1
20
4
-
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257b0953875888ba89ef2865e9bf8a95
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i
.· ST
JoHN's CoLLEGE
\.,
ANNAPOLIS. MARYLAND 21404
fouNotD lW6 AS KING WiLliAM's ScHCJOL
TENTATIVE LECTURE SCHEDULE - FIRST SEMESTER 1977-78
v
September 16
Mr. Edward G. Sparrow, Dean
St. John's, Annapolis
Man, Image of the Word
September 23
Mr. Frank L. Fernbach
Some •rhoughts on Labor's
Progress and Problems
American Federation of Labor
and Congress of Industrial Org.
Washington, D.C.
September 30
Professor Harry Jaffa
Claremont Men's College
October 7
All College Seminar
October 9
(Sunday)
Ste John 1 s, Santa Fe
October 14
Long Weekend
October 21
Kronos String Quartet
Concert
October 23
(Sunday)
Mary A. Tobin
Exxon Company
Energy Crisis
October 28
Michael comenetz, Tutor
St. John 1 s, Annapolis
Chaos, Gauss, and Order
November 4
Mrs~
Charles Bell, Tutor
Florence Berdann,
The Declaration of Independence
and the Constitution
P.ascal's Reversal (Sat. 2 p.m.)
The Century of Mozart(Sun.8p.m.)
Daumier:
Lithographs
Baltimore Museum of Art
November ll
November 18
For Our Times
Professor Donald L. Kemmerer
University of Illinois
The Role of the Money
System in American History
Miss Eva Brannf Tutor
On the Imagination
St. John's, Annapolis
November 20
(Sunday)
Providence, Rhode Island
November 25
Thanksgiving Holiday
December 2
Mr. Mortimer J. Adler
Institute for Philosophical
Research
Mr. Bertram Minkin
TELEPHONE 'WI· 263- n71
A Greek Poet and His English
Language; the Poetry of
Demetrios Capetanakis
The Vicissitudes of Western
Thought
\
\
�TENTATIVE LECTURE SCHEDULE - FIRST SEMESTER 1977-78
December 9
Play
December 16 January 4
Winter Vacation
January 6
Dr. Otto Morgenstern
Africa -- Our Concern
Linda Tarnay and
Dance recital
January 13
Dancers
January 20
Professor Neil Weiner
Marlboro College
END OF FIRST SEMESTER
Health and Virtue:
Contemporary Psychology
and Aristotle's Ethics
�ST
JoHN's CoLLEGE
Ai'INAPOLIS, MARYLAND 21404
FoUNDED lb':J{, /\S KING WiLLIAivl''> ScHOOl
November 18, 1977
LECTURE - CONCERT SCHEDULE - SECOND SEMESTER 1977-78
January 27, 1978
Mr. Thomas Simpson, Tutor
St. John's, Santa Fe
The Scientific Revolution
Will Not Take Place
February 3
Professor Wm. Theodore deBary
Columbia University
The Analects Of Confucius
February 10
Long Weekend
No Lecture
February 17
Professor Robert Jenson
Lutheran Theological Seminary
On The Enjoyment Of God
February 24
Father William A. Wallace
Catholic University of America
Causality And The Growth
Of Scientific Knowledge
March 3
Dr. Renee C. Fox
University of Pennsylvania
The Rise of Medical Ethical
Concern In American Society:
What Does It Mean?
March 10
Dr. Thomas Pangle
Yale, Department of
Political Science
Montesquieu And The Philosophic
Basis Of Modern Republicanism
March ll March 26
Spring Vacation
No Lecture
March 31
Brother Peter, O.S.B., Monk
Mt. Saviour Monastery
The Function Of A Staretz
April 7
Professor Malcolm Brown
Brooklyn College of the City
University of New York
The 'Hybrid Reckoning'
Of Timaeus 52
April 14
Miss Beata Ruhm von Oppen, Tutor
St. John's, Annapolis
Interpretations Of The
Magic Flute
April 21
Mr. John Shirley-Quirk
Bass/Baritone
England
Concert
April 28
Mr. Hugh McGrath, Tutor
St. John's, Annapolis
*
Translation and Description:
Paul Valery's Le Cimetiere Marin
Father Zossima, a character in The Brothers Karamazov, is a staretz.
IHLI'HONE 301-261- n71
*
�Lecture Schedule - Second Semester 1977-78
May 5
Professor David Lachterman
Georgia State University
Mathesis and Descarte's Geometry
May 12
Real Olympics
No Lecture
May 19
Mr. Howard Zeiderrnan, Tutor
St. John's College, Annapolis
Investigating Philosophical
Investigations
May 26
Commencement
�
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Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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formallectureseriesannapolis
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4 pages
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paper
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Office of the Dean
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Tentative Lecture Schedule - First Semester 1977-78 & Lecture - Concert Schedule - Second Semester 1977-78
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1977-1978
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Lecture Schedule 1977-1978
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Annapolis, MD
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text
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pdf
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November 18, 1977. Brann, Eva T. H. <a title="On the imagination" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/262">On the imagination</a> (audio)
April 14, 1978. Ruhm von Oppen, Beate. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3604" title="Interpretations of the Magic Flute">Interpretations of the <em>Magic Flute</em></a>
May 19, 1978. Zeiderman, Howard. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3873" title="Investigating philosophical investigations">Investigating philosophical investigations</a>
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Sparrow, Edward G.
Fernbach, Frank L.
Jaffa, Harry
Bell, Charles
Tobin, Mary A.
Comenetz, Michael, 1944-
Berdann, Florence
Kemmerer, Donald L.
Brann, Eva T. H.
Minkin, Bertram
Adler, Mortimer Jerome, 1902-2001
Morgenstern, Otto
Tarnay, Linda
Weiner, Neil
Simpson, Thomas
deBary, Wm. Theodore
Jenson, Robert
Wallace, William A.
Fox, Renée C. (Renée Claire), 1928-
Pangle, Thomas L.
Peter, Brother
Brown, Malcolm
Ruhm von Oppen, Beate
Shirley-Quirk, John
McGrath, Hugh
Lachterman, David Rapport, 1944-
Zeiderman, Howard
King William Players
Friday night lecture
Lecture schedule
-
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f067fedc64d3249b7e559af1faa547da
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•
ST
JoHN's CoLLEGE
P.O. BOX 1671
ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND 21404
FOUNDED 1696 AS KING WILLIAM'S SCHOOL
LECTURE/CONCERT SCHEDULE - 1987-88
First Semester
September 4
Mr . Thomas J . Slakey , Dean
St. John's College
Annapolis
Inquiry and Citizenship
September 11
Mr. David Townsend, Tutor
St. John's College
Annapolis
Love and Death in
Virgil's Aeneid
September 18
Mr. Michael Comenetz, Tutor
St . John's College
Annapolis
Newton's Principia
September 25
Mr. Mortimer J. Adler
Institute for Philosophical
Research
Chicago, IL
Fifty Years of the
New Program
October 2
Long Weekend
No Lecture
October 9
Concert
October 16
All College Seminar
October 23
Mr. Ernest L. Boyer, President
Carnegie Foundation for the
Advancement of Teaching
Princeton, NJ
Making the Connections
October 30
Ms. May Swenson
Sea Cliff, New York
From In Other Words, and
from Other Works
November 6
Mr. Robert Bernasconi
University of Essex
Colchester; England
Introduction to the Double
Reading of Hegel's
Phenomenology of Spirit
November 13
M.r. Frank Mason
New York, New York
History of the Portrait
with Demonstration
November 20
Mr. David Starr, Tutor
St . John's College
Annapolis
The End of the Sixth
Day: Behold Man
November 27
Thanksgiving Holiday
No lecture
December 4
Concert
December 11
King William Players Production
TELEPHONE 301-263-2371
�•
ST JoHN 's
C oLLEGE
P.O. BOX 1671
ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND 21404
LECTURE/CONCERT SCHEDULE - 1987- 88
Second Semester
FoUNDED 1696 AS KtNG WtLLir'IM's ScHOOL
January 15
Mr. Howard Zeiderman, Tutor
St. John's College
Annapolis
Fictional Selves and Ghosts :
St. Augustine's Confessions
January 22
Mr. Douglas Allanbrook, Tutor
St. John's College
Annapolis
New and Old:
20th Century Music
January 29
All College Seminar
February 5
Long Weekend
February 12
Concert
February 19
Mr . James Beall, Tutor
St . John's College
Annapolis
Order and Disorder in
Ci v il Societies
February 26
Ms. Deborah Achtenberg
Uni v ersity of Nev ada-Reno
Reno, Nevada
Human Being, Beast and God :
The Place of Human Happiness
According to Aristotle and
Some 20th Century Philosophers
March 3-20
Spring Vacation
No Lectures
March 25
Mr. Nicholas Capozzoli, Tutor
St . John's College
Annapolis
Milestones in Our Understanding
of the Brain and Nervous
System in Clinical Neurology
April 1
Concert
April 8
Mr . Jonathan Tuck, Tutor
St. John's College
Annapolis
Dead Leaves : Illustrations
of the Genealogy of the Epic
Poem (Homer, Virgil, Dante,
Milton)
April 15
Mr. Paul Priest
United Kingdom
King Lear and the Divine
Madness
April 22
Mr. Rex Nettleford
University of the West Indies
Kingston, Jamaica
Cultural Action and
Social Change
April 29
Mr . James Carey, Dean
St . John's College
Santa Fe
Knowledge and Faith
May 6
King William Players Production
May 13
Mr . Peter Arnott
Winchester, Massachusetts
Marionette Performance of
Alcestis
May 20
Commencement Weekend
No Lecture
TELEPHONE 301-263-23 7 1
No Lecture
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Description
An account of the resource
Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>. <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://anchor.fm/greenfieldlibrary" title="Anchor.fm">Anchor.fm</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy84Yzk5MzdhYy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw" title="Google Podcasts">Google Podcasts</a>, or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis
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formallectureseriesannapolis
Text
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2 pages
Original Format
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paper
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Office of the Dean
Title
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Lecture/Concert Schedule - 1987-88
Date
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1987-1988
Description
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Schedule of lectures and concerts for the 1987-1988 Academic Year.
Identifier
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Lecture Schedule 1987-1988
Coverage
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College
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text
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
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pdf
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January 15, 1988. Zeiderman, Howard. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3837" title="Fictional selves and ghosts: St. Augustine's Confessions"><span>Fictional selves and ghosts</span></a> (typescript)
April 8, 1988. Tuck, Jonathan. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3789" title="Dead leaves">Dead leaves</a> (audio)
April 8, 1988. Tuck, Jonathan. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3791" title="Dead leaves">Dead leaves</a> (typescript)
Contributor
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Slakey, Thomas J.
Townsend, David
Comenetz, Michael, 1944-
Adler, Mortimer Jerome, 1902-2001
Boyer, Ernest L.
Swenson, May
Bernasconi, Robert
Mason, Frank
Starr, David
Zeiderman, Howard
Allanbrook, Douglas
Beall, James
Achtenberg, Deborah, 1951-
Capozzoli, Nicholas
Tuck, Jonathan
Priest, Paul
Nettleford, Rex M., 1933-2010
Carey, James
Arnott, Peter
King William Players
Friday night lecture
Lecture schedule
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/b20a694177aaf6a881dda8f670000d9c.pdf
a8fa356949cd8bf7417438857ddce1b8
PDF Text
Text
The St. John's Review
Volume XXXVIII, number two (1988-2)
Editor
Elliott Zuckerman
Editorial Board
Eva Brann
Beale Ruhm von Oppen
Cary Stickney
John Van Doren
Robert B. Williamson
The St. John's Review is published thrice yearly by the Office of the Dean, St.
John's College, Annapolis; William Dyal, President; Thomas Slakey, Dean. For
those not on the distribution list, subscriptions are $12.00 yearly. Unsolicited essays,
stories, poems, and reasoned letters are welcome. Address correspondence to the
Review, St. John's College, Annapolis, MD 21404. Back issues are available, at $4.00
per issue, from the St. John's College Bookstore.
© 1988 St. John's College. All rights reserved; reproduction in whole or in part
without permission is prohibited.
ISSN 0277-4720
Composition
Fishergate
Printing
The St. John's College Print Shop
��Contents
LECTURES
I . . . . . . . Fictional Selves and Ghosts: St. Augustine's
Confessions
Howard Zeiderman
21 ....... Human Being, Beast and God: The Place
of Human Happiness According to
Aristotle and Some Twentieth-Century
Philosophers
Deborah Achtenberg
49 . . . . . . . Dead Leaves: Illustrations of
the Genealogy of the Epic Poem
Jonathan TUck
OCCASIONAL SPEECH
75 . . . . . . . Commencement Address
Curtis Wilson
VERSE
82 . . . . . . . Two Poems
Carolyn Wade Loring
84 . . . . . . . Another Fable of La Fontaine
Elliott Zuckerman
BOOK REVIEW
87 . . . . . . . Thomas Flanagan: The Tenants of Time
Eva Brann
Sketches of McDowell Hall by Emily Kutter.
��Fictional Selves and Ghosts:
St. Augustine's Confessions
Howard Zeiderman
In Book VI of the Confessions, Augustine describes an incident that he
observed in Northern Italy. At that time, Augustine was still a professor
of Rhetoric. He was in love with words; he was not yet a lover of the Word.
The incident occurred in Milan. He had travelled there in order to hear
the man purported to be the greatest speaker alive. That man was Ambrose, the Archbishop. Ambrose was a very busy man, who was almost
constantly surrounded by people. It was during one of his rare moments
of solitude that Augustine observed him. Here is Augustine's description:
For very short periods of time, when he was alone, he was either refreshing
his body with food or his mind with reading. When he was reading, his eyes
went over the pages and his heart looked over the sense, but his voice and
tongue were resting.
This picture of a tired man reading alone is not unusual for us. We
might well wonder why it is even mentioned. Is it to show that the great
Ambrose is like the rest of us- tired, somewhat harassed, and in need of
solitude? No. Augustine does not see the similarity. He sees differenceand it startles him. He cannot understand why the bishop, though alone,
is not reading aloud. He puzzles over the sight for the next fifteen lines,
but cannot come up with a convincing explanation. In the end he must
Howard Zeiderman is a Tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis. This lecture was
delivered at the Annapolis campus in January, 1988.
1
�2
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
resort to the holiness of Ambrose. As Augustine says: Whatever his reason
for acting in this way, it would certainly be a good one.
This passage about Augustine's incredulity at Ambrose's reading silently
startles me. What should I make of it? I feel that, although I understand
the words, I am missing something. And a careful re-reading of the passage
doesn't bring me any closer to the sense. Such a passage- and each text
that we read at St. John's contains many of them-does not immediately
occasion my approval or disapproval, my agreement or disagreement.
Usually, it is so far from helping me understand something that I feel as
if I understand nothing. Eventually I must move on to more familiar
ground, but the passage stays with me. It is like the ghost of a text. And
like a legitimate ghost, it haunts me. It is haunting because, through it,
a remote, dead world momentarily becomes visible.
Let me try to explain what is so troubling for me about this passage.
Reading is a fairly complicated activity. When I read, I try to understand.
And I succeed when I am being thoughtful about the meaning of words.
Thinking and understanding are private activities. They occur ultimately
in a place I call "inside myself." So I tend to think of serious reading as
an inside activity as well. Of course there are special circumstances in which
we read aloud, either with others or alone. People read aloud when they
are learning to read, or when they are sharing with others what they've
previously read. Sometimes we do in fact read aloud what we have never
read before, but then, frequently, we lose track of the passage, and have
to back-track for a silent re-reading. And there are remarkable passages,
like Augustine's description of Ambrose, which we read aloud to understand what, on a previous silent reading, we had not understood.
Now in this passage about Ambrose, Augustine is startled by the very
opposite of what would startle me. In order to make sense out of the
passage, I would like to claim that reading aloud plays the same role for
him that silent reading plays for me. But I can't do that. To do so would
be to turn what is inside and private-what I think of as reading-into
what is outside and public. Where would I find the place I called "inside
myself'? And what would happen to the thing I call myself? What on earth
could Augustine mean by the words "myself' and "me"? Our "selves" don't
seem to have the same boundaries.
The same difficulties arise if, instead of actually re-writing the text,
I simply interpret the reading aloud that Augustine and Ambrose usually
did while alone, as a form of what we do when we read aloud. However,
this won't work either, because all of the forms that I have described are
modifications and variations of "reading-as-1-know-it" -that is, variations
of silent reading. We cannot strip from what we know as reading aloud
�3
ZEIDERMAN
the circumstances of its particularity and dependence, and then take what
results as a general case.
You're probably beginning to feel lost. As these questions open out,
I too begin to feel lost. In fact, I begin to lose myself. The categories that
are implicated in these questions- reading, understanding, thinking,
physical, meaning, sharing, inside, outside, public, and private- are not
just peripheral to what I am. They are the crucial items in terms of which
I define myself. When those categories become fluid, who and what I am
becomes fluid.
What can one do in such a state? One can, of course, retreat from such
a passage to recover oneself and one's sanity. But there is a kind of arrogance in retreating back into myself untried. Or one can push forward
to lose oneself completely in madness and absurdity. This is the path of
despair, where nothing, least of all myself, has meaning. It is at just these
moments, when facing this choice, that I need others. What I can not do
alone and yet must do- precisely because I am haunted- I may be able
to do with others.
I hope this exploration has given you a sense of a relation between us
as readers and a certain kind of passage. Such passages are to be found
in every work we read here. They assert something which is not just wrong,
or unusual, or distasteful, but, rather, uncanny. This kind of uncanniness
I have called "haunting." And this characteristic does not only apply to
passages. Entire texts can haunt. In fact every text we read here can haunt.
I will explore this characteristic through the work which haunts me mostthe Confessions. It is this work, too, which is my favorite of the books
we read here, and the one that I judge to be the greatest. Since these are
more common ways of describing books, we will look at these approaches
in order to find out how a book haunts.
••*
There are many accounts of the greatness of the texts we read. Some
of these focus on the style or beauty of the work; others focus on the content and depth. Dante is a good example of the former, Descartes of the
latter. Described differently, these two categories may be called rhetoric
and poetry for style and beauty, and philosophy for content. A much more
serious characterization of greatness breaks through the perspective of the
two categories just mentioned. This third type of characterization shows
the remarkably intimate connection between the how and the what. Examples of this sort of work are Platonic dialogues, and Hegel's Phenomenology of Mind. These two are obvious candidates for the third approach,
�4
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
which looks at style and content, the poetry and the philosophy, at the
same time. This approach is, as I said, the most serious. I believe that all
the works we read here, not just the Dialogues and the Phenomenology,
satisfy it. In any case, one consideration is common to each of these three
approaches: by calling a book great-with respect to its form, its content,
or both of these combined-we are intending to describe the book itself,
and not ourselves. The search for a suitable definition and characterization has objectivity as its goal.
At the other end of the spectrum is the subjective approach to a text.
This, of course, has more to do with us as individuals than with the text.
Each of the works is loved by some, hated by others. We frequently admit
to our friends, though not in a seminar, that one or another book is our
favorite. This occurs with friends because usually our friends are interested
in our likes and dislikes, without demanding "proof." And in their company, I may feel encouraged to try to reveal my concerns, affections, or
disaffections. That is, in talking about my "favorite" book, I may reveal
important things about myself, not about the text.
So the characterization "great book" speaks ostensibly about the book,
and the characterization "favorite book" speaks primarily about me. Since,
in my judgment, the Confessions is the greatest program book, and since
it is also my favorite program book, I will use it to illustrate these two
categories. Yet neither of these two categories is what I mean by a "haunting text." That characterization is a description that is equally about me
and a text. How a text haunts may be made clearer by pointed contrast
to the other two categories. And here again the Confessions will illustrate
what I mean, because it is the book which haunts me most. In fact, the
Confessions is most haunting, and raises the question of haunting texts
to starkest visibility, perhaps because in it Augustine himself is haunted.
•••
The Confessions is probably the easiest work on the list to misread,
and the way we misread it is predictable. There is nothing more common
in our world than writing autobiographies. Everyone in this room has probably written at least one, even if only as a part of an application requesting
an autobiographical essay. And it is very hard not to read the Confessions
as autobiographical. Yet, insofar as we do so, it becomes difficult to see
in what way the Confessions is great. Though we, here and in the rest of
the world, expect application essays to be autobiographical, we do not expect seminar essays, lectures, and important books to be autobiographical.
The autobiography is not viewed as an activity, or a part of one's on-going
�ZEIDERMAN
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life; it is viewed usually as the record of one's activity, composed at a distance from oneself.
A bit of history may be useful here, not, as we often rightly fear, to
dismiss a work, but rather to help us avoid dismissing a work by misconstruing it. The Story of My Life by Cellini, and the Confessions by Rousseau,
both written more than a thousand years after Augustine, define our notion of autobiography. These works help set the stage in the eighteenth
century for the emergence of the form of writing which both attracts and
repels us. There are very many examples of such autobiography to choose
from- and yet none of them is on our reading list. And when one reads
Augustine's Confessions as an example of this category that was, in many
respects, created by Rousseau-in other words, as autobiography-then
its place on our list seems suspect. Of course, we might then include Augustine's Corifessions not because of its merits but because other texts that
we consider great require this particular work. In other words, the Confessions is considered great by other writers, whom we consider great. A
few of these writers are Anselm, Thomas Aquinas, Dante, Chaucer, Luther,
Montaigne, Descartes, Rousseau, Hegel, Kirkegaard, and Wittgenstein. So
we include it too. Faced with our own uneasiness about the greatness of
a work, we sometimes allow this kind of evidence to count. However, this
kind of approach can be dangerous, if we grow complacent, and put the
book on our list only for the sake of reading another work. But if we regard
the evidence of those other great thinkers as an incentive to exploration,
then we put the book on the list because it presents a task. The task would
be a hard and probing kind of questioning about ourselves and about those
other thinkers, though still not necessarily about the book in question.
It could lead to investigating how we and those we consider great are different on fundamental matters of judgment or thought. And this investigation, though not the same as what a haunting text makes possible, is
nonetheless similar to it.
Let us take another step to see how the greatness of the Corifessions
may be viewed more from the inside than from the outside. Let us take
three approaches to the text which we can initially describe as the perspectives of Dante, Descartes, and Hegel. These three were on the list of those
who were in awe of Augustine,· and their concerns may help direct our attention to aspects of the work that viewing it as autobiography makes
suspect- if not impossible. In another rough characterization of these three
approaches, Dante may stand for poetry, Descartes may stand for philosophy, and Hegel stands for the attempted reconciliation of the other two.
This third characterization, Hegel's perspective, may be obscure. However,
�THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
6
if we remember that in Plato's dialogues philosophy aspires to being, while
poetry is enmeshed in becoming, Plato's "ancient feud" between philosophy
and poetry may be understood as the feud between being and becoming.
St. John's seniors can inform their Jess knowing friends that in Hegel's
Phenomenology of Mind the two realms of being and becoming become
so intimately involved with one another that they are no longer two realms.
***
We will look at the poet's perspective first. Virgil appears as Dante's
guide in the Inferno, and much of the Divine Comedy involves the relations between Virgil's poetry and Dante's own. Virgil does not appear as
a character in the Confessions. His Aeneid, however, does. Augustine states
that when he was young, reading the Aeneid was a source of pleasure, and
reciting it was a source of glory. As an older man, he views his youthful
devotion to the poem as a waste of his time and talents. Yet in spite of
what he claims was a waste of time, he acknowledges that he also learned
to read and write from this effort. The question arises whether this boy
who grew up in and around Carthage and who, like Aeneas, finally found
his home in Rome, was able to turn his childhood Jove for the Aeneid into
something fertile and memorable in his adult life. I will mention only a
few parallels with the Aeneid to show the extent to which Virgil's fiction
echoes in Augustine's account.
In the Aeneid, Aeneas meets Dido in Book I. So too in the first book
of the Confessions Augustine meets Didn, as Virgil's character. In Book
II Aeneas moves in and out of Carthage in his narrative to Dido; Augustine
at the same time moves in and out of Carthage spatially. In Book III Aeneas
finally finishes his account of his arrival on Dido's shore. As he speaks
and Dido listens, she is increasingly captivated by his words and falls in
love with him through his account. So too in Book III Augustine finally
brings his wanderings to a pause in Carthage; like Dido, he too falls in
Jove. And he says that the object of his Jove is the idea or the account of Jove.
In Book IV of the Aeneid we read of the seduction in the grove, and
of Aeneas' reawakened desire to go to second Troy-Rome, though he only
knows of it indirectly. In order to leave Carthage he must deceive Dido;
she despairs and dies by her own hand. In Book IV of the Confessions
we read that Augustine too has moved on to seduction. He writes:
So for the space of nine years [in Carthage] I lived a life in which I was
seduced and seducing, deceived and deceiving, the prey of various desires.
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And later in Book IV Augustine, too, is moved by the rumor of Rome:
Why was it, Lord my God, that I decided to dedicate this book to Hiereus
who was an orator at Rome? I had never seen the man but had come to love
him because of this very great reputation.
It is at this point that Augustine's desire to go to Rome emerges. Both he
and Aeneas set out on their journeys in Book V. In Book VI, when Aeneas
is in the underworld viewing shadows, Augustine is struggling to break the
bonds of the Manicheans. That is, while Aeneas is seeing spirits without
their bodies, Augustine is grappling with the idea of spiritual substance.
These new ideas seem as insubstantial to Augustine as the shades of Hades
seem to Aeneas. And as in Hades Aeneas is both alive and dead, so too
Augustine in Book VI says:
My life in you I kept on putting off from one day to the next, but I did not
put off the death that daily I was dying in myself.
Aeneas leaves the underworld of shadow at the end of Book VI, but it
takes Augustine many more pages to be freed.
The Aeneid plays a role in the Confessions, but the Confessions are
not merely a duplication of a previous book. The Aeneid had twelve books,
the Cotifessions thirteen, and in many cases-crucial ones-the characters
and incidents of the Aeneid are displaced in the Confessions. The most
startling transformation is that of the story of Dido's abandonment, lament, and death. In Book V of the Confessions, it is Augustine's mother
who takes on the role of Dido, and it is there- not Book IV as in the
Aeneid- that he leaves her weeping in Carthage and that he acknowledges
the lie he told her. And both of these kinds of changes are the same. The
increase in the number of books and the displacement of incidents occurs
because there is another book which is also woven into Augustine's text.
That book is, of course, Genesis. The last books of the Confessions is
Augustine's treatment of Genesis, but again, a careful reading will show
that Genesis pervades the entire work. For instance, when Augustine
describes his mother in Carthage crying over his departure to Rome, he
speaks using the language of Genesis:
So she wept and cried aloud showing in herself the heritage of Eve.
Having begun to look at the Confessions in this way, we see that it could
not conceivably be an autobiography. The events are artfully recounted,
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8
following patterns provided by the Aeneid and glosses provided by Genesis.
And although the end of Book IX seems to mark the end of the domination by the Aeneid and the beginning of the movement toward Genesis,
there is in fact at each moment an interplay between the two texts. The
Aeneid supplies the external circumstances of the account, the outer facts,
and Genesis fills what is internal. Now the Confessions begins to take on
the shape of a fiction, or even a poem- in Latin or Greek, something made.
We could continue in this way, admiring the subtlety of composition and
the attention to detail in this beautiful piece of rhetoric. At the end of it,
we could be vindicated in not viewing it as autobiography. We might then
feel inclined to include the Confessions on the reading list as a work great
in itself, not just as a work admired by those whom we take as great.
***
This little account was a sample of the lecture you might have heard
on the Confessions as a great poem. If we now adopt the perspective of
Descartes, we can both take what we've seen further and also see the Confessions from yet another angle. This perspective would have us focus on
the role of philosophy. Philosophy appears prominently in three books of
the Confessions. These are, first, Book VII, and then Books X and XL
In Book VII, where Augustine has just entered his final struggle with the
Manicheans, he discovers books of philosophy. Reading them is what first
leads him to the possibility of immaterial substance, not just as the negation of matter, or as a shadow in Hades, but •.s something positive and
distinct: as soul. Yet even the notion of soul is treated as merely theoretical.
At this time, both the books and their ideas are represented as things interesting but external. And in Book VII Augustine keeps his distance from
these books for another reason. He realizes there is one thing he could
not learn from them. He could not learn humility. In Book X philosophy
reappears, no longer as a study but as a way of life. Philosophy is now
Augustine's own activity. And the living philosophy effects a movement
similar to, but greater than, the movement effected by the reading of the
books. The activity of philosophy leads Augustine from the outside to the
inside. He begins to investigate his own soul, to search for traces of his
being.
The activity of philosophy in Books X and XI marks the transition
from the narrative of external circumstances, patterned on the Aeneid, to
the investigation into spiritual considerations, as seen in the treatment of
Genesis. So we see that for Augustine philosophy plays the role of the inbetween. It is the in-between of inside and outside, of flesh and spirit. The
�ZEIDERMAN
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role of philosophy for Augustine- as the movement from outside to
inside- dictates its form. For, of all our faculties, it is not reason nor imagination nor sensation that first presents itself as taking the outside into the
inside. Rather, it is memory. And memory becomes the focus of Augustine's
investigation, which in turn opens the question of past, present, and future.
This focus on time in Book X sets the stage for the treatment of how to
construe the account of beginning-that is, Genesis-in Books XII and
XIII. The activity of philosophy in the Corifessions thus plays a role which
is the re-enactment of the role that his passive dependence on the books
of the Platonists played in Book VII.
Such would be the sketch of another lecture on the Corifessions as a
great book. This time the concern was with the content of the work itself
rather than with the way the work echoes other great works. And the
content-philosophy-is not in conflict with the poetry but has a definite
relation with it. For now, looking back on his use of the Aeneid, we can
see that Augustine, like Virgil, created a memory, or a kind of story. Poetry
has set the stage for philosophy and the philosophical pursuit of Book
X. What poetry presented, through books, for a passive audience,
philosophy makes one's own, through activity.
•••
I have presented two sketches for lectures on the greatness of the Confessions; the first took greatness to be something in the style or poetry;
the second took it to be something in the content or philosophy. These
two sketches together form a prelude for yet a third lecture, which takes
the third approach to greatness. It would begin with the status of the
reader- how should the reader read the Confessions? Is the reader passive,
as Augustine was in the Aeneid section, or active, as he was in the
philosophical exploration of memory and time? It is this aspect which probably most interested Hegel. It is his Phenomenology of Mind, of all the
books we read, that most requires the reader to supply, in response to one
section of the text, the transition to the next. The role of the reader of
the Confessions is comparable, though as different as the Hegelian dialectic is from sin. An example may bring out the course a reader undertakes
in the Confessions.
At the end of Book II, Augustine describes an incident which no reader
of the text ever forgets. When he was a boy, Augustine and a few friends
stole some pears from a neighbor's tree. The fruit- unlike that fated fruit
in the Garden-was neither pleasing to the eye nor good to eat. Indeed,
the boys threw the pears away. When he asks himself why he did this,
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Augustine's only answer is that he did it for the sake of doing wrongthat he loved sin for its own sake. The whole description is so vivid that
the incident becomes a kind of drama for the reader. The reader witnesses
the wrongdoing. Thus the reader plays the role of spectator. He observes
a scene in which Augustine, and not himself, plays a part.
