
families. For the ratio of sides of any rectangle belonging
to the
Vm family can
be expressed as
c
where a, b, c, m are integers. The family will be a "proper''
root family only if m is a nonsquare integer; if m is a square
integer the radical can be eliminated and the family is said
to be merely "nominal" (like the so-called root-four family).
Any rectangle with commensurable sides has ratio p/q,
where p, q are integers. Then if possible, let
WINTER 1985
�Then, first, since p, q, a, b, care all integers, m cannot
have any nonsquare value; thus the rectangle does not
belong to atry proper root family. Moreover, with integers
p, q given and m any square integer, integral values of
a, b, c that satisfy the equation can always be found.
Thus the rectangle belongs simultaneously to all nominal
root families. Hence rectangles with commensurable sides
cannot be classified into theme families. Q.E.D.
11. Jay Hambidge, ed., "The Diagonal" (a periodical) I, 5
(March, 1920), p. 91. A total of twelve issues of this jour·
nal were published by Yale University Press; the first
dated November, 1919 and the last dated October, 1920.
12. The Greek Vase, Foreword, p. 6.
13. "Arithmetic" is my epithet, not Hambidge's.
5. The term "Golden Section" is of 19th-century origin. An
earlier term, "Divine Section," appears in Kepler and
other 16th-century writers. Proclus refers to it simply as
"the Section," and in Euclid it is the division into "mean
and extreme ratio." SeeR. C. Archibald, "Notes," in The
Greek Vase, pp. 146-157.
14. The plan also shows radial symmetry, which according
to Hambidge is another static form. '
6. Published for the first time in 1857.
16. Rhys Carpenter, op. cit.
7. MuseumofFineArts, Boston, No. 03.784. See The·Greek
Vase, p. 116; also L. D. Caskey, Geometry of Greek Vases,
Boston, Museum of Fine Arts Communications to the
Trustees, V, 1922, p.175 (Fig. 132). Caskey reports a
bowl diameter of 27.4 em and a height of 12.05 em
which, however, appears to be a misprint for 12.15 em.
According to the latter figure, the bowl diameter exceeds
a true root-five rectangle by less than 3 mm.
17. Especially L. D. Caskey.
8. E. M. Blake, "Dynamic Symmetry-A Criticism" in The
Art Bulletin, III (1920). Also see Rhys Carpenter, op. cit.
9. Pelike, Metropolitan Museum, New York City, No.
06.1021.191. From The Greek Vase, pp. 95, 98.
10. Caskey, op. cit., p. 6.
15. For a haunting treatment of this Cartesian truth, see
Jorge Luis Borges' story, "The Library of Babel," in Ficciones, New York, Grove Press, 1962.
18. Besides The Greek Vase and The Diagonal, already cited,
these writings ofJay Hambidge are listed in the Library
of Congress Card Catalog:
·
Dynamic Symmetry, Boston, c. 1919. Microfilm 36800NK.
The Parthenon and Other Greek Temples: Their Dynamic Symmetry, New Haven, Yale University Press, 1920.
Dynamic Symmetry in Composition as Used by the Artists, Cambridge, Massachusetts, The Author, 1923. N7430.H3.
The Elements of Dynamic Symmetry, New York, Brentano's,
c. 1926 and Dover, 1967. NC703.H25.
Practical Applications of Dynamic Symmetry, ed. Mary C.
Hambidge, New Haven, Yale University Press, 1932.
19. The Diagonal, p. 92.
•
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
55
�The Song of Timaeus
Peter Kalkavage
T
his lecture is about the strangest of Platds
dialogues, the Timaeus. I would like to focus
our attention this evening on the famous eikos
mythos, the "likely story," told by the character
Timaeus.
The likely story tells about the beginnings of the visible, touchable world. Our story-teller, Timaeus, takes us
through the process by which the world was generated
from its most radical causes and principles. Whereas the
Republic dramatizes the founding of regimes both in city
and in soul, the likely story shows the founding of the
cosmic regime, the government of the world. For
Timaeus, the world's founding depends to a great extent on the power of mathematics. Throughout the likely
story, Timaeus draws the listener's attention to the arts
of arithmetic, geometry, and especially the theory of ratio
we find in the fifth book of Euclid's Elements. Timaeus'
physicist is a mathematical physicist, and his bond with
mathematics expresses his dream that the world be wellgoverned, that the cosmos no less than souls and cities
display the virtues of stability, moderation, and wisdom.
Timaeus at one point articulates the motto of such a
physicist. It takes the form of a little jingle in Greek: pan
de to agathon kalon, kai to kalon ouk ametron; "All the good
is beautiful, and the beautiful is not measureless:' 1 The
physicist for Timaeus represents all that is decent, healthy,
and beautifully arranged, all that is conveyed by that rich
Greek word kosmos. Throughout the likely story, goodness
is associated with the beautiful structures of mathematics,
and badness is associated with the ugliness of disorder.
Peter Kalkavage is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis. The Song of Timaeus
was originally delivered as a formal lecture at St. John's College, Annapolis
in 1984.
56
I will try in this lecture to say what the world, our world,
looks like through the eyes ofTimaeus' motto about the
good, the beautiful, and the measured.
The Timaeus is the most artful and artificial of all the
Platonic dialogues. There is really not anything in it that
could be called conversation. And the dialogue as a whole,
so plentiful in references to life and motion, seems
somewhat lacking in vitality and spontaneity. The major
.characters ---'Timaeus, Critias, and Hermocrates- meet
Socrates according to a preestablished plan. Socrates
appears in a most uncharacteristic way. He is dressed up,
kekosmemenos, as though he were going to some formal
event. 2 Socrates expresses a desire for a war-movie in
speech, then seems eager just to sit back and listen. The
entire program is presented with extreme formality by
Critias. 3 In fact, all the speeches to be given do constitute
a formal event. That event is the feasting of Socrates,
the dialogue's central dramatic image.
The likely story of Timaeus fits well into this highly
artful setting. Artfulness plays the central role in Timaeus'
mythical physics. The very word kosmos suggests not only
a world-order b_ut ornamentation. Timaeus' story is composed of what Socrates calls a prelude and a song4 The
pair of terms also means preamble and law. The song of
Timaeus, the nomos as Socrates calls it, embraces two
forms of artfulness, that of music and that of politics.
Timaeus' speech will show us how artfully arranged the
world of becoming is. His song sings the praises of the
god Kosmos, who for Timaeus is the whole of all
generated things.
The Platonic dialogues are all imitations oflive conversations. They are living images, dramas. This is true
even of the Timaeus, which seems at times quite lifeless
and undramatic. Very often in the dialogues something
in a speech or interchange is not so much spoken about
as it is playfully enacted. In the likely story, it is easy
WINTER 1985
�to see what is being enacted, or rather re-enacted. It is
the birth of the world as we know and experience it. The
likely story is mimetic in this precise sense: it "plays at"
world-building. It imitates the noble, though often risky
process by which the gods made a world-order. At the
beginning of the Critias, the dialogue which immediately
follows the Timaeus, Timaeus calls the cosmos "the god
who was born once upon a time long ago and who was
just now begotten by speeches!'' The likely story, in other
words, imitates the artist-god or demiurge. It is recreational. When god makes the world-soul, we are engaged
in the various. constructions. When the gods make us,
we are involved in the work of putting ourselves together.
The world with all its structure comes to light for
Timaeus in a divine activity we ourselves take part in.
Timaeus calls this activity of world-building in speech
"thoughtful and measured play!'6 Such play for Timaeus
is identical with the activity of the mathematical physicist.
To read the likely story profitably, we must therefore relax
our preconceptions about the serious nature of physics.
We must exert our imaginations and, I think, our sense
of humor.
There are many obstacles the reader confronts as he
reads the likely story. The story is very long and very
technical. Furthermore, it cannot help but strike us as
whimsical and ridiculous, a sort of prank. This is the
story, you remember, that Timaeus places in the region
of trust, pistis-' Yet what could be more unbelievable,
more unworthy of our trust, than some of the explanations we get from Timaeus? Take, for example, the story
of the liver. Timaeus describes the liver as a sort of movie-
screen for the soul. And the pancreas is said to be the
liver's wiper8 Is there anything less unbelievable, I
~
wonder, in the apparently more scientific parts of the
story? True, there is bound to be some sense behind such
unbelievable accounts. But even while we see a certain
sense to what Timaeus says, it is impossible not to say
to ourselves "Hah! A likely story." Whatever region fhe
likely story occupies, that region cannot be identified
simply with trust.
But there is another difficulty with the likely story.
The story is apparently incoherent. It is not one seamless
narrative but is composed of three stories. Timaeus makes
two radically different beginnings. And in his third story,
he makes no effort to show how the two beginnings are
related. This problem is the greatest occasion on which
the story seems to be incoherent.
Timaeus himself warns Socrates and us about this
problem the first time he uses the phrase "likely story!'
It is worthwhile quoting the whole passage in which the
phrase first appears:
Don't wonder, Socrates, if we are not able to pay you
back with speeches about the birth of gods and of the
All, that are not in every way in agreement with
themselVes and altogether precise. But you must esteem
the speeches we provide as likenesses inferior to none.
You must remember that I who speak and you my judges
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
have human nature. So, in order to receive the likely
story about these things, it is fitting not to search beyond
this. 9
The physics of Timaeus will be a likely story for two
reasons. The first is that the world is not a being in its
own right but an appearance, a moving and unstable
likeness of an intelligible, stable model. Proper speech
about the world must therefore take the form of imagery.
Secondly, the story-teller and his listeners are human,
not divine. They must know their place and not search
beyond the likely story. This passage ends what Socrates
refers to as Timaeus' prelude. Socrates' response to the
prelude is extremely interesting. He tells Timaeus to "perform the song;' a command which can also mean "execute the law."to
Now there are many strange things about the passage
I quoted. It is very important, first of all, because it is
addressed explicitly to Socrates. But the most important
feature of what Timaeus says is that he articulates the
limitations of the upcoming myth. Socrates is being
asked, as a human being, to take the likely story about
the cosmos as merely a likeness, not as the truth. That
is, the likely story begins with an apology and a caution.
But why apologize for a likeness? Myths after all are
likenesses. No one needs to be reminded of this fact. And
Socrates, although he tells many stories, never feels the
need to apologize for any of them. Indeed, we sometimes
feel that a Socratic mythos has the power of showing us
what dialectical logos cannot explain to us. At the end
of the Gorgias, just before the concluding myth, Socrates
says to Callicles, "You may think it is only a myth, but
I take it to be a true account:' 11 I take what Socrates tells
Calli des here to be true of all the Socratic myths. These
myths are images without apology because, as likenesses,
they aim at and in a certain sense contain truth.
Likenesses in this sense do not function as boundaries.
They are rather springboards for our perception of invisible, eternal truths. Socrates would never say, "You are
only human; do not search beyond the likelihood of my
story!' For Socrates, myths appear to belong to the level
of the divided line called imagination, eikasia, the level
at which images take us beyond themselves to that which
they image.'2
As I mentioned earlier, the story ofTimaeus is com-
posed of three separate stories. The high-point of the first
story is Timaeus' construction of the divine, intelligent
soul. In the second story, Timaeus unveils the receptacle,
the supreme condition for all body, change, and appearance. The third story is about the birth of human
nature. This third story is the most bizarre and most
playful story Timaeus tells.
The remainder of this lecture will be divided into
three parts, corresponding to Timaeus' three stories:
Part I-The Story of the Soul
Part II-The Story of the Body
Part III-The Story of Human Nature
57
�One reminder before we begin. Timaeus is a
masculine world. The likely story imitates Zeus giving
birth to Athena; a most accurate image, I think, for the
mathematical physicist and his various brain-children.
character in the dialogue, not Platds spokesman. Plato
causes us to reflect on the problem of a world not by a
direct encounter with the issues but through a human
Even when Timaeus introduces the "mother" of becom-
soul and its various motions, through the soul of
Timaeus. We will thus have two questions before us con-
ing later in his story, I think he retains his role as Zeus.
He re-creates the womb of becoming as a dynamic
stantly: What is the world; and Who is Timaeus? We
medium for artful, mathematical construction.
must be careful not to separate these questions. It is by
The likely story begins with ·the divine craftsman, the
demiurge, who gazes upon a perfectly stable and utterly
intelligible model of the world. The model or paradigm
simply is and thus experiences no becoming. It is that
being which the cosmos imitates at the level of regular,
no means clear that the likely story represents what has
come to be called "Plato's cosmology."
Let us now turn to the likely story.
Part I-The Story of the Soul
periodic motions and .the "laws of nature" which govern
such motions. 22 As the not-yet-actual structure of a mov-
ing world, the intelligible paradigm functions for the
craftsman as a kind of "cosmic blueprint;' a plan which
T
he deed imitated by Timaeus' story is the
birth of the world. The story is filled with
language that suggests begetting. Later in
his story, Timaeus will tell us that the world
guides the construction of the cosmos and in which the
various forms of motion, power, and life find their
is the "offspring" of a "father" and a
prophecy.
By consulting this model, the god tries to make
Becoming as beautiful, that is as orderly, as possible.
"mother:' 13 He will also tell us that the pyramid is not
only the element but also the seed of fire. 14 Human souls
are planted, originally, in their individual stars. 15 The
Before the divine ordering, Becoming is said to be in
a state of disorder. Timaeus calls this condition "not at
peace and out of tune."2 3 In order to regulate and tune
star-gods themselves are referred to as god's "children." 16
this ugly condition, the god consults not only the cosmic
blueprint but also the goodness of his own intelligence.
He looks within himself in much the same way that the
mathematical physicist looks within his intelligence for
the mathematical principles of order. The god desires that
the world imitate him as much as possible." To this end,
the god constructs intelligence within the soul and soul
within body. 25 The soul is that on account of which the
The likely story thus aims at being a likely biology as
well as a likely physics. Timaeus acknowledges that the
realm of becoming is also the realm of procreation.
But the central, overriding image for the likely story
is that of artful production, technt God is a craftsman,
a demiurge, who makes a world by giving it mathematical
order. This is very different from the story in the Bible
in which God says to his creatures, "Be fruitful and
multiply:' In the likely story, the goodness of a cosmos
derives wholly from mathematical ordering. Insofar as
becoming is good, it is mathematically structured. Fruit-
cosmos is a living being.
What Timaeus' construction means here is that the
cosmos is alive for the sake of being intelligent, not
because life is a good in itself. Life is present because
fulness is not good for its own sake. In fact, as we see
it is impossible, says Timaeus, to make the world in-
at the end of the story, the enis for begetting stems from
our mindless and tyrannical nature." The female kind
telligent without also making it alive. And unless intelligence is put into the world, the world will not be the
best and most beautiful of possible worlds. At this point
the cosmos is said to be an animal composed of body,
soul, and intelligence. The cosmos is patterned after what
Timaeus calls "the intelligible animal:'' 6 The intelligible animal contains the forms of all the animals that are
is derived from the "first men" who were cowardly and
unjust. 18 Procreation comes about because the first men
"fell" from their divine and orderly condition.
The theme of art is central to the entire Timaeus. The
dialogue takes place on the feast day of Athena, 1• and
there are numerous references to Athena in both the
Timaeus and the Critias. Athena is called a lover of war,
really living and are contained within the sensed cosmos.
the Titan Metis, whose name means craft or cunning.
The notion of an intelligible animal is one of the most
perplexing notions in the likely story. It is extremely difficult to see how an intelligible dog, for example, could
be called an animal. This difficulty comes up again and
again for the likely story. It reappears when we are asked
to accept the existence of an intelligible fire. 27 As a really
living, vibrant whole with all the signs of life, the sensed
cosmos appears to be more truly what it is than the
The myth about Athenas birth seems to me to provide
original it copies. The reason is that the sensed cosmos
an accurate image for Timaeus' re-creation of the world
is possessed of a soul. I think we need to remember here
that, although Timaeus appeals to the image-original
relationship we find in many other dialogues, this relationship has a special context in the likely story. It is in
wisdom, and art. 20 She is the patroness of Athens which,
as Pericles reminds us, philosophizes without becoming
effeminate. 21 I think that Athena, or more precisely the
birth of Athena, is one of the dialogue's implied images.
Athena was born out of Zeus' head. This intellectual,
masculine birth takes place just after Zeus swallows up
through art. Timaeus seems to be imitating Zeus. Having swallowed up the mathematical arts, Timaeus gives
birth out of his head to an artfully constructed, eminently
58
WINTER 1985
�the context of productive or demiurgic art. The artist
works from a vision of perfection that appears within his
intellect. So long as this vision is in the intellect alone,
the perfection is uncontaminated and stable, yet
unfulfilled. Fulfillment comes in the act of bringing forth
the vision of perfection, actualizing it in time and space.