This in fact sets the stage for the next scene of the Confessions. At
the opening of Book Ill, when Augustine is a student in Carthage, he himself becomes enmeshed in being a spectator. He attends the theater, revelling in the grief, sadness, and joy that he witnessed there. He remarks again
and again that these spectacles are external and utterly remote from him,
displayed for him insofar as he is their witness. But was not this the reader's
relation to the story about the pears? What has happened here is that
Augustine has prepared a place for the reader, and then occupied that place
himself within the text.
There must be some distance between the author of a text and the
readers of that text. However, Augustine, by writing about himself, makes
that separation between reader and text as extreme as possible. And yet
we have just seen how Augustine, in making the reader play the part of
spectator, has started to diminish that very distance. Elsewhere in the text,
the reader adopts other roles -listener, judge, critic, admirer. At each step,
the separation between external reader and the text diminishes. This distance
vanishes completely at the end of Book IX. This is also exactly the place
that marks the culmination of the external circumstances supplied by
Virgil's Aeneid. There, at the death of Monica, Augustine's mother, Augustine's Dido, he prays. (How unlike Aeneas!)
And so by means of these Confessions of mine, I pray that my mother may
have her last request of me still more richly answered in the prayers of many
others besides myself.
In other words, Augustine invites the reader to join with him in prayer,
to do the very thing that Augustine is doing. The distance between Augustine and the reader, between Augustine and me, or between me and not-
me, dissolves if we join him in the activity of prayer.
Again, at the very same place, at the end of Book IX, Augustine leaves
the account of his external circumstances and goes on to philosophical
activity. And what is the topic of that activity? Memory. Memory- we all
have it, although what Augustine remembers is different from what I
remember, or from what you remember. And even within each memory,
the me and the not-me differ, since each of us is a different thing from
the content of our memory. The tension between reader and text, between
�ZEIDERMAN
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me and Augustine, between me and not-me has been brought into the text
itself here at the end of Book IX. And that tension moves on into Book
XI and the treatment of time. The distinction between me and not-me
culminates in the placing of the self in time: now there is a difference between the me-l-was and the me-l-will-be.
And why is the distinction between what I am (or have been or will
be) and what I am not so very important? It is important because it is
the distinction between my soul and my sin. For Augustine, the soul is who
he truly is, and the sin, although in some way his, is what he is not. With
the treatment of time, we and Augustine finally face, in its clearest form,
the inheritance of the eating of the first fruit. For Adam and Eve, looking
for godhead, found sin, death, and time. Augustine invites us to pray with
him at his mother's death. If we join him in prayer at the end of Book
IX, and through that initial breaking of the barriers of self are able to
reach the question of time, then we are ready, at Book XII, to enter the
book of Genesis.
Thus the reader moves from passive to active. He was merely a passive
spectator at first, when he watched the drama of Augustine's life. If he
responds to the invitation to pray, then he becomes active. But the core
of that activity is precisely the difference he has just gone through- the
difference between action and passion, what I do and what happens to
me, or, in other words, between the me and the not-me.
The account you have just heard takes the previous accounts into a
new mode. For the poetry or fiction that became a stage for philosophy
is now so entwined with it that both the how and the what, and the text
and the reader, are revealed as temporary categories. Yet, though this account is about the reader, it does not essentially touch us. It is not about
us as individuals, but about us as the readers of this particular text. In
other words, this is still a lecture about the Confessions as a great book.
And in all such lectures, the audience, like Augustine and the reader in
the first nine books, is passive. The lecturer, who has spent time making
himself passively dependent on a book in studying it, reveals some of its
subtleties, and invites the listeners to undertake a similar relation. And
although a listener may leave the lecture and go on to study the text with
others, the effort suggested by the lecturer remains an individual and
solitary one.
So in all of these sketched lectures, the greatness of the book has been
the concern. The approaches that I have associated with Dante, Descartes,
and Hegel, do not involve me-as-an-individual, because their focus has
been the text itself. It has been with something which is not me.
•••
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
The other end of the spectrum from looking at the Confessions as a
great book is viewing it as my favorite book. Such a perspective is not
primarily focused on Augustine but on myself. When I view the Confessions as my favorite book, I don't stand on the ground of the text. Instead,
I consider the text on my own ground and as dependent on my activities.
And, although considering the book's greatness necessitated avoiding reading it as autobiography, considering the book as my favorite book is intimately connected with autobiography. In fact, it involves me in giving an
autobiographical account of myself. I do not have to surge into the story
of my life. But I do have to give an account-as one does with friends-of
what the Confessions has meant to me as an individual. It has meant many
things- the most suitable of which to address in a lecture has to do with
my life and thought, and the works of two modern philosophers: Wittgenstein and Heidegger.
Both these writers are from our world, a world where "reading" means
"reading silently." One or the other of them absorbs and influences many
of our contemporaries. Their work makes them as different as two thinkers
can be, and yet they display two significant similarities. For both, their
work falls into an earlier and later stage, the latter stage being an explicit
denial or rejection of the former, like Augustine's in the Confessions; and
both wished to end philosophy. Please don't misunderstand when I say
they wished to end philosophy. That does not mean they wished to end
thought, or seriousness, or responsibility. Rather they felt that philosophy
as a separate and autonomous activity, which they both associated with
Descartes, made one thoughtless, frivolous, and irresponsible.
These two were never casual about philosophy. At one time, there was
nothing more important, or more natural, for them to do. They did not
criticize philosophy from the outside; they were "insiders." Yet, in spite of
heroic efforts to end philosophy, they each failed- not just once, but twice!
My own thought has gravitated around their efforts because I agree with
them- I feel their desire and I feel their failure. And like them, I don't
feel it from the outside. Considering the One and the Many, being and
non-being, categories, language, and truth, was more important, and more
natural, than anything else for me. In fact, at one time it was life's breath.
Yet at times one recognizes that what comes naturally- one's gifts, one's
abilities, even one's breath itself-causes one to suffocate.
Though I had been drawn to Wittgenstein and Heidegger before that
crisis, my shortness of breath involved me with their work more and more
intimately. They were a kind of artificial respirator through which I could
consider my own task and theirs. If I scrutinized their work, I might be
able to avoid their failure. In those days I was like a chess player studying
the games of past grand masters, or like a pathologist doing an autopsy
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on a victim of the disease I myself was suffering from. However, the more
I thought about what they had attempted and failed, the more I realized
it was not their lack of cleverness and intelligence that was responsible.
In fact, quite the opposite. It was precisely their intelligence and cleverness
which caused for each not only one failure, but two. They failed because
they were geniuses and because their proposed audience was an elite group
of thinkers who could fathom the issue and comprehend certain works.
The result was not the end of philosophy at all. Instead, there was an increase of technical and arcane talk. And, because Wittgenstein and Heidegger were "canonized" as new philosophers, they gave rise to a grotesque
hagiography, developed and carried on by their own disciples, who should
have known better
The more I studied them, the more I agreed with them on their diagnosis
of the ailment. But even more pervasive than they supposed, the disease,
philosophy, appeared. Those infected were not just readers of certain books,
or practitioners of a certain philosophical school of thinking. The diseased
were not just the intellectual inheritors of Descartes, but in fact everyone
who lived in a Cartesian world-which is just a shorthand for the modern
world in which we all perform every act and gesture of our lives.
It was at this moment that I remembered the Confessions. Was not
Augustine similar to Heidegger and Wittgenstein? Was not he himself
burdened with his own gifts and was not he as skilled at technical rhetoric
and philosophy as anyone? He felt, as acutely as anyone, the desire for
philosophy and the hunger both for truth and for his own discovery of
that truth. And did he not only face these horrors but succeed in resolving
them in a work that was for everyone, not merely professors and intellectual technicians? And wasn't Augustine's indictment of philosophy similar
to my sense of why Heidegger and Wittgenstein failed? For their greatness
prevented them from seeing beyond their greatness. Augustine recoiled from
philosophy because it could never teach him humility.
It was because of these concerns and thoughts that I was drawn to the
Confessions. In my own concerns and confusions, I needed an ally and
a friend. And I didn't turn to the Confessions because he had achieved
what I was attempting. His concern and mine differ. Unlike Augustine,
the name I heard with my mother's milk was not Christ's. I was not a Christian and the task and need I felt were mine, not Christian. So I didn't read
him to learn "how-he-did-it." I read the Confessions as the struggles of
someone similar to but yet quite different from myself. In short, I read
it as autobiography, and it is as autobiography that it has been my favorite
book.
***
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
We have now looked at two ways of reading the Confessions-as a great
work and as my favorite work. As a great work I read him as a scholar
would, bringing to bear a knowledge of other books he uses, the responses
of other writers to his work, and what, for lack of a better word, I must
call history. It is because I am familiar witb the genesis of what we call
autobiography, that I realize that reading the Confessions as autobiography
would be remarkably anachronistic. Once I hold that tendency in check,
the book opens up, and I can become in some sense passive as I learn from
it. On the other hand, when I read the Confessions as my favorite book,
I read it quite differently. Then I read out of my own activity and I read
it precisely the way I guarded against before.
In the first case I read him out of knowledge, in the second case out
of need. Although both these ways of reading may involve other people,
they are primarily solitary. When I speak about the greatness of the Confessions, I'm telling you something. I may depend on the work of others
and even prompt you to find aspects of the work I had missed or gotten
wrong. I could, therefore, in telling you, also gain something in return.
But our relation to each other is essentially solitary. In sharing with you
remarks about the Confessions as my favorite book, we again can become
useful to one another. Your need may be similar to mine, and you too may
decide to turn to the Confessions. But again my reading the Confessions
was private and silent- just like the kind of reading Ambrose did one time
in Milan. Both of these silent ways of reading are important, even though
they are so different from one another. In fact from the perspective of one
kind of approach, the other is suspect. From the vantage point of my need
when I read Augustine as my favorite book, the greatness of the Confessions seems sterile, a mere diversion. From the perspective of my studies
of Angustine, reading the work for encouragement and consolation seems
undisciplined and self-indulgent. Yet, as I said, both approaches are important and even necessary.
The third approach to a text, where we are haunted by a text, overlaps
with these two familiar approaches and yet differs importantly from them.
In the third approach to the text we may start by reading the words silently
and privately, but we must go beyond this to reading publicly. What I mean
by public reading is an essentially cooperative activity. In this approach,
not only do we depend on one another, but knowledge and need are also
no longer held apart. They too merge toward one another. This occurs when
the Confessions begins to haunt us. Need stops being my particular need,
but it is rather a need we all feel, and the relevant knowledge is precisely
what we all lack. It is in this context that we no longer read as solitary
�ZEIDERMAN
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explorers or solitary sufferers; au individual reads as preparation for what
reading makes necessary- a conversation.
In reading the Corifessions as a great book, I withheld viewing it as
an autobiography. In reading it as my favorite book, I read it as I would
read such a work written by one of our contemporaries. My expectation
in seeing such a work is that it is autobiographical and I read it as such.
Though I said both readings had a kind of legitimacy, nonetheless a tension and conflict exists within me between these readings. For is it or is
it not autobiography? Well, in one sense it is clear that it isn't. Yet it isn't
just not-autobiography. Our normal expectation on reading the Confessions, and the label it often carries on its book jacket, aren't just misplaced.
To view it without keeping in mind that a man Augustine wrote about his
life-and therefore that it is autobiography-would be to fathom its greatness but lose the life of the text. But imagine such a work being published
today. It might gain a few readers and perhaps even a sympathetic review
or two. But on the whole it would be viewed as silly, or pretentious, or
even irresponsible and absurd. It is a text that could not be written now,
in our present. It is a past text, but clearly it is not a dead text-nor is
it a text that is truly alive. The text is an in-between text-not entirely dead
nor entirely alive. It is a ghost.
I need to describe more clearly what such a ghost text is and how it
haunts. The Confessions haunts because its greatness- some aspects of
which l mentioned- seems incompatible with its form as autobiography.
Insofar as we penetrate the scope and intricacy of the work, the expectation of a roughly factual account of someone's past life becomes increasingly problematic. And as the work begins to look fictional, its truth
becomes suspect. Fictionalization, whether intentional or accidental, will
earn our criticism because fact and fiction have to do with truth and nottruth. The evidence, however, from the earlier part of this lecture, is that
Augustine did indeed shape his story in a way that we would call fictionalizing. If he is replacing fiction for fact, is he truthful? The answer seems
obviously to be no. But suppose that fact and fiction are different for
Augustine than for us- that truth is different for him than for us. By this
I don't mean that he holds truths different from the ones we hold, but
rather that he means something other than what we mean by the word
truth. What a strange suggestion- and yet it has already come up earlier
in this lecture. For to ask about what one means by truth will involve what
one means by self. And then, if a self is different, then the thing which
a self writes- an autobiography- will be different from any autobiographical essay or text we have ever read or written before. I think that this suggestion is right-that truth means something strange for Augustine. But
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THE ST JOHN'S REVIEW
though I say this, and though I can explain why I say this, I don't understand what it means.
Augustine reaches a conclusion about truth in his discussion of Genesis.
In pondering the meaning of its first line- In the beginning God created
heaven and earth- he considers various possibilities. In the end, he presents
his opinion: every truth any reader knows is contained in the first line of
Genesis. In trying to understand this startling suggestion, I come up with
analogies. Is the first line of Genesis like a mathematical axiom of such
power that in itself it contains all other truths? Or is it like a painting,
which presents to each viewer a personal and legitimate vision? Both of
these options are, however, implausible. They make more sense to us than
they would to Augustine. Perhaps to probe the meaning of the first line
one needs charity, or love, without which, says Paul, one's words are like
the clanging of a bell. This looks more promising. Love or Charity turns
sound into meaning and, one could say, into truth. But if charity gives
meaning to utterable things, and makes them true, then it seems that all
utterances would mean the same truth. As I say these words, you may feel
we have returned to Paul's clanging bell. Without having resolved this riddle
about the first line of Genesis, let me go on to another one. Augustine
states that if his task had been to write such a book, he would have wanted
to write it as Moses did. Is it possible that he did this very thing in writing
the Confessions?
Let us think about what we mean by confession. Usually confession
involves an acknowledgment of a past action, and a resolution with respect
to the future. Confession is a bridge, an inbetween like the ghost text, and,
as philosophy was for Augustine, between the past and the future. The
security of that bridge depends on the commitment of the confessor. Only
time can reveal that commitment. When the confession is made to another
person, then that person must risk entering into the confessor's future.
When the confession is made to God, there can be no secrets between the
confessor and God. In such a case, however, those outside the confession
know of it only what the confessor then chooses to make public.
With this much to guide us, can we say whether the Confessions are
addressed to us or to God? Augustine speaks often, and passionately, to
God, referring to him as "You." And, although it occurs less often, he does
speak both directly and indirectly to the readers. So the answer seems to
be that the Confessions are addressed both to us and to God. Now God
can certainly hear this confession and judge or forgive Augustine. But can
we? Were we his contemporaries, we would be able to forgive Augustine
some personal offense. But of course we are not his contemporaries; our
forgiveness would be irrelevant to him. But can we even presume to forgive
�ZEIDERMAN
17
him? For what? His recorded offenses are against God, not against us.
To say this another way, only God can judge or forgive. So although
Augustine is in part writing for us, he cannot be confessing to us. By con-
fessing to God in our presence, Augustine affords us the opportunity to
listen neither in judgment nor in forgiveness. What is the alternative to
listening in judgment or with forgiveness. It is to listen charitably.
Now remember what Augustine said about Genesis- that he would have
liked to have written a book like that. Somehow, for Augustine, Genesis
was written through or in charity. Somehow Moses was able to write such
a book. Augustine could not presume to reproduce this effort. But he has
been able to produce a text which can really be read only with charity.
If it is read without charity, the Confessions becomes the mere clanging
of a bell. We can try to disguise the clanging by reading it as a great book,
or as our favorite book. It is when we read it with charity that each of
its lines -like the first line of Genesis- becomes all of the truths we know.
It is when we read with charity that the differences between me and notme, between my truths and your truths, vanish.
***
Do you really understand what I'm saying about the Confessions? It's
hard for me to see how, because I don't. And it's not from ignorance or
lack of effort that we don't understand. If you feel that my words shimmer before you, tempting you, yet eluding your grasp, then you feel what
I feel. You are in the presence of a ghost, as I am. The Confessions are
a ghost which haunts. The Corifessions succeed at the task that Augustine
set for himself, or that was set for him. But what such a task is and how
it was fulfilled remains deeply impenetrable. And we do not penetrate it
by learning yet another ingenious aspect of the text, which might emerge
from reading still more carefully. For when a text begins to haunt, the locus
of attention is not the text, as it is when the text is a great book, nor
ourselves, as it is when the book is one I love or hate. In other words, we
are neither passive nor active. Rather, the locus of attention is what I can
best describe as what is in between us and the text- the gap between our
deepest expectations and those of the text.
Becoming clearer about this haunting in-between cannot be a solitary
activity. I need others- but not for their information or insights and not
for encouragement. That is, I need others neither as scholars nor as friends.
At this stage, I need others to help me see something about myself. To use
their help, and to offer help to them, my private and solitary reading must
give way to public reading. Our public reading, a modern reflection of the
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
sort of reading Augustine expected of Ambrose, is conversation. Our understanding of the Confessions as a great book or as my favorite book may
be enhanced by conversation; our facing it as a haunting text is absolutely
dependent on conversation.
A ghost text has two interrelated functions. It elicits the most salient
categories of our world. It also affords us the opportunity to think through
those deepest habits that have thoughtlessly determined our lives. So a ghost
text brings to the surface the true ghosts. These reside not in texts but in
ourselves. They are the haunting accretions of our past, our educations,
our social, economic, and political environments. It is in the presence of
the ghost text that these other ghosts come forth. To confront one means
to confront them all.
And so what do these considerations have to do with our activity here?
Great books are, as I once read on an envelope, great teachers. Great books,
as the story goes, are written by great minds- great thinkers- and understanding these books involves understanding these minds. But that requires
understanding the languages in which they wrote as well as understanding
the other works that they produced. In other words, this effort is scholarship. Some of us are better, some are worse at it. If our communal task
is scholarship, then our activities here are doomed to failure. For we read
only parts of books, in a variety of translations, and make the effort to
speak with one another about them in the strange format we call the
"seminar."
Another approach to the reading of great books is to read them because
they raise timeless concerns- the issues which have troubled or absorbed
humanity. Among these concerns we will find some that are of particular
importance to each of us. But if this is our approach, it is hard to grasp
why we read our particular texts to raise these issues. There are hundreds
of textbooks which have been written precisely to raise these timeless concerns. There, these concerns are called the problem of free-will, the problem of meaning, the problem of justice. And the result of this attitude is
what one would anticipate. Our texts would evaporate. Problems and issues
require solutions or stances. The result is an argument or debate among
those animated by a particular issue, with others who are unmoved having
nothing much to say. The text would become either loved or despised, depending on whether one agrees or disagrees with Plato's politics or St. Paul's
theology.
These two ways of reading are like those intermediate parts of Plato's
divided line where opinion and understanding are highlighted. Reading
for greatness belongs to the part of the line where understanding resides;
reading for the timeless issues belongs to the part where opinion resides.
�ZEIDERMAN
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There is a next step in Plato where one struggles to move beyond hypotheses.
What I am describing also forces us to leave the realms of personal opinion
and scholarly understanding in order to face our most invisible assumptions and have the courage to explore them.
The relation to texts which I am calling haunting can make this possible.
The tension between my sense of meaning, language, truth, fiction, fact,
and life, and Augustine's in the Confessions, first forces me to attend to
what is so pervasive in me as to have been invisible. Because my sense of
these terms constitutes my world, the Confessions seem otherwordly, or
ghostly. So some translation is necessary. Yet it does not matter that these
texts are read in various translations, because the true effort of translating
begins once the ground opens between me and the text. It is also all right
that we read parts of works. For we are reading not authors or books, but
what I call texts. Authors and their corpuses- intact entities- give an artificial appearance of life. The temptation is very great to enter into them
and to substitute them for ourselves.
In this task of confronting a haunting text, each of us is essential.
Though ghosts are hard to see, they, like everything we see, may be seen
from different perspectives. What haunts me will overlap with but will not
be identical with what haunts you. And if I make that attempt to confront
these ghosts, and to exorcise them, then I will need your help. If you are
making that attempt, you will need mine. Descartes, making the effort
without help, so lost his sense of perspective that he looked for certainty
to hold onto, conflating it with knowledge.
So I need your certainties to risk exploring what has become uncertain
for me. I need your uncertainties to help reveal to me the fabric of my
own beliefs. The problems we face are not timeless and universal. They
are absolutely timely, because they are yours and mine. And the text is essential because without it thought is not sufficiently decisive- neither sufficiently radical nor sufficiently conservative. In my example, I would have
circled endlessly around questions of meaning, truth, and their relation
to thought. Only by allowing the Corifessions to haunt me am I enabled,
however dimly, to sense the possibility that these questions may concern
not thought but rather will, and might be answered not by my words but
by something that I need the entirely unphilosophical humility to hear.
These are disturbing prospects, which I have few notions how even to explore. As bare possibilities, they shatter my pride but in the same moment
hold open possibilities that my despair has foreclosed. The proper way to
address such matters can be neither monologue nor argument, even if at
times we do speak in those ways. Rather, speech must be confessional. Yet
one is not confessing for oneself alone nor for something that one has
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
done. Confession is the acknowledgment of a chasm between us and the
ghost-like text, and it is the commencement of the exploration of the ghosts
in us- those beliefs and opinions that we have inherited and that invisibly
chart the courses of our thoughts, our desires, and our lives. It is when
a text haunts us that we are both ready for and in need of conversation.
Every text we read here is such a haunting text. You can see that if you
ask yourself whether any of them could be written now. The answer probably is that more or less they all could. Insofar as they could be written
now, they are great or our favorites. Insofar as they could not be, they are
ghosts. Haunting texts afford us the opportunity to make visible these most
salient and elusive aspects of ourselves. Yet within this realm of exploration and change, these texts also can be great books, and we can love some
and recoil from others. In fact, the same work can be all of these. Everything
that I have said tonight I have in some measure learned from Augustine.
These remarks are Augustinian. That I am here to attempt this task, I owe
to the role the Confessions has occupied in my life as my favorite book.
Yet what I have learned and gained from them takes its true measure from
my response to those ghosts which this and other ghostly texts revealed
in me. And ultimately the ghostly and otherworldly quality of the text
makes me recoil from it. That recoiling also makes the Confessions one
of my least favorite texts. For though I learn from Augustine's ability and
subtlety, feel encouraged and comforted by the similarity of our purposes,
and see myself for the first time through our differences from him, ultimately I recoil because his world and his God are not mine.
�Human Being, Beast and God:
The Place of Human Happiness
According to Aristotle
and Some Twentieth-Century
Philosophers
Deborah Achtenberg
1
Early in the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle distinguishes human beings
both from plants and from the other animals. Later, he distinguishes us
from the god. How are we different? And, why are these differences important? We are different from plants and non-human animals, not to mention the simple bodies, because, unli!(e them, we can act. Fire must go up
and stones must go down; plants must move by nature to their end; the
other animals must follow their passions. We human beings, to the contrary, can act: we are more flexible; we are not bound by our feelings or
by our end; we move towards what we take to be good. We are different
from the god because, unlike the god's actions, ours is not guaranteed of
success but must, if it is to succeed, be in accord with something outside
ourselves. 1 That something Aristotle calls ntelos" or "end." He also calls
it "nature," "the mean," or "the good." We are in between, then, beings
which have a limit (a constitutive limit or telos) without having action,
Deborah Achtenberg is an Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the University of
Nevada-Reno. This lecture was delivered at St. John's College, Annapolis, in
February, 1988.
21
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
and the one being which has action without limitation: the god is a te/os
without having one; the god's aim, like ours, is for the good; but, unlike
us, the god's every aim meets its mark.
These differences are important because, according to Aristotle,
something's good is its completion and completions of things different in
kind are themselves different. Happiness is the human good, according
to Aristotle. Therefore our happiness will be what completes beings of our
kind, not what completes plants, the other animals, or the god. Human
beings, he says, are distinguished by reason- or logos-based action; every
action is aimed at something believed to be good; but our beliefs may be
false or the relevant ones may fail to inform our passions. The good, then,
is the completion of this our defining function or activity (ergon); it is
the completion, or, we might say, full development, of both intellect and
feeling so that intellect hits the truth and informs feeling. Such developed
intellect and feeling is called virtue. The good according to Aristotle is a
life of activities in accordance with virtue; it is, in other words, a life in
which developed capacities for intellect and feeling flourish.
Recognition that the human good is relative to the human kind is important, then, because it enables us to avoid two common mistakes: on
the one hand, the supposition that we are less than we are and, on the
other, the supposition that we are more. For we tend to reduce ourselves
to the level of plants and the other animals and, at the other extreme, to
raise ourselves to the level of a god; sometimes we give up action and content ourselves with the feeling of the moment, whatever it may be, and
other times we believe our action, just because we choose it, is good. We
give in to our fear, for example, because it is painful to overcome it; or,
we convince ourselves that what we fear should be feared even when the
evidence shows otherwise. We turn in a co-worker we envy, for another
example; then we forget our envy and convince ourselves that it was
righteousness instead.
Contrary to our suppositions, however, we are not the same as the other
animals nor as the god; we can neither cease to follow some logos, nor
in general act successfully without following a logos well. We get angry,
for example, when we think we have been slighted; but our belief may be
false, and if it is, then the anger will disrupt a friendship. We eat, for another
example, because we believe that to do so is pleasant or nourishing, but
if that belief is false- because, say, we've eaten too much- we will suffer
discomfort or pain. Our anger is not like the instinctive spiritedness of
a wolf;' instead, it results from a belief. Our eating is not like the natural
movement of plants, which must send their roots down into the soil and
their leaves up towards the sun; it is governed, instead, by a belief- the
�ACHTENBERG
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belief that the food in front of us is pleasant or nourishing. Our actions
are, whether we think so or not, governed by reason (logos); they are not
mere motions; nor are they without external limitation and guide. We do
not move by nature or by instinct (pathos) to the good; instead, we move
towards what we think is good.
For these reasons, human happiness- the full development of our
species-given capacity for intellect and feeling-is not easy. For full development of intellect and feeling is not by nature; instead, it is an accomplishment (ergon).' Nor, however, is it against our nature. Aristotle is neither
a romantic nor a Victorian. He is in between those who would have us
follow our every feeling, and those who would have us act against themthose who would say "if it feels good, do it" and those who would say
"if it feels good, don't do it." For we do not attain happiness by nature,
nor do we attain it by thwarting our nature. Instead, we attain it by developing our nature, and when we develop it sufficiently, what feels good and
what is good are one and the same. This is freedom. 4 For freedom is not
doing what you want, unless what you want and what benefits you are
one and the same. Nor is freedom lack of limitation; instead, it is awareness
of beneficial limitation and accord with it. Such a state, however, is rare.
For the acquisition of first-stage development of our species-given capacity for intellect-informed passion and action- that is, the acquisition of
virtue-is not easy: anyone, for example, can get angry; but to get angry
at the needed time, to the needed extent, at the needed person, and so forth,
is an ergon- an accomplishment, a piece of work. 5
But we don't want to work. Instead, we want to be at work. We don't
want to try, but to do; we don't want to attempt, but to achieve our aim.
What we want, in Aristotle's terms, is energeia or entelecheia, where
energeia means activity or being-at-work and entelecheia means completeness, being-at-end or full development. Unlike plants and the other animals,
we can act; that is, we can both devise and follow plans to achieve full
development; unlike the god, however, our action need not achieve full
development, for our plans sometimes are bad, and sometimes, though
good, do not inform our passions and thus motivate our aims. Human
beings can act, but our action is not "by itself." It succeeds only if it is
in accordance with something else, specificially if it is in accord with virtue. Compared to human beings, then, plants and the other animals are
passive; they cannot act, but can only move. Compared to the god, however,
we are passive. The god is the only being whose action is in no way responsive; it is "by itself'' activity. Our action is in part responsive; it is activity
in accordance with virtue.
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THE ST JOHN'S REVIEW
What, however, is activity in accordance with virtue responsive to? In
general, virtue, whether it be the virtue of a plant, an animal, or a human
being, whether it be a virtue of the body or of the soul, is developed capacity. Simple capacity is the capacity to experience feelings or engage in
actions of a certain kind; developed capacity, or virtue, is the disposition
to experience feelings of that kind or engage in actions of that kind only
when they are beneficial or enabling, and not when they are harmful or
destructive. 6 Virtue, in other words, is the disposition for the good- a
disposition to experience feelings and engage in actions which are beneficial
or enabling and not those which are harmful or destructive.'
Human virtue-virtue of character at any rate-is, according to Aristotle, a disposition to choose the mean. Speaking about the mean,
therefore, must be a manner of speaking about the good. For all virtues
are dispositions for the good. The mean is an analogy taken from
mathematics. If ten is too much and two is too little then six is the mean.
Aristotle is not, however, attempting to rnathematize human affairs. In-
stead, he is using a mathematical analogy in the realm of the qualitative.
He does so also in the Metaphysics: telos, Aristotle's fundamental discovery,
is a qualitative intensifier. To be good is not to be of a certain quality or
kind; instead, it is to be a complete or fulfilled one of a kind, or, simply,
to be complete: a lyre-player and a good lyre-player are not different in
kind, nor are a kitten and a cat.
In the non-mathematical realm of feelings and action, regarding, for
example, courage, recklessness is the excess, cowardice the defect, and
courage the mean. Consider a particular action, such as rushing ahead
in battle. To rush ahead when rushing ahead will lead to disaster is the
excess; the one who does this is reckless. To refrain from rushing ahead
when rushing ahead would lead to victory is the defect; the one who does
this is cowardly. Both to rush ahead when appropriate and to refrain from
rushing ahead when refraining is appropriate is to achieve the mean; the
one who does this is courageous. Consider also a feeling, such as confidence. To feel confident when confidence is harmful- about a rash plan
of attack, for example-is the excess; the one who does this is reckless.
To lack confidence when confidence is enabling- about a well thought out
plan of attack, for example- is the defect; the one who does this is a
coward. Both to feel confidence when appropriate and lack it when its lack
is appropriate is the mean; the one who does this is courageous. It is this,
that is, virtue, which Aristotle calls an accomplishment or piece of work
(ergon): not simply to rush ahead nor simply to retreat, since any normal
person has the capacity to do either, but to rush ahead or retreat when
needed, as needed, where needed, as the logos directs for the sake of the
�ACHTENBERG
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beautiful; not simply to feel confidence nor simply lack it, but to feel confidence or lack it when either is what is needed for the end at hand. The
human being with virtue, then, is disposed to choose the mean; that is,
to experience certain feelings and engage in certain actions only when,
where, and as they are needed. The needed is what is needed for a certain
end; it is whatever is instrumental to or constitutive of it. 8 The needed is
the same as the good.
Choice, too, makes reference to the good. We are different from beasts
and from the god because we can choose and thus act on our choice.
Choice, according to Aristotle, is not mere desire; instead, it is desire which
has been informed by deliberation; if not prevented, it issues in action.
Choice distinguishes us from beasts, as well as from children, in this way:
they simply act on their desires, while we can choose; that is, we can act
on deliberation-informed desires. Deliberation is a kind of thought
(dianoia); specifically, to deliberate is to reflect on which action or state
of affairs is conducive to one of our ends; 9 it presupposes phron"i!sis or
practical wisdom, the perception of some action or state of affairs as one
of our ends. (For example, through phronesis we discover that studying
with a certain person is conducive to wisdom, for we judge this person
to be imaginative and able to stimulate our imagination; then we deliberate
about the means needed to be able to study with him- housing, food,
employment, and so forth)." Since the good, according to Aristotle, is
end- that is, completion, fulfillment, or full development- choice makes
reference to the good. 1b choose is to desire and, if not prevented, do, what
one takes to be good.
Now we have seen that all the important elements of Aristotle's definition of human virtue make reference to telos or the good; for a disposition is a developed capacity, that is, a capacity for the good; choice is not
just desire but deliberation-informed desire, and to deliberate is to see particulars as conducive to an end; deliberation presupposes practical wisdom,
that is, the perception of some action or state of affairs as an end; and
the mean is just that feeling or lack of feeling, just that action or abstention from action, which is needed by some end. All of this is important
because human happiness, that is, the human good, is the full development of this specifically human, not animalic or divine, virtue: neither
beasts nor the god have deliberation or practical wisdom. Human virtue
is developed human capacity; human happiness is a life in which human
virtues flower or flourish; it is a life of activities in accordance with human
virtue.
Consider, then, the place of human happiness. It is in between that
of the beasts and that of the god. We can consider it by considering
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
pleasure. For, importantly, Aristotle's definition of pleasure and his definition of happiness are fundamentally the same." Pleasure, according to
Aristotle, is unimpeded activity of a disposition in accordance with nature.
Since it is unimpeded, it, like happiness, requires virtue. But virtue, though
it is in accordance with nature, is not simply by nature. Instead, it requires
instruction and habituation over the course of a life. Hence, as I've said,
it is not easy.
Keep in mind that the god, according to Aristotle in the Metaphysics,
has the pleasure all the time which we can share only some of the time.
Now we can see why: because the god's activity always has its end, while
our activity attains its end only if it is done in accordance with virtue.
Sometimes it is done in accordance with virtue, but much of the time it
is not. Often we make an effort, but our effort is impeded. Often we try,
but do not do. We try to run the marathon, but our feet get in the way.
We try to play the lyre, but our fingers get in the way. We try to do a
mathematical proof, but instead hit a dead end, when our current stage
of mathematical capacity reaches its limit, or, instead, when we find
ourselves reflecting on the rumbling of our stomach, or about someone
we love, or, worse, someone we hate. Successful activity- energeia- is not
by nature. It is a piece of work, an accomplishment, an ergon. Or, at least,
acquiring the developed capacity and necessary conditions for its exercise
is a piece of work. Once those have been acquired, the actual exercise of
virtue is not work- it is being-at-work, or energeia. Then we don't try, but
do. Then, for a short period of time, our every aim meets its mark. Our
feet are where they are needed when they are needed. Our fingers hit the
right note at the right time. We think, and actually engage the required
object. Then our activity seems, and in a sense is, effortless. For then we
are acting in accord with our developed skills or intellectual capacities.
Virtue of character (ethike aret{j) is required as well, so that our loves and
hates, our fears and desires and wishes, do not get in the way- do not impede us- and, in addition, so that we see, and thus desire, what the situation calls for.
In addition, intellectual virtue and virtue of character require instruction and habituation- instruction for the intellect and habituation for
character- and these require that we are raised in an appropriate city: one
with sufficient land for food, with sufficient trade for necessary goods,
with the right size for easy governance, with an appropriate balance between the rich and the poor to prevent faction, with an appropriate regime
for us to utilize the character of the people, with a sufficient military to
avoid war or win it and so to remain as much as possible at peace, with
the right aims to develop our human capacities. All of these are the condi-
�ACHTENBERG
27
tions of our happiness- of our full self-development, both of yours and
mine, both in Aristotle's time and, as I think at any rate, in ours. 12
Of course, these conditions do not always come about, and even if they
do come about largely, they do not come about completely. Societies are
not perfect; they develop some people's capacities, while leaving the
capacities of others fallow. Even if they do develop your capacities, your
capacities are not limitless. Some are easy to develop; others are much
harder; and the development is preceded by its lack. Pleasure, since it requires virtue, is not easy; instead, it is an accomplishment (ergon).
It is because pleasure" is not easy that we tend to confuse ours with
that of the beasts and with the pleasure accompanying the functions we
share with plants. For these are easier than the pleasures intrinsic to
developed, that is, virtuous, activity. For example, we confuse bodily
pleasure with pleasure entire since it is intense and therefore easy. Bodily
pleasures, of course, are good, but bodily pleasure is the better part of
pleasure only for the other animals. So, too, it is because of the difficulty
of acquiring the pleasure intrinsic to virtuous activity that we seek extrinsic ones, the ones Aristotle calls superficial ornaments. 14 Each virtuous
or unimpeded activity has its own intrinsic pleasure; but activities are very
often left incomplete or unfinished, when we don't have the time or the
resources or the capacity. This is displeasing, frustrating, or even painful;
frustrated activities lack their intrinsic, or natural, pleasure. Then we find
relief in bodily pleasure, since it is easy, and expels our pain. Or we seek
extrinsic pleasures, like excess food or drink, or, for us, television or movies
or video games, since our ordinary activities cannot find their completion.
We are not gods. Our activities often miss their mark. So we seek the
pleasures we share with the other animals, or the pleasure we get from the
activities we and the other animals share with the plants, the vegetative
activities related to growth and procreation, or whatever is largely passive;
we drink something, stuff ourselves, turn on the VCR, and get close; we,
as we say, "veg out." And all of this is because human happiness is in
between- in between that of the beasts and that of the god; in between
non-action and action which is at every moment successful. We can act,
but our action, to be successful, must be responsive, responsive in just the
right way to the object of our action. When we do the needed act, at the
needed time, in the needed place, in the needed amount, and with the
needed aim, then we succeed. When we do so, then we are free, since we
are not impeded on any side, and we are pleased and happy; but to be
able to do so, as we have seen, is a serious, and difficult, accomplishment.
***
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
We are led back, then, to Aristotle's notion of end or telos. Telos means
end or goal, completion, fulfillment, or full development. It is one of the
four causes, the four answers to the question why, discussed in the
Metaphysics. It is Aristotle's fundamental discovery. There is efficient cause,
or the source of motion; material cause, or the out of which; formal cause
or what he calls by the unusual phrase the "what was being"; and final
cause-telos-or the "for the sake of which."
How shall we understand te/os? We can see how necessary it is to
understand it, if we are to understand what we have done so far, since each
of the parts of Aristotle's definition of virtue presupposes it. By te/os,
Aristotle means, I propose, constitutive limit. As the edges of a table not
only limit the table, but constitute it, so virtue not only limits our activity,
but allows it to be, fully, what it is. Tete are contrasted to limits that are
not constitutive, but destructive or disabling: split the table with an ax and
the new limits will not constitute, but destroy, the table; engage the enemy
recklessly and you will not engage the enemy at all, but be defeated by
him. Limits differ; not all limits are destructive or harmful; others are
beneficial. Those which constitute an action or thing are beneficial; they
are its tete.
Consider, for further illustration, an example from a skill, namely, playing the lyre. Is putting your finger on the string constitutive of lyre-playing?
Sometimes it is, and sometimes it is not. Sometimes pressing the string
is lyre-playing; other times, it makes noise. In running, sometimes leaning
forward will enable you to run -will be a constituent of running-and other
times it will cause you to fall. Sometimes speeding up will enable you to
run and other times slowing down will do so. When you fall, you cease
to run, so in that case, leaning back or speeding up, leaning forward or
slowing down, is not constitutive of, but destructive of, running. When
it is the cause of continued running, it is not only that, but also a constituent of running; it is part of the tetos. Or, put another way, then it is
a constituent of what it is to be running.
This latter phrase shows the connection between form and end in Aristotle's metaphysics, and explains why he uses the unusual coinage, the "what
was being" (to ti en einat), as a substitute for form. The "was," here, is
an imperfect, and commentators disagree on just how to take it. They agree,
however, that it refers to repeated action. I propose that the "what was
being" means what something was being all along. When you leaned forward and fell, your intent or aim was not to fall, but was to lean forward
and run. Leaning forward was intended to be running; but, sadly, or
sometimes comically, it was not. When you leaned back and ran, your intent was fulfilled or completed; your leaning back was running all along;
�ACHTENBERG
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it was a constituent of running; running is what leaning back, along with
the other movements made, was being."
Another way to understand telos is as the completion or development
of potential. Virtue, for example, is first-stage development of potential.
When I have, for example, the intellectual virtue Aristotle calls "science"
or episteme, the capacity to demonstrate or give arguments through the
study of logic or analytics, I have developed my latent capacity to demonstrate. The second, or more complete, development of that potential is to
activate that developed potential, that is, to demonstrate. The progression
is capacity, developed capacity or virtue, activity. But this way of understanding telos is just another example of the first way. That is, it is another
example of telos as what constitutes something or as what enables it to
be what it was being, all along, in potential. Acquisition of virtue, Aristotle says in the Physics and De Anima, is not alteration. It is not to become
different or to change kind, though it may involve this. Instead, it is to
develop or complete the kind that something already is.
Telos, then, is not a kind. To talk about telos or completion is not to
distinguish things into kinds or categories, but to distinguish potential from
development within kinds or across them." Tete, in fact, may be very different in kind, as we can see from the example of courage, where the telos
in one case may be to run forward, and in another case to run around,
and in another to retreat. Just as in playing the lyre the telos may sometimes
be to depress the string and other times to release it, so on the battlefield
courage may sometimes require running forward, and other times running
back. Telos, then, is relative- not, as we would say, subjective, but relative
to the context and to kind." As Aristotle puts it, completions of things
different in kind are themselves different.
Since good, according to Aristotle, means te/os, good, too, according
to him, is relative-again, not subjective, but relative to context and to
kind. The Ethics is about the human good and so, as we've seen, it is relative
to the defining human kind or activity (ergon). Moreover, as previously
stated, it is easy for us to misidentify our good with that of plants and
beasts or with that of the god. We might think that the good life is the
life of pleasure, as Aristotle points out in Nicomachean Ethics 1.5. But
that is not the good life for us- not, of course, that pleasure is not good;
pleasures are good, Aristotle says, and the best life and the most pleasant
life are one and the same. But the life of pleasure, by which he means the
life guided by desire alone, is not our good; for our desires do not always
guide us toward what's needed. As our good is not the same as that of
plants or the other animals, so, as we've seen, it is not the same as the
god's. For the god's only good is himself; while the good for us, until we've
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achieved it, is outside ourself. The god is always complete, while we are
not. We can constrast the beasts, human beings, and the god in this way:
the beasts have a te/os or constitutive limit, but cannot act, since they lack
choice; the god has (or is) activity, but has no telos or constitutive limit,
since the god is at every moment already complete; and human beings are
in between. We have both action and a telos: we are neither as fixed as
the other animals, nor as free as the god; we can act, but our action, in
order to be successful, must be the realization of a constitutive limit.
2
So far I have described Aristotle's account of the place of human happiness in between that of the beasts and that of the god and shown how
that account rests on his metaphysics- on his understanding of human
nature and its full development, and on full development, or te/os, in
general, as the guide and constitutive limit of our aims. I find Aristotle's
account largely persuasive; I do not find the standard objections to it
decisive. As may have been evident to you, however, I have not described
Aristotle's account as he would describe it. Instead, my account of Aristotle
has a point of view. I see Aristotle's ethics from the standpoint of the difficulty of happiness- the difficulty of achieving a life in which developed
capacities for reason-informed passion and action flourish. Specifically,
I see it from the standpoint of the difficulty of achieving this kind of happiness in modern individualist society, a society in which the various con-
ditions which together are required for a fulfilled human life are compartmentalized, and we are thus prevented from attaining our aims-work is
separated from family, politics from business, study from religion and
psychology, and so forth. In addition, I speak from a standpoint which
might be called liberal, or even left, since it begins with the assumption
of the equal importance of full development for all" and with the belief
in the capacity of the group to raise each of its members to a higher level,
their desires to claims of justice," and their capacities to a higher level
of development or virtue. 20
In the twentieth century, two philosophers have gone back to Aristotle's conception of the place of human happiness, the political philosopher
Leo Strauss and the moral philosopher Alasdair Macintyre. Of these two,
Strauss's point of view is closer to that of Aristotle and Macintyre's is closer
to the one which I have expressed, while Strauss recognizes, as I do, the
importance of a metaphysical basis for an Aristotelian account and
Macintyre does not. In what follows, I will give a brief sketch of each one's
return to Aristotelian ethics and, in so doing, begin to make the case for
a return like my own, to a liberal, but metaphysical Aristotelian ethics.
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In "An Epilogue" (1962), Strauss argues, against then contemporary
political science, for the Aristotelian belief in the irreducibility of human
nature. Man, he says, is a being sui generis, not reducible to any other kind.
Contemporary political science reduces man- to a being without latitude;
to a being for whom every stimulus is a value. But man is not such a being. Instead, man is a being distinguished from every other known being
because it posits values. A desire does not make the desired thing a man's
value; for a man may fight his desire or, if overpowered by his desire, he
may blame himself. This shows that the desire does not make something
his value; only choice does this, where choice is not the choice of means
to pregiven ends, but the choice of ends- the positing of ends, or, rather,
the positing of values." By reducing man, Strauss says, the new political
science strengthens the worst proclivities of democracy. "By teaching the
equality of all values, by denying that there are things which are intrinsically high and others which are intrinsically low as well as by denying
that there is an essential difference between men and brutes, it unwittingly
contributes to the victory of the gutter."" These are stirring words. They
are addressed to that within us that seeks something noble, to the ineradicable desire for the high, and they speak about what happens to that
desire and to us when man is reduced to less than he is.
In "Philosophy as Rigorous Science and Political Philosophy" (1969),
Strauss addresses the same problem, this time not in political science but
in contemporary philosophy. He divides then contemporary philosophy
into its two still predominant groups, despite name changes and changes
in views: the positivists and the existentialists, where positivism is the belief
that only scientific knowledge is genuine knowledge and existentialism the
belief that all principles of knowledge and action are historical (where by
"principle" he means "ground" or "basis"). Though these two schools seem
quite different, Strauss points out, they are united by their common rejection of political philosophy. Each rejects the knowability of the good,
positivists because the good cannot be known scientifically, existentialists
because even science is just one form among many of viewing the world,
all equally groundless, all of equal value. The positivists, then, like the new
political scientists discussed in "An Epilogue," would make us less than
we are, for their rejection of the good implies the impossibility of choice.
The existentialists make us more than we are, for though they accept the
importance of choice and action and believe that human beings posit values,
they believe such values cannot be known- that they are the result, instead,
of groundless human choice or of historical fate. Existentialism arises,
Strauss says, out of a desire for a code to live by when the ideals of wisdom
and of rigorous science are separated; that is, when our desire for the good
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is accompanied by the belief that the good cannot be known. Heidegger
is the existentialist Strauss has in mind; he is the center, Strauss says, not
part of the flabby periphery, of the existentialist movement."
As a young man, years earlier, Strauss had already noted this difficulty
in Heidegger's teachings- the problem which arises when the ineradicable
desire for the high is severed from metaphysical or theological ground.
Heidegger, he sensed, "spoke of something of the utmost importance to
man as man."24 He aimed at something important or serious, we might
say. Nonetheless, "What I could not stomach was his moral teaching, for
despite his disclaimer, he had such a teaching. The key term is resoluteness
without any indication as to what are the proper objects of resoluteness."25
It was this moral teaching, Strauss says, which led Heidegger later to side
with the Nazis.
Strauss saw the same difficulty in the teachings of the political philosopher, Carl Schmitt, in the thirties." Schmitt opposes the neutrality of
the modern state, with its low goals (humanitarian-pacifist morality,
comfort-guided economics, or non-controversial technology). In its place
he puts the affirmation of what he calls "the political as such," understood
as the division of human beings into fighting groups-friend-foe groups
always ready to fight. Against neutralist modernity, neutral because
humanitarian and pacifist in character, Schmitt poses the non-neutrality
of the fighting group which, because its members are ready to risk death,
is not neutral, but affirms.
Strauss notes two difficulties with Schmitt's affirmation of non-neutral
politics. First, it is as neutral as the liberalism it opposes. He calls it "liberalism preceded by a minus-sign,''27 or the "affirmation of fighting as such,
regardless of the object of fighting":"
Whereas the liberal respects and tolerates all "honestly held" convictions,
so long as these respect the legal order or acknowledge the sanctity of peace,
whoever affirms the political as such, respects and tolerates all "serious" convictions, in other words, all decisions leading up to the real possibility of war. 29
Second, Strauss notes that Schmitt's affirmation of the political, that
is of fighting, as such, is not consistent, since sometimes he affirms it not
as such, but on the basis of the moral, where morality is understood not
as humanitarian-pacifist but as affirmation of the serious over against the
reduction of life to mere entertainment, to a life, as Strauss characterizes
it, in which man has forgotten what counts.'" Still, though, Strauss says,
even this affirmation of the moral remains neutral. For Schmitt does not
answer the question, what are the proper objects of fighting, or, more
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generally, the question, what is right. That is, Schmitt rejects the neutralization of human beings, but puts groundless affirmation in its place.
To find an answer to the question what is right or good, to the question what is the proper object of our resoluteness, of our ineradicable desire
for the high, Strauss turns to the pre-modern- to the classical philosophy
especially of Plato and Aristotle and also to the Bible; to Athens, as he
calls it, and to Jerusalem, each offering an object for our aims, though
one is found through reason and the other not through reason but through
revelation." According to both, man is justified when he is in accord with
something outside himself: justice is compliance with the natural order
according to classical philosophy; righteousness is obedience to the divinely
established order according to Bibilical religion.
Strauss turns back to these because he believes that what is needed cannot be found in modernity. For, according to him, modernity is united in
its progressive rejection of value. It is, therefore, characterized by its progressive abandonment of that the positioning of which distinguishes human
beings from the other animals. Modernity has, according to Strauss, three
waves: a first wave which, I suggest, we can identify with the first mistake
pointed out by Aristotle, the reduction of the irreducible human kind to
the status of plants and non-human animals; a third wave, which can be
identified with the second mistake pointed out by Aristotle, the error of
raising ourselves to the level of gods; and a transitional second stage, containing elements of both. The first stage he identifies variously with Hobbes
or Machiavelli and the rise of modern science; the second with Rousseau;
and the third with Nietzsche. Machiavelli turns us away from the "ought"
to the "is"; that is, from how one ought to live, to how one does live;
Rousseau identifies the "ought" and the "is," since, according to him, there
is no appeal from the existent general will to some principle or ground
beyond and constitutive of it; and Nietzsche abandons the "is" for the
"ought," or at least for value, since, according to him, all truths are values
and all values are created- not discovered, but created.
Modern science, like Machiavelli, is part of the first-wave move away
from value; for it, too, is founded ou the rejection of the classical belief
in natural ends: ends towards which we and all other beings are directed;
ends specific to each specifically different nature, ours being determined
by our rational and social nature. These ends give all beings, including
human beings, a place within the whole. Man has a place in an order he
did not originate; he has power, but his power is limited; he cannot overcome the limitations of his own nature. 32 Modern science leaves us with
a mechanistic science of nature, thus rendering the question of human ends
always a problem.
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The philosophy of late modernity is no better; for it results in historicism. Hegelian historicism suggests that history is in its final decline,
so it cannot provide the objects to guide our aims. Non-Hegelian historicism
provides us with two choices, a universalist historicism represented by
Marx's vision of a mobile, not deeply rooted, world society dedicated to
the full development of everyone, and a particularist historicism represented
by Nietzsche's anti-egalitarian vision of the man of specialization who is
subject to harsh limitation, against the man who follows goal after goal,
in aimless "full development." The former is the liberal ideal Schmitt rightly
rejected. The latter is akin to the ideal which Schmitt proposed and Strauss
rejected. The one is universalist and peaceful; the other is particularist and
warlike. Each, as we've seen, is neutral, and so cannot provide us with proper
objects. We could be stronger about the particularist ideal and say that
its desire for the high, severed from metaphysical or theological ground,
easily becomes the rule of muscle, or blood, or land. Strauss did have this
in mind about Heidegger, whose unguided resoluteness, according to him,
led directly to his siding with the Nazis in 1933, as I have mentioned before.
Whether the same could be said of Schmitt's affirmation of the serious
understood as warlike and particularist and his becoming a Nazi, I do not
know.
What's needed, then, is a principle or basis on which to judge- between
particular and universal, war and peace. Plato gives us an example of this
in the Euthyphro, Apology, and Crito. The principle- the proper object
of our aims- is the good, understood as wisdom, or human wisdom, and
the apparent means to it, namely, philosophy or dialogue. Socrates does
not commit the injustice of allowing Crito to steal him out of prison. Why
not? Not out of obedience to Athens simply because it is his own. We know
from the Apology that Socrates would disobey Athens in one case, namely,
if he was forbidden by the city to philosophize. Not because Athens is
simply just, that is, in accord with a universal principle, as we know it is
not from the conviction and sentencing of Socrates. Instead, because
Athens, though imperfect, is not wholly bad, but comes close to justiceSocrates was raised and educated in Athens, and allowed to philosophize
for many years. The Crito and Euthyphro remind us that Socrates stands
between affirmation of the particular and of the universal. Crito affirms
the particular- his friendship group, of which Socrates is a member- and
cannot see a more universal entity, Athens and its laws, as the proper object of his affirmation. Thus Socrates must personalize the laws- make
them more particular-to motivate Crito's obedience. Euthyphro, on the
other hand, affirms the universal. In the name of piety he is prosecuting
his father for allowing a killer to die in a ditch. A workman killed a
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workman and Euthyphro's father left him too long in a ditch, where he
died. There seems something inhuman about Euthyphro's unconcern about
the particular-his unconcern about his father-apparently for the sake
of a universal principle, justice. Crito can only help his friends and harm
his enemies; Euthyphro, apparently, stands by a principle no matter who
is hurt. Socrates stands in between: he helps Athens, his own, not simply
because it is his own, but because it is in many important respects, though
not in all respects, good. Awareness of the good, then, not only provides
a basis for judgment; it also is not "absolutist" but allows for ambiguity.
The things around us, as Socrates says in the Republic, tumble about between being and not being, in this case between being and not being just.
According to Aristotle, too, the good provides a basis on which to
judge- to judge regimes or forms of govermnent and to decide between
war and peace. Just regimes are distinguished from unjust ones not, as
we might say, by the consent of the governed, but by rulers who rule not
for their own but the common good, where the good is understood by him,
as we've seen, as a life in which developed capacities of intellect and
character flourish. Without an understanding of a substantive human good
we are left with affirmation of limitation as such or the claim that all limitation is dominance, that is, that all limitation is to be opposed; but opposition to norms ought to be for the sake of something; it ought to be for
the sake of norms which can lead to human development, to constitutive,
not harmful or destructive, norms.
The good also provides a basis for deciding between war and peace:
war is not for its own sake; it is not the end. We would call a man a murderer
who made enemies of his friends for the sake of war, Aristotle says in the
Ethics. Instead, war is for the sake of peace. Peace, too, is not the end,
however; it is itself guided by another criterion, namely, the good life,
understood, again, as a life in which developed human capacities flower."
3
What I have sketched here is Strauss's account of the two schools of
contemporary philosophy, divided by their estimation of human action,
but united by their rejection of the good and by their common origin in
the progressive rejection of the good by modern philosophy and science.
The rejection has three waves: the first turns from the "ought" to the "is";
the second identifies them; and the third replaces the "is" with the "ought"
or at least with value. The result is historicism of two sorts, one affirming
the universal and peace; the other the particular and war. What's needed,
instead, is a principle or ground for deciding between these, the principle
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
which Biblical religion called god and pre-modern philosophers called the
good.
Strauss's writings are an invaluable series of reflections on this modern
trend along with interpretations of the ancient writings which counter it.
His writings have not until recently been much considered by American
professional philosophers, however. There are a number of reasons for this
neglect. I suppose a principal one is simply that Strauss's philosophical
origins are in Continental Europe rather than Britain. American philosophy,
as a discipline, has been and still is principally Anglo-American in content and style, despite its current interest in themes which derive principally from Nietzsche. A second reason is Strauss's perceived political
conservatism. 34
It is right, I believe, to call Strauss a "conservative," but important to
see what that might mean. His is not the extreme conservatism which affirms the particular as such (whether it be race, land, or tradition) or war
for its own sake. His comments on Carl Schmitt demonstrate this, as does
his invocation of the distinction between the ancestral and the good." Instead, he is conservative in his recognition of the need for something to
guide or limit the ineradicable human desire for something high- for the
serious, as he puts it when speaking about Schmitt; for a code to live by,
as he puts it when talking about existentialism; for objects for our
resoluteness, as he puts it when speaking about his early reaction to
Heidegger. It is the fact that this desire, unguided, is dangerous that leads
Strauss to associate what I have called "accord with something outside
ourselves"- the accord with virtue and thus with telos which is required
according to Aristotle for happiness- with the high or noble. Recall that
it was Heidegger's moral teaching-unguided resoluteness-which according to Strauss led him to side with the Nazis. Philosophy, Strauss says,
though privately extreme, must be publicly moderate." This is one part
of Strauss's conservatism.
Another is his thoroughgoing privileging of rank. For a random example, consider this passage from "An Epilogue": the new political science
"must begin to learn to look with sympathy at the obstacles to it if it wishes
to win the sympathy of the best men of the coming generation- those
youths who possess the intellectual and the moral qualities which prevent
men from simply following authorities, to say nothing of fashions.""
Strauss's students extend this privileging. Allan Bloom, in his recent book
on the crisis in American education, The Closing of the American Mind·
How Higher Education has Failed Democracy and Impoverished the Souls
of Today's Students, is not reticent in stating that the students he has drawn
his conclusions about are those who are both talented and well-off. "A
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word about my 'sample' in this study," he says. "It consists of thousands
of students of comparatively high intelligence, materially and spiritually
free to do pretty much what they want with the few years of college they
are privileged to have-in short, the kind of young persons who populate
the twenty or thirty best universities."" The privileging of rank is another
part of Strauss's conservatism.
Recently, however, Alasdair Macintyre, his origins not in phenomenology and existentialsm but in what he calls analytical philosophy, and
his aim not to provide proper objects for the ineradicable desire for the
high but to find a pluralist account of happiness as unity, has, like Strauss,
called for a return to Aristotle. In After Virtue (1981; second ed. 1984),
Macintyre calls for a return to an Aristotelian ethics to rescue us from
the twin evils of end-neutral emotivism on the one hand, and Aristotle's
"metaphysical biology'' on the other." The similarities between these two
different accounts of our current impasse and its origins in the Enlightenment are worth noting.
Macintyre, like Strauss, believes that the West is currently in a dangerous
state, comparable to the period of the decline of the Roman empire into
the Dark Ages. 40 Strauss calls our current state a "crisis": Western man
no longer knows what he wants, Strauss says; for he has lost his faith that
he can know what is right and wrong, good and bad." Macintyre calls
our situation a state of "grave disorder in the language of morality": "we
have-very largely, if not entirely-," he says, "lost our comprehension,
both theoretical and practical, of morality."" He labels that disorder with
the name "emotivism," where by "emotivism" he means the doctrine that
all value judgments, and more specifically all moral judgments, are nothing
but assertions of personal preference or feeling." We live, Macintyre states,
in a specifically emotivist culture. For people now think, talk, and act as
if emotivism were true;" that is, they live, talk, and act as if value judgments
were mere expressions of personal preference. The result of this is that contemporary moral debate is interminable, each side shrilly shouting its moral
claims as if they were transpersonally true, while in fact basing them on
nothing more than personal preference. Thus arguments about war and
peace, abortion and choice, social welfare and capitalist freedom, go on
interminably, without any prospect of resolution.
In addition, emotivism results in a specifically emotivist self, a bifurcated self, divided into two value-neutral parts: one, the organizational self
of bureaucratic man, in whose activities ends are taken for granted and
the means to ends are manipulated; and another, the personal self of private
human beings, for whom values are central, but purely a matter of arbitrary
choice. The emotivist self results from two beliefs, the belief that actions
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
are not value-guided but reducible to mere behavior, and the belief that
roles and traditions are not definitive of who someone is, but mere matters of arbitrary choice. These two beliefs should remind us of beast and
god: the managerial self on the one hand, and the expressive self on the
other.
Like Strauss, Macintyre points out that neither school of contemporary
philosophy can get us out of our predicament. Neither, he says, could even
diagnose it. For analytical philosophers and phenomenologists, though
divided by differences in vocabulary and style, are united in their dedication to description over evaluation, the former to description of language,
the latter to description of structures of consciousness." As the analytical
phllosopher C. L. Stevenson claimed that value judgments like "Thls is
good" simply mean "I approve of this; do so as well,"46 so the existentialist
philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre argued that claims to rational morality were
nothing but the exercise of bad faith by those who were unable to tolerate
the recognition that their own choices were the sole source of moral judgment, and the existentialist phllosopher Nietzsche claimed that would-be
objective moral judgments were just the mask worn by those whose willto-power was too weak for them to assert themselves with archaic and
aristocratic grandeur." Like Strauss, Macintyre sees this existentialist alternative to analytical philosophy as dangerous: the Sartrean existentialist as
well as Nietzsche's Obermensch "belong," he says, "in the pages of a philosophical bestiary rather than in serious discussion."48
Like Strauss, Macintyre finds the origins of our current predicament
in the collapse of the two principal teachings of the pre-modern West: the
rational ethics of Aristotle and the theological ethics of divine law. The
moral scheme of these two teachlngs dominated the European middle ages
from the twelfth century onwards, according to Macintyre. The scheme
has three parts: man-as-he-happens-to-be; man-as-he-could-be-if-herealized-his-le/os; and the precepts of rational ethics for moving from one
to the other. This moral scheme, however, presupposes a number of views
which have been rejected since the Enlightenment: it presupposes an account of potentiality/actuality, of the essence of man as a rational animal,
and of the human telos. For virtues are those developed capacities which
enable us to move from our mere potential to the realization of our essential nature. The precepts of rational ethics are, in other words, teleological,
instructing us on how to move from potency to act, from our potential
to our nature or telos.
Unfortunately, theological ethics has the same scheme: man-as-hehappens-to-be; man-as-he-could-be-if-he-realized-hls-le/os; and the precepts
which enable us to move from one to the other. The scheme is the same,
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though the precepts are expressions not of teleology but of divinely ordained law. On both accounts, the third element in this scheme-the
precepts-are lost. For Protestantism and Jansenist Catholicism unite with
seventeenth-century philosophy and science in the claim that reason cannot comprehend essences or transitions from potency to act.