In the context of productive art, the relationship of
original to image is the relationship of blueprint to fully
otherwise flabby and graceless world. This is much like
the way in which the Pythagorean scale gives structure
to the music we hear or the way in which Timaeus' song
as a whole gives backbone to our flabby conception of
the world.
It is important to note that these two contrary circuits which govern Becoming, the circuits of Same and
Other, are not confined to the heavens. The soul is said
actualized structure. The sensed cosmos, though an im-
to be "woven throughout" the body of the world "from
age, is nevertheless the fulfillment of the idea within the
mind of the demiurge.
Timaeus proceeds to show, first, how the body of the
world was constructed, and secondly, the soul. The body
of the cosmos displays the good and beautiful ordering
of mathematics. The four elements of body-fire, earth,
center to extremity?'32 The soul ensures that the entire
air, and Water-are arranged in a continuous propor-
tion. ' 8 The entire body of the world is then given spherical
shape and the motion of rotation. Soul is constructed
next.
The story of the soul is one of the most exquisite
pieces of architecture in the likely story. It is based on
a remarkable premise- that a soul can be built. In the
likely story, we are treated to a vision of a likely soul,
world is filled with the recurring patterns characteristic
of music. Musical intelligibility exists everywhere. It exists
not only in the heavenly motions but also in something
like the vibrating string. A string vibrates periodically.
It displays the togetherness of sameness and otherness.
The circuits of Same and Other are therefore not confined to a place. Like music, they do not belong
exclusively to the realm of body or to the realm of soul.
It is impossible to say, when we are listening to a piece
of music, that the music is either inside us or outside us.
It seems to be everywhere. We do not "stand back" when
we are really listening to a piece of music. The music
penetrates and engulfs us.
that is, a soul whose being in speech consists in its being
Tirnaeus' account of the soul is a powerful transfor-
constructed. This is all part of the re-creational activity
of the likely story.
The construction of the divine soul takes place in
three stages. The god first mixes together the forms of
Being, Same, and Other. This is accomplished, Timaeus
says, "with force."2 9 Next, the god articulates the mix-
mation of our ordinary experience of the world. The account requires that we see the world through the eyes
of the imagination. Usually we distinguish rather rigidly
between the inner and the outer; the non-extended and
the extended; the soul and the body. But in the likely
story the world is approached through the power of
likenesses. For Timaeus the soul's act of thinking and the
ture into a spine-like band, the sections of which corres-
°
pond to several octaves of the Pythagorean scale. 3 Finally,
he slices and bends this spine-like band into the circuits
of Same and Other. 31 You know these circuits from your
study of Ptolemy. Timaeus gives a two-fold meaning to
the circuits. They are the outwardly appearing motions
of the heavenly bodies and also the inner, invisible "revolvings" of our thinking, of our dianoia. Timaeus goes On
to tell us how the circuits of Same and Other, that we
see in the heavens, constitute the moving image of the
eternal which we call time. The circuits of Same and Other
cause the world to be measured by recurring cycles. In
this way, Becoming imitates the utterly non-moving look
of Being. Because of these intelligent circuits ordered ac' cording to musical ratios, the world is filled with
timeliness. It is characterized by time not merely as duration, but time as a principle of "right timing" or
seasonableness. Once the circuits are set in motion, the
world becomes thoroughly musical as the moving structure of time. The world is enlivened and also "set straight"
by the periodicity of rhythm as well as the periodicity
of the musical scale.
world's act of turning in a circle imitate one another. Now
our souls contain the divine circuits of Same and Other.
In the act of thinking we too "revolve within ourselves?'
The circuits are housed in our heads, or more precisely,
in our brains. This true self of each of us, the intelligence,
is planted in a star before being submerged in the violent
flux of becoming. As we gaze out and away from ourselves
into the heavens, we are in fact looking upon an appearance of our most intimate selves. We are in a sense
gazing within and not out towards a "beyond." Now gazing at the stars is an activity we all love. This ordinary
activity so often associated with softness and romanticism
has a very specific meaning for Timaeus. A star is
perfectly shaped, it is always brilliant, and its motions
are unwavering and thoroughly regular. Also, a star is
deathless. No wonder gazing at the stars can fill us with
admiration and longing.
We are remembering,
remembering what it was like, in our Golden Age, to be
entirely healthy and well-formed. Through the study of
astronomy we return to a likeness of what Timaeus calls
"the form of our first and best condition?' 33 Astronomy
vertebrae. Owing to its musicality and seasonableness,
is the true homecoming of the human soul.
Another powerful transformation of experience occurs
in Timaeus' story of the divine soul. This transformation has to do with that special phenomenon, the physicist
the soul seems indeed to function .as the backbone of a
himself. Timaeus' story "saves" this phenomenon. That
constantly moving order. It gives poise and rigor to an
is, it shows how the activity of the physicist forms a vital
I think it makes sense to compare the soul as Timaeus
constructs it to a spine. Our drawings for the cutting of
a monochord certainly resemble the spine with its
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
59
�part of the whole, how thinking about the cosmos is itself
the world's own most essential act. The likely story "saves"
the phenomenon of the physicist himself by allowing intellectual activity to permeate the whole ceaselessly.
Thinking finds itself reflected in the object of thinking,
especially in the heavens. This is another way of saying
that logos as thoughtful speech as well as logos as ratio
permeates the whole. The cosmos of Timaeus is an intelligent animal. It is always engaged in giving accounts
of itself to itself. 34 The physicist, then, does sporadically,
partially, and sometimes out loud what the cosmos does
continually, fully, and in silence. Strange as the likely story
is, it nevertheless has the power to account for the
presence of physics and the physicist within the world.
This should come as no surprise to us. As I have tried
to suggest in my discussion of Athena's birth, the world
of Timaeus has its home in the mind and speech of the
physicist. It is his brainchild. Such a world is not the world
in its originality but the world as it is re-created through
the powers of art. Throughout Timaeus' praise of the
god Kosmos, he is praising the physicist's god-like power
of re-creation, the power of bringing the world into being through speech.
The world is fulftlled for Timaeus in the physicist's
act of thinking. There are of course many wondrous and
admirable motions which the cosmos displays. Yet its
highest activity for Timaeus is clearly that of
thoughtfulness or reflection. The world longs, one might
say, to make itself known and articulate. Only through
the powers of intelligent human speech does the world
shine forth as what it most truly is- an intelligent, living embodiment of artful structure and purpose. Timaeus
calls the cosmos a "happy god:'35 This god would not be
happy, would not be fulftlled, were it not for the human
beings who tell likely stories about the world's structure.
Through the recreational powers of the physicist, the
world comes to possess something like a plot, a mythos.
In this way, the world comes to be an object of trust. We
can place our trust in the appearances only once we have
saved them with the peculiar powers of a likely story. At
the beginning of the story, Timaeus invoked to hhneteron, 36
that is, ourselves and our own powers of mathematical
story-telling. Our trust in the likely story is also our trust
in a world that we ourselves have brought into being.
Part II-The Story of the Body
I
n Timaeus' first story of origins, time plays the
central role. Time is said to be the moving likeness
of eternal, changeless being. I think this means
not that time as duration goes on forever, but that
time is one of the world's supreme ordering
principles. Timaeus agrees with Aristotle in the sense
that time is conceived as the measure of motion. 37 Time
gives the various happenings of the world rhythm and
periodicity. In the cosmic region below the heavens, the
world is constantly coming together and falling apart.
60
But this region is nevertheless ruled by the ever-intelligent
circuits of Same and Other. The world in a sense "knows"
when to do what. In his second account of origins,
Timaeus unveils the other supreme ordering principle
and dimension of a world- space as the giver of place.
For Timaeus, space, likt time, is a moving structure.
Space shakes what is within it. 38] ust as time is associated
with the world's stability, space is associated with the excitation of all things that have place.
Timaeus' first account of body at the very beginning
of his speech took the four elements of body as the uncuttable simples out of which body was composed. In
his second story the simple-minded notion of an element
proves to be insufficient. What confronts us in the region
below the heavens is the change of elements into each other.
Fire acts on water to beget steam, a form of air. Water
evaporates, steam condenses, and fire goes out, leaving
its descendants earth and smoke. The element of fire is
given special attention by Timaeus. Of all the elements,
fire is the most spirited, the most ambitious, and the most
desirous of gaining victory over the others. The elements,
in other words, are themselves unstable. They appear
in the wondrous display of appearing and disappearing.
In order to "save" this perplexing phenomenon, Timaeus
reconstructs the four elements out of the regular Platonic
solids.' 9
This ingenious construction accomplishes two highly
important goals. First, the elements are shown to have
parts. These parts- the various sides of the regular,
geometrical solids- can be rearranged to form other
elements. Timaeus' mathematical physics thus accounts
for the fact that an element can have integrity and iden-.
tifiability while at the same time being able to suffer
transmutation. There is a second goal which is of great
importance to the likely story. The regular Platonic solids
are called by Timaeus "the most beautiful bodies:'40 What
this means is that Timaeus accounts for the structure
of body in terms of principles that are beautiful and good.
Timaeus here puts to work once more the motto of his
physics that I quoted earlier: All the good is beautiful,
and the beautiful is not measureless. Of course, what I
have been calling an account of the elements is, like all
accounts of Becoming, a likely story. It represents the
attempt on the part of the physicist to construct the best
of all possible worlds in speech. Timaeus constructs the
paradigms or archetypes of the four elements. He makes
no attempt to deduce the real nature of body and change
from the supposition of mathematical principles.
Timaeus' second attempt to account for the world's
beginning unveils a new cause at work in the world.
Timaeus calls this cause necessity, ananke. 41 At one point
he refers to this cause as "the form, eidos, of the wandering cause."42 Fire does not act on water purposefully. Fire
burns because it has to, and water must evaporate
whether it likes it or not. In the second beginning
Timaeus makes, the world is seen as originating in the
cooperation of two causes- the good and the necessary.
The good is identical with intelligence, or more precisely,
with the ordering power and stability of intelligence. InWINTER 1985
�telligence is said to persuade necessity to take on the
beautiful structures of mathematics. 43
In his second beginning, Timaeus acknowledges the
role that mindlessness and chance play in the scheme of
things. This element of chance cannot be eradicated, nor
can it be fully mastered. Timaeus' reference to persuasion suggests that the god's work of ordering the world
according to an intelligent and intelligible design is
limited by the nature of the original condition in which
the design is supposed to inhere. What we have before
us in the guise of the necessary cause is none other than
the primitive and unmusical condition that exists "before"
the divine ordering. By leading us back to a reconsideration of this condition, Timaeus introduces us to that
dimension of a world which is distinct from the purposeful
activity of an intelligent soul. This new dimension is the
world of power.
When the gods construct our eyes, they do so for
reasons that are beautiful and good. We are given eyes
so that we might learn the intelligible structure of time
manifested in the heavens 44 By learning about this structure through astronomy, our souls become ordered and
healthy. We become assimilated to our first and best condition as stars. But unless our eyes have the power of seeing, no good will come of them. What I think this means
is that astronomy, although it functions as that through
which the human soul is rendered musical, is not sufficient for our complete understanding of the world. To
grasp the totality of our world, to tell the whole story
of the cosmos, we must become students of violent
change; we must study the world of efficiency or power.
There are no good ends in the world unless there are
powers to actualize those ends. Intelligence by itself cannot accomplish the actualization. As Timaeus informs
us, the intellect can only persuade the necessary cause to
work towards the best ends.
But what is ultimately responsible for this turbulent
though necessary aspect of the world? What is that in
which change appears? What is that in which the crafty
god builds his mathematical models of the four elements?
Timaeus calls this medium for appearing the receptacle. 45
He refers to it also as the mother of becoming •• and everexisting space. 4 7
Timaeus makes several attempts to say what the
receptacle is. This proves to be no small matter for the
receptacle, as the material ground or condition for the
appearance of determinate though shifting natures, does
not itself possess a determinate nature. If the receptacle
is said to possess a nature at all, such a nature must be
located in its indeterminateness, in its character as the receptivity to form. 48
Timaeus' attempts to speak about the receptacle take
the form oflikenesses. The receptacle is compared to gold,
which receives constantly changing shapes,49 to the
neutral base in which perfumes can be mixed, 50 and to
an instrument for purifying corn. 51 The use of images
to explain the receptacle is well-suited to the receptacle's
all-receiving nature. For the receptacle is not only the
medium for change and the womb of becoming. It is also
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
the ground of all appearance and imaging. It functions
like the surface of a mirror. As the womb of becoming,
the receptacle is "impregnated" with the mathematical
structures of the four elements, that is, with the regular
Platonic solids. The divine craftsman gazes at the purely
intelligible forms of fire, air, earth, and water. At the same
time, he is said to schematize the receptacle "with shapes
and numbers:'" The purely intelligible form or eidos of
each element is called by Timaeus "father:'" In other
words, the world of change and appearance is born of
two "parents;' the formless and all-receiving receptacle
and the purely intelligible eidos. Timaeus makes it clear
that the offspring which is the cosmos is something in
between its two parents. The world is neither pure
formlessness nor pure form but a peculiar mixture of the
two. The world is the presence of intelligibility within the
realm of flux.
Now before the divine act of ordering, the receptacle
is already filled with "traces" of the four elements. 54 What
this means is that the primordial chaos could never have
been ordered unless it were potentially ordered, unless it
had a predisposition to be formed. Since the receptacle
and its contents are in perpetual imbalance, the ghostly
pre-cosmic elements are constantly vying for each other's
proper places. Through its vibratory motion, the receptacle tries to send these wayward elements back to their
proper places. There is a marvelous poignancy and aptness in Timaeus' account of the pre-cosmic condition.
Since the dynamic interplay of receptacle and contents
persists once the elemental traces are schematized with
shapes and numbers, this interplay may be said to
characterize the world as we know it. As our experience
of our world testifies, things that are made, whether by
art or by nature, tend to become unmade. The world
displays itself as a realm in which things that are brought
to order and unity, at the same time tend to fall to pieces.
The world tends both to order and to disorder, a fact
seen most vividly perhaps in the founding of cities and
in their constitutions, but seen no less in the history of
all plants and animals. In modern theories of the cosmos
this tendency is seen even in those celestial beings, the
stars and planets. Timaeus' receptacle confirms our sense
that the realm of change is also the realm of mortality.
Timaeus' reference to "traces;' ikhnC-literally "footprints" -of the elements suggests that prior to the divine
schematism body does not exist. The so-called elements,
stoicheia or letters of the alphabet, are not really elements
at all. They are rather the result of a subtle and beautiful
construction. So far are fire, earth, air, and water from
the status of genuine elements, that a man who possessed
just a little prudence, according to Timaeus, would not
even liken them to syllables."
Body, then, comes into being only with the god's construction of the regular Platonic solids in the medium
of the receptacle, the medium of eternally unstable space.
Insofar as body for Timaeus can be studied, it is indistinguishable from a mathematical object endowed with
mortality. According to Timaeus' provocative definition,
body is that which possesses the third dimension of depth,
61
�bathos. 56 The definition allows Timaeus to identify
bodiliness with solidity, and solidity with threedimensionality. More precisely, body's solidity derives
from the dimension of depth. The depth of body takes
on immense mythical significance when we remember
that the cosmos for Timaeus is a living being, a being
with a soul. While it might seem difficult to grasp the
connection between the living character of the whole and
the three-dimensionality of body, Timaeus' emphasis on
depth does point to the absurdity of a two-dimensional
living being. But why should a living being necessarily
be "solid;' that is, possessed of the third dimension of
depth? The answer lies, I think, in something Timaeus
says about the soul; he speaks of the soul "circling back
upon herself;' autl te anakukloumene pros autin. 57 The soul
or animating principle of the whole, in other words, is
a principle of inwardness and reflection. One might call
it a principle of "depth;' without which the world would
be superficial and lifeless. The depth Timaeus sees as
the defining characteristic of body thus supplies a
home-mythically-for the eternally reflective source of
life.
I say "mythically" in order to remind us that although
Timaeus' account of body dwells in the region of
mathematical physics, its primary dwelling-place is the
realm of stories and images. Timaeus makes no effort
to derive the "real" properties of body from his
mathematical principles. The likely story supplies no explanation of the descent from the purely intelligible archai
to the world of body and change. All takes place by way
of analogy and image-making, so that the most technical
constructions (like that of the musical scale or of the
regular solids) hover between the invisible and true beginnings and the world as it is given to sight and touch. Fire
is not a moving pyramid; it is merely lik a moving
pyramid. Nor does the likely story claim to be able to
derive the mathematical structure of fire from the eidos
of fire, from "fire itself by itsel£:' 5 • Even at its most apparently scientific moments, the likely story retains its
character as a mathematical poem, a poem that places the
mathematical arts in the service of non-mathematical
meaning and "depth!'