Like Strauss, Macintyre sees the Enlightenment rejection of teleology
as progressive, starting with the early Enlightenment's "mechanistic account
of human action"" and ending with Nietzsche's claim that my morality
is only what my will creates:" we must create new tables of what is good,
Nietzsche says; we "want to become those we are-human beings who are
new, unique, incomparable, who give themselves laws, who create themselves."" It is not hard to see that these two phases, like the first and third
waves of modernity described by Strauss, are the two mistakes pointed out
by Aristotle, one of supposing that we are less than we are, the other of
supposing we are more. For the mechanistic account of human action consists in the belief that human action can be explained wholly in terms of
antecedent, mechanistic causes, and not at all in terms of the end which
we set for ourselves; while Nietzsche claims not only that we set our own
ends, but that in doing so we make those ends good. Mechanists claim
we cannot act, but instead are pushed; while Nietzsche claims our action
is its own justification. One identifies us, if not with the beasts, at least
with mechanism; the other identifies us with the gods. Like Strauss,
however, Macintyre's claim is not that Nietzsche is wrong or that he is
trivial. Instead they both agree that his diagnosis of the ultimate result
of modernity is both apt and profound; it is his prescription which they
reject. They both agree that modern philosophy is, through and through,
incapable of giving ground for value judgments, but deny that this means
we ought to or can create our own values. Instead, each sees Nietzsche's
critique as a critique not of ethics, politics, or rationality itself, but of the
modern understanding of ethics, politics, and rationality." Each thus calls
for a return to pre-modern philosophy, Strauss to (among others) Aristotle,
Macintyre not to Aristotle, but to an Aristotelian ethics.
To do so, Macintyre gives his own Aristotelian account of a virtue. A
virtue, according to him, is a quality whose exercise enables us to achieve
the goods which are internal to complex forms of human activity." He
calls such activities "practices": a practice, according to him, is a coherent
and complex, socially established, cooperative human activity; arts,
sciences, and games are practices, as are politics and the making and sustaining of family life." A virtue, then, is a quality which makes it possible
to attain the goods internal to complex forms of human activity. For example, a chess player who lacks the virtue honesty may win at the game
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of chess by cheating; he thus will achieve a good external to chess, prestige,
for example, or status, or money; he will not, however, insofar as he cheats,
achieve the goods intrinsic to chess: he will not in fact have played a good
game of chess; nor will he have extended his chess-playing skills, nor attained the enjoyment intrinsic to the game of chess itself- its competitive
intensity, for example.
Macintyre's definition of a virtue is, arguably, Aristotelian. According
to Aristotle, a virtue is a disposition to choose the mean, where the mean,
as I have described it, is just what is required for the end in question, and
so could be understood to be what Macintyre has called an intrinsic good.
In addition, the virtuous man, according to Aristotle, does what is needed
or appropriate not out of compulsion or simply from habit, but because
he desires it for its own sake: the courageous man does what is needed,
when needed, and as needed, not for the sake of money, nor simply because
he is angry, but "for the sake of the beautiful," that is, for its own sake.
This is what distinguishes the one who has virtue from the one who merely
has continence: in the virtuous man, desires and beliefs are in harmony,
and the virtuous action is without conflict or regrets; the continent man,
to the contrary, does what he believes is appropriate, but must overcome
a contrary desire in order to do so.
The difficulty, however, is that Macintyre's account provides no way
to distinguish between one who overcomes fears and dangers in battle in
order to enjoy, for example, war for its own sake, and one who does so
in order to defeat a tyrant. Remember that according to Aristotle we would
call the one who would make enemies of his friends for the sake of war
a murderer. His point is that one who fights war not for the sake, ultimately,
of the flowering of human virtue, but for the sake of the enjoyment of
war itself, is not virtuous but vicious. As I have shown earlier, it is the
end, the telos, which, ultimately for Aristotle, determines which capacities
are virtues and which vices: capacities for the good are virtues; those for
what is bad are vices.
Macintyre's account of the end or telos of our virtues is curiously empty.
The good life, according to him, is a unified life- the life of a unified self,
one not bifurcated into the mechanized actions of an end-neutral manager
on the one hand and the expressive life of one who arbitrarily chooses roles
on the other. Instead, it is a life unified by a narrative which connects the
individual's behavior both to his or her intentions and to larger, communal
settings and roles. Action, on this account, is not mechanistic, but guided
by what the actor takes to be his or her end; nor is action wholly selfdetermined; instead, it gets its intelligibility and its identity from the larger
community and tradition of which it is a part.
�ACHTENBERG
41
Which ends, however, and which community traditions, ought we to
use to organize the narrative of our life, and which ones ought we to avoid?
There Macintyre is silent. But there lies the difference between being happy
and being miserable, between tyranny and just rule, between justified and
unjustified war. For the ends we set, and the traditions we follow and roles
we fill, can lead to full human development, or away from it. Macintyre,
on this point, devolves into a groundless pluralism. There are different
norms which we might pursue, he points out; sometimes, he states, these
different norms may be incommensurable; each makes sense only in its
own context. "The good life for man," he states, "is a life spent in seeking
for the good life for man.'"'
According to Aristotle, however, every action and choice aims at
something believed to be good; aiming at what one takes to be good is
not the distinguishing characteristic of virtuous actions as opposed to
vicious ones; instead, it is aiming at what in fact is good which distinguishes
them. It is in order to help us improve our aim that Aristotle writes the
Ethics itself. His listeners know what is beneath us- the life of slaves or
beasts- and are aiming at the high; they are the aspiring gentlemen of the
day. But, their aims need guidance. Macintyre's positive account, then,
fails, or at least needs to be much further worked out. For, though it allows
that there is distinction between human action and mechanical causation,
it does not give us a guide for our action, and thus becomes a version of
the mistake which he imputes to Nietzsche. Macintyre states the alternatives
in ethics starkly: Nietzsche or Aristotle. It is not clear that his own account describes the alternative which he prefers, however; for intrinsic good
without a guiding aim-energeia without a telos-is not Aristotle at all,
but is Nietzsche.
Macintyre finds himself in this impasse because he rejects Aristotle's
account of human happiness and substitutes for it his own. He does so
for one principal reason: because he rejects what he calls Aristotle's
"metaphysical biology," that is, because he, like the Enlightenment
philosophers he mentions, rejects teleology. As stated earlier, however, I
do not think these objections to Aristotle's ethics are successful. First,
though Aristotle's account does rest on his biology, it does not rest on the
part most commonly, and I think rightly, rejected: it does not rest on the
belief that living beings move by nature towards their end. The ethics
presupposes that human beings have an end; but it denies that we move
by nature towards it: virtue and happiness, according to Aristotle, are not
by nature, as I mentioned before; every action is aimed at something believed to be good, but our beliefs may be false or may fail to inform our
passions.
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Second, though Aristotle's account of human happiness does rest on
his metaphysics, specifically on his account of potentiality and completion (dynamis and entelecheia), this part of his metaphysics is arguably
true: it is arguably adequate to the phenomena- to the distinction between,
for example, a blind person and a sighted person with his eyes shut; moreover, the fact that it is puzzling-and I think that it is-does not argue
against its truth, unless someone can show that the real cannot be puzzling.
Third, I deny that Aristotle's account of human happiness- specifically,
his account of the human ergon and its telos-makes human beings more
fixed than they actually are." Aristotle's account of the human ergon, instead of making human beings more fixed than they actually are, locates
the source of our evident versatility: we need not follow our passions, for
example, but may act against them, or even alter our tendency to have them;
the other animals must follow their passions; we, however, can act. 57
Macintyre's Aristotelianism arises not out of reflections on the dangers
of the unguided desire for the high, but on the need to overcome the
fragmented quality of modern life. A virtue, on his account, is a human
disposition which makes a unified life possible. His account is, still, however,
liberal: he wants an Aristotelian ethics which is pluralist rather than exclusive; one which does not claim "institutional hegemony"; one which is
applicable to people who live in different societies and follow different
codes. In this, however, he has gone too far; for, since the good is relative,
it is not vagueness about the good, but the good itself, that is, te/os, which
provides the needed diversity.
Conclusion
We are left, then, with two contemporary Aristotelianisms, one conservative and metaphysical, the other liberal and anti-metaphysical. The
latter is problematic since it falls into one of the two alternatives it was
devised to avoid: it leaves us pursuing arbitrary aims. The former is not
problematic, but partial: accord can be identified with the high, but it can
also be identified with wholeness or unity. Which is the American problem, the uncontrolled desire for the high or the fragmentation of desire,
the tyrant or the "as-if' personality, Alcibiades or Gary Hart? The answer,
I suppose, is both. The two accounts also differ in origin and in aim.
Strauss's origins are in phenomenology and existentialism and in reflections on Nazism and other right-wing teachings; his aim is to find a plausible and efficacious aim for the ineradicable human desire for the high.
Macintyre's origins are in analytical philosophy and in reflections on the
increasing fragmentation of contemporary life; his aim is to find a historical
and pluralist account of happiness as unity.
�ACHTENBERG
43
Macintyre's anti-metaphysical Aristotelianism is not an isolated case.
As philosophers turn increasingly towards the continent, whether to Nietzsche or to Heidegger, their interpretations and revivals of Aristotle do so
too. It began perhaps with Hannab Arendt's attempt, in the fifties, to found
an Aristotelian account of action on natality rather than entelechy (that
is, on our capacity to begin something new rather than on human nature
and its te/os); it continues with Martha Nussbaum's attempt, in the eighties,
to interpret Aristotle's ethics as grounded not in metaphysics or nature,
but in ordinary language; it continues in the current attempts by AngloAmerican interpreters of Aristotle, Timothy Roche and Alfonso GomezLobo, for example, to show that the Nicomachean Ethics does not have
a metaphysical foundation; and, as I've stated, it continues in Macintyre's
ongoing attempt to found his Aristotelian ethics on narrative structure
rather than metaphysical ground.
For those who, like myself, associate themselves both with Aristotle
and with liberalism- that is, both with Aristotle and with the pursuit of
progress and change- these two types of Aristotelian ethics cry out for
a third: for a liberal, but metaphysical, Aristotelianism, the outlines of
which I have only begun to sketch out. It would, first, be an ethics dedicated
to the same goal as Aristotle's: happiness understood as the full development of our species-given capacities for intellect and feeling. It would
presuppose, however, the equal importance of full development for all; this
could perhaps be justified on moral grounds, as it is by William Galston
in Justice and the Human Good, or on practical grounds, as a means of
engendering public spiritedness in the liberal state. It would see the prudent pursuit of this goal- full development for all- as its ground, that
is, as the principle on the basis of which to judge between beneficial and
harmful change. It would recognize, as Aristotle does, self-government,
not big government, as a constituent of, and not just a means to, such
full development, and community as its condition- as Aristotle recognized
the city as its condition in his time- since the liberal state remains largely
neutral about the human good, with state being separate from church, from
economics, and, largely, from culture. It would recognize as well the ambiguous relationship of the liberal state and capitalist economy to such
communities, that the state and economy often destroy communities rather
than sustaining them, by pandering to our desires for passive pleasure on
the one hand and immortality on the other, to our consumer desires and
to our proliferating attempts to overcome death. It would privilege neither
the downtrodden, as much of the American left does, nor the talented,
as does Strauss. It would recognize the capacity of the community to raise
the level of each of its members, their desires to claims of justice and their
�THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
44
capacities to higher levels of virtue or development; the community, in other
words, would be that particular body, intermediate between state and
family, as Michael Sandel has said, through which our particular capacities,
desires, and needs are raised to the level of the universal, without ever losing their rootedness in the particular: our capacities developed to the extent of their human potential, our desires and needs fulfilled in accordance
with our common hnman nature. It would be a liberalism that would not
deny, in its search for wholeness through community, the need for daring
and risk, but would recognize that risk taken on and for oneself or one's
group can be ennobling, as Michael Walzer has said in his discussions of
the self-management of dangerous businesses." And it would be a teaching
about happiness which could animate a sound pluralism- a pluralism based
not on subjective whim, but on the relativity of good to context and to
character; what is required to develop human capacities varies from place
to place and person to person: sometimes we need to toughen up, other
times to loosen up; sometimes to control our impulses, other times to
discover them; sometimes we need a kick in the rear, sometimes a help
up; sometimes we need sports, sometimes to learn parenting; sometimes
we need great books, sometimes we need therapy; sometimes we need
poliiical participation, sometimes communion with God. The origin of
this Aristotelian ethics would be in American philosophy and reflections
on the fragmented, not to say narcissistic, American self; its aim would
be to identify accord not just with the high bnt also with wholeness. It
is an account that I hope to detail further in the future.
Notes
I.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
Our own end is only outside when we have not achieved it.
Nicomachean Ethics 3.8.
Nicomachean Ethics 2.9.
See Politics 1 on slavery. The slave lacks choice; it is lacking that which
makes him a slave.
Nicomachean Ethics 2.9.
Metaphysics 9.1; Physics 7.3.
Nicomachean Ethics 1.5. I distinguish here so-called final and instrumental good or bad: the beneficial and harmful are final (that is,
intrinsic); the enabling and destructive are instrumental.
Again, instrumental and final good, where final means constitutive,
as I argue below.
Nicomachean Ethics 3.3 1112b; 6.9 1142b.
�ACHTENBERG
45
10. Nicomachean Ethics 6.8 1142a; 6.9 1142b.
II. Pleasure is unimpeded activity of a disposition in accordance with
nature (energeia tes kata physin hexei5s, anti de tou aistheten anempodiston). (This is Aristotle's first definition, Nicomachean Ethics 7.12
1153al4. The second does not conflict with it. 10.4 1174b3l.) Happiness
is activity in accordance with virtue. Virtue is a disposition in accor-
dance with nature (kata physin). So activity in accordance with it is
unimpeded. Therefore, happiness is unimpeded activity of a natural
disposition, specifically, of the disposition to choose the mean or to
hit the truth.
12. The city (polis) does not, and cannot, exist here today. So, some other
condition is necessary for full development, as I state below.
13. And thus happiness.
14. "Superficial ornament" is interpretive. Aristotle says pleasure "hosper
periaptou tinos" (1.8 l099al6). Ross translates this, "pleasure as a sort
of adventitious charm." Irwin translates it pleasure "as some sort of
ornament."
15. That this implies that each of these movements, by being together with
the others, is more than itself- is raised to a higher level of
development- is a reason for beginning to think that Athens and
Jerusalem -that is, hierarchy and equality-are not as separate as they
sometimes seem. Each "low" motion, by being together with the others,
is raised to a higher level.
16. Metaphysics 9.1.
17. For example, running forward is the telos relative to one battle, but
not to another; it is a context-relative good. For another example, intellectual instruction is a good relative to a human being, but not to
a beast or to the god; it is a good relative to kind. There are, also,
I maintain, goods relative to differing character or psychology: some
people need competition; others need cooperation.
18. For this, see William Galston's full development principle in ''Equality of Opportunity and Liberal Theory," in Justice and Equality, Here
and Now (Cornell, 1986), p. 92.
19. See Hanna Pitkin's reference to Joseph Thssman in "Justice: On
Relating Private and Public," Political Theory, August 1981, p. 347.
20. Currently, though, the American left privileges the downtrodden.
Hence, in that sense, my standpoint is liberal, not left, since it privileges
neither the downtrodden nor the talented, as I say below. It includes
some elements from the left, though, specifically, the left suspicion
of the relation between capital and human development.
�46
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
21. Leo Strauss, "An Epilogue," in Liberalism, Ancient and Modern, p.
221 (reprinted from Essays on the Scientific Study of Politics, ed.
Herbert J. Storing, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1962).
22. "An Epilogue," p. 222.
23. "Philosophy as Rigorous Science ... ," p. 30.
24. "A Giving of Accounts: Jacob Klein and Leo Strauss," The College
(St. John's College), April 1970, p. 3.
25. "A Giving of Accounts," p. 3.
26. "Comments on The Concept of the Political by Carl Schmitt," (1932),
reprinted in Spinoza's Critique of Religion (Schocken, 1982).
27. P. 350.
28. P. 350.
29. P. 350.
30. P. 346.
31. I think it is possible to defend certain principles found in the Bible
without resorting to revelation. As mentioned in a previous note, each
first-stage potential is raised to a higher-stage potential by being
together with other first-stage potentials. This is often true among people: the group can raise its members to a higher level.
32. Leo Strauss, "The Three Waves of Modernity," in Political Philosophy:
Six Essays by Leo Strauss (Bobbs-Merrill, 1975), pp. 85, 87.
33. Nicomachean Ethics 1177b.
34. "The real issue is Strauss's ruthless determination to use these old books
to 'moderate' that idealistic longing for justice, at home and abroad,
which grew in the puppies of America during the years when Strauss
was teaching and writing." M. F. Burnyeat, "Sphinx Without a Secret"
(New York Review of Books, May 30, 1985), p. 36.
35. The City and Man (University of Chicago, 1964); Preface, Liberalism,
Ancient and Modern (Basic Books, 1964).
36. "A Giving of Accounts," p. 4.
37. P. 204.
38. The Closing of the American Mind (Simon and Schuster, 1987), p. 22.
39. Alasdair Macintyre, After Virtue (Notre Dame, 1981; seconded., 1984).
40. Strauss, "An Epilogue." Macintyre, After Virtue, p. 263.
41. "The Three Waves of Modernity," p. 81.
42. P. 2.
43. Pp. 11-12.
44. P. 22.
45. P. 2.
46. P. 12.
47. P. 22.
�ACHTENBERG
48.
49.
50.
51.
52.
53.
54.
55.
56.
47
P. 22; p. 113.
P. 84.
P. 114.
P. 114, quoting Nietzsche, The Gay Science, section 335, p. 266.
After Virtue, pp. 22, 114; "The Three Waves of Modernity," p. 98.
P. 191; see also pp. 219, 223.
Pp. 187-188.
P. 219.
As has been argued by, for example, Hannah Arendt in The Human
Condition (University of Chicago, 1958) and by Bernard Suits in
"Aristotle on the Function of Man: Fallacies, Heresies and other Entertainments" (Canadian Journal ofPhilosophy 4, September 1974), p. 23.
57. See my argument in support of this in "On the Metaphysical Presuppositions of Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics," forthcoming, Journal
of Value Inquiry, Martinus Nijhoff, The Hague.
58. Michael Walzer, Spheres of Justice: A Defense of Pluralism and Equality (Basic Books, 1983).
��Dead Leaves:
Illustrations of the Genealogy
of the Epic Poem
Jonathan Tuck
Poems, like people, have parents-and grandparents-and a whole remote
ancestry of other poems to which they owe their own begetting. Though
poets may try to set themselves up as a second deity, creating from
nothingness with perfect power and freedom, still the poems they make
bear ancestral markings and acknowledge their indebtedness. Each spring
growth of foliage seems to remake the whole world anew; but each leaf
is of a kind-a larger family-and also has more particular origins. The
leaves fall and die, but not before they transmit something of themselves
to their offspring. So too the leaves of a book, pages traced vein-like with
lines of verse, take part in this cycle of begetting. Poems, too, can die to
the world, although not exactly as leaves or people do. Some poets claim
to have made the most permanent of objects, more enduring than bronze
or monuments of stone, exempt from the ravages of time. Such claims are
typically written in dead languages; or in any case they must have for us
a quaint, antique sound. We know better: Words are winged, and if in their
flight they fall on barren soil, nothing dies as fast. Their only chance for
survival, for immortality, lies in their power to propagate.
***
Jonathan Thck is a Thtor at St. John's College, Annapolis. This lecture was delivered
at the Annapolis campus in April, 1988.
49
�50
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
In the Homeric No-man's Land, the space between the two armies, the
Achaian hero Diomedes, son of Tydeus, meets Glaukos of Lycia, a Trojan
ally. Diomedes has just gotten away with assaulting two of the immortal
gods, despite a rebuke from Apollo; but now he grows cautious. He is not
willing to join battle with another divinity, he says, so he prudently inquires about Glaukos' identity and origins. Both the question and the caution that prompts it are surprising to us: Diomedes has been busily
slaughtering scores of others for some time now without any such scruple
or ceremony. In his aristeia, his finest hour on the battlefield, he has shown
a strength that transcends human limitations, and it is the desire to defeat
those limitations that makes men fight at all- so that their glory may be
a song for men to come. Yet now, oddly, Diomedes feels hemmed in by
his mortality. His strange moment of pensiveness in the midst of the battle
prompts his question to Glaukos, and the answer at first shows the same
mood of quiescence:
"Tu&€.i&n J.u:;y<i9u).ts, 'til\ y~::vsftv Epssivstc;;
otTtnsp q>UA.Arov yevsr}, 'tOiTJ oe Kat Uv&pOOv.
q>UAAU '" ~uiv ,. UVE~O<; xa~6.St<; ):BEt, ana M e· u).n
'tTJA.s96roaa qnlst, Eapoc; 0 • E:myiyvs-rat ffip11·
ffi<; &.voprov YEVEij 1\ ~·v !pUEt 1\ s· U1t0A~yEt.
ei &' &9EA.stc; Kat 'tCll1ta Oa:tlJ.lEVUt, O<pp' EU stBUc;
itJJ.E'tEpnv ysvsitv, noA.A.ol OE IJ.tv liv&psc; icraow·
"Great son of l)rdeus, why ask of my generation?
Like to the generation of leaves is that of men.
The leaves are dashed to the ground by the wind, but then the wood
Burgeoning brings forth others, and the time of spring returns.
So with the generations of men: One blossoms, another dies.
Yet if you wish even so to ask and learn the facts
About my family stock, it is known by many men ... "
-Iliad VI. 145-151
Glaukos too seems to be oddly conscious of human insignificance. In
his simile of the leaves, the chiastic order of presentation suggests a difference of emphasis between the life story of the leaves and that of men.
The leaves are first dashed to the ground, but then the wood brings forth
more. New life here follows death; while in the one line devoted to human
affairs the generations of men first bloom and then die. Syntactically the
word &.no).Tjyet gives the line a kind of abruption, since it here lacks its
more usual complementary genitive or participle. In sound, however, it drifts
away into a kind of dying fall, with the repetition of the long 'ay' sound
�TUCK
51
in ft li'unoA.ljyBI. The tone is melancholy and detached. We might even
suspect Glaukos of being afraid of Diomedes and resigned to his own imminent death; certainly he has good reason to be, given what we have seen
of Diomedes' prowess. But the sentiment conveyed by the similitude of the
leaves goes beyond either bitterness or quiescence: It has a kind of noble,
philosophic serenity that makes the passage seem detachable from its context. In a sixteenth-century edition of the poem there might be a little picture of a hand in the margin, with an index finger pointing out the portable sententia. There is a grandeur-in-misery here in being able to be aware
of such things; like Pascal's thinking reed Glaukos seems to be finding his
dignity in self-knowledge. So the shift is especially jarring to us when in
the next line Glaukos says in effect: "But if you really want to know, my
family has a proud history." And then he is off into an exciting account
of the noble feats of his grandfather Bellerophon.
In like manner, we the audience are emotionally whiplashed by the
peculiar ending of the episode. Diomedes announces in tones of delight
that he and Glaukos are ~svot, guest-friends, by virtue of their forbears'
friendly relationship, and he proposes a separate peace: He and Glaukos
will each find other men to kill; with each other they will exchange armor
in token of comradeship. The two men clasp hands, and we share in their
gladness. Here in the midst of the welter of warlike, self-aggrandizing appetites is an island of sublime, heroic good will. Here past friendships mean
more than present frenzy. But we are sadly jolted by the author's last words
in recounting the episode:
But Zeus son of Kronos stole Glaukos' wits away,
for he exchanged with Diomedes his armor
of gold for bronze, for nine oxen's worth a hundred!
(VI. 234-6)
So much for the timeless claims of guest-friendship. Just like Glaukos when
he proceeds to recite his genealogy, Diomedes returns abruptly to the selfassertive world of present needs and desires.
Perhaps we can better understand the back-and-forth movement of this
episode by returning to the image of the leaves and asking the following
odd question: Why does Homer choose to compare men in their generations to leaves specifically? One immediate answer is that he is putting
in .the mouth of Glaukos something very like a pun: to qn)A.A.ov (with an
acute accent and two lambdas) meaning "leaf" is very similar in sound
to to q>ii:\.ov (with a circumflex accent and one lambda) meaning "tribe,
�52
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
race, stock, a group of people with a common origin." From this latter
word comes our Latinate English "phylum," used in biological classification. The word for "leaf" seems to come from the ancient word q>A&ro, "to
teem with abundance," while the word for "tribe" is descended from q>Uro,
"to bring forth, produce, beget, generate." It is hard to doubt that the two
roots are related, if not united, somewhere in their Indo-European past
So Glaukos seems to say jokingly, "Son of Tydeus, why do you ask me
about my yevel\, my family stock? The family stocks of men (<pilA.a) are
dashed to the ground by the wind ... "Only now, in listening, do we realize
that the other word, <puA.A.a, was meant.
But apart from its wit, the connection is very apt. We need not ask
of a man's individual lineage, for men are as multitudinous and as faceless
as leaves on the trees. Yet Glaukos does go on, proudly, to give his
genealogy; men, like leaves, may be many but they are not all the same:
They come in kinds, preserving important distinctions. This opposition
of multitude to orderly variation is shown in another Homeric use of the
pun on <puUa, in Book II of the Iliad. Nestor publicly advises
Agamemnon:
"Marshal your men by tribes [<PUA.a.], by clans, Agamemnon,
oe
so that clan may help clan, and tribe help tribe [Q>GA.a
qnlA.ot<;].
If you do this, and if the Achaians obey you,
you'll know then which of your leaders and men is a coward,
and which is worthy, each group fighting as a unit."
(II. 362-6)
In this passage the word <pilA.a is used three times in the space of two lines,
giving it a memorable emphasis. Nestor's advice is taken, and a bare hundred lines later we hear this:
They stood in the flowering meadow of Scamander,
countless, as leaves and flowers blooming in season.
(II. 467-8)
And later in the same book of the poem, the goddess Iris, disguised as
Priam's son Polites, has this to say to the Thojan assembly:
"Indeed, I have gone many times into manly battle,
but never yet saw such a host, so many.
For they look most like leaves, or the sands of the sea,
as they come to the plain to fight against our city."
(II. 798-801)
�53
TUCK
Thus in a short space we see these two near-homophonic words used to
balance off the faceless multitude of the Achaian forces, like leaves of the
forest, as seen from without, against the orderly distinction in their arrangement by clans, as seen from within.
The simile of the leaves carries within it another pair of opposed, yet
complementary qualities. Glaukos' speech to Diomedes seems to invoke
the cyclical recurrence of the leaves from one spring season to the next.
If we ignore distinctions among individual leaves or generations of them,
it would seem that the generality of leaves is immortal, at least in Diotima's
sense of immortality through successive begettings and substitutions (Symposium 208 a). Yet leaves as individuals are proverbially light and fragile,
playthings of the wind, and nothing can be more final than their individual
death, as Achilles reminds us:
"But this I say, and swear a great oath to it:
By this staff, which will sprout no leaves or shoots
ever again, since it left its stump in the hills,
nor bloom anew, for the bronze blade has stripped it
of leaves and bark, and now the Achaians' sons
bear it in hand as judges while they uphold
the laws ordained by Zeus ... "
(I. 233-9)
When we look at the leaves from the outside, ignoring their several particularities, they seem to go on forever. In choosing to look from the outside, we gain a kind of god-like detachment, but we lose the urgent immediacy, the specialness of a particular set of leaves- the cutting of the
tree up in the mountains, the cruel stripping of the bronze blade. So too
if we look at the lives of human beings in the largest spatial and temporal
context, all single human destinies merge into the continuing story of the
race. Thus we can seem to cheat our mortality, but the eternal life we gain
is a kind of living death; in becoming part of an anonymous multitude
we lose what is specifically valuable in human life. We become vegetables,
machines for eating and begetting. So we must seem to the gods, as we
learn from another of Homer's uses of the emblem of the leaves. In Book
XXI of the Iliad, Apollo answers Poseidon's challenge thus:
"Earthshaker, you would say that I was senseless
if I were to fight with you for the sake of mortals,
those wretched ones, who now like leaves are full
of blooming life, feeding upon earth's fruits,
�THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
54
but then droop into death. So let us now
quickly leave off our fight; let them decide it."
(XXI. 462-7)
If on the other hand we emphasize a different aspect of the leaves, their
individual fragility and the finality of their passing, we are led inward, into
an autumnal landscape of pathos and regret. So too in the story of humanity, a focus on the particular identities and valuable uniqueness of single
people goes along with an awareness of their inevitable doom. This is the
view we call "tragic"- and in daring to look in this way we assert our own
dignity, our capacity for heroism and self-knowledge. As Glaukos returns
to recount his own particular lineage, as Diomedes returns to the world
of private appetites, war, and thievery, so throughout the Iliad we return
constantly to the pathos of the concrete. In this poem it is the death of
the leaves that is finally the more important. Think in contrast of the
Odyssey, with its emphasis on what endures and is reborn, with its great
image of the bed rooted in the olive tree.
But the power of the simile of the leaves is that it holds in unresolved
counterpoise both views of human experience. Socrates claims that the same
man can write both tragedy and comedy; I claim that Homer is here, with
a kind of perspectivism, writing both at the same time. In its generality,
the simile seems to move above the level of the poem's battlefield narrative,
making us cast our eyes forward and backward in a grand synoptic gesture
of inclusion. But the inclusiveness would not be complete if we lost the
particular diachronic context from which the simile arises. It is this inclusiveness that characterizes the poems we call "epics." Though the human
stories epics tell are fixed at a particular point in history, no human story
of any consequence can be complete unless it is located in the larger world
of space and time that the gods inhabit. Spatially epics go up to heaven
and down into the underworld; temporally they go forward and backward,
even to the beginning and end of human history. Yet they retain a constant
rootedness, a grounding in the singularity of the human actions they tell;
hence the tradition that epics begin and even end in the "middle of things."
Furthermore, they have sometimes been thought of as constituting an encyclopedia of all human wisdom, a compendium of all the !ores and knowbows of different trades and callings, not to mention ethical teachings,
cosmologies, and religious revelation. (This view of the epic poem as a
repository of all knowledge helps us to understand Plato's treatment of
the poets in the Ion and the Republic.) In the most extreme case, a poem
like the Aeneid could be used for divination- the book opened blindly
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and a finger pointing to a randomly chosen passage. The text so chosen
would foretell the future or give practical advice, as many believed in the
Middle Ages. It is hardly possible to imagine such a practice applied to
the texts of the great lyric or dramatic poems. The sheer size and scope
of the epic itself, as well as that of the subjects it takes for its province,
invite us to treat it as an inspired utterance or sacred book- perhaps even
as a domain coterminous with Nature itself. So the writing of an epic is
an act of enormous audacity, because such a poem aspires to swallow up
all possible experience and hold it in the fixity of a human artifice. It is
the binding of Proteus, or to vary the metaphor, it is a kind of rival Creation. And yet these leaves too must die.
•••
A new generation of leaves, descended from these Homeric ancestors,
springs forth in Book VI of the Aeneid. Aeneas and the Sibyl see the ghostly
images of the dead, gathered at the shore of the infernal river:
hue omnis turba ad ripas effusa ruebat,
matres atque viri defunctaque corpora vita
magnanimum heroum, pueri innuptaeque puellae,
impositique rogis iuvenes ante ora parentum:
quam multa in silvis autumni frigore primo
lapsa cadunt folia, aut ad terram gurgite ab alto
quam multae glomerantur aves, ubi frigidus annus
trans pontum fugat et terris immittit apricis.
stabant orantes primi transmittere cursum,
tendebantque manus ripae ulterioris amore.
Here a whole crowd came streaming to the banks,
mothers and men, the forms with life all spent
of great-souled heroes, boys and girls unmarried,
youths put on pyres before their parents' eyes:
As many as in the woods, in fall's first cold
leaves drop, or landward from the raging deep
as many birds gather, when the season's frost
drives them across the sea to sunny lands.
They all stood praying to be first across,
and stretched out hands in love of the farther shore.
(VI. 305-14)
The leaves occupy only a line and a half, and the movement of the verse
dramatically whirls them away into the following companion simile of the
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56
birds. This is the effect of the striking elision of the last syllable of the
Latin word for "leaves," folia, after two short syllables with light, voiceless
consonants at the beginning of the word:
-UU-
UU
-UU-U
Lapsa cadunt folia, aut ad terram gurgite ab alto.
'-'
Although the phrase ad terram- "to the ground" or "toward land"-belongs
formally to the second simile, it serves metrically here as the destination
of the leaves' swift motion. In this brief picture we feel powerfully the
ephemeral lightness of the leaves, pathetically helpless against the driving
wind of Virgil's hexameters.
The passage is impressive enough in itself, drawing as it does upon
Virgil's pictorial use of rhythm. But I want to claim much more: The specific
power of the passage comes from our consciousness of the allusion to its
Homeric antecedent in Iliad VI. At this point, remembering the well-marked
dualities in Homer's treatment of the leaves, we expect a second view of
them, returning in the spring after the wind has dashed them to the ground.
Of course we don't get it, and our expectations are powerfully frustrated.
But our continued awareness of Homer's leaves leads us further, to meditate
upon the reasons for this departure from the precedent. In the first place,
Glaukos spoke as he stood in the upper world, on a field of men living
or dying; the Virgilian leaves, however, are compared to the shades of
humans already dead. By setting his adaptation of the leaf-simile in the
underworld, Virgil reminds us of his own spirituality, a spooky otherworldliness in marked contrast with Homer's rootedness in the natural
rhythms of this world. Secondly, we realize that the Homeric completion
of the simile in the more upbeat view of the leaves' renewal does have its
own surrogate here in Virgil's recension of it: The birds, in Virgil's second
simile, are a sort of phantom stand-in for the returning leaves of spring.
Superficially the point of similarity seems to be only the multitude of
fallen leaves or of birds gathering on the ground: We had not thought death
had undone so many. Of course there is a pictorial similarity too: The birds
are leaf-like in appearance, tossed and buffeted by the wintry winds as they
flutter to the ground. But these birds are also gathering for a new flight,
a migration across the water into the sunny warmth of their winter home,
probably in North Africa. In this respect they refer us back to the souls
of the dead, waiting to cross the Styx. But the crucial point, distinguishing
them from the leaves, is that these same birds will presumably return northward with the following spring- not a new generation, as with Homer's
leaves, but these birds themselves. It seems clear that we are being referred
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57
forward as well, to Anchises' Pythagorean account of the transmigration
and re-embodiment of souls, later in Aeneid VI. The sunny lands of the
south recall the blessed, luminous groves in Elysium, where some fortunate
souls are sent after they "hang suspended in the empty winds" or "purge
their crimes in the vast flood of the sea" (VI. 740-1, where gurgite vasto
is a verbal echo of gurgite ab alto in line 310 of our passage). Virgil seems
to be suggesting, in specific, self-conscious contradistinction to Horner,
that a kind of personal immortality is possible, even if only for a few: not
a derived "immortality" through the survival of one's offspring, but an
enduring self, preserving one's identity and abiding in the land of the blest.
This happy prospect might lighten our prevailing view of the human landscape of labor, mutability, and death; but the few who are to enjoy it must
meet very stringent (and very Roman) ethical standands. The melancholy
longing felt by the others, the fallen leaves, is what Virgil returns to at the
end of our passage, with the sound effects of the justly famous line:
tendebantque manus ripae ulterioris amore.
So far I've been arguing that Virgil's revision of the leaf-simile works
in a kind of counterpoint with our memory of its Homeric source. There
is even a reminiscence of Homer in Virgil's use of rhythm. I have already
described how the elision at the end of the word folia hurries us from the
dying leaves to the second simile of the birds. Let's look again at the movement of Homer's line:
-
u
u
qn\l.l.a <11.
~ev
,.
u Uju Uliivs~o<; xa~ciot<;
uu II-
u
u
- -
xtst, iil.l.a M S'ul.11
1"TJAB86roaa cpUet.
The shortening of the diphthong, long by nature, at the end of the word
?(Est is a metrical effect known as "epic correption." Here, atypically, the
correption occurs at a bucolic diaeresis- a pause after the fourth whole
foot of the line. We would like to linger at such a marked break in this
breathless-sounding, conspicuously dactylic line, but the shortening of ?(ESt
snatches us up and hurries us along, with marked enjambment, into the
next generation of the leaves. The rhythmic force of this device is exactly
analogous to that of Virgil's elision; and it comes at the analogous moment in the development of the similitude. Our feeling both of the correspondence between the two passages, and of the differences, is thereby
sharpened.
Perhaps I should apologise for dwelling on such small details in these
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Greek and Latin texts. I wanted to illustrate the degree of intimate familiarity that Virgil must have had with Homer's poem, and that he also expects
from the ideal reader of his own revisionist version. We all know about
the large-scale structural ways in which the Aeneid subsumes both the Iliad
and the Odyssey: There are the references to the first lines of both Homeric
poems in Virgil's first line; there are the plot parallels with the Odyssey
in Aeneid I-VI and with the Iliad in VII-XII; there are the close resemblances
of certain characters (Turnus, for instance, to Achilles sometimes, and other
times to Hector). But such detailed imitation, allusion, and pointed variation as I have tried to show go much further: They amount to a constant
pressure, or presence of the older author in the newer. Virgil- surely one
of the most self-conscious poets who ever lived- cannot help but acknowledge his indebtedness to his master; at the same time, by varying the allusion he shows his authenticity and independence. To be writing an epic
at all means to be working in a certain tradition, to be a "son of Homer"
and to admit it. In one sense this admission also grants Homer's implicit
claim to have created a second world in the vastness of his artifice. Pope
made this point memorably in writing of Virgil:
When first young Maro, in his boundless Mind
A work t'outlast Immortal Rome design'd,
Perhaps he seemed above the Critick's Law,
And but from Nature's Fountains scorned to draw:
But when t'examine ev'ry Part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.
(Essay on Criticism, 130-5)
But if this should be the last word, then epic would be a Titan that devours
its own children. How can Virgil or anyone else write a second epic with
similar aspirations of inclusiveness? A truly successful epic would exhaust
the conditions for the writing of another such poem. The very power of
Homer's original epic forces Virgil at once to include it and to depart from
it, to struggle against his own roots.
The particular qualities of epic poems make it especially hard to write
in a tradition, and make unavoidable the rivalry between any single epic
poet and his predecessors. I have already mentioned the cosmic inclusiveness
of epic, its encyclopedic quality that seeks to leave no subject matter remaining for any successor. Though epic poems try to embody the whole
of human experience and human history, each one does so from a particular point of view. For epics tend to be "national," to recast history in
terms of the destiny of a particular nation or culture. So to acknowledge
one's epic predecessor is to participate in a rivalry of cultures- Rome ver-
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sus Greece, say, or Christian versus Pagan. Even more problematically, the
poet is not a mere mouthpiece for one historical or nationalistic worldview. It is true that such a view speaks through him; he is a prophet, speaking for another as the word implies, and the "Muse" is an image of the
cosmic providence that seeks, through epic poets, to make itself known
to humanity. But the poet is also engaged in a heroic act of self-assertion,
in daring to take up the task of writing such a work, and as a prophet
of his own Muse he speaks for himself. So the family drama of poetic influence, the Oedipal conflict of the poet with his own forbears, is sharpened
and magnified by the special demands of the epic tradition.
For Virgil, the solution to this predicament is to incorporate or subsume Homer into his own poetic universe. (It is thus that I can speak of
the presence of Homer within the text of Virgil.) His allusion to Homer's
leaf-simile, for example, summons up all the specific affect of the passage
in Iliad VI, where the leaves are made into a powerfully ambiguous emblem
both of the pathos of mortal finitude and of the ways in which the cyclical
self-perpetuation of nature transcends that finitude. Virgil, I say, invokes
all this; and then by subtly varying it, he goes beyond it, projecting this
dual perspective on the natural world into a new dialectic with the realm
of the supernatural. So his poem implicitly claims that it contains and
supersedes the parent poem. Homer's epic inclusiveness aspired to the
swallowing-up of the whole natural world. The Aeneid shares this aspiration but adds to it: In addition to swallowing the primary world of nature,
Virgil claims to have swallowed up the secondary "world" of Horner's poem.
Thus in the theogony of the epic poem, each newly-generated Titan swallows its parents.
I have said that by its nature epic locates present human actions in a
larger historical context; this "epic present" is emphatically the intersec-
tion of past and future. But the heroic act of writing an epic must itself
be located in a similar temporal context, with poetic predecessors and successors arranged in a providential order that sets off the magnitude of the
present poem. Virgil's poetic self-consciousness brings a second, selfreferential story into his narrative: Behind the drama and great labor of
the building of Rome there is the drama and the great labor of the building
of the Aeneid. Each of these two great actions comes from a Greek precedent which it acknowledges, incorporates, and seeks to transcend. Each
action also seeks to project itself indefinitely into the future: The perpetual
glory of the Roman imperium is to be accompanied by the everlasting fame
of Virgil's poem.
But Virgil is sufficiently aware of the necessary mutability of human
affairs to entertain a melancholy scepticism about the staying power, both
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
of the empire and of the poem. He expresses his concern about his own
poem's posterity by another use of the image of the leaves. In Book III,
Helenus prophesies to his kinsman Aeneas about the arrival in Italy:
"Arrived there, when you reach the city of Cumae,
the sacred lakes and whispering woods of Avernus,
you'll find the frenzied seer in her deep cave
who sings the fates, and notes them down on leaves.
The songs the lady writes, she puts in order,
leaf upon leaf, and shuts them in the cavern.
There they remain untouched and in their places.
But when a gentle breeze blows in the door,
the hinges turn, the delicate leaves are scattered;
then as they flutter through the cave, she never
cares to replace them or remake her songs.
Unhelped by Sibyl, vistors hate her halls."
(Ill. 441-452)
For this reason, when Aeneas comes in Book VI to consult the Sibyl he
begs her to sing her prophecies herself, rather than entrusting them to the
leaves and making them whirling playthings of the swift winds. He promises to build a temple to Phoebus and Trivia, where a shrine will be set
apart to preserve the Sibyl's written prophecies, with priests as caretakers.
The possessed prophetess, the Sibyl, is here a stand-in for Virgil himself.
Like her, he is divinely inspired; and he is our guide into the underworld
just as she is for Aeneas. That there is a relationship between the Sibyl
and the figure of the poet is also suggested by a verbal correspondence:
In her prophecy the Sibyl says
bella, horrida bella,
et Thybrim multo spumantem sanguine cerno.
war, savage war
I see ahead, and Tiber foaming blood.
(VI. 86-7)
In Book VII, speaking in his own voice in the new invocation to the Muse,
Virgil says
tu vatem, tu, diva, mone. dicam horrida bella,
dicam acies, actosque animis in funera reges.
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Oh goddess, guide your seer! I shall sing savage war,
battle-lines, and kings by courage driven to death.
(VII. 41-2)
Here the word vales, "seer" or "prophet," which has been repeatedly used
to refer to the Sibyl, is applied to Virgil himself in his capacity of epic
poet, and he puts into his own mouth an echo of her own phrase horrida
bella, "savage wars." And as Virgil is in some sense the Sibyl, he wonders
if his prophetic poem will in the end, like her writings, become a "plaything
of the winds." The written word is treacherous, and perhaps any such attempt to arrest the flux of experience in the fixity of human artifice is
doomed. Perhaps, as he himself has subsumed and superseded Homer,
some new poet will come and swallow up Virgil's poem too. Th be thus
superseded is not annihilation, but it is a very ambiguous kind of poetic
immortality.
It may be that the golden bough itself serves in part as an emblem for
the contradictions in Virgil's view of his poetic posterity: The bough is
artificial, yet a kind of second nature. It has the durability of metal; yet
it can be plucked and then grows again of itself. To the person chosen to
receive it, it serves as a ticket of admission to the realm that contains the
past, the future, and the ultimate mysteries of human destiny. Yet we
remember that it yielded itself only reluctantly even to the hand of Aeneas;
and if it chooses to deny itself to you, no violence can harvest its riches.
It flashes an eerie glint of gold in the shadowy woods, near the jaws of
foul-smelling Avernus; and its metal leaves give off a tinny rattle against
the wind.
***
The dictionary tells us that it was only in late antiquity that the Latin
word folium, "leaf," was first used to refer to a sheet of paper or page
of a book. As far as I know, the connection between the leaves of the forest
and the human artifice of poetry is first made explicitly by the poet Horace,
a friend of Virgil, in the critical treatise known as the Ars Poetica:
Ut silvae foliis pronos mutantur in annos,
prima cadunt, ita verborum vetas interit aetas,
et iuvenum ritu florent modo nata vigentque.
Debemur morti nos nostraque, sive receptus
terra Neptunus classes Aquilonibus arcet
regis opus, sterilisve diu palus aptaque remis
vicinas urbes alit et grave sentit aratrum;
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
seu cursum mutavit iniquum frugibus arnnis,
doctus iter melius: mortalia facta peribunt,
nedum sermonum stet bonos et gratia vivax.
When at the year's end forests change their leaves,
The oldest fall first; so with the generations of words:
The former die, the newer bloom like boys.
For we and all things ours are owed to death:
The harbors that we build (a royal task!);
The barren marshes, then a place for boats,
Now drained for plowing, feeding farms nearby;
The dams that bend the river's angry course
And save the crops-These mortal works shall die,
Nor shall the grace and glory of discourse live.
(Ars Poetica 60-69)
But though this connection had been made, and though Virgil's Sibyl wrote
her prophecies on leaves, the word itself probably did not have for Virgil
the witty self-reference that its linguistic development, and the predominance of written culture, later made possible. For Dante, the closeness of
the related Italian wordsfoglia, "leaf of a tree," andfoglio, "page in a book,"
makes explicit the doubleness of the drama of the leaves. In the primary
world of nature, leaves die and others succeed them; in the second, rival
nature that is the world of epic poems, what is said to happen out in the
woods can also be referred to the successive generations of pages of verse.
So Dante's use of the image of the leaves is even more explicitly selfreferring, and Dante's poem is even more self-conscious than its predeces-
sors about its context in literary history. It is appropriate, then, that the
family drama of Dante's relation to his poetic father, Virgil, is internalized and made explicit within the poem's narrative: Both "Dante" and
"Virgil" are characters in a poem written by the first man and pervasively
influenced by the second. And their relationship as Dante depicts it certainly reflects the intense ambivalence he feels toward his great forerunner. Virgil is the powerful and beloved guide; but his guidance is fallible
and limited in scope- his pupil will go farther than Virgil can take him.
And the most powerful indicator of all is that Virgil finally is a damned
soul, one of those who have" lost the good of the intellect." As a denizen
of Hell he is made to assist in an extended revisionist reworking of his own
Book VI. Whenever a Virgilian passage lies allusively behind, or within
Dante's text, the implied claim is that Virgil had an inkling, partial at best,
of the authoritative version we get from the younger poet. The movement
is from shadowy types to truth: Virgil went forth into the night, holding
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a lamp behind him to aid his successors. Dante sees more and knows better,
and so now does Virgil- but too late.
It is in this emotionally charged atmosphere that we see, in the third
canto of Inferno, a new generation of the leaves that first grew and died
by the River Scamander, on the fields of Troy. Virgil the guide and Dante
the pilgrim have come to the banks of the Acheron, where Charon, the
steersman of the livid marsh, transports across the water the souls of the
damned:
Come d'autunno si levan le foglie
l'una appresso dell'altra, fin che '1 ramo
vede alia terra tutte le sue spoglie,
similmente il mal seme d'Adamo
gittansi di quel lito ad una ad una,
per cenni come augel per suo richiarno.
Cosi sen vanno su per l'onda bruna
e avanti che sien di 18. discese,
anche di qua nuova schiera s'auna.
As in the fall the leaves are taken away
Each followed by the next, until the bough
Sees on the ground all its despoilments lie,
In that same way the evil seed of Adam
Hurl themselves from the shoreline, one by one
At signals, like a bird called by its lure.
Thus they embark over the dusky waves,
And even before they land on the other side,
Again on this side a new crowd is gathered.
(III. 112-120)
Dante leaves no doubt that he is alluding to the Virgilian passage we
have just examined. The simile comes at the analogous point in the
narrative- an encounter with Charon, a passage over an infernal river into
the underworld. Even the second simile of the birds is included: "At signals,
like a bird called by its lure." But having drawn Virgil's text into his own
poem, Dante proceeds to transform it by a skillful reallocation of emphasis.
The extended treatment of the leaves dwells on the consequence, the result
of their fall: "The bough/Sees on the ground all its despoilments lie." Our
first thought is a kind of pity for the tree that has suffered the plundering
of its spoils. Virgil gave us the pathos and vulnerability of the leaves
themselves, but Dante is here speaking of their source, the tree which is
now denuded. Still, the two passages both seem to be portraying passive
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
victims of the force of another. So we are puzzled and disquieted at the
way Dante's version continues:
In that same way the evil seed of Adam
Hurl themselves from the shoreline ...
The violent contrast between si levan, "are taken away," and gittansi, "hurl
themselves," heightened by the reflexive form of both, makes us doubt the
aptness of the simile. Onr perplexity is increased when we notice a hidden
wit in the use of si levan: Levarsi can mean "to raise or lift oneself up"
as well as "to be taken away." In anticipation of the moral significance
of verticality in the poem, "lifting up" is set in polar opposition to "casting
down." Dante is implying that leaf-like souls, unlike Virgil's passive victims, fall by their own choice in an act of deliberate violence.
It is thus fitting that onr sympathy is diverted, in Dante's version, from
the leaves themselves to the bough of the denuded tree. What is this tree?
We probably think first of the forest of the suicides in Canto XIII of Inferno, where both Pier della Vigna and an anonymous Florentine suicide,
now turned into a bush, fit the picture of the bereaved plant, deprived of
its foliage, staring at the ground. There too the immediate reaction, both
ours and the pilgrim's, is pity. But the word spoglie, "despoilments," is used
in that canto to refer to the bodies the suicides have cast off by their own
act. Along with the pilgrim we must learn the hard lesson that recnrs
throughout the Inferno: The justice of God often does not easily accord
with onr immediate passions of pity and love. Our wills must be shaped
anew. The suicides have offered violence to more than themselves, and we
must look farther to find the tree from which the damned souls, the leaves,
have torn themselves.
In the thirty-second canto of Purgatorio, Dante and Statius are following the great pageant of revelation, including the triumphal car drawn by
the Griffin, symbol of the incarnate Christ:
So, passing through the lofty forest, bare
Through fault of her that trusted in the serpent,
The song of an angel kept our steps in time.
As far as in three shots, perhaps, an arrow
Loosed from the bow would fly, so far had we
Moved on our way, when Beatrice descended.
Then from them all I heard a murmur: "Adam";
And they formed a ring around a tree, despoiled
Of leaves and other foliage in each branch.
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Its living tresses widen all the more
As the tree goes higher; even by the Indians
In their great woods, its height would be admired.
"Blessed are you, Griffin, since with your beak
You pluck not from this tree so sweet to taste;
For later on the belly wrenches from it."
Thus circling around the mighty tree
The others shouted; and the animal twice-born
Cried: "So the seed of all just men is saved."
(XXXII. 31-48)
The Griffin goes on to renew the tree laid bare by the fault of Adam. We
can see that the epithet if mal seme d'Adamo, "the evil seed of Adam,"
in our original passage, was not lightly chosen. These leaves are not
generalized symbols of the condition of mortality; they are particular
reminders of the human act that originated that condition. The emphasis
on "seed" in Jriferno III (Cf. III. 104-5), reinforced by sound effectssimz1mente il mal seme d'Adamo-here finds justification. Though the evil
seeds ironically bear no fruit, cast on the barren ground of hell, the good
seed of Adam is Christ, the first fruits and the seed of all righteousness,
repairing the damage wrought by Adam's fall. By his act the tree of the
knowledge of good and evil is transformed into the great tree that is an
epithet for Heaven in Paradiso XVIII:
l'albero che vive della cima
e frutta sempre e mai non perde foglia.
the tree that lives from its top
and always bears fruit, never losing its leaves.
(XVIII. 29-30)
It seems that we have accounted for Dante's adding to his Virgilian
source the detail of the tree contemplating its own despoliation. In so doing he turns the falling of the leaves into a typological image of the fall
of humanity, and of all nature. Through Christ's saving act, however, the
leaves as well as the fruit are restored to the tree, and so the integrity of
the restored tree is a kind of image of the Incarnation, the marriage of
the human and the divine. These things are known to a Christian through
the revelation of Holy Scripture; but Virgil as a Pagan has had no access
to scripture, and thus he has departed by the time Dante and Statius see
the tree's antitype in the pageant at the end of Purgatorio. Dante the poet's
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
revision of the simile from Aeneid VI shows both the rhetorical power and
the spiritual limitations of the older poem.
Another image of this transformation is Dante's use of Virgil's birds.
We remember that in the Aeneid the birds seemed almost as passive as
the leaves: "the season's frost/ Drives them across the sea." The difference
was that the death of the leaves was utterly final and definitive, while the
flight of the birds left open the possibility of a cyclical return. Dante takes
Virgil's migrating birds and reduces them to one hunting bird, probably
a falcon returning to the falconer's lure. Here is a conspicuous revision
of Virgil, for whom the points of similarity between leaves and birds were
multitude and helpless passivity. Dante's bird is only one, and its passage
is a willed act of obedience to a command. Whose command? Virgil himself
is made to tell us, in his capacity as guide, in Purgatory. Look up, he tells
Dante the pilgrim,
"Turn your eyes to the falcon's lure, whirled round
By the Eternal King, with his mighty spheres."
Then like the falcon, who looks first below
Then turns to his master's call, straining ahead
From craving for the food that draws him thither,
Just so was I.
(Purgatorio XIX. 62-67;
Cf. Purg. XIV. 145-7)
When a soul ordained to bliss or to damnation proceeds to its eventual
resting place, it resembles the falcon heeding the command of the
falconer-that is, God. But unlike the migratory birds of the Aeneid, this
falcon is on a one-way journey, propelled by its own will either for good
or for evil. The damned souls which hurl themselves from the shoreline
are following their appetites into hell, just as the more blessed falcon of
Dante's comparison in Purgatory strains ahead toward the Lord's supper.
Dante's version of the simile implicitly condemns the melancholy quietism
of Virgil, who makes Anchises say quisque suos patimur manis, "Each of
us endures his shadowy doom." Even the damned souls in the Comedia
hurl themselves forward, instead of stretching out their arms in ineffectual longing.
As Virgil revised Homer, Dante revises Virgil. In each case filial piety
toward a literary parent causes the imitation; but in each case the imitated
model is subverted by implicit criticism. By subsuming the source into his
own poem, assimilating it into even small details of the allusive passages
in the text, the succeeding poet suggests the incompleteness of the origina~
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now fleshed out by his own still more inclusive epic vision. Virgil's revisionism is sometimes ambivalent: He seems to feel a kind of nostalgia for
the simpler, more naturalistic view of history that he finds in Homer's
poems, but he knows he lives too late to indulge in it. There has been a
tragic fall from naive archaic heroism into the necessity of a political art.
The greater self-conscious artificiality of Virgil's poem is in part an implied celebration of purposive human artifice in the building of Rome, but
also in part an expression of Virgil's regretful awareness of the human costs
of the great enterprise. As we have seen, Virgil's ambivalence emerges in
his prospective view of his own poem's posterity. In casting himself as the
Sibyl, he appropriates to himself the authority and lasting power of divine
inspiration; but in the image of the scattering of Sibyl's leaves he expresses
his worry that the inclusiveness and integrity of his poem will be compromised with the passage of time. Virgil knows that when a poem is subjected to the kind of systematic and intimate textual revision that he himself
performed upon Homer's work, it suffers a kind of diaspora, a tearing
and scattering of the unified imaginative vision of its creator-poet, wind
in the Sibyl's cave. In this Virgil was a true prophet, as we recognize when
we consider his treatment in the Commedia.
In contrast, Dante shows greater confidence in his power to subsume
his predecessor and to preempt any that might come after him. To some
extent this confidence results from his own self-assertive personality; but
it is also the confidence of the Christian humanist that his creed is the
true, valuable, and permanent interpretation of the partial truths of the
ancients. In the measure that Heaven is the True City, "that Rome of which
Christ is a Roman" (Purg. XXXII. 102) which includes, fulfills, and
transcends the Rome that Aeneas labored to build, so the journey chronicled
by Dante is the true Aeneid. All human descents into the underworld are
types of Christ's descent to harrow Hell. All human journeys to beatitude
are types of his resurrection and ascension. Thus a literal truth- the truest
of all truths, for Dante- is incarnated into the ostensible fiction of the
narrative of the Commedia. Dante the pilgrim instantiates Christ by dying and rising with him, as the poem's chronological scheme makes clear.
(Dante descends into Hell on Good Friday of the year 1300 and emerges
on Easter Sunday. See Inferno I. 36f., XXXIV. 68, 112f., and especially
XXI 112-14.) In the same way Dante the poet claims to provide a kind
of incarnation in literary history analogous to Christ's incarnation in real
human history. In the complete interpenetration of Dante's mythos and
his subject, the word made flesh is made word again, as an organizing principle for experience; and then by the powerful immediacy with which it
is made present for us, it is made flesh once again. Christ the Logos is
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here allegorically a ratio, a master relationship between the human soul
and divinity that is replicated in a kind of continuing proportion by Dante
the pilgrim, by Dante the poet in his retelling, and by us, the readers. The
unity and incorruptibility of Christ himself serve as a kind of guarantee
of the integrity and incorruptibility of Dante's poem. We see this with extraordinary power at the end of the Commedia, where the unity of the
creation is imaged as the cohesion of a book of pages bound together:
0 abbondante grazia and' io presunsi
ficcar lo visa per Ia luce etterna,
tanto che Ia veduta vi consunsi!
Nel suo profondo vidi che s'intema,
legato con amore in un volume,
ci6 che per 1\miverso si squaderna:
sustanze e accidenti e lor costume
quasi conflati insiemt; per tal modo
che ciO ch' i' dico e un semplice lume.
La forma universal di questa nodo
credo ch' i' vidi, perche pili di largo,
dicendo questa, mi sento ch' i godo.
Un punta solo m•e maggior letargo
che venticinque secoli all' impresa
che
fe Nettuno ammirar l'ombra d'Argo.
0 grace abounding, from which I took heart
To fix my gaze upon the eternal light
So long that I spent all my seeing there!
Within its depth I saw that there was gathered
Bound up by love into a single volume
The scattered pages of the universe:
Substances, accidents and their relations,
As if together fused, in such a way
That what I tell of is a simple light.
The universal form of this complex
I think I saw, because now even more
In telling it, I feel my joy increase.
One instant is to me more Lethe-like
Than twenty-five centuries of oblivion
For Neptune, marvelling at the Argo's shadow.
(Paradiso XXXIII. 82-96)
In the phrase "bound up by love into a single volume," the world volume
is used wittily to mean both a book and anything turned-like a sphere,
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for example. The word is used in this second sense repeatedly in Paradiso
(XXIII. 112, XXVI. 119, XXVIII. 14). But the most important preceding
use of volume comes in Inferno I, where Dante also pairs it with amore,
"love."
"Or se' tu quel Virgilio e quella fonte
che spandi di parlar si largo fiume?"
rispuos' io lui con vergognosa fronte.
"0 delli altri poeti onore e lume,
vagliami '1 lungo studio e' 1 grande amore
che m'ha fatto cercar lo tuo volume.
Th se' lo mio maestro e 'l mio autore;
tu se' solo colui da cu' io tolsi
lo bello stilo che m'ha fatto onore ... "
"Are you that Virgil, then, that famous spring
from which pours forth so great a stream of speech?"
I answered him with shame upon my face.
"0 light and honor of all other bards,
Let the great zeal and love avail me now
That long have made me search throughout your volume.
You are my master, my original;
And you alone are he from whom I took
The style whose beauty brings me honor too."
(1. 79-87)
The honorific word volume, applied first to Virgil's work, refers to the
epic inclusiveness that allows him to involve and encompass so vast a world
within his poem. But its last use in Dante's poem, framing the Commedia
at the other end, as it were, shows how much larger a claim he makes for
his own volume. The time-honored image of the "Book of the World" is
here adapted to two purposes: It expresses the sense of integrity and oneness
that Dante the pilgrim perceived in all of creation, with the power of the
vision vouchsafed to him in the highest of the heavens; but it also selfreferentially implies the power of Dante's poem to convey this same sense,
though mediated by language, to his audience. The encyclopedic claims
of epic are made literal.
But at the end of the passage there is a sudden reversal:
One instant is to me more Lethe-like
Than twenty-five centuries of oblivion
For Neptune, marvelling at the Argo's shadow.
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The all-inclusive power of epic has also been internalized and made contingent on the visionary power and articulateness of the poet. If his capacity
for beatitude proves to be fleeting, as is the common case for living human
beings, his volume will be in effect squadernato- scattered in single pages
throughout the universe. Remarkably, however, by locating himself and his
own failure of vision within the narrative, Dante asserts the scope and
lasting power of the vision that he admittedly fails to depict or even evoke
in a lasting way. Unlike Virgil, whose survival and fame seemed to depend
on the continuance of an earthly empire, Dante links his own poem to
the eternal actuality and truth of God's empire. That he is not able to convey it directly somehow guarantees that it is there. This rhetorical strategy
accounts for the great paradox of the last canto of the Commedia: that
in the most successful evocation of divine presence in any work of literature,
the inexpressible is expressed precisely through a failure to express it. Thus
when Dante appropriates Virgil's image of the Sibylline leaves, it has a
quietude and sweetness remote from Virgil's disturbing melancholy. Dante
is here revising and subsuming not only Virgil's poem but his own:
Qual e colui che somn'iando vede
che dopa il sogno la passione impressa
rimane, e l'altro alia mente non riede,
cotal son io, che quasi tutta cessa
mia visione, ed ancor mi distilla
nel cor il dolce che nacque da essa.
Cosi Ia neve al sol si disigilla;
cosi al vento nelle foglie levi
si perdea Ia sentenza di Sibilla.
As is the man who, in his dreaming, sees
And then, the dream past, still its imprinted power
Remains, but all the rest from him is gone,
So too am I now: Almost all the vision
Falls off from me apace; yet there distills
Within my heart the sweetness born of it.
Thus in the sun the snow unseals itself;
Thus in the wind, among the delicate leaves,
The prophecies of Sibyl went astray.
(Paradiso XXXIII. 58-66)
•••
Skipping over three hundred fifty years and some notable episodes in
this family history, we come to a new death of leaves, newly reborn, in
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Milton's Paradise Lost. Satan, cast into hell, rears himself up from the burning lake and struggles massively to the shore.
Nathless he so endur'd, till on the Beach
Of that inflamed Sea, he stood and calld
His Legions, Angel Forms, who lay intranst
Thick as Autumnal Leaves that strow the Brooks
In Va/lombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades
High overarcht imbowr; or scatterd sedge
Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion armd
Hath vext the Red-Sea Coast, whose waves orethrew
Busiris and his Memphian Chivalrie,
While with perfidious hatred they persu'd
The Sojourners of Goshen, who beheld
From the safe shore thir floating Carcasses
And Brok'n Chariot Wheels. So thick bestrown
Abject and lost lay these, covering the Flood,
Under amazement of thir hideous change.