In the entire discussion of body and bodily change,
Timaeus make several references to guarding and sav-
ing the power, the dynamis, oflikely accounts 59 Indeed,
an invocation of "Zeus the Preserver"60 stands at the head
of Timaeus' second attempt to speak of beginnings. In
the same breath Timaeus calls his second story about
a mathematics of body "a strange and uncustomary exposition." Zeus is invoked to save us during the strange
business of constructing a mathematical poem about
body. He seems to be the patron god of likely stories.
The account will begin in distrust, perhaps even in our
laughter at such absurd hypotheses as those made by
Timaeus. But our imaginations will presumably save us
from distrust once we see that the mathematical
hypotheses succeed in saving the appearances, once these
hypotheses supply a reasonably coherent story of body
and bodily change. The safety of a likely story thus stems
62
from our remembering that what we are doing is building
mathematical models or analogies, that we are being recreational. The likely story in this way dramatizes for
us what we now call a scientific theory. A theory must be
careful not to promise what it cannot deliver. It does this
by acknowledging and insisting upon its origins in a productive, imaginative intellect. Strictly speaking, theories,
for Timaeus, do not belong in the realm of knowledge
but in the realm of trust, pistis. For this reason,
mathematical physics aims at persuasion. It is a form of
rhetoric. The rhetorical connection between physics and
the world is strongly implied by the fact that the divine
intelligence itself is said to persuade the receptacle to
assume the best and most beautiful mathematical form.6 1
We must remind ourselves at this point that the entire
Timaeus addresses the problem of the world in its totality.
The world of all generated things- gods and men, cities,
customs, reputations, and also likely stories. All such
generated things reveal in their individual fates the life
of the whole to which they are subject; all reveal the pervasive and inescapable workings of necessity within the
receptacle. The receptacle comes on the scene in answer
to questions of physics proper. Yet Timaeus' mode of
speech suggests that we see the world of bodily change
as revelatory of the soul, of our souls. In fact, at the end
of the likely story, we find souls going up and down the
scale of animality. 6 2 This happens in just the same way
that the four elements of body go up and down in their
violent change of place. The cosmos, you remember, is
both body and soul. And the receptacle, as the mother
of all becoming, is necessarily the place of souls as well
as the place of bodies.
No one can deny the power that place as well as time
exerts over our lives. Time and place together have to
do with the meaning of a life within becoming. Such a
life is unintelligible without history or, if you will, without
the story or plot of a life. Insofar as an individual life comes
to be defined as a story, it is governed by the Where and
the When. It is of the utmost importance to us that we
have a place; and at the appropriate times it is good and
necessary for us to change place. Sometimes the change
of place, like the change of the elements, is not smooth
and continuous but is a violent upheaval.
Timaeus' account of the receptacle fits well with
Critias' story about the great cycles civilizations go
through and the great wars between cities. In Critias'
story Athens plays the role of the great liberator of the
political world. Athens fights against the insolent kings
of Atlantis who attempt to enslave the entire mainland.
But as we know from the account given to us by
Thucydides, the Athens of Plato's day launches an insolent campaign against the great and powerful island
of Sicily, a campaign which proves to be Athens' downfall.
In the course of history, the roles have been reversed.
What is true in the political order seems to be true in
the cosmic order as well. The life of the whole cannot
be identified simply with the serene motions of the
heavens. Life is not only intellectual activity; it is also
the passion and vibrancy which cause the whole to be
WINTER 1985
�alive in the first place, to reach glorious moments which
tend towards tragic decay. At the beginning of tbe
dialogue, Socrates says he is filled with a desire to see
the best city go to war, to a fitting and beautiful war.
Socrates seems to be mimicking our fondness for life in
the sense of passion and vibrancy, and also our desire
to witness a beautiful show of strength. Socrates is asking to see the best city transformed into a heroic city,
a feat that requires great skill in the making of lively
images. Timaeus' two stories of origins- the story of the
soul and the story of the receptacle- reflect the two senses
of the term life. The divine soul, manifested as the moving structure of time, embodies life as intellectual activity.
The receptacle embodies life as passion and vibrancy.
Both senses oflife are necessary if we are to tell the whole
story about the life of the whole and our own spatiotemporallives as well. Yet it is no easy matter to say how
these two senses of life can combine to form a coherent
whole.
In the last third of the likely story, Timaeus attempts
to "weave together" the two supreme causes of Becoming: the good and the necessary. 63 He attempts, in other
words, to harmonize the two senses oflife which the two
stories of beginnings have uncovered. We might expect
that given these two accounts of the world's founding,
Timaeus in his third story will tell us how the two different accounts of origination are reconciled, how it is
possible for the soul to be the first and best of generated
things 64 and for the god to have constructed the elements
of body first. 65 But Timaeus makes no effort to explain
how the first story of origins fits with the second. He
leaves us with two beginnings, two archai. This incoherence of beginnings is meaningful. It suggests that
neither time nor space was constructed first. The world
itself is characterized by a double beginning. Time as intelligence and space as receptacle interpenetrate but are
not reducible to each other. This doubleness of good'!ess
as intelligence and the necessity of the receptacle makes
its most dramatic appearance in Timaeus' account of
human nature. For Timaeus our nature and the nature
of the whole imitate one another. If we find an
incoherence in our own lives, a tension between our intelligent and our passionate selves, this is because such
a tension exists in the world which we imitate and to
which we necessarily belong. The cosmos for Timaeus
is something like the human soul, and the human soul's
incoherence, writ large.
Part III-The Story of Human Nature
W
e know from the dramatic prologue to
Timaeus' speech that the likely story is
intended by Critias to be a preface to
Critias' own story about Athens and her
day of glory. You recall that the Timaeus
begins with a very watered down summary of conclusions we find in the Republic about the regime that would
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
be best according to nature. But Critias is not satisfied
with Socrates' concern for a non-historical city, a city
which had no actual birth in the realm of becoming: ''The
citizens and city you went through for us yesterday as
in a myth we will now carry over into the realm of truth."66
For Critias, Socrates failed to given an account of the
best city insofar as this city would have an actual birth
in the realm of becoming and history. History-or rather
the memory of past deeds-is identical with truth. Critias
does not distinguish between the faithfulness of this
memory and the truthfulness of what he remembers. His
memory is etched with stories he heard as a young boy.
Critias scrupulously avoids the word mythos when he refers
to his own story. He claims boldly that his account is
"true in every respect." 67 It is through Critias, in other
words, that we come to be suspicious of anything that
has the character of a likely story.
Socrates' speech is mythical for Critias, mythical in
the bad sense of the term, because it was about a city
with no history. It was about form without motion and
place. Critias attempts to correct this lack by transforming Socrates' best city by nature into a young and glorious
Athens. But Critias needs a transition from Socrates' inquiry into Being to his own concern for a begotten and
therefore genuine city. Timaeus supplies this transition.
Timaeus will generate a world in which things come to
be and pass away in a splendid show of beautiful structure and purpose. He will construct the cosmic background
and context for the cycles of human history. As Critias
says, Timaeus will generate the universe down to the birth
of human nature. 68 What this means is that human
nature is the intended goal of the likely story.
Timaeus' story of human nature began just before
the gods confronted the problem of the necessary cause,
the cause of power. The star-gods, who are said to be
the children of the demiurge, put us together piece by piece,
organ by organ. What Timaeus shows us in this very
odd and at times repellent view of human nature is that
for him human nature is something neither whole, nor
natural, nor especially attractive. The human animal is
a creature of great vulnerability and multifarious needs,
and it is to these needs that Timaeus' likely story is addressed. Our neediness is summed up by the fact that
we are not spherical: we lack the self-sufficiency and
general happiness Timaeus associates with the spherical
cosmos. Timaeus' identification of happiness with
sphericity reminds us of the myth Aristophanes tells in
the Symposium. But whereas that myth attempts to ground
our happiness in the love we have for other human beings, Timaeus' story grounds our happiness in the study
of the heavens.
It is true that our complicated bodily arrangement
demonstrates how well-meaning and ingenious the gods
were. Like the world as a whole, man is a sort of cosmos,
an artfully arranged living order. But precisely because
man is so artfully constructed in the likely story, he is
also something artifical or, as we say, synthetic. There
is something grotesque about him. Man is a moving network of parts and functions. There is one and only one
63
�thing about man in the likely story that is completely
non-artificial and unconstructed. This is his passionate
nature, the nature that is at odds with the intellect's efforts to give life order and artfulness.
Human nature starts out as a head. The head contains the divine circuitry of Same and Other. To this head
the gods attach a torso and limbs to serve as the head's
means of transport. 69 The gods then put the mortal parts
of the soul into the torso. Spiritedness and the love of
winning go in the chest, and the desire for food and drink
goes in the belly. 70 An amusing and plausible topology
of the human soul! Timaeus describes this addition of
spiritedness and desire to our divine intelligence as a pollution of the divine. 71 To minimize the bad effects the mortal
parts of the soul have on the intellect, the gods construct
a buffer to go between the head and the torso. That is
to say, the gods invent the neck. 72 Like the belly-button
of Aristophanes' myth, the neck is a constant reminder
of our "fall" from sphericity and happiness.
Like all the bodily constructions we find in this part
of the likely story, the invention of the neck points to some
invisible truth about the human soul. Timaeus' account
of the neck shows us in its peculiar comic fashion that
human nature is ultimately absurd and incomprehensible. There is really no logos of human nature, no
reasonable explanation of how the best in use is related
to the worst. This seems to be implied also by the fact
that Timaeus compartmentalizes the soul: intellect goes
in the head, spiritedness in the chest, and desire in the
belly. One can only tell likely stories about human nature,
and such stories look at man in terms of artful construc-
tion. The ingenious invention of the neck shows us that
we do not cohere by nature. Intelligence has no business
mingling with the passions, but it must mingle with them
if human nature is to be born at all. The neck forcibly
joins the head to the rest of us and at the same time supplies some protection for the head's "private life" of
thinking.
In the likely story, human nature is the most mixed
and most terrible of all things. We are composed of all
animal possibilities the world has to offer- the highest,
the lowest, and all the stages in between. Our soul in its
humanness is everything life can be. In our heads, we
lead the divine life of thinking. But owing to our other
parts below the neck, we partake of mindlessness. Because
of this region below the neck, we run the risk of losing
our human shape in our next birth. The penalty for a
deficient life is transformation into a lower animal. That
is, contained within our human nature is the full range
of animal possibilities corresponding to the various forms
of unintelligent life. This range stretches from the stars
all the way down to the stupidest, most worthless animals
there are. But the cosmos requires even these most worth-
less animals if it is to be whole. Deficiency itself seems
to be necessary to the world order, and this deficiency,
witnessed in the moral hierarchy of animals, is rooted
in the all-encompassing nature of man. The cosmos approaches its final perfection and completeness for
64
Timaeus as the original, healthy condition of human
nature becomes degenerate with time. In the closing
scenes of the likely story, the cosmos receives the animal
forms destined for it by the "intelligible animal."" These
forms are generated, so to speak, by the need in man's
nature to actualize in timE all the possibilities which lurk
within him and which constitute his being. For Timaeus,
the cosmos is both just and beautiful: just because it seeks
a harmonization between type of soul and type of body,
beautiful because through such harmonization it shows
itself to be a genuine kosmos, that is, a world governed
by a wondrous symmetry and coherence, even for those
beings farthest removed from the motions of intelligence.
Divine care in this way makes a blessing even of the curses
that man's nature brings upon the world. This intelligent
care which orders all things and which seeks to make good
out of bad, perfection out of deficiency, seems to be an
instance of Timaeus' guiding song: ''All the good is
beautiful, and the beautiful is not measureless." The
beauty and nobility of intelligence consist in its care that
the good triumph in all things. This divine care for the
order of all things is the same as the generosity of the
demiurge. It is that goodness which Timaeus, at the very
beginning of his talk, characterized as the god's lack of
phthonos, envy_,.
As we have seen, human nature in the likely story
contains within it all the animal possibilities the world
has to offer. These possibilities spring from the complexity
of our own nature. This complexity which makes us what
we are can be looked at in the light ofTimaeus' two great
cosmic principles- the necessary and the good. These
two principles define human life as well as the cosmic
life. Timaeus associates the passionate part of us with
the necessary cause, with the receptacle. As always in the
likely story, goodness is associated with the orderliness
of intelligence.
When Timaeus introduces our non-rational nature,
he calls the passions "terrible and necessary."75 The passions belong to our necessary nature insofar as we are
absorbed in the life of bodily desire, honor, and victory.
The turbulence with which these passions fill us remind
us strongly of the turbulence within the receptacle.
The passions are necessary because without them we
would not be human. To have human life at all, we must
be absorbed in the impulsive, non-reasoning sense oflife.
To be sure, as long as we are men and not stars, life in
this sense is a condition for the life of thinking. If we
do not care for our whole human lives as human beings,
our intellectual life suffers. Thinking presupposes that
our lower desires are held in check and that we get enough
food, sleep, and exercise. Furthermore, if we had no
spiritedness we would lack the daring it takes to tackle
and solve such things as mathematical problems. But the
lower passions are disruptive, terrible as well as necessary.
Human nature is therefore in the following quandary:
the necessary condition for our happiness is also an
enemy to our happiness.
One might be tempted to think that the gods should
WINTER 1985
�have made our passions less terrible before they put them
into our souls. But this, I think, would deprive them of
their nature and function as passions. A passion, insofar
as it is a passion, cannot be anything other than consuming and measureless. Passion must contain the
possibility for being terrible. I think it is this boundless
and frightening character of our passions that Timaeus
points to when he says that the gods mixed all the passions with "love, erOs, that attempts all things:' 76 Since
the passions for Timaeus are causes of disorder, they must
be subjugated by the force of intellect. Timaeus is clear
about how the· intellect itself becomes fit to rule the soul.
It becomes fit through the study of astronomy. This study
restores our intellect, our circuits of Same and Other,
to the originally divine and musical condition we lost at
birth.
As I mentioned at the beginning of this lecture, the
likely story takes the form of a song. Timaeus sings the
praises of the god Kosmos. He sings the world into shape
with the beautiful constructions of mathematics and harmonics. The song of Timaeus, the nomos as Socrates calls
it, gives the world its musical and lawful shape. The center
of the song's teaching is this: all the good is beautiful,
and the beautiful is not measureless. It is now time for
us to ask what we are to make of Timaeus and his song
of order.
We know from the very beginning of the dialogue
that the making of order within becoming will be the
dialogue's central concern. Socrates gives us our clue in
his mathematical account of who is present. He counts
people. That is, he replaces their human identities by
their general characteristic of countableness. By counting his hosts, Socrates also implies the connection between time and number so important to Timaeus' story.
By asking where the missing fourth is, he implies the im-
portance of place in the dialogue, reminding us at the
same time that time and place always accompany qne
another. But the missing fourth remains unidentified
precisely because Socrates uses numbers instead of
names. Mathematics, it seems, has the power to order
beings, but it is powerless to identify them. Timaeus
fabricates an explanation for the absence of the fourth
host. Timaeus says he must have fallen ill, for surely he
would not be absent willingly from such a meeting. 77 A
likely story! The very first time we meet Timaeus he is
playing the role in life that he plays when he delivers his
speech about the cosmos.
The dialogue is filled with all sorts of playful
references to our desire for the orderliness and beauty
implied by that rich word kosmos. Even Socrates is ornamented, dressed up for the occasion. But it is in the
likely story of Timaeus that all the various senses of kosmos
find their most original place- in the world as a whole.
The cosmos is thus the paradigm and source for all the
ways in which order and the making of order appear in
human life.
In the light of what we have seen so far about the
likely story, let us return to our earlier question: Who
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
is Timaeus? What sort of man tells a story like the likely
story?
Timaeus is described for us by Socrates. Everything
about Timaeus is splendid, even his name which suggests timC, honor. He is an honored, powerful statesman
from Italy. He comes from a noble family, he is wealthy,
and he rules a city known for its good laws. Socrates also
says that Timaeus has "made it to the top in every
philosophy:' 78 Timaeus is the paradigm of the worldly
man, the successful worldly man. Unlike Socrates he is
an eminently public man, full of worldly experience and
known for his mastery of all learning. He seems too good
to be true, more like a work of art than a real human
being. I sometimes think this must be why, next to the
historical characters in the dialogue (Socrates, Critias,
and Hermocrates), Timaeus is conspicuously fictional.