(I. 299-3!3)
I have time only to sketch in the most compressed and cryptic way how
Milton receives and transforms this legacy of the simile of the leaves. Like
Homer he locates the passage generally in a context of huge, heroic battlefield conflict. Like Virgil he compares the leaves in their multitude to the
number of the fallen. Like Dante he gives us the final sight of the leaves
on the ground, in the fallenness of a Christian Hell. And there are numerous
other particular points of allusion as well, to these authors and others,
like the epic poet Tasso, the Biblical narrator of Exodus, and most especially
the prophet Isaiah:
And all the host of heaven shall be dissolved, and the heavens shall be rolled
together as a scroll: and all their host shall fall down, as the leaf falleth off
from the vine, and as a falling fig from a fig tree.
(Is. 34:4)
The richness, the plenitude of this catalogue of allusion testifies to the
inclusiveness of Milton's encyclopedic epic. Yet the sheer range of the field
surveyed, the number of sources invoked, is dizzying to us: The leaves of
these preceding volumes lie as thick as those in Vallombrosa, and we surveying them are like the fallen angels, amazed at the wild declension of images and the change from one to another. The passage becomes a kind
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of labyrinth, as the pun on "amazement" suggests. What are the sources
of our difficulties? Perhaps we can enumerate some.
First, the different sources alluded to are made to work against each
other. Let me give two examples. Vallornbrosa, a pretty rural convent outside of Florence, seems to provide a concrete, naturalistic, this-worldly location for the fallen leaves. That suggests that the simile will be faithful in
spirit to Horner's practice of constrasting the violent scenes of his narrative with incongruously peaceful vignettes of country life. But the place
Vallornbrosa is chosen for the particular reason that its name is significant: It means "Shady Valley," the Valley of the Shadow of Death, an
allegorical landscape like Dante's. Our satisfaction at recognizing this wordplay does not last long. At the end of the line, "Etrurian shades" adumbrates, if l may use that word, the presence of the Etruscan or pre-Roman
ghosts of the Aeneid, in whose underworld there is also a valles umbrosa.
The lineation gives us time to be confused; then the enjarnbed remnant
of the clause makes us realize that the word "shades" refers not to ghosts,
but rnetonyrnically to trees. We are back in the placid natural landscape
again.
A second example: Our awareness of the presence of Virgil and Dante
within and behind Milton's text conditions us to think of spirits waiting
on the near side of a body of water, preparing to cross over. It is on the
hither shore that both Aeneas and Dante the pilgrim stand, contemplating
the numberless dead. But here the simile of Pharoah's chariots ("Busiris
and his Mernphian Chivalrie") chasing the fleeing Israelites (''the Sojourners
of Goshen") leaves us with no firm place to stand: At first we are with
Pharoah, pursuing from the near shore; then, by the magic of a subordinate clause, our perspective shifts to the farther shore and we are with
the Hebrews, looking back. But what we are looking at is the wreck of
Pharoah's army, now not on either shore but scattered in or on the water,
like the fallen angels. The shift from one invoked source to another enforces on us abrupt dislocations in space and time.
Another source of difficulty for us comes from the unique temporal
setting of Milton's story. As his poem goes on to show, the fall of Satan
and the rebel angels helps to cause the fall of humanity and of all of terrestrial nature. Such phenomena as the change of seasons, the corning of
storms, the death of leaves or of any other living thing- all these result
from and instantiate the first corning of death that Milton depicts. It is
thus incongruous for him to use these later, more familiar phenomena in
similes: Th do so is to compare a thing with itself, or a subset of itself,
as if I were to say, "The earth's rotation on its axis is as regular as the
alternation of night and day." As Wallace Stevens once remarked, identity
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is the vanishing point of resemblance. Milton's implicit claim is that the
primary truths of human history, told in his poem, are more intelligible
in themselves than any poetic comparison could make them. At worst,
poetic comparison will mislead us, like the inappropriately tranquil scene
of Vallombrosa. In trying to reduce the subject to the narrow limits of our
fallen human comprehension, poetry causes us to make mortal errors again
and again. The sheer difficulty, the deception and complexity of Milton's
verse are often attempts to make us aware of this repeated process. Even
at best, any statement of likeness would be redundant, strictly speaking.
The originating status of Milton's subject matter is so all-encompassing
that no comparison can be found which is not absorbed into the thing
compared to. Hence no epic simile in the ordinary sense is possible: If the
normal action of the similes is to include other realms of experience in
an epic narrative, here we find that all of those realms are already
automatically included. And so are we, the beholders. The poem cannot
offer us a god-like or privileged place to stand, from which we can contemplate in detachment the unity and comprehensiveness of creation. It
is our very fallenness, our implication in the events narrated, that causes
our difficulties in reading.
Milton's poem thus conspires rhetorically against itself, but only after
disposing of its precursors. We saw Virgil rewriting Homer and Dante
rewriting Virgil; but for Milton there is no single epic forerunner, no fatherly
master-poet to whom he is irretrievably indebted and whose precedent he
must overcome. In place of an intricate counterpointing of two texts, we
get from Milton an all-out assault on what he portrays as a monolithic
tradition of epic poetry. As he claims in the invocation at the start of Book
IX, all conventional heroic narrative is intrisically inferior to the story that
he alone is trying to tell. But he too, of course, is fallen, dependent on
the inspiration of a heavenly muse. His greatest source of information and
also of difficulty is Holy Scripture itself. A revisionist treatment of Genesis
can only dramatize its own futility, and that of all human poetic artifice.
As I've claimed, other epics try to swallow up their predecessors and
preempt their successors. Milton's more radical project is to chop down
the whole family tree, and his own branch with it.
It is somewhat alarming to reflect that he may well have succeeded.
Many literary historians consider Paradise Lost to be the last true epic poem
in Western literature. I do not know whether this is true; if it is not, I am
similarly puzzled by the question of who the legitimate heirs are, in the
generations that follow. But the succession we have seen suggests at least
a direction: inward, away from the narrative representation of physical experience. As the tradition goes on, more of the poem's essential content
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
consists, not in its self-containedness as a text, but in its interaction with
its own past and future, The burden of the successor poet is to inherit the
tradition and make it new, to use an intimate familiarity with the work
of another as the new material for a radically originating act. Perhaps this
process can be a paradigm for you and me, not writers of epics but readers
of them. We too must remake the poems we read, approaching them with
qualified piety and then dismembering them, assimilating them into
ourselves. They are the true and valid sources of our self-making, lenses
through which we view the whole of things, tokens of admission not only
into other worlds but into our deep selves, the underworld in which we
learn our destiny. If we don't appropriate what we find in these pages, making them ours by wrenching them out of their own place and time, then
they are dead leaves indeed. But if they find new life in us- if our re-vision
of these received texts becomes a new mode of vision, ours and yet not
ours alone-then we too might be able to see the whole world as one place,
bound up by love into a single volume, for as long as the vision lasts.
Note: Given the nature of my argument, it seems indispensable for me to
acknowledge at least a few of my own literary debts. Anyone who has read the
work of Northrop Frye and Harold Bloom will recognize how deeply and pervasively this essay has been influenced by them. There are brief treatments of the
topos of the leaves in C. M. Bowra's From Virgil to Milton and John Hollander's
The Figure of Echo. I have consciously borrowed several points from R. G. Austin
in my treatment of Virgil. My reading of Dante owes much to Erich Auerbach,
E. R. Curtius, and Charles Singleton; my reading of Milton, to Stanley Fish.
All the translations, however, are my own.
�Commencement Address
Curtis Wilson
Members of the graduating class:
It is an honor to be asked to speak to you on your Commencement
Day. A recent book bears the title How to Survive Education. I haven't
read it, and do not know how it's done; but you've done it, and we con-
gratulate you. I myself, who came here forty years ago next August, have
not quite made it through: I have still the junior and senior language
tutorials to do.
The St. John's program does a lot of stretching and spreading thin.
If a sheet of plastic is stretched to its tensile limit, it is likely that a hole
will open in it here or there. In trying to cover as much as we do, we are
quixotic. Quixoticism has been our keynote from the beginning.
Fifty-one years ago Scott Buchanan and Stringfellow Barr brought forth
on this campus a New Program, dedicated to the proposition that liberal
education is possible. The enemy was the elective system, introduced by
Charles Eliot in his inaugural address as president of Harvard in 1869,
and since then adopted in colleges and universities generally. Before Eliot,
the curricula were all-required, but- and this was Eliot's objection- they
had failed to incorporate the modern natural sciences. Year by year the
natural sciences were transforming the world and our picture of it. Eliot,
by licensing the natural sciences as elective possibilities, aimed to broaden,
deepen, and invigorate education. One consequence, a good one, was that
the universities became nurturers of natural science. Another was that
Curtis Wilson, Thtor and twice Dean of St. John's College, Annapolis, reached
retirement this year. He delivered this address to the graduating seniors in Annapolis
on May 22, 1988.
75
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THE ST JOHN'S REVIEW
liberal education lost its sense of identity and direction. Adding to the muddle were the new social sciences, so-called. College education became a
grab-bag of choices ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous.
Barr and Buchanan set out to do the impossible. We were all, students
and tutors, to become autodidacts, tackling the reading of a veritable
Everest of books. The books were to be chosen for their classic quality,
for being first-rate. The great works of mathematics and natural science
would be included, starting with Euclid and continuing through Newton,
Maxwell, and so on. We would become literate in the classics of the scientific tradition, as well as in the classics of literature and philosophy. In
my one leisurely conversation with Buchanan, in 1965, he wanted to know
how we were getting on with Maxwell and Josiah Willard Gibbs. Gibbs,
if you haven't heard his name before, was a nineteenth-century American,
one of the great physicists. I had to confess that we hadn't managed to
cram Gibbs's works on thermodynamics and statistical mechanics into the
program.
This program that Barr and Buchanan conceived was accused of being Epimethean, medieval, backward-looking. In fact, it was as Promethean
as all get-out. Like John Dewey, Buchanan came from Vermont, and like
him mixed Yankee pragmatism with a visionary dream of what this country could be. He expected the college's new program to become the seedbed of an American Renaissance.
As for the natural sciences, he had the idea of a hands-on approach.
He saw the laboratory as the distinctively modern institution for the acquisition of knowledge; and so he dubbed one whole part of the program
"the laboratory." At different times he considered organizing it round
medicine, or the airplane engine. A good carpenter himself, he wanted the
students to get handy with hammer and saw, plane and drill. And in the
laboratory, both intellect and manual technique were to be brought to bear.
All this was to be done in a marvelously original, eclectic way. For
organizing principles, Buchanan turned to medieval tradition. He had the
library collection reorganized under the rubrics of the seven liberal arts,
so that physics, for instance, came under music. What a librarian's
headache! Buchanan was aiming to tweak all our complacencies.
Of those heady times, which were before I arrived, I have gathered intimations from here and there. One of the earlier tutors told me how, in
the autumn of his first year, his senior math students- all male, of
course-took him to a local pub, sat him down with a beer, and commanded him to stop considering himself responsible for their education.
They were responsible; if they needed help, they would ask for it.
In the middle of the academic year in which I arrived, 1948-49, Jacob
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77
Klein became dean of the College; he was to remain so till 1958. It was
a time of consolidation. A new president, Richard Weigle, proceeded to
put the College on a tenable financial basis. Coeducation was introduced,
a step, it was hoped, in the direction of civility. The faculty, weary of more
chaos than it was comfortable with, became more insistent that students
acquire something more like ordinary competence. As the dean put it, the
glories of fifth-century Athens must now be succeeded by the more
pedestrian achievements of an Alexandrian age. The obbligato of social
revolutionary fervor dropped to a whisper.
From my first decade here what has remained most clearly in memory
are the dean's opening lectures. Huffing, clearing his throat, Jacob Klein
would begin by speaking of the trepidation he felt, in attempting to formulate our task. All knowledge, he would be telling us, was our province,
and to keep the wholeness of it in mind was enormously difficult. For it
was ever our tendency to make ourselves comfortable by limiting the view.
He would speak of the babble and unexamined jargon of everyday
speech. Are we not prisoners to it? In Plato's simile of the cave, we must
somehow be freed of our chains and turn round, looking away from the
shadows to what causes them. Surely there is something right about this
image of education, whatever the mystery or confusion concerning the rest
of the story, the Sun and the upper regions and the fourth part of the
divided line. But what was mainly being impressed on the hearers of those
lectures was a simple idea and a sobering one: the thought that to take
account of the wholeness of things is difficult and demanding.
Of these lectures the one that I remember best was Jacob Klein's final
lecture as dean, delivered in September, 1957. The text has not survived,
but the title was "The Delphic Oracle and the Liberal Arts." It dealt with
the ambiguity of the injunction "Know Thyself."
One meaning is this: Know that you aren't god. Know that you are a
finite, mortal being, dependent on your fellow human beings, prone to error, prone to hybris, the error of overstepping your boundaries. The lesson
to draw is modesty, sobriety, circumspection, a sense for our equality with
our fellows. Th a student this could mean: doing the homework, learning
the paradigms. To a scholar it could mean: getting the footnotes right.
The other meaning rested on the recognition that everything is connected with everything. From the farthest reaches of the cosmos to the
depths of the human psyche, nothing is simply isolatable, so as to be fully
understandable by itself alone. Hence, to know myself, I must know
everything. The quest for self-knowledge is thus inherently incompletable.
But the oracle, under this interpretation, enjoins it.
In what I have been recounting, there is an aspect I do not want you
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THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
to miss. We at this college are a bunch of crazy autodidacts, holding madly
onto two horns of a dilemma. If you did not quite know what you were
getting into when you first came here, surely the truth has dawned on you
by now.
In the last thirty years the program has not changed in essentials. Some
things we do better. But I myself, conniving with others, have helped add
to the madness, in seeing to it that we get to Maxwell's equations, relativity, and quantum theory. Mature physicists admit to having been discombobulated in their first encounter with these theories. To get them to seem
familiar, the only way is to trace and retrace the routes that have led to
such odd consequences: undulations where there is nothing to undulate,
events strictly correlated yet separated in space, with no message passing
in between, and so on. Imagination has been instrumental in leading to
each such result, but the result transcends and contradicts the imagination. As J.B.S. Haldane put it, the world is not only queerer than we have
imagined, it is queerer than we can imagine. My discomfort over what we
fail to do would be greater if you had not met, at least briefly, with this
encouragement and rebuff to our analogizing.
What I have said is no excuse for remediable faults in the program.
As to what could be improved, I have ideas, and so do some of my colleagues, but our ideas are not all the same. But the main point I have been
making is that the program here is an unfinishable affair.
The remaining words I have for you are by way of homily. To your stack
of books, you must now add what Descartes called the great book of the
world. The image is not in every way apt, but it is preferable to thinking
of the world as an unalterable harsh mechanism, to which you are required
to adjust your misfitting shapes. A book can be read, and that, as you
know, is an active, formative process. 'Ity observing the world; there is much
that is thus to be learnt. But the stance of the altogether detached observer
that Descartes projects of himself is probably neither possible nor really
desirable. A better simile for you is that of organic adaptation. You must
adapt to the world; and, in ways that, to begin with, may not seem as important as they are, the world will have to adapt to you.
For four years you have been discussing works of literature and philosophy, writing essays, analyzing plays and poems and arguments. These exercises have developed in you a number of skills that should be prized:
the habit of listening carefully, of being attentive to a question and seeking out its sharp edge; the habit of readiness to enter into another person's thoughts, and to assume a new intellectual posture in response to
new facts or ideas. Here and there, by bits and pieces, these habits should
prove transferable from one context to another.
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For God's sake, don't say, as one graduate put it on a resume a few
years ago, that at St. John's you learned to think. These hyperboles will
harm you. There is no point in merely astonishing strangers with our
strangeness.
Mind that some of our patterns here are all-too-easily turned into
caricature. We inculcate the respect for great books, tbe taking seriously
of the texts we read, as possibly revealing truth. A good habit. Works about
our authors we eschew, telling you that these should not be your authorities,
that you should think for yourselves. A good pedagogical ploy. But it does
not mean that a biography of Cervantes, say, might not reveal something
important about the book begun in the prison of Seville; or that the composition of Shakespeare's audience might not have something important
to do with the composition of his plays and the wondrous mix of the high
and the low that he achieves. Our authors were creatures of flesh and blood,
and their works, in many cases, were prompted by the paradox of real-life
situations. They were not always merely chatting with one another.
We tutors, who are paid, I guess, to defend all these books, are not
to be imitated in all our sophistries. Not everything in the books we defend is defensible. Kant gets from the first to the second Critique by leap
rather than logic. Newton fails in Book I to prove satisfactorily a crucial
proposition on which Book III depends. Not every failure of logic in the
Platonic dialogues is necessarily to be explained away by reference to the
mythos of the dialogue.
Graduates, I gather, tend to become nostalgic for St. John's-style conversations. Well, you can have them again, and better, in new circumstances,
when you have completed more homework. You will need friends, of course,
and to cultivate friends is difficult in this age of endless mobility and of
work-days that stretch on into the night. Don't fail to cultivate friends.
There are conversations waiting out there to take place. It may not be very
easy to find where and when they can occur. Tentatively, you can begin
to take a bit of initiative.
You must find your own footing, your point of vantage and vision,
freed at last from both the comfort and the annoyance of pedagogical
authority. After having been stretched in so many directions, you must begin
to assess, and reassess, where your own redefined center of gravity may
be, and where your powers can take you, and what you can discover.
I wish that we at the College had managed to give more attention to
heuristic. The word comes from a Greek verb. Archimedes used its firstperson singular perfect as he leapt from the bath, on making his great
discovery. To discover is indeed a perfect thing, in the sense that it brings
elements together, makes a new whole. How do you go about making
discoveries?
�80
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
There are no very particular rules. In general you need to be asking
a question, focussing on it, wrestling with it. You have to have the bravura
to suppose that the parts of the answer can come together for you. You
have to have faith in your powers. The evidence for there being something
we could call unconscious thinking seems to me very strong, A manifold
of processes must go into the recognition of a face or any other gestalt,
but it seems to come instantaneously. So with the "Aha!" experience of
discovery.
In discovery there is a kind of interweaving of the old and the new,
the Epimethean and the Promethean, the traditional and the innovative.
In learning anything, we learn it less well before we learn it better. Our
ignorance frequently consists in knowing what is not so or not quite so.
Discovery is the finding of the new or the different within the matrix of
what is already present, whether in latent memory or conscious thought.
There is no point in merely clinging to what is past. What you learned
and forgot can come back after years to haunt you, or to fill in the gap
in an uncompleted gestalt. As Buchanan put it, we learn to swim in winter,
and to ice-skate in summer. You must have faith in possibility and in what
is hidden within yourselves. The quest must be to find the question and
to persist in the questioning.
In a book about Chinese brush-and-ink painting, I found some precepts
that are eminently applicable to discovering. Here they are:
Follow tradition in basic design.
For powerful brushwork, there must be ch'i or spirit. The brush should
be handled with spontaneity.
Be original, even to the point of eccentricity, but without disregarding
the li of things (li means principles or laws or essences).
Learn from the masters but avoid their faults.
Now I am supposing- is this a mere academic's dream?- that such rules
are not applicable only to mathematical discovery or originality in painting. The questions to which heuristic is applicable need not be high-falutin
or esoteric. With a bit of good will and heuristic, with patience and pluck,
you might be able to transform the daily routines in schoolroom or office,
or the community for some miles around. Oh, if you must, save the world,
or write another great book! But I have thought it wiser to wish you a
simpler destiny, neither tragic nor comic, but similar to the one that
Odysseus chose at the end of the Republic.
I think I have about finished. Oh yes! do read and re-read some of
Montaigne, when you get the chance.
Such is my homily for you today; it is from the heart. May you fare well,
�-:___ - - -
/
�82
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Two Poems
Going Down the Mountain
The journey down the mountain
Leaves us silent, intent on stepping,
Mule-like and heavily laden,
On the cobbled stream bed that serves as road.
Wind-blown aspens shake and splatter
Gold on the dark mountains- so Zeus
Brought grief to the high-towered girl
In such a glittering shower.
Divine conceptions are just the thing
To bring the whole weeping weight of our
Humanness upon and between us.
We pan where the water still runs,
Recovering what we carry: gold,
Hid in the murk of the ancient clay.
Carolyn Wade Loring, an alumna of St. John's College, Annapolis, taught in the
College in 1987-88.
�83
LORING
To Ella, who died March 16, 1973
The mountains in evening don't keep their distance,
But approach and recede, as if a tired
And heavily breathing animal
Drew one after another its aching breaths,
Until another day's labor was done,
And sleep fell over the whole.
Rain also, beaten by wind
Through the ravaged stonework of our wall,
Pools and sinks and spills down one stone face
To another, and to the gray earth below
Where a lilac, tended three years now,
Chooses, without conviction, to live.
Grandmother: your ironic eyes,
Paler and bluer than water-reflected sky,
Saw all and wondered. Why now,
After fifteen years of grieving,
Is your face as close as the mountains,
Where many animals, in secret, become earth?
Carolyn Wade Loring
�84
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
La Chauve-souris et les deux belettes*
Une Chauve-souris donna tete baissee
Dans un nid de Belette; et sit6t qu'elle y fut,
L'autre, envers les souris de longtemps courroucee,
Pour Ia devorer accourut.
Quai! vous osez, dit-elle, a mes yeux vous produire,
Aprf:s que votre race a t§.che de me nuire!
N'@tes-vous pas Souris? Parlez sans fiction.
Oui, vous l'@tes, ou bien je ne suis pas Belette.
- Pardonnez-moi, dit la pauvrette,
Ce n'est pas rna profession.
Moi, Souris! Des mechants vous ont dit ces nouvelles.
Gr§.ce a l'Auteur de l'Univers,
Je suis Oiseau: voyez mes ailes:
Vive Ia gent qui fend les airs!
Sa raison plut, et sembla bonne.
Elle fait si bien qu'on lui donne
Liberte de se retirer.
Deux jours aprf:s, notre 6tourdie
Aveuglement va se fourrer
Chez un autre Belette aux Oiseaux ennemie.
La voilA derechef en danger de sa vie.
La Dame du logis avec son long museau
S'en allait Ia croquer en qualite d'Oiseau,
Quand elle protesta qu'on lui faisait outrage:
Moi, pour telle passer? Vous n'y regardez pas.
Qui fait l'Oiseau? c'est le plumage.
Je suis Souris: vivent les Rats!
Jupiter confonde les Chats!
Par cette adroite repartie
Elle sauva deux fois sa vie.
Plusieurs se sont trouves qui d'echarpe changeants
Aux danger, ainsi qu'elle, ont souvent fait Ia figue.
Le Sage dit, selon les gens:
Vive le Roi, vive Ia Ligue.
* The Fables of La Fontaine, Book II, fable v. Fables i and ii of Book I, with English i
versions, appeared in the previous issue.
�85
LA FONTAINE-ZUCKERMAN
The Bat and the Two Weasels
A bat rushed headlong into a weasel's nest.
She was not a welcome guest.
The weasel, who for the longest time
Had hated mice, sprang to attack. 'You dare,'
She said, 'set foot inside this house
After your sort have been so hard on me?
Speak without lying: are you not a mouse?
Oh you're a mouse all right, or I'm
No weasel.' 'Pardon me,'
Replied the bat, 'but that's not what I am.
What, me a mouse? I wonder where
You can have heard
Anything so absurd.
Thanks to the author of the universe
I am a bird.
Look at my wings: Long live the race
Of those who cleave the air!'
She reasoned so persuasively
She was set free.
'IWo days later,
Our heedless bat
Barges in blindly at
Another weasel's, an abominator
Of birds. Again her life's in danger:
Mistress Muzzle was just about
Th crush the avian stranger,
When she indignantly cried out:
'What do you take me for?
A bird? But you're
Not looking carefully. What makes a bird?
It is the plumage. I'm
A mouse: Long live the rats!
Let Jupiter confound all cats!'
Thus for a second time
The bat kept death away
With repartay.
People there are who, like the flittermouse,
When threatened know what party to espouse.
As circumstances change, it's wise
To choose which attribute to emphasize.
E.Z.
�-
\~
/
�Book Review
Thomas Flanagan:
The Tenants of Time*
Eva Brann
Here is a book that lives up to its captivating title. For its perspective on
human events is that from which time is most apt to seem like a place,
and a place- here Ireland- seem like a temporal being. It is the perspective of history. It is from the point of view of history that we live "in" our
fixed century as in a dwelling and in our changing nation as in a stream.
Like many good things, the title does double or even triple duty: One of
the deep themes of the book is the tenancy of land, the acute catastrophe
of eviction for the peasantry and the more muted melancholy of sellingup for the landlords. Finally, there is that personal passage of time, that
strange conjunction of public times passing and private days waning, when
the termination of our lease on life is in sight: The title is taken from- or
worked into- a reflection by the most reflective character in the book, the
schoolmaster Hugh McMahon, who says in the very center of the text:
We are all tenants of Time, and whatever it is that reminds us, that thing
we will convict as a murderer, like the messenger bringing bad tidings (428).
Master McMahon hates the testimonials of time's passing, and consequently he himself refuses to testify. Though the kindest of men, he gently
Eva Brann is a Thtor at St. John's College, Annapolis.
* New York:
Dutton, 1988
87
�88
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
and quite informatively stymies the young historian with whose appearance
the book opens. For Hugh himself is not a historian such as would put
the stamp of by-gone on the object of his research, but he is rather an
antiquarian who tries against hope to prevent the Gaelic tongue from passing into history-though he himself had once drilled it out of his pupils.
It is as a reflection on history that I want to recommend The Tenants
of Time to the St. John's community. For a deep doubt concerning the
doability and leachability of history is, as it were, the negative foundation
of our program of study. So we are left to come to extracurricular grips
with the potent impossibility of this discipline. This book, which is at once
about the delusory living, the shifting remembrance, and the abortive
writing of history, might have been made for the likes of us.
Before getting to the thought-provoking gist of this novel-history, let
me say something about how it reads. The novels which best typify their
genre are long and historical. Think of War and Peace and Remembrance
of Things Past. The two, bulk and history, are connected. It is, after all,
the business of narrative prose fiction, as opposed to poetry and drama,
to follow out the setting and circumstances of the precipitating events and
characters in indefinitely ramifying detail until the fiction has been
seamlessly implicated in a public world, the world whose scale is too encompassing to be a fiction. In The Tenants of Time this interweaving is
done to perfection. The historical figures, such as Parnell and Gladstone,
consort so comfortably with the fictional participants that one is pleased
to find them not distinguished by so much as an asterisk in the appended
list of characters. This novel, which is both long (over 800 pages) and
historical, indeed reads in certain respects just like history: It is muted and
intricate, many-faceted, and replete with the sort of scene-setting detail
that only primary research can turn up. It is, even, at first, a little tedious,
as good history often is, with the absorbing tedium of a tale levelly
developed, without the compact actions, the crises, that are the stock-intrade of drama. I think in all the forty-one chapters I received a shock
just once; others may find up to three surprises. This levelling of the
dramatic niveau is carefully devised. Every critical event is anticipated,
"prevented," as the Bible used so aptly to say, approached obliquely by
hints or glancing announcements. Novels are long partly so that readers
may inhabit them during a span of real time not utterly incommensurate
with that of the novelistic events. To make that time seem very long and
yet to make the reader never wish to emerge- that is the quintessential
novelistic art. This book was as hard to take leave of as it took long to read.
But whereas from one perspective we are being drawn into a fabric of
accurately researched detail with its numerous interwoven threads, its clues
�BRANN
89
and knots, from another it is the characters of the novel who start to come
out as people. They begin as alien silhouettes outside the compass of our
care and end up having captured our affection. They are Irishmen, recall,
and each chapter is assigned to one or more of them (and once to a woman)
to report their doings or to record their voices. The latter is most delicately
done. They all sound different and yet, with the sparest use of dialect, just
with an occasional idiomatic turn, they all sound Irish- which is the more
remarkable since this novel was written by an American. My particular
point here, though, is that if the book is devoted to history, the chapters
belong to the people. That turns out to be the crux of this enterprise.
From Homer on, literary works have often been reflexive, that is to
say, about themselves (as the Odyssey is about the telling of the odyssey).
It is only an illusion of recent frequency that makes us think of this mode
as modern. So it is not especially striking for this historical novel to be
about the writing of history. What is remarkable is how reflectively it is
done.
The situation is that in the first chapter-the year is 1904-a rather
prissily conscientious young historian called Prentiss turns up in the town
of Kilpeder in County Cork, to do research toward a book on the abortive
local Fenian rebellion of 1867. In the last chapter he gives up the project
as impossible and takes up the law instead. At the same moment the novel
about the same incident has, of course, come to completion, and what is
it but the desired history? Inference: When history turns out to be impossible, the novel may do its work.
That this upshot is not frivolous appears in the course of the final conversation, when Prentiss lets off a rehearsed epigram. It is aimed at the
converse proposal of certain German historians, to the effect that history
is merely a narrative fiction:
A taste for fiction has always seemed to me the unfailing mark of an imaginative deficiency (816).
This mingy witticism has a small truth in it: A person of perfect imaginative
repleteness could probably find complete satisfaction in such real-world
fragments as make themselves available. But it is evident that the author
of the epigram believes neither with the Germans that historians are a
species of novelist, nor, as Prentiss pretends, that novelists are historians
manques- both rather light-minded notions- but something more subtle,
namely that novelists come to a consummation just when conscientious
historians give up.
�90
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
To appreciate this claim one must ask why, actually, Prentiss does give
up. It is because he finds himself stymied from both sides. On the one
hand, this supposedly compact tale of a temporally and spatially local event
keeps going, as a German idiom so nicely puts it, "from the hundredth
to the thousandth." The ramifications of discoverable fact run wild. On
the other hand, some sources who know won't tell, and what is worse, those
who do tell, generously and intimately, won't tell all, leaving Prentiss with
some all-too-well-formed enigmas, both intimate and public. He is too
much of a historian and too little of a novelist to invent the truth. So he
falls between the stools of too much and too little knowledge, as will, it
is implied, any historian who takes the judgment-seat. The novelist has
the advantage in both realms: He penetrates his characters' privacies, not
because they are his, but because he trusts himself to know what it is like
to be a young man in J(i!peder, because he can see the paradigm in the
person and give individual shape to the specimen. But he also paints the
larger picture more successfully, for where the honest historian is obliged
to seek a pattern-in-chief- Prentiss is all for patterns- the novelist can
represent the oscillations of perspective as the ultimate truth. For example, as their particular messy little uprising of '67 recedes for the four
Kilpeder leaders personally- recedes more and more into nostalgic inconsequences and into shame-faced irritation with its balladistic glorificationthe Fenian rebellion as a whole begins to hang like an ever-darker incubus
over the great historical event of their maturity, the Parnellian Land War.
(In fact the author makes sure that it reaches even into the reader's present,
for he unobtrusively presents the imprisoned Fenians as a pattern for the
LR.A.: The former shivered naked in their blankets rather than wear the
Queen's convict-uniforms, and the same "blanket protest" has been recently
employed by the latter.) And that complex of dampings and reverberations
rings truer than would any assessment on the historical level.
Perhaps it is this licence to write history from the bottom up, or better,
from the inside out, that allows the novelist to consummate his labors, to
achieve a whole, when the wise historian will accept defeat. For whereas
history, having no natural being, becomes amorphous under very close
scrutiny, characters under the novelist's pointed attention gain "a local
habitation and a name." Flanagan's four Kilpeder men are a memorable
set, real friends as much in their untimely distances as in their long-breathed
loyalties. There is Tully, the infinitely charming play-boy, the felicitously
and also fatefully unconforming son of the local "gombeen" man, the
money-lender and merchant prince in whose interest the noble land war
against the aristocracy finally turns out to have been fought. There is his
cousin, Delaney, the heir-apparent in spirit of the Tully ambitions, carried
�BRANN
91
high by his shrewd, fierce energy and brought down by a whole-hearted
passion which exactly parallels that of his hero Parnell. Then there is the
above-mentioned schoolmaster and his remote relative, Ned Nolan, the accredited Fenian commander of the uprising, who turns terrorist. Ned is
a dark, God-forsaken, pure-hearted man whom the others love, and who,
it finally appears, loves them- with fatal results.
What the novelist as historian does particularly well is to build up
through his individual people, somehow, by hook or by crook, an impression of a whole people. Perhaps the Irish are a people whose nature specially
requires slow narrative development, for it is revealed in antitheses: lo-
quacious and inarticulate, soaked in spirits but delicate about its rituals,
strong for brotherhood and ready for fratricide, in turn fanatically renitent and ever ready to turn informer.
Now, one might ask, what is Ireland to us or we to Ireland that we
should steep ourselves in its nature and its history? Well, as I have urged,
The Tenants of Time is almost as much a book about history as of history,
and therein lies its special interest for us. But isn't it also true that any
people that is genuinely what it is (as some are not) can capture our
sympathy- and this one, lovable and damned, more than most? Moreover
there are at present some forty million Irish-Americans: Irish history has
spilled over into American history. The book itself has America as a kind
of resonating background: Like the present-day I.R.A., the Fenians are
partly financed from here, and they are officered by veterans of the
American Civil War. Thus Ned, sergeant of the G.A.R., captain of the
I.R.B., and, finally, retired terrorist, dreams of a little house on the Hudson. America is the place where the Irish, like most of us, have come for
refuge, be it in the notorious "coffin ships" during the potato famine or
by frigates sent to rescue failed rebels. It therefore makes sense that an
American should produce a novel of Ireland, the more so because America
is to history what Athens once was to tragedy: the chosen place of resolutions. It is both moving and right that an attempt to understand Irish history
should be made on the other side of the Atlantic, that ocean whose winds
carry the mists that make Ireland green, and on the note of whose name
the book fitly closes.
��
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Zuckerman, Elliott
Ruhm von Oppen, Beate
Stickney, Cary
Van Doren, John
Williamson, Robert B.
Sachs, Joe
Achtenberg, Deborah
Brann, Eva T. H.
Zeiderman, Howard
Tuck, Johnathan
Wilson, Curtis
Loring, Carolyn Wade
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The St. John’s Review
Volume 53.2 (Spring 2012)
Editor
William Pastille
Editorial Board
Eva T. H. Brann
Frank Hunt
Joe Sachs
John Van Doren
Robert B. Williamson
Elliott Zuckerman
Subscriptions and Editorial Assistant
Deziree Arnaiz
The St. John’s Review is published by the Office of the Dean,
St. John’s College, Annapolis: Christopher B. Nelson, President;
Pamela Kraus, Dean. All manuscripts are subject to blind review.
Address correspondence to The St. John’s Review, St. John’s
College, P.O. Box 2800, Annapolis, MD 21404-2800.
©2012 St. John’s College. All rights reserved. Reproduction in
whole or in part without permission is prohibited.
ISSN 0277-4720
Desktop Publishing
The St. John’s Communications Office
Current and back issues of The St. John’s Review are available online at
www.stjohnscollege.edu/news/pubs/review.shtml.
�THE ST. JOHN’S REVIEW
�Contents
Essays & Lectures
Aesthetics Ancient and Modern .........................................1
James Carey
Passion and Perception in Mozart’s Magic Flute ...........38
Peter Kalkavage
Socrates, Parmenides, and the Way Out ...........................68
Judith Seeger
Rolling His Jolly Tub: Composer Elliott Carter,
St. John’s College Tutor, 1940-1942.........................97
Hollis Thoms
Reflections
Talking, Reading, Writing, Listening .............................133
Eva Brann
Caged Explorers: The Hunger for Control.....................150
Howard Zeiderman
Poetry
The Love Song of the Agoraphobic ................................177
Elliott Zuckerman
Reviews
Henry Kissinger on China: The Dangerous
Illusion of “Realist” Foreign Policy
Book Review of Henry Kissenger’s China..........................179
Joseph A. Bosco
Everything is One
Book Review of Eva Brann’s The Logos of Heraclitus ......195
David Carl
�THE ST. JOHN’S REVIEW
�ESSAYS & LECTURES
Aesthetics, Ancient and Modern:
An Introduction
James Carey
The phenomenon of beauty is trans-political, trans-historical
and trans-religious. Whether we are believers or non-believers, we can admire Greek temples, an archaic statue of
Apollo, Islamic calligraphy, a Gothic cathedral, Bach’s St.
Matthew Passion, Hindu architecture, Chinese landscape
painting, a Japanese tea ceremony, and so forth. Our admiration of these things need not be animated by religious belief.
To be sure, they mean incomparably more to those who believe that they are intimately connected with the sacred or divine than they mean to those who deny such a connection. But
the beautiful in art is accessible to all, the beautiful in nature
even more so. We should not be surprised, then, to find some
agreement among the greatest minds as to what beauty is.
It is often pointed out that philosophical inquiry into the
nature of the beautiful did not get designated as “aesthetics”
until the eighteenth century. The inquiry itself is not an exclusive modern concern, however. It was launched by Plato.
His most impressive attempt to shed light on the nature of the
beautiful is not to be found in the Symposium or the Phaedrus, but in the Hippias Major. The Symposium and the
Phaedrus are chiefly concerned with the erotic relation of the
soul to the beautiful. The concern of the Hippias Major is,
on the face of it, more limited: what is the beautiful?
Hippias has come to Athens on a diplomatic mission to
represent the interests of his native city of Elis. He is a well
known sophist. He plays a small role in Plato’s Protagoras
James Carey is a tutor at St. John’s College in Santa Fe. A shorter version
of this essay was delivered as a lecture at St. John’s College, Annapolis,
on September 10, 2011. This essay is dedicated to the memory of Thomas
McDonald, in whose soul were uniquely combined intellectual powers
of the highest order with rare loftiness of spirit and refinement of taste.
�2
THE ST. JOHN’S REVIEW
and he is the chief interlocutor with Socrates in another dialogue, the Hippias Minor. He has a high opinion of how
much he knows, and he boasts about it without shame. Hippias is, as one of the most careful students of the Platonic dialogues notes, “the great fool.”1 There are other fools in the
Platonic dialogues—Ion and Euthyphro come quickly to
mind. But Hippias is the greatest fool of them all. His limitations in combination with his vanity keep the conversation
with Socrates from ascending to the highest peaks of speculation. But the conversation ascends very high nonetheless,
though to appreciate this the reader has to compensate for
Hippias’s dullness by engaging his own thought with what
Socrates has to say.
There is a rather lengthy introductory exchange between
the two men. It begins with a comparison of earlier sophists
with contemporary sophists. It thereby brushes up against the
theme of wisdom, though without explicitly exploring it. Instead, the introductory exchange centers on the problem of
Hippias’s failure to make money through sophistry on his visits to Sparta, in contrast to his general success in this endeavor elsewhere. At one point, when Hippias claims to have
composed a beautiful speech about the beautiful, Socrates
says that Hippias has reminded him “opportunely” of something.2 Someone, Socrates says, has recently been throwing
him into confusion with the question, “What is the beautiful?” Socrates asks Hippias to help him find an answer to this
question. But his expression “opportunely”—eis kalon—is
not quite serious, since he has used the word kalon, the Greek
word for” beautiful,” or its derivatives seven times in the
opening exchange. Hippias himself used it once in the opening exchange, rather strangely.3 He does not, however, seem
interested in elaborating what he might mean by it, in spite
of the fact that Socrates tacitly invites him to do so by responding with a double echo of the word.4
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Unlike the conversations that Socrates has with Euthyphro and Meno in the dialogues named after them, and, in
particular, unlike the exchange at the beginning of the Republic and the ensuing conversations with Cephalus, Polemarchus, Thrasymachus, Glaucon, and Adeimantus, Socrates
himself initiates the conversation with Hippias in this dialogue, as he also does in the Hippias Minor after being invited
to do so by Eudicus. When Socrates initiates a conversation
we must ask ourselves what he hopes to accomplish through
it, that is, why he even engages in it. And it is especially important for us to ask this question when Socrates bothers to
initiate a conversation with someone like Hippias or Ion who
is not already a friend or associate of his and whom he knows
in advance to be limited in philosophic capacity and commitment.
We might think that Socrates is not well acquainted with
Hippias. But right off the bat he appeals to Hippias’s vanity
by calling him “Hippias, the beautiful and wise” and in the
same sentence he refers to a prior encounter with Hippias.
Socrates may be alluding to Hippias’ role in the conversation
reported in the Protagoras, where he does not make a good
impression.5 Is it possible that Socrates thinks that Hippias,
in spite of his limitations, might nonetheless help him achieve
a bit of clarity regarding something about which he is admittedly perplexed?
In response to the distinctively Socratic question, “What
is the beautiful?” Hippias offers three answers. The beautiful
is a beautiful maiden, it is ornamental gold, and it is the
solemn occasion of a funeral. Socrates exposes the deficiencies of these answers. In doing so, he couches his observations in the name of a third party who is not present, someone
who, Socrates says, chastises him about his thoughts on the
beautiful (to kalon). It later appears that this person is Socrates
himself. Socrates, then, presents himself as being in conflict
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with himself about the beautiful. And yet one of the very few
things that he says he is an expert on is erotics.6 So, given
Socrates understanding of the necessary relationship of eros
to the beautiful, we find a tension, to say the least, between
his uncharacteristic profession of expertise and his apparent
confusion about something that falls within the purview of
his expertise, to be even at the center of it.
After disposing of Hippias’s answers to the question,
“What is the beautiful?” Socrates himself suggests three answers. His first answer is that the beautiful is the fitting (or
the appropriate—to trepon).7 This leads to the question of
whether its presence causes things just to appear beautiful or
to really be beautiful. The difficulty here is in the Greek expression to kalon itself. It can mean the beautiful as we today
usually use the word, the aesthetically beautiful.8 But to kalon
can also mean the noble—moral nobility or nobility of character. In the case of the latter there can be a great difference
between being and appearance. Someone could have a noble
character without appearing so, not at first glance anyway.
Socrates himself is the conspicuous example. Nobility manifests itself most conspicuously in those situations that, as we
say, exhibit one’s character. In the case of noble laws and pursuits, the discrepancy between being and appearance is so
striking and of such contention as to lead, Socrates says, to
“strife and battle . . . privately for individuals and publically
for cities.”9 In the case of the aesthetically beautiful, the other
sense of to kalon, there seems to be no difference at all between being and appearance. It would be strange to say that
a landscape or a painting, for example, only appears to be
beautiful but is not really so.
Socrates’ second answer to the question “What is the
beautiful” is that it is the useful (to chrēsimon). And this an-
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swer gets transformed into the claim that the beautiful is the
helpful (to ōphelimon).10 We can perhaps think of the noble
this way, although we can easily imagine situations in which
nobility of character does not help very much, and other situations in which it even brings physical harm to him who exhibits it. It is even less obvious how something aesthetically
beautiful, such as a statue or a sunset, is useful or helpful.
We might get the impression from his first two definitions
that Socrates is interested in debunking the aesthetically
beautiful, which sometimes gets pejoratively called the
“merely pretty.” This impression is dispelled with Socrates’
third and most interesting, definition. Here is what he says:
I think that I have just now found my way out. Observe. If we were to say that what makes us delight
is beautiful—in no way do I mean all pleasures,
but rather that [which pleases] through hearing
and sight—how then would we do in the contest?
I suppose, Hippias, that beautiful human beings at
least, but also all decorations and paintings and
pieces of sculpture, whichever ones are beautiful,
please us when we see them. And beautiful voices
and music in general, discourses and stories too,
produce this same thing, so that if we should answer that bold man [i.e., Socrates’ “critic”] this
way—“Noble one, the beautiful is the pleasant
[that pleases] through hearing and sight”—don’t
you think we would check his boldness?11
We notice a couple of peculiarities in this passage. In the
first place, there is a double chiasmus. Socrates speaks of the
pleasant that comes through hearing and sight, in that order,
at the beginning of this passage and again at the end. The
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pleasures that come through hearing would seem to have
some primacy over those that come through sight. And yet,
in the middle of the passage, Socrates first mentions the
pleasures that come through sight, and afterwards those that
come through hearing. So, though one might infer that
Socrates holds discourses to be more truly beautiful than
sights, the passage above does not support this inference.
Beautiful discourses and beautiful sights are situated on the
same plane here.
In the second place, Socrates includes the human as well
as the non-human in that which can please through hearing
and sight. And he also includes that which pleases without
any logos in the strictly discursive sense of the word, such as
decorations, paintings, sculpture, voices, and music, and that
which does please discursively, such as discourses and stories. He thereby highlights the two senses of to kalon, as
meaning, again, both the aesthetically beautiful and the
morally noble. The morally noble, which pleases us through
a rational consideration of it, and the aesthetically beautiful,
which pleases us through sensation and presumably without
any rational consideration, are intimately connected, so much
so that, again, a single Greek word can mean both. Beautiful
human beings, in particular, can be beautiful in their looks or
beautiful in their character, or both.
We leave the Hippias Major at this point, with some regret. For we shall not follow up Socrates’ ensuing and profound distinction between two types of classes, a distinction
that no lesser a student of Plato than Jacob Klein held to be
the clue to Plato’s understanding of the eidetic duality that is
constitutive of Being itself, a theme that Klein shows is at the
heart of the Sophist and is alluded to in other dialogues as
well.12 Our regret, however, is somewhat assuaged. For Socrates’
claim in the Hippias Major that the beautiful is what pleases
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through sight and hearing induces us to reflect on similar
claims about beauty made in the greatest work on the subject
ever written, Kant’s Critique of Judgment.
The Critique of Judgment is divided into two parts, the
Critique of Aesthetic Judgment and Critique of Teleological
Judgment. We confine our attention to the first part, the principal task of which is to validate the concept of taste as something that can be cultivated, something that can be good or
bad, and something that has the beautiful—and not the pleasant simply—as its primary object.
Early on Kant raises the question of whether in the judgment of taste the feeling of pleasure precedes or follows the
judging of the object.13 One might think that this question
could be decided empirically, simply by paying attention to
the temporal sequence in which feeling and judgment occur.
But the mind moves so rapidly that the question cannot be
answered by empirical inspection alone. It can only be answered by way of an argument. Kant says that the solution
to this problem is the key to the critique of taste. He argues
as follows.
Nothing can be universally communicated except cognition (Erkenntnis) and presentation (Vorstellung), so far as it
belongs to cognition. One can report a certain sensation, say,
that buttermilk tastes good. But one cannot be sure that others
who have also tasted buttermilk will concur in this report. If
a difference of opinion emerges, that is the end of the matter.
On the other hand, an argument, say, a Euclidean demonstration, can be not just reported but universally communicated.
Anyone who sets out to prove, for example, that the base angles of isosceles triangles are equal, can expect anyone else
who is familiar with the preceding definitions, common notions, postulates, and propositions to follow the demonstration. Each step of the argument can be made clear. And if
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someone observing the demonstration discovers a flaw in the
argument, then that discovery too can be communicated. The
reason for this agreement is that, when we communicate our
cognitions to one another, what is individual about us recedes
into the background. We communicate our cognitions simply
as one rational being to another rational being. In doing so
we expect agreement; and if we find disagreement we expect
an argument of some kind in support of it.
We do not communicate our sensations to each other this
way. If I say that the room is warm, and you say that it is cold,
I do not ask you for a demonstration that it is cold. If I find a
certain dessert excessively sweet, and you don’t find it sweet
enough, we do not set out to refute each other. In a similar
way, if I experience something as beautiful, say, the slow
movement from a late Beethoven string quartet, and you hear
it as more boring than beautiful, I do not try to demonstrate
to you that it really is beautiful. An argument establishing
something as beautiful, a definitive argument compelling assent from everyone who can follow the argument, is not possible.
But in spite of this similarity, the experience of something
as beautiful is not just a feeling of pleasure either, though
pleasure is surely bound up with this experience. Kant thinks
that, unlike the feeling of pleasure, the judgment that something is beautiful is universally communicable, at least in
principle. This is possible because the encounter with something beautiful gives rise to a peculiarly harmonious interaction of the understanding, or the faculty of concepts, with the
imagination, and hence produces a state of mind (Gemütszustand) that can be communicated. There is no comparable
harmonious interaction of the cognitive faculties in the experience of something as merely pleasant, such as the scent
of patchouli or the taste of cilantro, about which there can be
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a difference of opinion that is in principle irresolvable.
In the case of a judgment of cognition proper, there is also
a relationship between the understanding and the imagination. The synthesis of the imagination is subsumed under a
definite concept. For example, two events are subsumed
under the a priori concept of cause and effect; the empirical
concept of a plate is subsumed under the pure concept of a
circle; an individual dog is subsumed under the general and
empirically derived concept of a dog. Such subsumption
under a definite concept Kant calls a determinative judgment.
This kind of judgment determines the object as this or that
definite kind of thing. It fixes the object, establishes its
boundaries as it were, and thereby renders it intelligible. The
result is a definite cognition.
In the judgment of something as beautiful, however, the
synthesis of the imagination is not subsumed under a definite
concept. The harmonious interaction of the cognitive faculties that is initiated by the presence of a beautiful object Kant
calls “free play” (freies Spiel). The resultant state of mind can
be universally communicated because it is formed by a free
play of cognitive faculties that we all possess. On the other
hand, this harmonious interaction, precisely as free play, does
not give rise to a definite cognition (ein bestimmter Erkenntis). It is only what is required for cognition in general
(Erkenntnis überhaupt).
That this state of mind is communicable, even universally
so, does not by itself imply that it is actually communicated.
For the latter, taste is also required. And taste is developed
primarily by cultivating a habit of attention to the formal relationships that are present in beautiful objects. These relationships, precisely as formal, cannot be apprehended
through sensation alone—as pleasure can—but must be apprehended by specifically cognitive faculties. And yet, be-
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cause here the imagination is not simply subordinated to the
understanding and placed in its service, but harmoniously and
freely interacts with the understanding, a feeling of pleasure
necessarily arises, as always happens in play.
A judgment that proceeds, not determinatively and by
way of subsuming a particular object (in the broadest sense
of the word) under a given definite concept, but by finding a
universal concept for the particular object is what Kant calls
a reflective judgment. In the investigation of nature determinative and reflective judgments are sequentially made. But
in the experience of an object as beautiful only a reflective
judgment is made, though in reading a work of literature in
particular, determinate judgments prepare the way for the reflective judgment that the work is beautiful. The universal
concept “beautiful,” the predicate of the reflective judgment,
“This object is beautiful,” is an indefinite concept. It refers
only to the way the individual object has of animating the
cognitive faculties into free play.14 The effect of this free play
is a pleasure that we expect everyone who has taste to feel.
To Kant’s argument that, in the encounter with a beautiful
object, the feeling of pleasure is consequent to and founded
on the judging of the object as beautiful, and not vice versa,
one might object that he has only shown what the sequence
could be. He has not shown what the sequence must be. But
Kant would respond that only this argument accounts for the
phenomenon of aesthetic enjoyment. For we do not call all
the things that please us “beautiful”—not by a long shot.
There would, however, be no reason not to do so if pleasure
precedes and founds the judgment that the object is beautiful.
Kant’s argument also makes sense of how one can distinguish between good taste, educated taste so to speak, and bad
or uneducated taste. Most of us recognize that our taste is
more refined now than it was when we were younger. The
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broadening experience of attending to the formal relations
present in beautiful objects enables us to note, appreciate,
and, as a consequence, delight in them. Again, these formal
relations cannot be apprehended by sensation alone, as is the
case with pleasures that are not mediated by judgment and
the cognitive principles that make judgment possible. And
yet, because no definite cognition is involved in a pure judgment of taste, we cannot actually demonstrate that an object
is beautiful, however perfect its formal articulation. What we
say by way of communicating the satisfaction we take in a
work such as the Adagio of Beethoven’s “Hammerclavier”
Sonata or Josquin Desprez’ “Déploration de la Mort de Jehan
Ockeghem” to someone whose musical taste we think is cultivated or susceptible of cultivation, is “Just listen to this.”
Or, in the case of painting by, say, Vermeer, “Just look at
this.”
A beautiful object does not consist of formal relations
alone. It has a material element as well, such as shades of
color or volume of sound. Unlike form, this material element,
which gives rise to what Kant calls the charm of sense, is not
communicable. Two individuals might possess an equally developed and refined appreciation of the formal relations in a
Bach fugue. But one of them prefers to hear a given fugue
played on the piano rather than on a harpsichord, whereas the
other prefers exactly the opposite. The timbre of a harpsichord and the timbre of a piano belong to the matter of the
music. For that reason, the extent to which one pleases more
than the other lies entirely within the domain of individual
preference. But the motivic, melodic, tonal, and structural elements belong to the form of the music. It is these formal relationships that stimulate the free play of the cognitive faculties
and thereby allow for universal communicability.
Formal relations are best apprehended at a distance. We
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can experience little in the way of formal relations through
the sense of touch, and only a little more through the sense
of taste and the sense of smell. Our sense of smell, unlike our
senses of touch and taste, can, of course, apprehend things at
a distance. If it were more developed in us humans we might
be able to smell formal relationships. But as it is, we cannot
do so, certainly not as readily as we can through sight and
hearing. It should not be surprising, then, that we rarely if
ever speak of a tactile sensation, however pleasant it may be,
as beautiful, and the same is true of an excellent meal or a
fine wine. We might say that the layout of a meal is beautiful,
or that the color of a wine is beautiful. But on tasting these
things we do not say, “What a beautiful flavor!” We say instead, “What a delightful flavor!” and maybe even “What a
lovely flavor!” Someone might decide to say “What a beautiful flavor!” just to show that it is possible to do so. But this
is not how we typically speak, however pleasant we may find
tactile, gustatory, and olfactory sensations. The reason seems
to be—and this is what Plato caught sight of—that any formal
relations we might apprehend through touch, taste, and smell
are almost infinitely vague in comparison to what we can
hear in a piece of music or see in a painting, to say nothing
of what we can apprehend in a work of literature.15
There is a further sign that Plato and Kant are right in
their agreement that the beautiful pleases through sight and
hearing uniquely. In the case of touch, taste, and smell, the
pleasure is felt right on the skin, and right on the gustatory
and olfactory organs. One feels a pleasure in or on the organs
of sensation, granted that it can also be quickly suffused
throughout one’s body as a whole. This is not the case regarding the pleasures associated with sight and hearing. On looking at a beautiful painting one does not experience a pleasing
sensation on the eyeball. Nor on hearing a beautiful piece of
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music does one experience a pleasing sensation in the ear.
Regarding music in particular, we can enjoy it up to a
point just by remembering it. A talented and well trained musician can imagine and delight in music he has never heard
before just by reading through a score as though it were a
book. Beethoven composed his greatest works when he was
stone deaf. Schubert did not live to hear a single one of his
symphonies performed. Brahms is reported to have said,
partly in jest but not entirely so, that when he wanted to hear
a really fine performance of the Marriage of Figaro he would
light up a cigar and stretch out on his couch. Many composers
refuse to compose at the piano. They want their compositions
to originate in the imagination, not in their fingers, not even
in their ears.
The distance that separates what is visible and audible
from our eyes and ears enables us to apprehend the visible
and the audible with a measure of detachment. To be sure, a
light can be so bright that it causes a pain in one’s eyes, and
a sound can be so loud that it makes one’s ears hurt. But,
again, the intensity of a light or a sound pertains to sensory
matter, not to form. Form, as such, causes no pain in the sensory organs, and the pleasure it gives rise to does not occur
there but somewhere else. It occurs in the mind.
Kant argues that the satisfaction associated with the experience of the purely beautiful is disinterested. He has been
famously taken to task on this point by Nietzsche.16 If Nietzsche
read the Critique of Judgment, he did not possess the patience
to read it carefully; for Kant very early in that work explicitly
says that “a judgment about beauty, in which the least interest
mingles, is quite partial and no pure judgment of taste.”17 A
judgment of taste can indeed be interested, but to that extent
it cannot be a pure judgment of taste. The judgment of a beautiful human form, for example, is an aesthetic judgment, but
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it is not entirely disinterested. Kant recognizes this, though
Nietzsche seems to think it undercuts Kant’s thesis. Even
when the beautiful is combined with the good, it cannot, according to Kant, be the object of a pure judgment of taste;
and the same is true of what he calls “the ideal of beauty.”18
In Plato’s Symposium Socrates relates Diotima’s saying
dictum that “eros is not of the beautiful. . . . It is of engendering and bringing to birth in the beautiful.”19 However we are
to understand this, Plato seems to recognize, as Kant does,
that eros, being about as interested as interested can be, for
that very reason cannot have the beautiful, simply, as its real
object. The antecedent disinterested contemplation of the
beautiful may well give rise to a consequent interest in, even
a desire for, a certain non-contemplative relation of oneself
to the beautiful, a relation of engendering and bringing to
birth in it. Still, what eros is of is not the beautiful. Instead,
Diotima says, “eros is of the good’s being one’s own always.”
Diotima seems to be saying that, though the good can be
one’s own, the aesthetically beautiful cannot be one’s own.
The delight you take in contemplating the beautiful object in
no way detracts from the delight I take in it. Quite the opposite. Your delight enhances my delight.
The experience of pure beauty gives rise to a disinterested
satisfaction not simply because beautiful sights and sounds,
unlike pleasant tactile sensations, flavors, and odors, are mediated by distance, but because they are thereby also mediated by judgment. The satisfaction bound up with the merely
pleasant, on the other hand, is immediate. No act of judgment
is needed to enjoy the pleasing sensation of a cool breeze on
a hot day. An irrational animal can enjoy tactile sensations as
easily as a human being can. When we call a flower “beautiful,” we do so because of how it looks, not because of how it
smells. After all, one can, and often does, call a flower beau-
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tiful without ever smelling it. One does not, however, call a
flower beautiful without seeing it, however pleasant may be
the scent that comes wafting through the window. The assessment of how a flower looks, of how it is shaped and articulated, is made in an act of reflective judgment, which occurs
so naturally and rapidly that we rarely realize that we are even
making a judgment.
Because the pleasure we take in a beautiful object is consequent to and founded on the judgment that the object is
beautiful, this pleasure bears an analogy to, without being
simply identical with, the pleasure we take in contemplating
moral nobility. As Kant argues, we do not do what is morally
right because of the pleasure that doing so gives rise to. For
we would not experience any pleasure in doing what is
morally right unless we thought that acting this way was good
in itself, regardless of whether it gave rise to more pleasure
than pain or the reverse. Any reduction of moral nobility to
pleasure seeking is as morally obtuse as a reduction of the
admiration of moral nobility to pleasure seeking.20
The remarkable affinity between the pleasure taken in the
beautiful and the pleasure taken in the morally good leads
Kant to speak of beauty as the symbol of the morally good.
Aesthetic education, though by no means a substitute for
moral education, can nonetheless facilitate moral education.
The cultivation of taste elevates one above enjoyment of the
coarser and more immediate pleasures to those refined pleasures that are mediated by judgment. The pleasure that one
takes in contemplating the aesthetically beautiful is then analogous to the pleasure that one takes in contemplating exemplars of moral nobility, and to the pleasure that one can also
take in establishing a measure of integrity in one’s own character. Kant says:
Taste makes possible, without too violent a leap,
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the transition (as it were) from the charm of sense
to habitual moral interest, because it represents the
imagination in its freedom as purposively determinable for the understanding, and so teaches us
to find even in objects of sense a free satisfaction
apart from any charm of sense.21
Thomas McDonald puts this matter well when he speaks
of a teleological function of aesthetic education. It is conducive to developing “a susceptibility to rational determination immanently, working from within and from beneath,
[such] that one’s practical moral determinations not always
be imposed from without or from above.”22 That there is but
one Greek word, kalon, for both the aesthetically beautiful
and the morally noble is not a linguistic accident.23
To return briefly to the Hippias Major, that to kalon
pleases through sight and/or hearing holds true of the morally
noble as well as of the aesthetically beautiful. Moral nobility
can be seen in an act and heard in a speech. Obviously it cannot be touched, tasted, or smelled. Now, Socrates sees that
this formulation, though true and highly significant, describes
a beautiful object only in terms of its effect. He is interested,
however, in more than the effect that the beautiful object has
on the subject. He is also interested in what causes the beautiful object to be beautiful. If we say that the cause of the
beautiful object is itself the beautiful—a possibility that
Socrates briefly entertains—then we are not saying very
much: the beautiful is the cause of the beautiful; cause and
effect are the same. And yet if the cause and the effect are
different, but both are somehow beautiful, we find ourselves
confronted with the so-called “third man” problem: there
must be some third “beautiful” in which the beautiful as cause
and the beautiful as effect both participate; and then some
fourth “beautiful” in which all three participate; and so on ad
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infinitum. The question of what causes an object to be beautiful is a real question. Socrates does not answer it.
Kant, however, does answer this question. The cause of
the beautiful in art—we are not speaking now of the beautiful
in nature—is genius. Kant does not use this word the way we
do. For him it does not necessarily denote someone with an
exceptionally high intelligence, as intelligence is commonly
understood. Newton, he says, is not a genius, and Kant would
certainly not call himself one. Genius names a kind of mysterious spirit that is at work within the artist, assuming that
he is a great artist.24 According to Kant, only an artist can
possesses genius. Newton notoriously moves from one assertion to another without supplying the intervening steps that
logically connect the one with the other. But Newton can fill
these steps in. With much more labor than it cost him we can
fill them in as well. Newton can justify each step in his
demonstrations. If we understand his demonstrations we can
do the same.
Kant maintains that the case is different with the artist
and his art. Mozart, for example, cannot explain why the interval of a sixth at just this point in a melody is exactly the
right interval, and not, say, a fourth. Michelangelo cannot explain how he visualized a captive within an uncut block of
stone, or why he decided to paint the newly created Adam
just as he painted him. The great artist must of course possess
a communicable knowledge of the elements of his craft. And
these elements are teachable. Mozart could teach counterpoint, and Michelangelo could teach the techniques of sculpture and of representing perspective in two dimensions. But
Mozart could not teach anyone, no matter how technically
proficient he was at mastering the rules of counterpoint and
harmony, how to write a “Jupiter Symphony,” or even a comparatively simple but beautiful melody like “La ci darem la
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mano” from Don Giovanni, or the even simpler but equally
beautiful melody from The Magic Flute, “Drei Knäbchen,
jung, schön, hold, und weise.” (The latter melody, in B-flat
major, begins implausibly with five F’s in a row followed by
five D’s in row, and then three B-flats in a row—and yet, for
all its simplicity, I daresay there is nothing more beautiful in
opera.) Similarly, Michelangelo could not teach anyone how
to sculpt a masterpiece comparable to his “David.”