He seems to be a likely story, that is, an ·unbelievable
though beautiful story.
Beautiful though he is, Timaeus makes us question
the virtues of a devotion to orderliness and accomplishment. Through the character of Timaeus, Plato causes
us to ask this question: Is it so clear that all the good
is beautiful and that the beautiful is not measureless? Is
it so clear, in other words, that orderliness and goodness
are the same? Even if we follow Timaeus in identifying
goodness with intelligence, it is far from clear that intelligence is good solely because it is a cause of order and
decency. In the Republic we get a different view of the
good. There the good is that which yokes together the
knower and the known. 79 In other words, the good is the
ultimate cause of truth.
The likely story is possessed of many virtues. Its
greatest virtue is, I think, its effect on our imaginations.
The story tunes and sharpens our ability to construct
and to identify likenesses within a world we are used to
thinking of in terms of meaningless facts. Through the
power of the likely story, the realm of body and change,
the object of the physicist, becomes a realm of meaning.
There are reasons for the way things are. We are thus able
to find ourselves reflected in the cosmos Timaeus builds
in speech.
But I wonder if we are able to find ourselves accurately reflected in the likely story. In the story's devotion
to a moral cosmos ruled by orderliness and art, something
human seems to get lost. I think the loss is especially felt
in Timaeus' treatment of our passions. For Timaeus our
passions are necessary but not good. Or rather, they are
good only insofar as they are necessary. The passions pull
us away from the orderly life of thinking. Timaeus tells
us something we know all too well from experiencethat the passions are terrible. But he does not leave room
for the possibility that a terrible thing is not for that
reason bad. Just as goodness is not necessarily identical
with order, badness is not necessarily the same as terribleness. The terrible things in us, those things Timaeus
sums up as "love that attempts all things," could very well
have more of a connection with the good things in us
than Timaeus is willing to admit. Is not our effort to learn
65
�the truth about all things rooted in a terrible longing,
a divine madness as Socrates calls it in the Phaedrus? 80
A soul possessed by the madness of philosophy is surely
not the same as a soul which has "made it to the top in
every philosophy."
In the likely story, the beautiful appears in one guise
only-the guise of mathematical structure. ForTimaeus
this mathematical beauty is always linked with nobility
or good character. It is never treated as something which
could awaken love. Iflonging is at all present in the likely
story, it is present in our longing to return to our original
condition as stars. But this sort of longing is prompted
by our desire to be orderly and well-shaped. Timaeus
at one point refers to the lover, the erastCs, of intelligence
and knowledge." But I think this refers simply to the
man who loves his own noble activity of building
mathematical models of Becoming.
The absence of the sort of beauty I am talking about
We never get to the true face of things in the story. We
must rest content with a beautiful mathematical facade.
The absence of the philosopher and the philosophical
love of the forms in Timaeus' cosmos brings up a
perplexity that lies at the heart of the likely story. Timaeus
often refers to the region of the forms which our cosmos
imitates. He refers also to the dialectical study of the
things that are always. Why then, when Timaeus constructs the cosmos and all its contents, does he leave out
philosophy as the study of the truly intelligible whole?
Why does astronomy rather than dialectic become the
highest human activity within Timaeus' cosmos? To
answer this question, we will seek guidance from the
divided line of the Republic.
On the divided line the level Socrates calls dianoia is
situated just below the level of dialectic. To this realm
belong all those activities called arts, technai. The most
important of these arts are the mathematical studies-
can be seen in Timaeus' portrait of human nature. The
arithmetic,
portrait combines the symmetry of structure with the
Socrates distinguishes these arts from the uppermost level
of dialectic in the following way. The mathematical arts,
unlike dialetic, make use of hypotheses which are never
grotesqueness of a medical operation. Let us consider
for a moment the beauty of a human face. In the likely
geometry,
astronomy,
and harmonics.
story, the face is entirely a matter of organs and their
questioned. Socrates compares such hypotheses to im-
proper functioning. If, for example, you wanted to say
that someone had beautiful eyes, Timaeus would point
out to you that the beauty of the eyes consisted in their
ability to see, especially to see the objects of astronomy.
The eyes, therefore, are beautiful because they lead us
ages. 82 This is why Socrates says that the mathematician
merely dreams the truth. 83 The mathematician is intellectually asleep, and in his sleep he has beautiful dreams
whose clarity and distinctness lull him into thinking that
he has found the truth itself. He is asleep because he does
not search for the original beings, the forms, of which
his own mathematical objects are likenesses. Caught up
in his dream world of beautiful structures, the mathematician beholds images, thinking all the while that the ob-
eventually to the ordering of our soul. Timaeus' account
of all the other facial organs follows much the same line
of thought. These organs exhibit nothing more and
nothing less than the gods' attempt to reconcile the
demands of orderliness with those of life's necessities. But
a face is not an orderly arrangement of parts that work
properly. It is a single, uncuttable look, an idea. It is
something that allows us to say "This is Socrates" or "This
is Theaetetus:' Because of the uncuttable look of the face,
we can identify Socrates and Theaetetus despite the
similarity of their faces. Furthermore, owing to the
character of the human face, it is ridiculous to give an
account of people by counting them. Timaeus shows us
that he does not know how to look at a human face. His
ingenious and well-meaning gods do not care if their arrangement of facial organs also inspires longing. Or
rather, if they care, they care because such longing would
cause us to "lose our heads" and become disorderly and
ugly.
The absence of a beauty that inspires longing in the
likely story is deeply connected with the absence of
philosophical love. The idea or look of the human face
resembles the uncuttable look of a Socratic eidos. This
eidos too cannot be reduced to a proper arrangement of
parts. In other dialogues, notably in the Symposium, our
perception of beautiful bodies is the starting-point for
our ascent to the purely intelligible region of the forms.
The likely story contains no such ascent. The cosmos is
our boundary and law-giver. And, as we saw earlier, we
must accept the likely story and not search beyond it.
66
jects of mathematics are in fact the truest, most original
beings. Despite the iinaginativeness characteristic of the
mathematical activity, he lacks the most important kind
of imagination. He is unable to see beyond the clarity
of mathematical objects to the more precise, -more
original, region of the forms. While the mathematician
works down from his unquestioned hypotheses to
necessary conclusions, the dialectician works up and back
to the vision of the forms. The philosophical education
Socrates outlines in the seventh book of the Republic
attempts to undo the mathematician's sleepiness, to make
the mathematical studies a ladder to the-higher region
of dialectic.
What we can say about Timaeus' likely story is that
it too works down from hypotheses. It embodies that intellectual activity Socrates calls dianoia. Unlike the
mathematicians described in the Republic, Timaeus begins
with the realm of the forms- the forms of Same and
Other, the intelligible animal, and the pure archetypes
of the four elements of body. Timaeus treats the forms
themselves as hypotheses from which he then descends to
make a world. Notwithstanding his supposition of these
forms, the motion of the likely story is away from the
assumed principles rather than towards them. What this
accounts for, I think, is the likeliness of the likely story.
In the likely story, we descend from the region of being
WINTER 1985
�to the image-world of becoming. We enter the beautiful
dream world of the mathematician. We build a hypothetical re-created world in speech.
As the cosmos gets filled and perfected in Timaeus'
story, it "closes upon itself:' It becomes a self-sufficient,
self-contained god. As we build this hypothetical world
with the powers of mathematics, we move further and
further away from the realm of Being which was our
starting-point. I think it is in this way that astronomy
as the highest of the mathematical arts comes to replace
the dialectical inquiry into first principles. This is one
of the important things the likely story dramatizes- the
covering up and forgetting of first principles as the true
objects of inquiry. Such a covering up is vital if we are
to guard and save the power of giving likely accounts,
of constructing theories. In the likely story, our desire to
ascend to the Republic's greatest study of the good gets
"swallowed up" by our attraction to the beauty of
mathematical structures. Because of this, the likely story
necessarily takes the form of play and diversion from
serious matters. True to our familiar expression "entertaining a hypothesis;' the likely story comes before us as
a form of entertainment for Socrates. As we have seen,
Socrates fully accepts Timaeus' conditions. He accepts
the likely story as his guest-gift and does not, on this occasion, search beyond it. He thereby takes the story in
just the right spirit, the spirit that shows exactly what
a likely story about Becoming is.
As the silent Socrates listens to Timaeus' song oflaw
and order, we of course wonder what he is thinking. My
guess is that he is enjoying his feast of speech, though
not because he is persuaded of its teaching. I think
Socrates must all the while be looking into Timaeus' face,
thinking about the quality of Timaeus' soul as it is
revealed in the likely story. He may be searching for some
trace of philosophical longing buried beneath the clever
constructions and worldly accomplishments that have no
doubt spoiled the glorious Timaeus.
Something is surely lacking in the Timaeus. This is
signalled by the famous absence of the fourth host. The
fourth host is perhaps the philosopher, who has no place
in the dialogue or in the world as Timaeus re-creates it.
The likely story offers us a strange and provocative
look at the world and at ourselves. But we do not find
ourselves accurately reflected in the likely world that
emerges out of Timaeus' head, the world without human
faces. For all its virtues of order and musicality, the likely
story leaves us with a need that can be met, I think, only
by turning back, back towards the first principles and
to those Socratic stories, like the myth of recollection,
which encourage us to turn back. Timaeus' cosmic song
thus draws our attention to that other singer who, for
now, silently listens.
FOOTNOTES
1. Timaeus 87c4-5
2. Ibid. 20b7 -c3
3. Ibid. 27a2-b6
4. Ibid. 29d4-6
5. Ibid. 106a3-4
6. Ibid. 59c5- d2
7. Ibid. 29c3
8. Ibid. 71a3-72d3
9. Ibid. 29c4- d3
10. Ibid. 29d6
11. Gorgias 523al- 3
12. R,public VI, 509d6-510a4; 511d6-e5
13. Timaeus 50d2-e1
14. Ibid. 56b3-5
15. Ibid. 41c6-d3; 41e4-42a3; 42d2-e4
16. Ibid. 42e5-43a6
17. Ibid. 91a4-b7
18. Ibid. 90e6-91a1
19. Ibid. 21a1-3; 26e2-27a1
20. Ibid. 24c7-d1; Critias 109c7-8
21 .. Thucydides, Pelopponesian Wars, II 40
22. Timaeus 83e4-5
23. Ibid. 30a4
24. Ibid. 29e2-3
25. Ibid. 30b4-6
26. Ibid. 31a4- b3
27. Ibid. 51b7 ~c5
28. Ibid. 32b6-7
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
40.
41.
42.
43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
48.
49.
50.
51.
52.
53.
54.
55.
56.
35a8
35b4-36b6
36116-d7
36e2-3
42d1-2; 90c6-d7
37a2-c5
34b8-9
27d2
Aristotle, Physics; IV, 219b1-2
Timaeus 52d2-53a7
Ibid. 53c4-55c6
Ibid. 53d7-e2
Ibid. 47e4-5
Ibid. 48a6-7
Ibid. 48a2-5; 56c3-7
Ibid. 46e6-47c4
Ibid. 49a6
Ibid. 50d2- 3
Ibid. 52a8
Ibid. 51 a!- b2
Ibid. 50a4-c6
Ibid. 50e4- 8
Ibid. 52e5-53a2
Ibid. 53b4-5
Ibid. 50d2-4
Ibid. 53b2
Ibid. 48b5-c2
Ibid. 53c5- 6
Ibid.
Ibid.
Ibid.
Ibid.
Ibid.
Ibid.
Ibid.
Ibid.
57. Ibid. 37a5
58. Ibid. 51b8
59. Ibid. 48dl-4
60. loc. cit.
61. Ibid. 48a2-5; 56c3-7
62. Ibid. 92cl-3
63. Ibid. 68e1 - 69a5
64. Ibid. 34b10-35a1
65. Ibid. 69b8- c1
66. Ibid. 26c7 -d1
67. Ibid. 20d8
68. Ibid. 27a3-6
69. Ibid. 44d3-45a2
70. Ibid. 69c5-70e5
71. Ibid. 69d6
72. Ibid. 69d6- e3
73. Ibid. 39e3- 40a2
74. Ibid. 29e1-2
75. Ibid. 69c8
76. Ibid. 69d4-6
77. Ibid. 17a4-5
78. Ibid. 20al- 5
79. Republic VI, 508e1-509a5
80. Pha,drus 243e9 ff
81. Timaeus 46d7 -8
82. Republic VI, 510b4-51la2
83. Ibid.VII, 533b6-c3
67
�A Note on Eva Brann's "Roots of Modernity"
Chaninah Maschler
T
his note is a rather over-sized
response to Eva Brann's recent
"Roots of Modernity." (St.
John's Review, Spring 1984) Even after
several readings I find the essay (originally a lecture for students at a college
under Presbyterian auspices) hard to
understand. Its aim, in terms of the
original audience, seemed to be to help
students feel the weight of their religious
heritage by proposing the thesis that not
only they, as Christians, but all of us, as
moderns, live on or from Christianity.
Christianity's "world-historical" significance is made palpable by her sketching of an argument according to which
those respects in which modern life and
thought differ most profoundly from ancient life and thought (p. 69 list) can all
be connected with Christianity, either
directly, as preserving and implementing
Christian "spiritual and intellectual
modes" (p. 66), or indirectly, as expressing and drawing out the consequences
of a great refusal of at least portions of
Christianity.
What I call a "great refusal" (negation,
rejection) is given the rather different
name "perversion of." H-ere begins one of
my difficulties. Miss Brann's attitude to
the three men whom she singles out as
"founders of modernity" (Galilee, Bacon,
Descartes) is complex. Sometimes she
Chaninah Maschler is a tutor at St. John's College,
Annapolis.
68
praises them with faint damns, as when
she writes:
I am not saying that these founders
of modernity played silly and
wicked and blasphemous games,
but only that they still had the
theological learning and the
grandeur of imagination to know
what their enterprise resembled
[namely, the rebellion of Satan.] (p.
68)
Sometimes she takes grim satisfaction in
their getting the fall they deserved:
Their rebellion is ... against all intermediaries between themselves
and God and his nature. They want
to be next to him and like him. So
they fall to being not creatures but
creators. (p. 67)
Below I will try to state some of my
disagreements with both these passages.
Right now it is the pro-and-con attitude
itself that I am taking up. A to my mind
already perplexing situation (in which
many of us are caught), namely, that of
a non-Christian teacher who seeks to persuade Christian students, on nonChristian, intellectual grounds, to work
at appropriating their own Christian
heritage so that they may receive help
from it in fashioning or preserving a
"framework" for their thinking about ''the
nature and ends Of their life" (p. 69), is
made still more perplexing because the
teacher chooses to describe a negation or
rejection or refusal of elements of Christianity in words borrowed from the Christian tradition, words that would be
appropriate for someone who cleaves to
the teachings of Augustine but which I
find confusing as coming from someone
who expressly distances herself from those
teachings. What confuses me is that the
"complex" attitude seems weighted in the
contra-direction; I am unable to sort out
Miss Brann's reasons for this choice.
When Augustine says that Satan "did
not abide in the truth because the truth
was not in him;' he seems to identify
Satan's pride with envy, envy of the Son.
By the standards of Augustinian Christianity (though not, perhaps, by those of
Thomas), all human pride is ressentiment
at our being made the mere image and
not the reality of God, which is why people try to play lord over one another,
pretending to an inequality as that of God
to Man. Since, however, Miss Brann
declares herself a non-Christian, she can
be presumed free to distinguish proper
pride from soul-and-world-destroying
envy. Moreover, since, for her, Christ
would either be a prophet (as he is for
Moslems and Jews) or a teacher, it should
be possible according to her for a later
prophet or teacher so to interpret Christ's
message that its spirit is saved while its
killing letter is killed. It should even be
possible respectfully to decline the
teacher's teachings. Why, then, does she
not grant this kind of liberty to the
founders of modernity?
Descartes, for instance, in Meditation
IV, claims a will so large that it can double back on itself and shrink "commitment" to the sphere of what is evident to
the merely finite human understanding.
The cure for error, and even sin, is strictly
WINTER 1985
�in his own power. Indeed, his "method"
looks as though it should not only rid him
of errors previously committed but protect him against error and sin henceforth.
By teaching such Stoic self-help to others
he certainly seems to make the Sacraments superfluous to the Sage. Why call
this rebellion? Why isn't it, like Miss
Brann's own non-Christianity, a selective
by-passing of Christianity?
Again, Bacon when he writes (in "Of
Goodness and Goodness of Nature"), that
without goodness (which "answers to the
theological virtue of charity;') "man is a
busy, mischievous, wretched thing;' can
be read to give expression to something
like that Welcoming attitude to the pre-·
sent and to one's fellows for the lack of
which Miss Brann so much condemns
Heidegger. This attitude Bacon claims to
find in a properly doctored Christianity.
When he adds the sentence from
Machiavelli "that the Christian faith had
given up good men in prey to those that
are tyrannical and unjust;' isn't it in the
name of charity rightly understood that
he protests against such overweening
charity as does not heed God's command
to love our neighbor as ourselves (a command which he construes to mean that
"Divinity make the love of ourselves the
pattern; the love of our neighbors but the
portraiture")? To someone mindful of
Luther's protest against the pride of those
men who presume to "imitate Christ" it
is not at all obvious how Bacon's "realism''
isn't a reminder of the need for humility. 1
Admittedly, Bacon casts himself for the·
role of Advisor· to Princes (Queen
Elizabeth and King James I). In that
capacity he defends doctrines of royal
authority at odds with those which claim
that secular rulers, being charged merely
with the safeguarding of goods of the
body, are inferior to spiritual rulers, who
are charged with the perfecting of the
human soul. But critique of the doctrine
of Papal Plenitude of Power (see Introduction to Marsilius of Padua, Dejendor of the
Peace, Harper, 1967) was not initiated by
Bacon. He was trying to preserve the
English monarchy's earlier gains in authority. Since he served the ruler and the
church of the realm to the best of his ability, I again wonder on what grounds he
is called a rebel, though I recognize that
from a Roman Catholic perspective he
would deserve to be called so.
Miss Brann's come-back, if I understand her, is that not only or chiefly in
her estimation but in their own, the men
responsible for the "project" of finding out
the true constitution of the universe and
of using this knowledge to improve the
THE ST. JOHNS REVIEW
conditions of human life were rebels, not
against the church and the state, nor
against God, but against the "traditional
wisdom" which teaches that men can only
have opinions about good and evil but
cannot gain moral episteme (science).
Bacon, Galileo, and Descartes themselves
(on this reading of "traditional wisdom")
held that the idea of a science of good and
evil is "demonic?'
I choose Goethe's word (which is not
Miss Brann's) for two reasons: First,
because as he came to use it, for instance
of Napoleon, a romantic flavor clings to
it and it is such a romantic reading of
Paradise Lost that seems to me presupposed
by her sentence about the three founders
"all" having a "cautiously sympathetic
respect for Satan" (p. 67). Nicholas
Machiavelli didn't call himself"Old Nick."
Second, because what prompted me first
to set pen to paper was my more than
uneasiness over her willingness to use
Augustinian vocabulary to characterize
the work of men who, in a period of European history when demonology had regained frightful power, tried to re-assert
sanity. 2 The reason for my believing that
it is important to determine how the great
teachers of Christian doctrine meant their
passages about Satan to be understood is
that it seems to me I cannot otherwise
understand or appraise opposition to their
teaching. My current guess is that the
Christians and non-Christians who
wanted to de-emphasize the Augustinian
tradition were right in holding that this
tradition gave support to the witch-craze.
That there had been such a craze on the
continent I happened to have learned in
a Dutch elementary school, where
children were taught to take pride in the
fact that in the little town of Oudewater
a scale-test was substituted for the watertest: Anyone accused of witch craft should
show levity rather than gravity, it was
argued. Therefore, if the pan with the
witch in it went down, that proved that
the accused, though perhaps guilty of
other crimes, was not guilty of a pact with
the deviL Elsewhere the test was whether,
when thrown into the water, the accused
floated or drowned. Floating proved
witch-craft. Drowning proved the
contrary.
More recently, I read in Montaigne's
"Of Cripples" (iii,ll):
our life is too real and essential to
vouch for these supernatural and
fantastic accidents. As for druggings and poisonings, I put them
out of my reckoning; those are
homicides. . .. However, even in
such matters they say that we must
not always be satisfied with confessions, for such persons have
sometimes been known to accuse
themselves of having killed people
who were found to be alive .... My
ears are battered by a thousand
stories like this: 'Three people saw
him on such and such a day in the
east; three saw him the next day in
the west, at such and such a time,
in such and such a place, dressed
thUs. Truly, I would not believe my
own self about this. HoW much
more natural and likely it seems to
me that two men are lying than that
one man should pass with the winds
in twelve hours from the east to the
west. How much more natural that
our understanding should be carried away from its base by the
volatility of our untracked mind
than that one of us, in flesh and
bone, should be wafted up a
chimney on a broomstick by a
strange spirit.
I tried to get an idea of just how reliable
the rumor about the witch craze was by
reading H. R. Trevor-Roper's The Euro-
pean Witchcraze of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth
Centuries (Harper, 1969), E. William
Monter's European Witchcmjt (John Wiley,
New York, 1969), H. C. Erik Midelfort's
Witch Hunting in Southwestern Germany,
1582-1684 and the already mentioned
book about Witch belief in England by
Trevor Davies. If these authors are
trustworthy, Montaigne's principle, "...
it is putting a very high price on one's conjectures to have a man roasted alive
because of them;' was very far from the
prevailing one. By some estimates, now
considered melodramatic, 100,000 people
were killed for witchcraft in Europe be-
tween 1500 and 1700. The only book I
have so far found that gives careful details
about how its figures are arrived at is
Midelfort's. According to him; "at least
3,229 persons were executed for witchcraft in the German Southwest" between
1561 and 1670 (p. 32). Of course, no such
The witches of my neighborhood
are in mortal danger every time
Some new authf::!r comes along and
attests to the reality of their visions.
... To kill men, we should have
sharp and luminous evidence; and
figure means anything exact until one
knows population figures too. But that
rumors about 30 Charles Mansons a year
would be pretty frightening is, I think,
fair to say. I bring up his name because
someone asked me whether it isn't
69
�necessary to examine whether some of the
accusations for witchcraft wouldn't by our
own standards be warranted in the sense
that real crimes were committed by those
who stood so accused. Norman Cohr.L
takes up the question in Europe's Inner
Demons (Basic Books, 1975). The crimes
(malef£c£a) of which witches were accused
were: causing hailstorms or unseasonable
rain to ruin the crops; causing miscarriages or impotence; bringing on sudden
illness, mental derangement, or accidents,
or deformities; and worst, killing babies,
cooking, and eating them. The power to
harm was always the result of a pact with
the devil, sealed by terrible obscenities.
Cohn argues (to me convincingly) that
the pattern of accusation is so stereotypical (he traces it to the second century,
1
'when pagan Greeks and Romans attached it to the small Christian ·communities in the empire"), and every supposedly documented case of witches's
sabbaths or infant cannibalism is so
dubious that the title of his book is warranted. He chooses a passage about
custom's being a treacherous school
mistress from Montaigne's "Of Custom,
and Not Easily Changing an Accepted
Law'' (i, 23) as frontispiece. Since I am
acquainted with the customary ritual
murder accusation against the jews, and
since some admittedly less than wholehearted investigation of this charge has
never presented me with reasons to
believe the justice of the accusation, I remain a partisan of those who sought to
dis-enchant the world. Amongst these I
count Galilee, Bacon, and Descartes.
Bacon dedicates the New Organon to
King James, before whom he dangles the
wonderful saying "that it is the glory of
God to conceal a thing but the glory of
the King to find a thing out!' (New
Organon, LLA ed., p. 15) Certainly Bacon
hopes to win the King as patron for largescale projects of scientific research and
technology. But I wonder whether he isn't
also trying to distract the King's curiosity from witchcraft's secrets (on which
James had written a book- Daemonolog£e,
Edinburgh, 1597; 2nd ed. London, 1603)
and to fasten it instead on "white magic."
It is perfectly true that such a hunch
would have to be backed up by passages
from Bacon's writings. But these are not
entirely lacking (Sylva Sylvarum, Stebbing's
JiliJrks of Bacon, ii, 642£), and it cannot be
considered unimportant that Parliament
in 1604 passed a new statute against
witchcraft according to which not the actual harm done through such craft but
"the mere fact of a contract With the devil"
70
was to be punished by hanging. That a
contract with Satan existed could become
known through confession or by finding
"witches's marks" (insensitive spots) on the
naked body of the accused (TrevorDavies, p. 62).
I even· wonder whether the passion
that went into Descartes's program of taking life and soul out of nature had
something to do with disgust at the
demon mania. That Cartesianism was
later used in the fight against the witch
craze is shown by the Dutchman
Balthazar Bekker's Betoverde J!Vereld (The
Enchanted World, )6~1) and Malebranche's
Recherche de Ia Verite (excerpts pp. 121ff of
E. W. Monter's European Witchcraze).
We would gravely wrong Christianity
if we supposed that it was chiefly responsible for originally stocking the world with
demons. There's plenty of Roman and
Greek demonology, and Hellenistic
Jewish Apocrypha are full of demons too.
Only, whereas in the so-called dark ages
many a bishop taught that belief in
werewolves and witches is unchristian,
church leaders between roughly 1500 and
1700 mostly encouraged rather than
discouraged popular fears. Around 1500,
the Dominican inquisitor in the little
diocese of the Province of Como reports
that a thousand witches were tried and a
hundred burned in his area every year.
According to the books I cited (to which
Bodin's Demonomanie must be added), the
situation in Como was not an isolated
one. If the historians' reports (not easily
dismissed, even by sceptics, seeing how
numerous, serious, and large the tomes
on witchcraft became with ·the invention
of print) are reliable, then it is reasonable
to wonder whether the founders of
modernity concluded that they could no
longer rely on the churches (Catholic or Protestant) to gentle and raise up the populace.
None of the men singled out by Miss
Brann were given to public ranting
against the church or clergy of the
country or city where they resided. They
were quite scrupulous to obey and to
recommend obedience to others, at least
as scrupulous as Socrates had been. They
not only wrote of an "interim ethics:' as
Descartes does in Discourse III and
Bacon in the New Organon, where he provisionally distinguishes "the proud and
ambitious desire of moral knowledge to
judge of good and evil" from "natural
philosophy:' but they _also practiced it.
And I do not see how, except by impersonating the standpoint of the Inquisitors,
Miss Brann could blame Bacon and
Descartes for meditating on the possibility
of an ultimate "moral and political
philosophy" that would be part of a
perfected "natural philosophy." True, there
is a great difference between meditation
and publication. Still, I wonder at the ease
with which she judges as due to
"unspeakable" pride what- others might
regard as due to a noble sense of
responsibility.
Let me turn now to those small but
perhaps telling literary and art-historical
facts on which Miss Brann's lecture relies
to make vivid that the three founders were
both warning their followers of the
dangers of the enterprise of establishing
"the kingdom of man" and advertising the
glory of it. 3 They are:
a) that in aphorism xciv ofBk I of the New
Organon Bacon writes:
Then only will there be good
ground of hope for the further advance of knowledge when there
shall be received and gathered
together into natural history a
variety of experiments which are of
no use in themselves but simply
serve to discover causes and axioms,
which I call experimenta lucifera, experiments of light.
In her judgment, this last tag is intended
to recall Satan's name before he became
rebel from envy of the Sun ..Son.
b) that at least two of our authors seem
to be intent on creating a new heaven and
earth, else why should they mimic the
Divine rhythm of creation by laying out
their scientific synthesis over six days?
c) that in his Letter to the Translator of
the Pr£nc£ples Descartes compares
philosophy to a tree (cf. New Organon I, 107;
Advancement of Learning, Everyman ed. p.
88; "tree of Porphyry"), which can be
presumed to be the very one that stood
in our First Parents' garden as the forbidden tree, and which also appears on the
title page of Descartes' Principles and
Galilee's DiScorsi.
When first one registers that
Descartes' Med£tat£ons are spread out over
a week sans Sabbath; that the Discourse too
is divided into six; that Bacon's Great Instaurat£on (Renewal) was meant to have six
parts; that the College of Bensalem is
called the College of Six Days; that the
Latin name of the "Preparation for
Natural and Experimental History" is
parasceve, which is Latin for the Hebrew
Erev Shabbath (cf. the prayer that concludes
Bacori's Preface to the Great lnstauration);
and yes, that Galileds D£alogues may have
stopped on the fourth day because that
is the middle of the seven and the day on
WINTER 1985
�which the heavenly bodies were madeone does stand amazed.
Nor would I want to deny the
Millenarian flavor of Bacon's Sabbath
talk. But it seems to me that every
"apocalyptic" passage in Bacon that I can
remember debunks the Biblical book
Apocalypse. For instance:
. . . All depends on keeping the eye
steadily ftxed upon the facts of
nature. . . . God forbid that we
should give out a dream of our own
imagination [whether of a world so
thoroughly gentled by the Lamb as
to hold no violent motions or of a
world delivered up to Demons] for
a pattern of the world; rather, may
He graciously grant us to write an
apocalypse or true vision of the
footsteps of the Creator imprinted
on his creatures.
The passion for knowledge is substituted
for the passion for revenge! Bacon and
Descartes, far from being the ones to
make the world shudder with the birthpangs of the Messiah, are trying to still
those pangs: to invite men to become
"masters and possessors of nature"_ is their
way of casting out demons. Their tactics
may have been ill-advised. May be the
Counter-Reformation Church, which
took a leaf from Euripides' Bacchae and
tried to tame the tumult through theatre
and its equivalent, was wiser. (I mention
the play to indicate that I am not even
confident that Biblical Messianism,
Jewish or Christian, was the ~~root" of
Europe's upheaval). But I do not see how
we can judge one way or the other until
we have learned something of the
political, social, economic, religious circumstances that Bacon, Galileo, and
Descartes were up against. That these
weren't pretty is insinuated by Bacon
when, in the essay "Of Custom and
Education;' he drops the names of Friar
Clement, murderer of Henry III of
France, and considered for canonization
by Sixtus V; Juan Jaureguy, would-be
assassin of William the Silent; Balthazar
Gerard, the man who succeeded in
murdering William. That Descartes too
wants us to understand the violent circumstances surrounding his meditations
on renovatio is shown by his eXplaining that
what brought ,him to Germany and to
that famous poele where he was sufficiently
"free of passion" to think were the religious
wars which, at the time of his writing of
the Discourse, and even in the year of their
publication, ~~were still not at an end."
Some twentieth-century historians
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
blame the Thirty Years War (1618-48) for
Germany's political backwardness as compared to other European nations, identifying it as the "root" of the horrors of the
first half of the twentieth century. More
than a third of the population of Germany
and Bohemia was killed off during that
war.
Returning to the much more pleasant
business of gauging the sense and the
weight that is to be given to the motif of
the tree and the six days, I should mention that only because, like Miss Brann,
I was intrigued by these details, I learned
that there is a long Christian tradition of
hexahemeral (six:.day) literature which
goes back to the church fathers. It seems
intermittently to intersect with a similar
Jewish tradition, of which kabbalah is one
expression. St ..Basil wrote a Hexaemeron;
so too did St. Ambrose and St. Bede, and
Oxford University Press recently _published a Hexaemeron by Grosseteste, this
last unfortunately not yet translated.
Of these books I have so far read only
St. Ambrose's. It is a series of sermons
delivered over the ftrst week of Lent. St.
Ambrose affectionately describes the
beautiful natural world that God made.
He seems to be using the opening chapter
of Genesis as a topical outline for natural
history."" From the translator's editorial
notes one learns that many of the joyous
descriptive passages are culled from
secular Latin authors while others are
recognizably lines from Job, Psalms, the
Prophets, or the New Testament where
the relevant natural wonder comes up.
The effect isn't really bookish. The congregation, eagerly waiting for Easter,
must have felt confirmed in its faith that
everything th~t God made is beautiful
and good, that God cares for men. There
is no hint of a conflict between secular
and sacred narration or of a tug of war
between edification and description.
Ambrose, as he unselfconsciously
allows Pagan authors (Cicero, Virgil,
Ovid, even. Lucretius) to testify, reminded
me of how I felt when, not far from Ambrose's Milan, in the little town of San
Giovanni di Bellagio on the shores of
Lake Como, I attended a festival honoring the lake and the saint who said that
God is love (that saint being the one after
whom the town is named). Perhaps this
merely private reminiscence of the_ great
fish catch, the young men's rowboast race,
the lights on the water, the local padre's
blessing of the children while he munches
on chicken drumsticks, the sound of the
churchbells, is not entirely irrelevant to
the question why Galileo, Bacon and
Descartes became "conspirators, for a
post-medieval way of life- ( cf. Preliminary
Discourse to the Encyclopedia ofDiderot, LLA
ed. pp. 72-80). Before they came on the
scene, others- I am thinking especially of
Colet, Erasmus, More, but perhaps
Nicholas of Cusa should be counted in
this group as well- had done all in their
power to work conservingly for reform,
for restoration of something like the
pastoral life and spirit (in all senses of the
adjective) I felt in Ambrose and the
festival of San Giovanni in Como (see
Three Oxford Reformers by Frederic
Seebohm, London 1869; any of Trevor
Roper's books on sixteenth and seventeenth century Europe; Henry Kamen's
little Signet paperback on the Spanish Inquisition). Their failure, in ·my judgment,
has great bearing on the choices made by
Bacon, Galileo, and Descartes.
As luck would have it, St. Ambrose,
while celebrating the works of the third
day, seems to comment on the tree pictured under the titles of the books of
Galileo and Descartes published by the
Leiden Elzeviers. 5
In truth, while you realize that you
possess frailty in common with the
flowers, you know that you have access to delight in the use of the vine,
from which is produced wine,
wherein the heart of man finds
cheer. Would that, man, you could
imitate the example of this species
of plant, so that you may bear fruit
for your own joy and delight. In
yourself lies the sweetness of your
charm, from you does it blossom,
in you it sojourns, within you it
rests, in your own self you must
search for the jubilant quality of
your conscience. For that reason he
says: 'Drink water out of thine own
cistern and the streams of thine own
well: First of all, nothing is more
pleasing than the scent of a
blossoming vine. Furthermore, the
juice when extracted from the
flower of this vine produces a drink
which is pleasureable and healthgiving. Again, who does not marvel
at the fact that from the seed of the
grape springs forth a vine that
climbs even as high as the top of a
tree? The vine .fondles the tree by
embracing and binding it with vine
leaves, and crowns it with garlands
of grapes. In imitation of our life,
the vine first plants deep its living
roots; then, because its nature is
flexible and likely to fall, it uses its
71
�tendrils like arms to hold tight
whatever it seizes. By this means it
raises itself and lifts itself on high.
Similar to this vine are the
members of the church, who are
planted with the root of faith and
are held in check by the vine shoots
of humility.
A little further on in the sermon Ambrose, by merging the tower of Isiah's Song
of the Vineyard with the tree just described, comes to identify the tree as the
church leaders- "the apostles> prophets> and
doctors" -while the vine remains the Christian Congregation.
If you look again at the Elzevier
emblem you will see that what twists
'round the tree is a grapevine with
bunches of grapes and that the scholar
who stands beside the tree seems to be
plucking some (cf. New Organon ii, p. 156
and 161 on "first vintage").
Consider next a passage fi-om Pica's
On lhe Dignily of Man (LLA ed., p. 28):
As the farmer marries elm to vine,
so the magus marries earth to
heaven, that is, lower things to the
qualities and virtues of higher
things.
Pica's lines alert us that, while listening to Ambrose, we didn't pay attention
to the question who planted the tree (now
identified as an elm) and who trained the
vine to grow upon it. The matchmaker,
God, was not pictured in Ambrose's
sermon. Only His voice was heard, from
far away, by those who remember the
Prophet who pleaded God's case with the
Congregation of Israel and its leaders ("I
ask you to judge between my vineyard
and me. What else could I have done for
it that I have not done? I expected it to
yield cultivated grapes, but sour ones
were all it gave.") In Pica the matchmaker
is on the scene, as he is in the Elzevier
picture.
Abstractly considered, Pica need not
have known Ambrose's use of the vinesustaining tree; he could have taken it
straight from the Italian landscape or
from Virgil's Georgics. But a passage in the
Heptaplous (LLA ed. p. 72) shows that
Pica did know Ambrose's sermon (or at
least, knew of it).
Putting the two passages together, we
seem to get a triple analogy: The magus
imitates God by imitating the farmer,
because as the farmer follows God's example when joining vine to tree in the
manner of God's joining the congregation
to its teachers, so the magus joins earthly
to heavenly things.
72
Now that the man in scholar's garb on
the Elzevier picture has been identified
as a magician, Miss Brann's case seems
clinched. We all know about Faust, how
he made a pact with the devil and gave
himself over to magic. Pica, however,
believes that there are two kinds of magic.
The first, he says, the Greeks called
goeteian.
The second sort they call by its proper and peculiar name, mageian, the
perfect and highest wisdom as it
were. Porphyry says that in the
language of the Persians, magician
means the same thing as interpreter
and lover of divine things means in
our language. . . The first is the
most fraudulent of arts, the second
is firm, faithful, and solid. . ..
From the second comes the highest
splendor and glory of letters,
desired in ancient times and almost,
always since then. No man who was
a philosopher and desirous of learning good arts has ever been studious
of the first. Pythagoras, Empedocles, Democritus, Plato, traveled
across the sea to learn the second.
When they came back, they
preached it and held it chief among
their esoteric doctrines ... As the
first magic makes man subject to and
delivered over to the powers of wickedness,
so the second makes him their prince and
lord . . . The second, among the virtues sown by the kindness of God
and planted in the world, as if calling them out from darkness to light,
does not so much make wonders as
carifully serve nature which makes them.
(Hepiaplous, LLA ed. pp. 27, 8)
We shan't know what Pica means until we figure out what the powers of
wickedness are and what lower and higher
things his magus joins in wedlock. 6 Since
the Hermetic writings on which he relies
contain passages as crassly demonological
as the terrible stuff one reads when one
studies the court records of the sixteenth
and seventeenth century witchtrials, one
cannot rule out the possibility that goeteia
is black magic and that the powers of
wickedness are incubi and succubi. But I
feel pretty confident that Miss Brann's
suggestion that the magus, emulates the
ordained priest by joining conjuring words
to things (so that, where the priest "makes
Christ" from wafer and wine, the magus
"transsubstantiates" portions of nature)
won't work: In the first place, the
eucharistic miracle keeps the species
(which to the scholastics means precisely
the looks) the same though the substance is
altered whereas Pica's and Bacon's
transformations alter the specieJ but not,
I believe, the substance, since the presupposition of alchemical practices is one of
"catholic matter" (Newton's word). Second, the last sentence in the passage
from Pica's Oration seems to rule out any
except natural wonders. Indeed, it is not
hard to read what Pica says about goeteian
as making fun of priestly hocus pocus.
This is not necessarily the same as
impiety: Zwingli is a pious Christian. But
it Would be a scandalous reading, and I
simply do not know Pico well enough (the
tone of the Heptaplous is rather different
from that of the Oration) to judge: Goeteia
may be witchcraft or black magic.
If, then, "higher" and "lower" (in
Milton, who used the same tree··vine pair,
identified with Adam and Eve) are not an
analogue to sacramental words and
things, I can think of only two other
possibilities: that the superlunary world
is higher and the sublunar lower and the
magus an alchemist, who knows how to
channel astral virtues into earthly things
so as to raise them up; or that mathemata
(shapes, numbers, order relations) are the
higher activating powers and sensible
things lower. 7 The contrast between a
stellar and a mathematical constrUction
of "higher" things is probably erroneous
from the perspective of the magi
themselves. But either way, what matters
is that the magus does not draw the
liberal/servile arts distinction in the manner of the dominant Platonic tradition,
that he does not deem the farmer's work so far
beneath him that it cannot remind him of God's
work and lure him on to do his own work.
Simon Stevin, that wonderful physicist and engineer who served Maurice of
Nassau and his country so well, comes to
mind. Stevin seems to have designed his
own logos. One of these, the endless chain
accompanied by the motto "wonder/miracle that is no wonder/miracle;' is
familiar to older St. John's alumni and
tutors. 8 There are two others: The first
shows a man digging and a woman spinning and bears the words ''Labore et Constantia:' The second is a picture of an open
drawing compass, and the maxim that
goes with this mathematician's tool is the
same as the one that flanks the picture of
the farmer and his wife.
When, in an earlier review of Miss
Brann's Paradoxes of Education in a Republic,
I used the phrase "salvation through
work," I was thinking of an attitude such
as Stevin's. I intended to contrast it both
with Lutheran teachings concerning
WINTER 1985
�salvation by faith and with Catholic
teachings concerning the indispensability
of the church sacraments. I was, without
saying so, "secularizing" the notion of
salvation, no longer considering the soul
in terms of its thousand-year journey and
life eternal, but rather the human being
in terms of the three score years and ten
granted him or her on earth. This earthly
life is disfigured by much meanness, vanity, pain, insecurity. The new burgher
mood, I thought, was that of trusting that
God helps those who help themselves and
one another, that not only physical but
even moral improvement comes, if it
comes at all, from work; from the products that it yields, but also from working, and from the intellectual, moral,
psychological, social, political conditions
needed for work and in turn produced
and maintained by work.
This work ethic is often regarded as
Protestant. But it really is not clear to me
that it is fundamentally Christian. Yves
Renouard's writings on the ethos of
Renaissance Florence, Genoa, Venice,
Pisa (Catholic cities all) and TrevorRoper's critique of the Weber thesis that
there is a special connection between Protestantism and the spirit of capitalism,
suggest that the Christianity of those who
"believe in" the work ethic may be accidental. Experience of town life, and
relish for it, respect for, and knowledge
of, the varieties of expertise and discipline
of fellow townsmen, may have more to do
with it.
I hope that it is becoming apparent
that I am using this note as an occasion
to express doubts about the insulation of
"ideas" from economic and political conditions oflife; just as I am questioning the
comforting hypothesis that the books that
made a major diflE:rence to our ancestors'
thought and life are always books that we
fmd fascinating.
Even if it could be said that I have
shown that the choice of the six-day motif
does not, cif itself, mean "Let me do it" (said
by the child, the eagle-men, to God the
father)- "I can do it just as well as you,
and better than my elder brother;:..__and
even if the Elzevier tree is probably not
hung with apples, Miss Brann's contention (if I grasp her meaning) that a kind
of bleak difi"ance undergirds "modernity"
might still be justified. But I would urge
that if one finds such a spirit in Goethe's
Faust, or Marlowe's, or in Milton's Satan,
it would take much analysis and argument to show that this is what secretly
drives Descartes, Bacon, and Galileo.
In Descartes one might see a terrible
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
ambition to be self-begotten and selfraised which, in its twentieth century
working out, self-destructs into solipsism
and "no longer hoping to be less miserable
but only to make others such as he is:' But
the prima facie differences between him
and Bacon and Galileo seem to me so
great (despite Descartes's aping of
Galileo's cameraderie with master artisans
and his citing of many a saying of Bacon's)
that I believe mor.e is gained from studying these three men's books separately and
seeing the differences than from trying to
find the features of Descartes underneath
the skin of Bacon's and Galileo's faces.
For instance: I spent much time
puzzling over the sentence about not
brooking intermediaries cited above. I
considered four possible interpretations:
1. intellectual tradition and colleagiality
as "between" God and self; 2. "adventitious" experience as "between"; 3. ordinary pre-scientific experience and ordinary ways of talking as "between"; 4.
Christ and Christ's vicar on earth as "intermediaries between themselves and God
and his nature." I had difficulties with all
four. I'll pass them in review.
Galileo expressly rejects the phoenixlike solitary genius picture of himself
(Assayer, Discoveries and Opinions of Galileo
(Stillman Drake, Vintage ed., p. 239), is
entirely willing to distinguish peripatetic
university science (represented by an
anonymous individual coyly given the
nickname Simplicius after that commentator on Aristotle) from Aristotle (whom
he regards as a fellow scientist; see e.g.
Dialogue, 2nd day, pp. 110!), is glad to
recognize other men's splendor (e.g.
Michelangelo'S or Copernicus's), builds
his case against the peripatetic world
system little by little and in great detail.
How different his attitude to his fellows
is from Descartes's b.ecomes apparent
when one compares his way of writing
dialogues with Descartes's in the Dialogue
on the Search for Truth. Bacon too, though
he certainly makes fun of the "vermiculate" questions of the scholastics (Advancement of Learning, Everyman ed. p. 26)
and the gabby post-Socratics, does not
peremptorily dismiss them but explains
at length whit of their teaching he deems
pernicious and why. To argue against
someone is, to my mind, to aCknowledge
him. Thus, only in Descartes could I find
that isolation which, on one interpretation of her sentence about dispensing with
intermediaries, is meant by Miss Brann
( cf. Bacon's Advancement of Learning, p. 30
Everyrrian ed. on the subject of many wits
and industries and one wit; for contrast,
see Machiavelli Discourses IX and
Descartes' ruminations on city planning
and legislation in Discourse II.)
With respect to their attitude to sense
experience and the question how one
prepares oneself fOr being graced with insight into the principles formative of
nature, Descartes again seems to me quite
different from Galileo and Bacon. Yes,
Galileo extols Copernicus (Dialogue, 3d
day, p. 328) for having had the courage
to "rape" the senses (as one translator has
it; I have not checked the Italian} Yes, he
distinguishes "primary" from "secondary"
qualities (Assayer, Discoveries and Opinions
of Galileo ed. Stillman Drake, Vintage, pp.
275ft). But, in the first place, it is not at
all obvious precisely how this is "modern"
(post-Christian, or "Christian by negation
of Christianity"); that is, what more there
is in Galileo's favoring of koina aestheta over
idia aestheta than there already was in
Democritus, Parmenides, and Plato ( cf
Theaetetus 185ff and elsewhere; De Anima
425al5f). 9
In the second place, many passages in
the Dialogue (Stillman Drake ed., University of California Press, 1962, 1st day, pp.
61f, p. 76, p. 101: see also p. 51 on how
one moves to axioms) seem to me to show
how much "Galileo enjoys rather than
detests the fact that it is in encounters
with the given world that generative ideas
are suggested to the human mind. His
parable about the man who has fallen in
love with sound (Assayer, cited ed., pp.
256ft) confirms for me Curtis Wilson's
distinction between Descartes, who gives
metaphysical primacy to mathemata, and
Galileo, who gives them methodological
primacy. 10
Descartes reminds me just a little of
Pentheus in his fear of"wet and wildness"
(Hopkins' "Inversnaid"). For the reasons
sketched earlier, we might do well to take
his aristeia against the malicious demon
rather literally and to regard the
metaphysical search for guarantees of men's
being capax veritatis as a theomachia!
I see no such desperation in Bacon.
It is true that he likes to assume a grappling stance and that there is much talk of
overcoming nature as though she were an
enemy (who ought to be killed?) But
when he writes that nature, "to be conquered, must be obeyed," or that he wants
to restore "intercourse' between the mind
and nature, or that he hopes to "wed" the
rational and empirical faculties, he shows,
I think, that nature the adversary is also
the paramour. For us it's hard to square
atomism with a sense for the life in
nature. But this may merely go to show
73
�that Bacon's and perhaps even Lucretius's
atomism was different from Dalton's
(though the prevalence of sexual
metaphors like "elective affinities" in
chemistry lasts through the nineteenth
century). At any rate, that, even if one
might accuse Descartes of pretending to
seraphic direct and immediate knowledge
of the nature of things, Bacon does not so
pretend, is shown by many passages, fOr
instance:
To God, truly the Giver and Architect of Forms, and it may be to
the angels and higher intelligences
it belongs to have an affirmative
knowledge of forms immediately,
and from the first contemplation.
But this assuredly is more than man
can do.
. (New Organon II, 15.)
I reserve discussion of the moderns'
alleged by-passing of or disdain for prescientific "ordinary" experience and
language for another occasion, but want
to call attention to their relish for the
language of the market place.
This leaves the last interpretation of
the sentence about not tolerating intermediar)es between themselves and God,
according to which neither Christ nor the
chuich as avenue to Christ but the Promethean makers of modernity "save"
mankind. I do not see how one can attribute such ambitions to Galileo, except
on the supposition that anyone who
claims to know how the heavens go thereby
claims to know the way to heaven.
Enough said about why I am uneasy
about dealing with "moderns" en gros
rather than en detail.
It is a lot more plausible· to credit
Bacon and Descartes with the ambition to
replace Christ. Miss Brann believes she
is obliged to ascribe this kind of vainglory
to them because otherwise it is, to her, incomprehensible that these men, whose
imagination should have been well-taught
in the dangers of such knowing as
removes boundary stones set to human
power, were so fearless.
Let me put this another way, in terms
of the opening of Pica's Oration on the
Dignity of Man. Pica, after citing a
sentence from the Hermetic book
Asclepius, 11 according to which a certain
Moslem, Abdul, and the god, Mercury,
agree that nothing on the world's stage is
more wonderful than man, goes on to explain how he, Pico, interprets their saying:
... For the sake of your humanity
and with kindly ears, give me your
close attention: Now the highest
Father, God the master-builder,
had, by the laws of his secret
74
wisdom, fabricated this ho~se, this
world which we see, a very superb
temple of divinity . . With the
work finished, the Artisan desired
that there be someone to reckon up
the reason of such a big work, to
love its beauty, and to wonder at its
greatness. Accordingly, now that all
things had been completed, as
Moses and Timaeus testify, He
lastly considered creating man. But
there was nothing in the archetypes
from which He could mold a new
sprout nor anything in His
storehouses which he could bestow
as a heritage upon a new son, nor
was there an empty judiciary seat
where this contemplator of the
universe could sit
Finally the
best of workmen decided that that
to which nothing of its very own
could be given should be, in composite fashion, whatsoever had
belonged individually to each and
everything. Therefore He took up
man, a work of indeterminate form;
and, placing him at the midpoint of
the world, He spoke to him, as
follows: "We have given to thee,
Adam, no fixed seat, no form of thy
own . . A limited nature in other
creatures is confined within the laws
written down by Us. In conformity
with thy free judgment, in whose
hands I have placed thee, thou art
confined by no bounds; and thou
wilt fix limits of nature for thyself
. .. Thou, like a judge appointed
for being honorable, art the molder
and maker of thyself; thou mayest
sculpt thyself into whatever shape
thou dost prefer. Thou canst grow
downward into the lower natures
which are brutes. Thou canst grow
upward from thy soul's reason into
the higher natures which are
divine."
0 great liberality of God the Father.
0 great and wonderful happiness of
man! It is given to him to have that
which he chooses and to be that
which he wills. (Oration, LLA ed.
PP· 4,5)
Comparison with Republic IX 588ff should
make one wonder why what is in the
Republic chiefly regarded as a risk (the risk
of starving the puny little man inside and
feeding the lion and the many-headed
snake) is in Pica's Oration described as a
marvellous opportunity (cf. also Plato's
Protagoras).
The very premature guess at an
answer that might (if I have understood
her) be in accord with Miss Brann's
Hegelian-style hypothesis I suppose to be
this: After centuries of the Church's
teaching men their unfreedom (their incapacity to nourish their humanity except
through humble submission to mystery)
and after long observation of the worldly
advantages gained by those who hold
monopoly-access to the "works" 12 through
which men are bought free from the
powers of darkness, those who learned
that only a fraction of humanity is raised
on the doctrine of original sin came to
wonder ever more passionately at the
truth of this teaching. When someone
who has doubts about the truth of a doctrine takes cognizance of the advantages
gained from this teaching by those who
teach it (cf. the Pico citation on p. 12
above, italicized sentence about the first
magic), he is unlikely to continue in a
condition of doubt. He is prone to deny
it, or to affirm the truth of the formerly
doubted proposition's contradictory. Pica's
hymn to human freedom I view as an affirmation of the contradictory of the
Christian teaching that men are conceived in sin. It seems psychologically
plausible that a person who believes that
he has "seen through" the orthodox
teaching of our fall in Adam should feel
as elated as a patient who finds out that
the physician who warned him that the
condition of his lungs was such that he'd
die within the year had mistaken another
man's chest x-ray for his. The source of
Picds optimism, on this reasoning, would
be the joy felt at being delivered from
despair.
Delivering men from despair lS
Bacon's greatest ambition:
By far the greatest obstacle to the
progress of science and to the
undertaking of new tasks and provinces therein is found in this, that
men despair and think things impossible . . And therefore it is fit
that I publish and set forth these
conjectures of mine which make
hope in this matter reasonable, just
as Columbus did, before that
wonderful voyage of his across the
Atlantic, when he gave the reasons
for his conviction that new lands
and continents might be discovered
besides those which were known
before. (New Organon I, 92)
Most of the New Organon is given over
to uncovering and putting away grounds
for despair over the human ability to acquire more perfect knowledge than is
taught at the universities. But Miss
Brann's identification of the Elzevier tree
with the tree of knowledge gave expression to her wondering about the sources
WINTER 1985
�of Bacon's confidence in men's right to, and
moral ji"tness for, such more perfect
knowledge.
As for the right, why not, provisionally, trust that Bacon gets his hope from
where he says he gets it, the verse in the
creation chapter where God plans to
make man in His image and such as to
have dominion over all sublunar things
(Genesis !:26; cf. New Organon I, 129,
Parasceve last sentence; Great Instauration,
Preface)? Yet the non-Christian tradition
upon which Bacon and Pica are drawing,
when it concerns itself with re-entering
Paradise, stresses the great danger to individual and community when men who
are not morally fit in terms of native
temperament and careful training
"resume" (by studying maaseh- bereshithindifferently the narrative of beginning and
the making of the beginning) the
knowledge Adam had been granted: According to one story, four men entered
pardes: one went mad, one became a
traitor, one died, and only Rabbi Akiba
came forth whole. According to another,
certain scholars who had been studying
the creation story together fOr three years
came to understand it. As a result, "a calf
was created for them." They slaughtered
and ate it. But when they had concluded
their meal all their understanding proved
to have left them! These stories re-affirm
that what is in question is not men's ability to convert knowledge to use (as did
Thales and Archimedes too) but the
desirability of doing so, and the limitations, if any, upon such conversion.
But is that the issue between "ancients"
and "moderns"?
It is an issue, and a very important
one, in the opinion of those who are less
persuaded of the soundness of Mr. Klein's
distinction between "essential" and "accidental" history (or between "tracing
things to their roots" and "tracing their
history") than is Miss Brann. 10 them
much of Bacon's interest in technology
seems motivated by patriotic concern with
the stability of the realm. Fastening men's
interests, energies, intelligence on
economic well-being in this life is to
distract them from divisive religious passions and to unite them against those
who, by promising a bliss that none has
recently returned to .tell of, inflame the
human imagination with a zeal that is uncheckable because falsity of promise is entirely unverifiable. Precisely such promises were, according to Bacon, made to
the regicides mentioned by name in "Of
Custom and Education;' and are, according to current newspaper reports, being
made to Shiite terroristsJ13 It is also to
give hope to the English nation and their
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
ruler that England can, by industrial and
commercial superiority, prevail over Spain
and France. I am urging that Bacon's New
Organon be read against the background
of the Essays. The Essays (e.g. "Of Unity
in Religion;' "Of Nobility;• "Of Sedition
and Troubles;' "Of the True Greatness of
Kingdoms and Estates") supplement what
one gathers from Bacon's "Letter of Advice to Queen Elizabeth" of 1584, from
his proposals for legal reform and his urging of a more rational economic and tax
policy: Bacon is continually worrying over
impending civil war. Less than a generation later that war broke the nation apart.
It was not because he was "modern" and
"charged the now with special significance" that he had a "feeling of crisis." It
was because he looked across the waters
and saw what was happening on the Continent and realized that many of the conditions prevalent there also obtained in
England.
If this suggestion, that Bacon takes a
statesman's interest in technology, checks
out, then we, who in the twentieth century have learned something about nationalist excesses, will of course want to
learn why Bacon mistrusted nationalist
passions less than religious passions. We
cannot pursue that question now. Notice
though that if this is the right question to
ask, the "transformations" that Bacon had
in mind (primarily agricultural, metallurgic, medical and only very very ultimately
political) were a lot less radical than those
that a Marxist stateless and classless
humanity would require.
In fact, my recent reading of Bacon
makes me wonder whether we do not
altogether misconstrue him by ascribing
a rectilinear idea of time to him ( cf. "Of
Vicissitudes"). His frequent talk about
time seems to me quite compatible with
a cyclic picture: There i~ "progress" also
for those poised on the wheel of fortune,
when the semicircle down has been completed. Neither self-love nor philanthropia
nor nationalist ardor require that gains
(in knowledge, power, security, public
morality), to rank as gains, be permanent. For Lucretius, not only individual
organisms and civic bodies but even
worlds are mortal. Nevertheless book v
lays out the story of the progress of
civilization. It seems to me at least as
plausible that Lucretius served Bacon as
inspiration as that Christian Heilsgeschichte
did. The a- or even anti-political character of Lucretius's teachings is not a good
argument against me, since original
Christianity is equally a- or anti-political.
There are, of course, also very great
differences between Bacon and Lucretius:
Lucretius's theoretical interests are so
limited as to be virtually non-existent.
Any likely story that allays fear of death
and of avenging gods will do. The only
causal account he is serious about is an anthropological and psychological one,
which shows that nearly all wickedness
stems from fear of death. Bacon, contrarywise, though he cannot be credited
with a single scientific discovery and even
though he speaks much about science for
use, knows of the happiness that comes of
trying to find out how things really are.
I venture to say that (not unlike Hobbes
and Spinoza) he may even share in some
version of the Platonic or Pythagorean
faith that seeking to know makes human
beings better, which would explain why he
doesn't build hedges around potent knowing (in the kabbalist manner) but trusts
that scientists will use their knowledge
charitably. (LLA ed. New Organon, p. 15.
But cf. Laurence Berns, "Bacon and the
Conquest of Nature II;' Interpretation VII,
1 pp. 1fl)
This brings me to my conclusion. If
I am permitted to omit the case of Descartes, made complicated also by his expatriate condition, I would urge that Miss
Brann misconstrued the moderns's interest in fruits and undervalued their interest in light, It is because of the hidden
¥1Qdynamic nature of what is really real
that the modern natural philosopher, like
the presocratic students of nature, must
take an interest in the arts and crafts:
It is the mechanical arts which give
the better insight into the secret places
of nature. Uncontrolled nature,
with her profusion and spontaneity,
dissipates the powers of the
understanding and by her variety
confounds them. In mechanical
operations the attention is concentrated and the modes and processes of
nature, not merely her effects are seen.
(cf. pp. 73, 107, 109, 122, 53 ofLLA
ed. of NeW Organon, all on forms as
laws of action)
Again and again Bacon writes that "works
are of greater value as pledges of truth
than as contributing to the comforts of
life" (p. 114 LLA ed. of New Organon) or
words to that effect.
And even if it were to be shown that
he conceives his own role to be that of a
magus who joins the people or vine to the
elm tree or ruler, there is not only pride
but also humility in that matchmaker's
work, since it is to be tested by the
sweetness of the grapes so produced. The
great question is who shall be the
wine-taster.
75
�FOOTNOTES
1. "Biirgen" Luther writes: "soli man wUrgen .
Standing surety is a work that is too lofty
for a man; it is unseemly, for it is presumptious and an invasion of God's rights. For,
in the first place, the Scriptures bid us to
put our trust and place our reliance on no
man, but only on God; for human nature
is false, vain, deceitful, and unreliable ...
He who becomes surety puts his trust in
a man, and risks life and property on a false
and insecure foundation; therefore it serves
him right when he falls and fails and goes
to ruin. In the second place, a man puts
trust in himself and makes himself God, for
that in which a man puts his trust and
reliance is his God . ." ( U0rks iv, pp. 18-24,
cited in Benjamin Nelson, The Idea of Usury:
From Tribal Brotherhood to Universal Otherhood,
Princeton, 1949).
2. There are many and long stretches about
demons in the City of God; see also Of Christian Doctrine ii, 23. I used to read these, as
well as passages in Luther about the Devil
and his cohorts, metaphorically. But I now
believe that this is an error. Thomas Beard,
Oliver Cromwell's teacher, reports that
Luther "in his colloquies telleth us how
Satan oftentimes stealeth away young
children of women lying in child-bed and
supposeth [substitutes] others of his own
begetting in their stead, in the shapes of
incubus and succubus; one such child
Luther reporteth of his own knowledge at
Halberstadt ...." (R. Trevor-Davies, Four
Centuries of Witch Beliefs, Benjamin Blom,
1972, p. 102).
3. The tree and day motifs are probably not
seriously being offered as "evidence" for the
Satanic self-conception of the new science,
and Miss Brann may mean no more by
"Satanic" than that there is something Promethean about the work and vision of the
three founders. But I worry over even jokingly re-establishing connections between
the old-time religion and suspicion of
science. To her Satan and Prometheus may
be one and the same, but to the students
she addressed (and not only to them)
Satan, the father of lies, and Prometheus,
the titan of foresight and the friend of
mankind, are not the same. What I am
questioning may, therefore, be the advisability of her rhetorical mode rather than
the truth of her thesis about the Christian
"roots" of modernity. I am really not sure.
One of the reasons for my not being sure
is that it seems as though the enterprise she
calls "tracing things to their roots;' which
to others looks like "intellectual history;'
seems to have practical implications, or at
least, implications for attitude; and I have
a hard time determining why a plain prose
statement about the dangers of technology
and the misguidedness of clflims for scientific theory stronger than those of the
Timaeus would not have done just as well
as a search for roots.
76
4. A dictionary observation about this expression may be in order. Bacon and Locke and
Boyle and even Teddy Roosevelt all still use
the word "history" or "historical" in the "data
gathering" or "investigative" sense when
they speak of "natural history" or "plain
historical method" or "history of the winds"
or "museum of natural history."
5. See the entry "Elzevier" in the eleventh edition Brittanica. It was the Leiden branch
of the formerly Flemish publishing family
that adopted the tree emblem (curiously
referred to as "the solitary" though the
message is "Non Salus") in 1620.
6. I suppose that the words "Non Salus" that
accompany the Elzevier emblem allude to
the words in Genesis "It is not good for man
to be alone." Cf. New Organon I, 89 for a
"forbidden marriage" and pp. 23, 3, 14
LLA ed. on commended marriages.
7. On alchemy, see Maryjoe Teeter Dobbs,
Foundations of Newton's Alchemy, Cambridge
University Press, 1975. I found this book
especially helpful in its effort to explain how
and why moral and religious self-formation
was thought to be accomplished through
alchemical practices. This should be a very
important theme to anyone who values the
distinction between liberal and servile arts
on the ground that, unlike the merely
useful arts, the role of the liberal arts is to
improve the human soul.
8. Cf. Last sentence of citation from Pica on
p. 12 above.
9. The rumor that Galileds "mathematization"
of nature involves its "idealization" has
reached me too. But I observe that however
irrelevant to the finding of the weight of
supposedly impure and consequently inherently inexact sublunar "sticks and
stones" the Pythagorean discovery of incommensurability is, Archimedes nevertheless argues the proposition that such
bodies balance at distances from the
fulcrum reciprocally proportional to the
bodies' weights as though they were
superlunar exact bodies. Else, why treat the
commensurable and the incommensurable
classes of cases?
10. How unreductionist Galileo is next to
Descartes is seen by comparing what
Descartes writes about the heart-as-a-pump
with the conclusion of Galileds parable
about the man who loves sound:
Well, after this man had come to
believe that no more ways of forming tones could possibly exist
when, I say, this man believed he
had seen everything, he suddenly
found himself once more plunged
deeper into ignorance and baffle~
ment . . . For having captured a
cicada in his hands, he failed to
diminish its strident noise either by
closing its mouth or stopping its
wings ... At last he lifted up the armor of its chest and there he saw
some thin hard ligaments beneath;
thinking the sound might come from
their vibration, he decided to break
them in order to silence it. But
nothing happened until his needle
drove too deep, and transfixing the
creature he took away its life with its
voice.
. By this experience his
knowledge was reduced to dif~
fidence, so that when asked how
sounds ·were created he used to
answer tolerantly that although he
knew a few ways, he was sure that
many more existed which were not
only unknown but unimaginable. I
could illustrate with many more examples nature's bounty in producing her effects, as she employs means
we could never think of without our
senses and our experiences to teach
them to us, and sometimes even
these are insufficient to remedy our
lack of understanding.
My point is that although Descartes has
read Harvey, he either fails to grasp that
a pump that is a muscle is a very
remarkable sort of pump or he cares about
nothing except itS being a pump. (Cf. Arthur Collins's shrewd observations about
Descartes' physics in "Unity of Leibniz'
Thought," St. John's Review, Winter
1982/83).
11. If you want to see snakes ori the tree, the
cadduceur, which is both the physician's and
Mercury's emblem, is probably the icon to
go for.
12. It is a matter of the greatest importance
that the dispute between Luther and the
Church of Rome over faith and works is
not primarily or at least not solely a dispute
about "passive" and "active" righteousness
in the moral sense but very much a dispute
about the need for or dispensability of the
church sacraments. 'Works" in Sacred Doctrine corresponds to avodah in jewish tradition. Avodah ("service") is, so long as the
temple with its sacrificial cult stands, the
temple service. Only through the prophets
and rabbinic elaboration of certain
elements of their teaching, does avodah
chiefly become ''doing justice, loving kindness (ahavath chesecl) and walking humbly
with God." The Roman Catholic church is
not just an ecclesia or synagogue but a temple and the mass is a sacrifice. I consider this
information indispensable to anyone concerned with the issues Miss Brann takes up.
However sane and tolerant modern American. Catholics may be, however
wholesome, psychologically, a religious
tradition which, through its sacrificial cult,
makes re-integration of the sinner into the
community a public act, the complaint of
critics of the church in the days of its corruption through worldliness, namely, that
it stood to profit from its monopoly on the
instruments of salvation (the seven
sacraments) was not fabricated.
13. Religious zeal of this sort is certainly not
the privilege of the Roman Catholic Christian, as is evident from the murder of the
De Witt brothers by a Protestant mob.
WINTER 1985
�BooK REVIEW
Rhythmic Gesture in Mozart:
Le Nozze di Figaro and Don Giovanni
Wye Jamison Allan brook
Chicago: U. of Chicago Press, 1983.
Pp. xii + 396; 11 figures.
T
he subjects of Mrs. Allanbrook's
book, Mozart's masterpieces Le
nozze di Figaro and Don Giovanni,
are two of the most familiar and best loved
works in the operatic repertory. Not surprisingly, they are also two of the most
thoroughly studied. Mozart's version of
the Don Juan legend has fascinated
writers from the time of E.TA. Hoffmann
and the early Romantics to the present.
Figaro, while less an object of interest in
the nineteenth century, has in recent years
been examined for its underlying political
and social message, and in relation to
Beaumarchais's Le mariage de Figaro, from
which its libretto is drawn. Yet the vast
body of writings on these two operas by
no means leaves modern scholars with
nothing to add. It is a cliche, but no less
valid for being one, that with a great work
of art there will always be more to learn.
This is particularly true when a new study
offers a fresh perspective from which a
work can be reexamined. In her book
Mrs. Allanbrook provides a detailed and
insightful critical analysis of Mozart's two
great opere bu.ffe; her fresh perspective is
that of the topoi, or "topics:' that underlie
the music of the late eighteenth century.
The term topos is borrowed from
rhetoric "to designate 'commonplace'
musical styles or figures whose expressive
connotations, derived from the circumstances in which they are habitually
employed, are familiar to all" (p. 329, n.
4 ). Once the vocabulary of these topics
has been understood, they can serve as a
source of "independent information
[beyond our individual responses] about
the expressive content of the arias and
THE ST JOHN'S REVIEW
ensembles" (p. 2). The "hunting fanfare:'
for example, is a topic employed in any
number of Classic works in obvious imitation of actual horn-calls associated with
the hunt. Mozart's use of this figure to
open his String Quintet in E-flat, K 614,
enables a listener to place the work in a
general expressive framework. The
Quintet is not literally about a hunt, but
an audience's recognition and understanding of the figure give the music a
certain rustic quality and a sense of
lightheartedness and cheerful energy,
which derive by analogy from an actual
hunting scene.
The connection between the topical
vocabulary of the Classic style and the expressive qualities of Classic music has
been increasingly recognized in the last
three decades. Various topics have already
been identified and explored to some extent by other writers, especially Leonard
Ratner (in his Classic Music: Expression,
Form, and Style [New York, 1980]). Mrs.
AllanbroOk's study concentrates on a particular class of topoi: the rhythmic gestures
of dance, which, because they depict
human beings in motion, are especially
valuable topics in opera. The various uses
of gavotte, minuet, and so on communicate information about the personality and feelings of each of the
characters, as well as about their social
positions. (An important question, which
Mrs. Allanbrook never answers directly,
is the degree to which these rhythmic
gestures inform Mozart's non-operatic
music, and the operas of other composers,
as well as the two works under
discussion.)
The study comprises three large sections. In the first, the author outlines the
variety of dances known to the late eighteenth century and spells out the social
and affective connotations of each. Here
she draws extensively on eighteenthcentury writings, both of music theorists
such as Sulzer and Koch and of writers
on dance, most of them less well~ known
to musicians, such as Bacquoy-Guedon
and von Feldenstein. While some of the
dance topics are considered briefly in
Ratner's book, Allanbrook's discussion is
far more detailed and systematic. She
shows a clear spectrum of meters from the
most exalted, "ecclesiastical" duple meters
(alta breve and 4/2) that connote the
"learned" or contrapuntal style-and by
extension the nobility- to the more rapid
triple-meter dances with their connotations of humble frivolity. In addition, she
analyzes the historical and sociological
significance of the two anomalous dances,
the contredanse and the waltz, that represent the new trend in the late eighteenth
cen~ury towards simpler dances for
novtces.
The second and third sections of the
book examine in turn Le nozze di Figaro
and Don Giovanni, using the vocabulary
of rhythmic gestures presented earlier to
reach some striking conclusions. Allanbrook attempts to demonstrate that the
central ethos of F£garo is pastoral, and
that, far from being an operatic wateringdown of Beaumarchais's political message,
Da Ponte's and Mozart's opera is most
centrally about the friendship between the
Countess and Susanna, her maid. The
pastoral, with its connotations of bucolic
77
�simplicity, is suggested by several dance
gestures used in the opera: the 6/8
pastorale and siciliano, the 2/4 gavotte,
and especially the musette-gavotte. As
Mrs. Allanbrook argues, the many
numbers with pastoral connotations serve
to suggest a world in which Susanna and
the Countess can transcend the barrier of
class to meet as equals and as friends. The
heart of this world is the duet "Che soave
zeffiretto;' whose "pastoral text and music
figure the classless, timeless meadow
where two women ordinarily separated by
circumstance can meet and stroll quietly
together" (p. 147). And it is under the
aegis of the pastoral affect, at numerous
other places in the opera, that the Count's
schemes are defeated by Figaro and
Susanna and their allies. The argument
is a provocative one, though the multiple
meanings of "pastoral" are never spelled
out with sufficient clarity to support fully
the weight of the interpretation. We may
see, for instance, why it represents a
refuge from the brutal and selfish world
of the Count, but it is not clear why the
pastoral is "classless?'
In her treatment of Don Giovanni
Allanbrook takes a revisionist view of the
central character. While Don Giovanni is
the center around whom all the other
characters revolve, careful analysis reveals
that he is both essentially inarticulateKierkegaard saw him as a kind of
primitive life force-and empty. The
author points out that the Don is
anonymous; only once, in "Fin ch'an dal
vino," does he sing a solo that is not a conscious performance or disguise. Further,
Don Giovanni's obsession with seduction
has a coldly automatic quality, like the
need of an animal for food. This obsession makes him not so much evil or immoral, as has often been argued, as
simply outside human morality.
Don Gz'ovanni is distinguished from
Figaro by the overshadowing presence of
the supernatural (in the overture and
finale to act II). Of necessity, this widening of the framework carries with it a
price. "In accommodating the divine
perspective the opera has somewhat to
distort our view of that small part of the
world where we were formerly at home:
to gain the new dimension the vivid
planes of Figaro's terra firma must be compressed into a caricature of themselves, a
shadow play" (p. 199). The richness and
complexity of the world of human
78
morality and interaction are greatly
reduced, so that by comparison to Fi'garo
the other characters in Don Giovanni
(perhaps excepting Donna Elvira) have
the quality of stock figures, without much
depth and largely without the ability to
engage our sympathies. This lack of depth
has been pointed out before, particularly
with respect to Donna Anna and Don Ottavio; but Mrs. Allan brook's view of the
whole opera provides a powerful explanation for the phenomenon.
The analytical treatment of Figaro and
Don Giovanni that comprises the heart of
the book has many strengths. Despite the
title of the study, Mrs. Allanbrook's
discussion is by no means limited to matters of rhythm; she also employs more
traditional methods of harmonic, motivic,
formal, and linear analysis. This flexible
approach is complemented by the author's
concern with textual and dramatic as well
as musical matters, which enables her to
make many subtle points about the
dramaturgy of the works in addition to
correcting older misconceptions. She successfully defends, for example, the oftmaligned series of arias that precede the
finale to act IV of Figaro, by showing how
they fit Da Ponte's and Mozart's view of
the real subject of the opera. Similarly,
she rather convincingly refutes the notion
(of Edward Dent and others) that Don
Giovanni was originally <;:onceived in four
acts. In its broader dramatic framework
her analysis presents a needed corrective
to many older studies that viewed these
operas from the far narrower perspective
uf instrumental music. (This is largely
true, for example, of Siegniund Levarie's
Mozart's Le nozze di Figaro: A Critical
Analysis [Chicago, 1952].)
An important key to the success of
Mrs. Allanbrook's approach is its creative
and "humanistic" orientation. At its best
her analysis emphasizes not technical
features but revelations of character of
musical ethos. She is most concerned with
the ethical and moral world inhabited by
the characters, and the power of her
analysis depends chiefly on the degree to
which technical points are linked to the
larger central points she is making. At
times the many details of the discussion
may obscure the main thread somewhat,
as during the extended analysis of the
Statue scene in the finale to act II of Don
Giovanni. At a few other moments, an
analytic point seems forced or ques-
tionable. Far more often, however, the
reader nods and smiles in agreement at
a sensitive and insightful discussion of a
passage. Mrs. Allanbrook's treatments of
two marvelous moments- the final reconciliation between the Count and Countess
at the end of Figaro, and the Commendatore's death scene in Act I of Don
Giovanni-are particularly successful. On
several occasions the author shows how
the rhythmic organization of a theme differs from a hypothetical, more "orthodox"
phrasing. This technique, as in her
discussion of Donna Anna's "Fuggi,
Crudele, fuggi;' invariably leads to striking observations.
In all respects but one, the prodUction
of the volume matches the elegance of
much of the writing. The layout and
typography of the book are well styled
and its abundant musical examples are
carefully produced and easy to read. The
virtual absence of typographical errors is
equally admirable. But the lack of a
bibliography is rather frustrating; its
absence compels the reader to search
through the 53 pages of endnotes for the
first reference to a given author.
The central value of Mrs. Allanbrook's study rests on two interrelated accomplishments. The analysis of two of
Mozart's greatest operatic masterpieces is
challenging and genuinely enlightening.
Its flexibility of approach and its concern
for ethical and spiritual matters make the
book a model of critical analysis at its
most humane. But the other achievement
of this study, its presentation and
demonstration of a largely new conceptual framework for studying the music of
the late eighteenth century, is ultimately
more far-reaching. As Mrs. Allanbrook
shows, a grasp of the topical vocabulary
of this music can lead to a variety of new
insights into its expressive message. The
section on topos and the understanding of
rhythmic gesture should be required
reading not only for lovers of the Mozart
operas but for all students of the music
of the Classic era.
John Platoff
John Platoff is an Assistant Professor of Music at
Trinity College in Hartford, Conn. He is currently
working on a study of the operas of Mozart and his
contemporaries, to be called "Mozart and the Viennese Opera Buffa."
WINTER !985
�The Presence of Grace and Other Book Reviews by Flannery O'Connor
compiled by Leo J. Zuber and edited by Carter W. Martin,
University of Georgia Press, Athens 1983,
189 pp. ($17.25)
F
lannery O'Connor wrote the reviews
collected here almost exclusively for
the newspapers of Georgia's two
Roman Catholic dioceses. Anyone familiar with the species, "diocesan weekly;'
will know two things. First, at a scant twohundred words even Flannery O'Connor
was reined-in tight. (She called the
reviews "notices.") And second, she was
running-at least by New York Review of
Books standards- in a slow pack. Yet in
the event, the pieces bear all the marks
of the thoroughbred.
Surprisingly few Uust 25 of 143) touch
on literature or criticism. She mostly reviewed titles in hagiography, studies of
scripture, letters, and spiritual meditations. None is superficial, but neither are
they "packed:' Rather, as one might expect from a writer of her wit and nicety
they all are drawn to a telling point. What
one might not expect is how much they
seem to tell us about Flannery O'Connor
herself without being exercises in selfrevelation.
Given her unquestionable talents
some readers will still presume to lament
the "waste" of her energies in a quaint
faith and backward country. American
writers are, after all, conspicuous "roadplayers." And although Marion Montgomery's Why Flannery O'Connor Stayed
Home is one of the better scholarly adventureS of recent .times, that author's answer,
one partly grounded in the reviews collected here, will still puzzle readers
charmed by the "free-agency" of contemporary author-celebrities.
Flannery O'Connor did not have a
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
"career" in any of the conventional senses.
She called her activity both a vocation
and a craft, the end of which was good
writing. Period. She wrote, she said,
because she was "good at it;' and she
stayed at home most happily because she
could write there. For her immediate concern was simply practical as it would have
to be for any good craftsman- even for
a practitioner of some version of "art for
art's sake:'
If her immediate and public concern
was practical, Flannery O'Connor's final
concern was private and spiritual. In her
review of Carol'ine Gordon's How to Read
a Novel she carefully distinguished those
concerns. But as her reviews of other
books, .especially the books of Romano
Guardini, make clear, she believed that
spiritual and practical things are most
true to themselves when coincident in
time and place. She hinted at, but lacked
the space to develop, what was clearly a
sacramental aesthetic. She does direct the
reader to her constant source and authority in such questions, Jacques Maritain's Art and Scholasticism which she seems
to have absorbed but never reviewed.
Just as the "stuff' of her stories came
from her locale, the rural South, so the
force of her spiritual penetration of that
"stuff' came from her Catholicism. She
once wrote to Andrew Lytle that"... the
only thing that keeps me from being a
regional writer is being a Catholic and the
only thing that keeps me from being a
Catholic writer (in the narrow sense) is
being a- Southerner?' Together the South
and Catholicism formed Flannery
O'Connor's one home. They combined
her immediate concerns and raised her
art above the parochialism of both the
local colorist and the parish fabulist.
More important still, they saved her from
that graver parochialism known as the
"literary career:'
For a long time now writers have felt
the need to justify their ways to readers.
But often as not they have been more interested in apologizing to themselves for
their own strange talents and mysterious
gifts. Flannery O'Connor's needs and interests in that last regard were not unique,
which is not to say that she gave any of
the common accounts of herself as an artist, but it does make the scope of her
reading for review less strange than it
might at first appear. For she seems to
have constantly turned to other minds
and voices to help articulate her place, her
powers, and her vocation in a world that
she knew she did not make.
We regularly celebrate lesser writers
for tediously parading their struggles
toward self-understanding, something
modern writers, like their readers, tend
to confuse with their art. Flannery
O'Connor simply looked to share her
Creator's own view of His creation and
to retrieve some nuance of that perspective in her art. She called it seeing the
"good under construction?' Those who
dare to write from such a place verge on
prophecy. The prophetic-poet is a frequent, if understated, theme in these
reviews. Few modern writers seem to have
been so fully conscious of what they were
up to. Without pomp or fanfare The
79
�Presence of Grace tells us more about what
Flannery O'Connor thought she was doing "at home'' than we have any right to
expect.
No one will rank these book reviews
with her fiction, or with her remarkable
letters, The Habit of Being. The Presence of
Grace, like her occasional talks, Mystery and
Manners, can only be read as incomplete
notes toward a memoir of Flannery
O'Connor's intellectual home. In this in-
80
stance the neighborhood is peopled with
the likes of Hans Kung, Eric Voeglin, and
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S. J. Like
every memory it bears a foreground of
things in sharp focus and a background
of things begging to be retrieved.
At the very least, the reader who takes
the trouble to wade back and forth among
these reviews will begin to see in Flannery
O'Connor what she remarked in one of
her own heroes, Friedrich von HUgel: the
mark of"... a genuine encounter with the
Church, a wrestling with it, a love tested
by considerable adversity.. ;' The Presence
of Grace tells us that a spacious and fearless
mind like Flannery O'Connor's is most "at
home" in such moments. To witness it
here is no small delight.
Victor Gallerano
Victor Gallerano, an alumnus of St. John's College,
Annapolis, lives in Washington, D.C.
WINTER 1985
�
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paper
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The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Office of the Dean
Title
A name given to the resource
The St. John's Review (formerly The College), Winter 1985
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1985-01
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Sterling, J. Walter
Freis, Richard
Walsh, Jason
Freis, S. Richard
Sachs, Joe
Stickney, Cary
Wilson, Curtis A.
Sachs, Joe
Brann, Eva T. H.
Kates, J.
Engelberg, Joseph
Zuckerman, Elliot
Fain, Susan
Fisher, Howard J.
Kalkavage, Peter
Maschler, Chaninah
Description
An account of the resource
Volume XXXVI, number 1 of The St. John's Review, formerly The College. Published in Winter 1985.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
ISSN 0277-4720
The_St_Johns_Review_Vol_36_No_1_1985
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Language
A language of the resource
English
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
text
Rights
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
St. John's Review
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