Kant says that to the extent that an artist is animated by
genius he cannot articulate the rules by which he produces
his works of art.25 Genius presupposes technique, but it is not
identical with technique. Genius is an altogether mysterious
force that even the artist cannot account for. Brahms once
said that when he was a young man melodies came to him
while he was polishing his shoes.
This attitude of the artist toward the sources of his inspiration is a familiar one and millennia old. An unnamed goddess is invoked in the third word of the Iliad; an unnamed
muse is invoked in the fourth word of the Odyssey. In Plato’s
Ion, Socrates makes a number of comic observations about
the pretentions of rhapsodes, poets, and soothsayers. While
we are laughing at them, however, we should not overlook a
remarkable observation he also makes that is not so comic:
A great indication [that the god is speaking
through these people] is Tynnichos the Chalcidean, who never made any poem whatsoever
that would be worthy of remembering, but then
[made] the paean that everyone sings, just about
the most beautiful of all lyric poems, simply (or
artlessly—atechnōs) as he himself says, “a discovery of the muses.”26
How did Tynnichos manage to do this? Socrates does not
say. One might say that Tynnichos was visited by genius. If
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so, it was a brief visit. Beethoven, who was in a position to
know, held that genius is always prolific. Beethoven may
have had Bach in mind. He once said, “Bach ought not to be
called Bach (German for “brook”) but Meer (German for
“ocean”).
What is the ultimate source of the beautiful in art? The
twentieth-century German philosopher Max Scheler gave a
blunt and characteristically provocative answer to this question. “The artist is merely the mother of the work of art. God
is the father.”27 So direct a theological answer to this question
is not the only one. Leo Strauss, hardly an unqualified admirer of the fine arts as distinct from the liberal arts, and
highly suspicious of aesthetics, writes in a letter, “[O]nly the
moderns are so crazy [as] to believe that ‘creation’ of a ‘work
of art’ is more worthy of wonder and more mysterious than
the reproduction of a dog: just look at a mother dog with her
puppies . . . .” It is not clear what crazy moderns Strauss has
in mind. Kant, for one, would grant that nature, prodigal in
its production of the beautiful and sublime, is more worthy
of wonder than any work of art. But also worthy of wonder
is the process of artistic production. Strauss recognizes this,
and continues his sentence as follows: “. . . and the force, by
means of which Shakespeare conceived, felt, and wrote
Henry IV, is not Shakespeare’s work, but [is] greater than any
work of any man.”28
Kant is not averse to a theological account of artistic genius, but he is determined, as always, to keep theology at
arms length until compelled by his argument to bring it into
the picture. He entertains the possibility that what is at work
in genius is nature. “Genius is the innate talent of the mind
(ingenium) through which nature gives the rule to art.”29 A
bit later Kant says:
In science . . . the greatest discoverer differs only
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in degree from his laborious imitator and apprentice, but he differs specifically from him whom
nature has endowed for beautiful art. . . . The artist
is favored by nature. . . . [Artistic] aptitude (Geschicklichkeit) cannot be communicated; rather, it
is imparted to every [artist] immediately by the
hand of nature; and so it dies with him, until nature endows another in the same way, who needs
nothing more than an example to let the talent of
which he is conscious work in a similar way.30
The way nature works is mysterious. After Mozart died a
lot of attention was directed toward turning his son into “another Mozart.” It did not work. The boy had a very good ear,
and he was taught the nuts and bolts of composition, but he
lacked genius. He was not one of nature’s favorites.
In the above passage Kant indicates that artistic activity,
which cannot be reproduced, can be a way in which artistic
activity gets, not exactly reproduced but further produced,
assuming that talent is present and technique has been mastered. The artwork of an earlier artist can serve as an example
to a later one—not to be copied of course, but to be emulated.
Beethoven’s great piano concertos are not copies of Mozart’s,
not even structurally. But they were in large measure inspired
by Mozart’s concertos. Artistic inspiration is, to be sure, occasioned not only by examples of artistic masterworks.
Beethoven wrote the “Molto Adagio” of his E minor string
quartet under the direct inspiration of the night sky.
The literary critic Eric Heller reports that the great physicist Werner Heisenberg was once speaking with a small group
of English research students on the difference between humanistic studies and scientific pursuits. A grand piano was in
the room, and after the discussion Heisenberg, who was a
highly accomplished pianist, improvised on it a bit. He then
played, beautifully, a Beethoven sonata. When Heisenberg
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finished, he said to those present, “If I had never lived, someone else would have discovered the Uncertainty Principle.
For this was the solution of a problem that had emerged from
the logical development of physics and had to be solved in
this and no other way. But if there had never been a
Beethoven, this sonata would not have been composed.”31
Kant’s claim that genius is an endowment of nature is
problematic. He labored at length to ground and validate the
post-Aristotelian, non-teleological, mathematico-mechanical
concept of nature in his first Critique and in the Metaphysical
Foundations of Natural Science. Kant construes nature in
these works as simply the complex of phenomena standing
under architectonic laws prescribed to it a priori by the human
understanding. It is hard to see how nature, so construed,
could be the source of anything so inscrutable as artistic genius. The post-Kantian rise of a putatively non-teleological
biology has the effect of making genius all the more inscrutable. One might say that the force that produced, say,
Schubert’s final piano sonatas, his Ninth Symphony, his
Grand Duo for four hands, and his great string quintet (the
last three works all composed in C major, incidentally) was
just a rare and transient anomaly, like a black swan. But this
claim does not adequately account for the taste by which we
are able to appreciate these works, and this taste is not anomalous at all. It is not easy to see how taste for beauty, or even
the capacity for such taste, could have gotten naturally selected for enhancing the survival prospects of the human
species. For, again, the satisfaction bound up with our experience of the beautiful is the effect of a disinterested judgment. The cognitive faculties that are set in free play by the
presence of the beautiful can certainly be placed in the service
of our biological needs. But does their free play serve these
needs? It is one thing to assert that it does. It is something
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else to make sense of this assertion. The nature that gives rise
to genius can hardly be the nature of modern natural science.
It is something whose inner workings in the case of genius
are essentially veiled from view—from the view of the scientist and from the view of the artist as well.
The activity of artistic genius is as mysterious as its ultimate source. Kant understands this activity to be one that is
productive of what he calls, almost paradoxically, “aesthetic
ideas”:
[B]y an aesthetic idea I understand that presentation (Vorstellung) of the imagination that occasions much thinking, yet without any definite
thought, i.e., any concept, being adequate to it, a
presentation that speech, consequently, cannot
completely compass and make intelligible.32
In spite of the last clause, Kant understands poetry to be
the art form that is most impressive in its production of aesthetic ideas. Intelligibility, according to Kant, is constituted
through the understanding’s imposition of concepts on intuitions that have previously been synthesized by the imagination.33 This activity of our understanding is highly selective.
Only a portion of what the imagination has previously synthesized in intuition gets attended to. For us to understand
something, much of the material that the imagination synthesizes has to be passed over and disregarded. It suffices to
think of the controlled experiment, in which the scientist deliberately attempts to eliminate everything from consideration
that is extraneous to the experiment itself.
In the case of writing poetry, something quite different
happens. Kant says that there the imagination “is free to furnish unsought, over and above . . . agreement with the concept, extensive undeveloped material for the understanding,
material which the understanding did not take into consider-
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ation in its concept.”34 Though this activity of the imagination
is not in the service of the understanding’s constitution of an
object, and hence not in the service of acquiring knowledge,
it is still, as Kant says in the preceding quotation, “for the understanding.” In the first place, this activity “quickens the
cognitive powers.” That’s the element of free play, assuming
genius in the artist and a cultivated taste in his audience. But
in the second place, this activity, in the case of poetry especially, provides a kind of “nourishment” for the understanding. “[T]hrough his imagination [the genius] gives life to his
concepts.”35 Let us consider a few lines of poetry to see how
imagination furnishes material for the understanding that is
deliberately ignored by the understanding in its purely cognitive endeavors and typically overlooked in ordinary experience by those of us who are not geniuses.
The rejected lover says, in a poem by Fulke Greville:
Cynthia who did naked lie
Runs away like silver streams;
Leaving hollow banks behind,
Who can neither forward move,
Nor if rivers be unkind,
Turn away or leave to love.36
Banks of a river exposed by receding water are gray,
grassless, and pitted. Warped roots of nearby trees protrude
at random. They are desolate, and anyone can see this. But
to connect this sight with the condition of a lover who has
been abandoned and can neither follow his love nor cease
loving her is the work of genius. It is the production of aesthetic ideas.
Frederick Goddard Tuckerman attends to the phenomena
of nature with all his senses, though he finds little consolation
for grief even in its splendors:
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But not for him those golden calms succeed
Who while the day is high and glory reigns
Sees it go by, as the dim pampas plain,
Hoary with salt and gray with bitter weed,
Sees the vault blacken, feels the dark wind strain,
Hears the dry thunder roll, and knows no rain.37
Thomas Hardy, with a sensibility as cultivated as Greville’s and Tuckerman’s to “undeveloped material normally
passed over,” writes of how others may remember him after
he has died:
If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid’s soundless blink,
The dew-fall hawk comes crossing the shades to alight
Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,
“To him this must have been a familiar sight.”38
We are accustomed to speak of such things as Hardy’s
“dew-fall hawk” and “wind-warped upland thorn” as poetic
images. But this is an imprecise way of speaking, for they are
not images of anything else. They are the bird and the branch,
not visibly present in this room to be sure, but surely, in their
own way, present in the poem.
In these passages we can see how the imagination provides the understanding with material for, as Kant puts it,
“much thought”—not the kind of thought that is at work in
scientific research and philosophical enquiry, but thought directed to features of human experience in which we take an
interest as mortal beings and not as minds only. Kant understands the taste for beauty to be something unique to man, to
a finite but nonetheless rational being, an animal possessing
both sense organs and intellect.
Beauty is a sensible phenomenon. It is a spatial or temporal phenomenon, or both spatial and temporal. It is for this
reason that, for Kant, the term “aesthetic” can designate fea-
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tures or statements regarding the beautiful and sublime as
well as space and time themselves. In fact, the different art
forms can be ordered in terms of how they work with space
and time. Painting is the most spatial and least temporal of
the arts. A painting can be seen all at once, assuming that it
is not excessively large or curved like a cyclorama. The time
involved in the apprehension of its composition is minimal.
In the case of sculpture more time is required, for one must
move around it to take all of it in. In the case of architecture,
yet more time is required, not only because buildings are
larger than statues, but also because one must enter them as
well as walk around them. In the case of dance we observe
spatial figures themselves move through time. This is true of
theater and also of film, where we must also apprehend
speech. Speech fills time and takes time to understand. In poetry and literature in general the spatial relations referred to
occur only in the imagination of the reader.39 Music is at the
opposite end of the scale from painting. Spatial relations are
absent, though they can be imagined. The formal relations in
music are temporal. And all these different forms can be combined, most comprehensively in opera. Wagner intended his
gigantic music dramas to be unities of all the art forms.
The various art forms can, of course, make man himself
their theme. Kant speaks of the possibility of representing
man at his height in a section of the Critique of Judgment entitled the “The Ideal of Beauty.” The following sentence from
the Critique of Practical Reason can serve as an introduction
to it. There Kant says:
The [moral] law should obtain for the world of
sense, as a sensible nature (as this concerns rational
beings), the form (Form) of an intelligible world,
i.e., the form of a supersensible nature, without
interrupting the mechanism of the former.”40
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It is our consciousness of the moral law that causes us to
regard other human beings to look like something more more
than obstacles to be gotten around or targets of sexual appetite, and causes them to manifest themselves not as things
at all but as persons. The very looks of the phenomenal order
are modified, indeed ennobled, by our consciousness of obligation. In the expression of the human being before us, in
the pressing out of his interior rationality and intrinsic worth
to the surface of his countenance, we behold an end-in-itself
that our consciousness of the moral law commands us not to
treat as a mere means to the attainment of our private ends.
In his treatment of the ideal of beauty in the Critique of
Judgment Kant makes two important distinctions. The first
is between idea and ideal. “Idea properly means a rational
concept [a concept of reason], and ideal the representation of
an individual being, regarded as adequate to that idea.”41
The distinction between idea and ideal is the fundamental distinction governing Hegel’s aesthetics. For Hegel
the idea is the whole dialectically interrelated system of
rational concepts, which he attempts to explicate in his
Science of Logic. According to Hegel, art attempts to make
the idea, which is truth in its purity, immediately present
to sensible intuition. The attempt is never fully successful,
for what it aims at is impossible. Art according to Hegel
necessarily falls short of philosophy. The ideal is for him
only an ideal. On the other hand it really is ideal. The ideal
would be (per impossibile) that the idea be intuitively
present, right there in front of us, rather than accessible
solely through discursive, laborious, and largely abstract
thought, as Hegel argues it must be.
According to Kant, however, the great artist is more
successful at presenting the ideal than Hegel supposes.
The unconditioned, for Kant, is not so much a comprehen-
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sive system of speculative concepts as it is a practical law.
And it is possible to depict a human being as governing himself through this law. Kant makes a distinction not only between the idea and the ideal but also between the aesthetical
normal idea and the ideal. The aesthetic normal idea is the
visible archetype of the species, whether of man or of some
other species. It exhibits regularity and perfect fitness of form
to function, whether of man or animal. The ideal, on the other
hand, “makes the purposes of humanity, inasmuch as they
cannot be sensibly presented, the principle for judging of a
figure [Gestalt] through which, as their phenomenal effect,
those purposes are revealed [offenbaren].”42 According to
Kant, this ideal can be represented only in the human figure,
and it is an expression of the moral.
The visible expression of moral ideas that rule
men inwardly can, to be sure, be taken only from
experience; but to make their connection with all
that our reason unites with the morally good in the
idea of the highest purposiveness—goodness of
soul, purity, strength, peace, and so forth—visible
as it were in bodily expression (as the effect of
what is internal): all that requires a union of pure
ideas of reason with great imagination even in him
who wishes only to judge of it, still more in him
who wishes to present it.43
If we leave aside specifically religious art, with its own
complications and profundities, and limit our attention instead to secular art, two candidates for the ideal of beauty in
painting immediately suggest themselves. One is a portrait
by Rembrandt. But Rembrandt’s portraits, though in the
finest instances surely representing “moral ideas that rule
men inwardly,” do not take their departure from the normal
aesthetic normal idea. Quite the contrary, the individual in
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his individuality is represented—warts and all, as we say. His
face is not the ideal type of our species. A better candidate
for the ideal of beauty is Michelangelo’s sculpture of Lorenzo
de Medici, Il Penseroso (Fig. 1). This
sculpture does not represent the Duke of
Urbino as he really looked, and probably
does not even try to represent him as he
really was. The task of making a statue of
Lorenzo for the de Medici tomb seems to
have served as the occasion for Michelangelo to present, on the foundation of the
normal aesthetic normal idea but rising
Fig. 1:
above it, the ideal of the beautiful as the
Michelangelo,
visible expression of “all that our reason
Il Pensoroso
unites with the morally good in the idea of the highest purposiveness.”
The interest, essentially practical, that we take in the ideal
of the beauty as Kant understands it, that is, as the visible expression of moral nobility, keeps the judgment pertaining to
this ideal from being a purely aesthetic judgment. The same
can be said of the interest we take in beautiful poetry. Poetry,
however so beautiful it may be, to the extent that it treats of
human concerns, cannot be the object of an entirely disinterested satisfaction, and our judgment of it is not a pure judgment of taste. And yet Kant ranks poetry as the highest of the
arts. And so we are led to an unexpected conclusion: loftiness
of beauty and purity of beauty are not identical.
Although the primary focus on of the Critique of Aesthetic Judgment is on the beautiful, its secondary focus is on
the sublime. Kant thinks that the beautiful exists not only in
art, but in nature as well, in flowers, gardens, landscapes, and,
of course, in the human figure. Though what Kant has to say
about natural beauty is intriguing, we have restricted our at-
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tention to what he has to say about beautiful art because of
its connection with genius and aesthetic ideas. We turn now
to his account of the sublime, for it too has a relation to the
moral, though one quite different from that of the beautiful
to the moral.
Whereas the beautiful is characterized by phenomenal form,
the sublime in nature is characterized by phenomenal formlessness. Kant divides the sublime into the mathematical sublime
and the dynamical sublime. The mathematical sublime appears
as vastness: a towering mountain, a view from its summit, the
ocean in a still calm, and, most strikingly of all, the celestial
vault on a clear night. The dynamical sublime appears as power:
a cataract of water, flashes of lightening, a violent hurricane,
the ocean in full tumult. We take a certain pleasure in beholding
such things, though only when we behold them from a safe vantage point. If they place us in imminent peril, we are too frightened to take pleasure in them. But why, even if we are not
threatened, do we take any pleasure in them at all?
Kant’s answer to this question is remarkable. The mathematical sublime requires us to recognize that our physical
being is, by comparison, infinitesimally small, and the dynamical sublime requires us to recognize that our physical
being is infinitesimally weak. But at the same time the sublime leads us to recognize that in our moral being we are elevated above the whole phenomenal order. For nothing, no
threat of extinction, not even extinction itself, could cause us
to freely betray our moral principles. Some force of nature,
even a drug, could wreak such havoc on our nervous system
as to impair or even destroy the rationality that is the origin
of our moral principles. But as long as we possess our rationality, and hence our will,44 no external force or threat of force
can compel us to abuse our freedom.
The sublime in art is similar to the sublime in nature. The
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sublime in art, however, cannot be
formless. For then it would not be
art at all, but a mess. In sublime
art, form is placed in the service of
representing vastness and power.
An example of the mathematical
sublime in art would be that part
of the façade of Saint Peter’s
Cathedral that was designed by
Michelangelo (Fig. 2).45 An example of the dynamical sublime in art
would be the first movement of
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, especially that point at which, the
Fig. 2: Michaelangelo,
development having been brought Façade of St. Peter’s Cathedral
to pitch of intensity, the hushed D
minor opening is recapitulated in a blazing and thundering D
major, but in first inversion with an F-sharp in the low bass,
as though the very cosmos were exploding, or fully displaying itself for the first time.
We said earlier that the satisfaction bound up with the
judgment of taste is, according to Kant, disinterested. It is to
that extent unlike both the satisfaction one takes in the merely
pleasant and the satisfaction one takes in morally good—as
different as these latter two satisfactions most definitely are
from each other. The beautiful pleases, but it is not the merely
pleasant. And, though the beautiful can serve as the symbol
of the morally good, it is not the morally good. Nor does a
cultivated taste imply moral nobility, though an aesthetic education can, as we noted, facilitate the task of a moral education.
Aristotle says that the beginning of philosophy is wonder, especially regarding the causes of things. But, he adds,
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we must end in the opposite and the better state, not with
wonder about the causes of things, but with knowledge of
the causes. Knowledge is better than wonder.46 And Aristotle
seems to think that we really can know something about ultimate causes, even if we know them, not as they are essentially and in themselves, but only as the ultimate cause or
causes of what we are familiar with, of what is close at hand,
of what is not first in itself but first for us.
Kant does not think that even this attenuated knowledge
of ultimate causes is available to us. Wonder is not only the
beginning of philosophy. It is itself a kind of end, an end not
replaced by knowledge. Wonder is present in our aesthetic
experience of the beautiful and the sublime, and in a different way it is present in our moral experience as well. Wonder
is bound up even with the longed for, indeed a priori assumed, discovery of special empirical laws of nature and
their interconnection, which is not accomplished by the
human understanding’s a priori prescription of architectonic
laws to a nature in general.47 Like aesthetic experience in
general, wonder is possible only for a finite though rational
being.
Kant speaks of the wonder that emerges from the accomplishment of reason, both speculative and practical, in an impressive passage that occurs near the end of the Critique of
Practical Reason. Part of the first sentence was inscribed on
his tombstone. It is well known and frequently quoted. But
the whole passage should be better known. If the ancient
philosopher Plato often seems to be the most poetic of
philosophers, the modern philosopher Kant often seems to
be the most prosaic. And yet the passage at the end of the
Critique of Practical Reason, which can serve as a conclusion to this introduction to aesthetics, shows that there was
more poetry in Kant’s soul than one might have guessed
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solely from working one’s way along the “thorny paths” of
the Critique of Pure Reason:
Two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing wonder and awe (Bewunderung und Ehrfurcht) the more often and more steadily reflection
occupies itself with them: the starry sky above me,
and the moral law within me. . . . The former begins at the place I occupy in the external world of
sense; and it broadens the connection in which I
stand into an unbounded magnitude of worlds beyond worlds and systems of systems and into the
limitless times of their periodic motion, their beginning and their continuance. The latter begins
at my invisible self, my personality and exhibits
me in a world that has true infinity, but which is
perceptible only to the understanding, a world in
which I recognize myself as existing in a universal
and necessary (and not only, as in the first case,
contingent) connection, but thereby also in connection with all those visible worlds. The former
view, of a numberless mass of worlds, annihilates,
as it were, my importance as an animal creature,
which must give back to the planet ([itself] a mere
speck in the universe) the matter from which it
came, the matter which is for a short time provided with vital force, we know not how. The latter, on the contrary, infinitely elevates my worth
as that of an intelligence through my personhood,
in which the moral law reveals a life independent
of all animality and even of the whole world of
sense—at least so far as it may be gathered from
the purposive destination assigned to my existence
through this law, a destination that is not restricted
to the conditions and limitations of this life but extends into the infinite.48
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NOTES
Leo Strauss, Letter of February 26, 1961 to Helmut Kuhn, in The Independent Journal of Philosophy 2:1978, 23.
2
Greater Hippias Major 286c5
3
282d6. Cf. fn. 1 in the Greater Hippias, translated by David Sweet in
The Roots of Political Philosophy, edited by Thomas Pangle (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987), 307.
4
At 283a1 and a9.
1
Protagoras 314b10-c8; 337c7-338b2: “meta de ton Prodokon Hippias
ho sophos eipen” ff. Cf. fn. 17 of in Sweet’s translation of the Greater
Hippias, 307.
6
Symposium 177d79-810.
7
Greater Hippias Minor 293e5.
8
The later coinage of the term “aesthetics” emerges for a reason. There
is a special connection between aesthesis, the Greek word for “sensation,”
and beauty. The beautiful, and the sublime too, are present in sensory experience, even if something super-sensible shines through them. For this
reason the expressions “the aesthetically beautiful” and “the morally
noble” can both be used to translate the two distinct but related senses of
the expression to kalon.
9
294d1.
10
295c3 and; d9; 296e2. Note the introduction of power (or that which is
powerful, to dynaton) at 295e5, and the grouping of the helpful, the useful, and “the power to make something good” at 297d4.
5
Hippias Major 297e4-298a8.; Cf. Phaedrus 250d1-e1.
12
Greek Mathematics and the Origin of Algebra, translated by Eva Brann
(Cambridge, Mass.: M.I.T. Press, 1968), 79-99.
13
Immanuel Kant, Werke in Zehn Bänden, hereafter Werke, edited by Wilhelm Weischedel (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1981),
Band 8, Kritik der Urteilskraft, 295-298. (English translation, Critique
of Judgment, translated by J. H. Bernard, (New York: Haffner Press,
1951), 51-54. Pagination for in this translation will hereafter be given immediately following the German pagination and separated from it by a
slash. I have made some alterations in the translation in the interest of
greater literalness.)
11
14
The concept beautiful is nonetheless predicated of the object; it is not
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predicated of the subject. But, for Kant, it is predicated of the object only
because of what it occasions in the subject. And yet the object would not
occasion this effect were it not, in itself so to speak, already characterized
by perfection of composition, simplicity of means and richness of effects,
radiance and mutual illumination of whole and parts or, in the language
of Thomas Aquinas, integritas, consonantia, and claritas (Summa Theologiae 1, Question 39, Article 8, corpus). Kant’s argument in the Critique
of Judgment does not presuppose the particulars of the case he makes for
the a priori constitution of nature via transcendental subjectivity in the
Critique of Pure Reason. On the contrary, beautiful objects, just like special empirical laws of nature, are not deducible from the architectonic
laws of a nature in general that he argues are prescribed to it a priori by
the human understanding. The exact source of the special laws of nature
as such is as mysterious as the exact source of beauty. It remains a problem that, though taken up again in the “Introduction” to the Critique of
Judgment, in the Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science, and in
the Opus Postumum, is never fully solved by Kant. “For who can entirely
draw out from nature her secret?” Werke, Band 8, 316/70.
15
In the case of a really fine wine, one goes so far as to speak of structure,
balance, and bouquet, borrowing terms from architecture and floral
arrangements. Still, one does not call the taste of the wine, but only its
looks, beautiful. The same can be said of fine pipe tobacco. It may look
beautiful in the tin, but no one says that it tastes or smells beautiful.
Genealogy of Morals, Third Essay, Section 6.
17
Werke, Band 8, 281/39.
18
Ibid., Werke, 311/66; 314/69. We shall consider the ideal of beauty
below.
16
Symposium 206e1-207a3.
Cf. Leo Strauss, Natural Right and History (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1953), 128.
19
20
Werke, Band 8, 462-463/200.
22
From “Thoughts on Kant,” a Friday-night lecture given at St. John’s
College, Annapolis, in the spring of 1979. This lecture, which Mr. McDonald delivered from notes, was recorded, and each library on the two
campuses of St. John’s has a compact disk of it. I listened to the lecture
more than once in gearing up to write the present essay, and I highly recommend it to anyone who is interested in understanding Kant’s project
in its full scope.
21
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“Shakespeare wrote at a time when common sense still taught . . . that
the function of the great poet was to teach what is truly beautiful by means
of pleasure.” Allen Bloom and Harry Jaffa, Shakespeare’s Politics
(Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1964), 6. Kant would say
that this formulation (whether or not it is what common sense taught in
Shakespeare’s time, which one can doubt) gets the relationship between
beauty and pleasure exactly backwards. The function of the great poet is
to teach what is truly pleasant by means of beauty, inasmuch as the truly
pleasant—more precisely what is pleasant to a rational animal as such—
presupposes the recognition that what is under consideration is aesthetically beautiful, or, for that matter, morally noble.
23
Werke, Band 8, 417-420/160-163. This spirit can be thought without
contradiction as being divine in origin.
24
Werke, Band 8, 406-410/151-153.
Ion 543d7-10.
27
Quoted by Gershom Scholem in “Revelation and Tradition as Religious
Categories” in The Messianic Idea in Judaism, (New York: Schocken
Books, 1971), 303.
28
Letter of August 20, 1946, to Karl Löwith. The force that Strauss speaks
of in this clause cannot be easily distinguished, in the case of the genius,
from the “creation” to which he refers, within quotation marks, in the preceding clause.
25
26
Werke, Band 8, 405-406/150.
30
Werke, Band 8, 408/152.
31
Eric Heller, “The Broken Tradition: An Address,” in The Age of Prose,
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 31.
29
Werke, Band 8, 413-414/157.
“Thoughts without content are empty; intuitions without concepts are
blind” (Critique of Pure Reason B 75, Werke, Band 3, 98). “An object is
that in whose concept the manifold of a given intuition is united” (ibid.,
B 137, Werke, Band 3, 139). “It is one and the same spontaneity, which
[in the synthesis of apprehension] under name of the imagination, and [in
the synthesis of apperception, under the name] of the understanding,
brings combination into the manifold of intuition” (ibid., B 162 note,
Werke, Band 3, 155).
34
Werke, Band 8, 417/160.
35
Werke, Band 8, 423/165-166.
32
33
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From Number 56 in “Caelica,” Selected Poems of Fulke Greville, edited
by Thom Gunn, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 85.
36
From Sonnet 5 of the First Series, 1854-1860, in The Complete Poems
of Frederick Goddard Tuckerman, edited by N. Scott Momaday, (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1965), 5.
37
From “Afterwards,” in The Complete Poems of Thomas Hardy, edited
by James Gibson, (New York: Macmillan, 1978), 553. Particularly fine
studies on the poetry of Greville, Tuckerman, and Hardy, among others,
can be found in Yvor Winter’s Forms of Discovery (Chicago: The Swallow Press, 1967).
39
On the quite different, even opposed, ways in which great poetry and
great painting stimulate the imagination, see Gotthold Ephraim Lessing’s
magnificent study, Laokoon; or, On the Limits of Painting and Poetry
(1766).
38
Werke, Band 6, 156.
41
Werke, Band 8, 314/69. Compare Critique of Pure Reason B 595-598.
For Kant, an aesthetic judgment in the strict sense is singular (Werke,
Band 8, 293-294/49-50). The individual per se is not the concern of science. (Cf. Aristotle, Posterior Analytics 81b8: there is no scientific knowledge, no epistēmē, of singulars—though for a possible exception to this
general rule see Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae 1, Question 1, Articles 2-8). But the individual per se is very much the concern of fine art.
One reason why Plato so frequently gets called a “poet” is that he presents
his teaching through the voices of flesh and blood individuals, Socrates
chief among them. Dostoyevsky goes somewhat further in this direction:
“[T]he image of the [Dostoyevskian] hero is inseparably linked with the
image of an idea and cannot be detached from it. We see the hero in the idea
and through the idea, and we see the idea in him and through him. . . . [W]hat
is important is not the ordinary qualifications of a person’s character or actions, but rather the index of a person’s devotion to an idea in the deepest
recesses of his personality.” Mikail Bakhtin, “The Idea in Dostoyevsky,”
in Problems of Dostoyevsky’s Poetics, (edited and translated by Caryl
Emerson in Theory and History of Literature, Vol. 8, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), 87. Cf. infra, fn. 44.
40
Werke, Band 8, 315/70.
Werke, Band 8, 318/72.
44
“Everything in nature works according to laws. Only a rational being
has the capacity to act according to the idea (Vorstellung) of law, i.e., ac42
43
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37
cording to principles, [and so has] a will.” Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals in Werke, Band 6, 41.
45
See Ralph Lieberman, “Bramante and Michelangelo at St. Peter’s,” The
St. John’s Review 40.1 (1990-91), 1-38. Our Fig.2 is Fig. 37 in Lieberman’s article. He submits it in support of the following perspicuous observation: “Michelangelo’s predecessors at the church, even the most
gifted of them, could merely build big; he solved the problem of St.
Peter’s because he could think big” (35-37).
Metaphysics 982b11-21; 983a12-20. Cf. Plato, Theaetetus 155d1-8.
47
Critique of Pure Reason B 164-165; Critique of Judgment inerke, Band
8, 260- 267/17-25. Cf. fn. 14 supra.
46
48
Werke, Band 6, 300.
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38
Passion and Perception in
Mozart’s Magic Flute
Peter Kalkavage
Mozart leads us deep into the realm of spirits. Dread
lies all about us, but withholds its torments and becomes more an intimation of infinity.
—E. T. A. Hoffman on Mozart’s
Symphony No. 39
This essay is an excursion into the world of Mozart’s Magic
Flute. My focus will be the aria “Dies Bildnis ist bezaubernd
schön,” “This image is enchantingly beautiful.” One of the
most exquisite love songs ever written, it occurs early in the
opera and is sung by Prince Tamino as he gazes upon a likeness of Pamina, daughter of the Queen of the Night and
Tamino’s destined Other.
Mozart’s final opera, written in the last year of his short
life, is a musical meditation on large themes: love, friendship,
marriage, the human and the divine, world-order, virtue and
vice, light and darkness, lust, resentment, vengeance, illusion
and disillusionment, hardship, despair, trials, death, and reconciliation—all this in the context of a bizarre fairy tale that
is by turns solemn, light-hearted, homiletic, dire, ceremonial,
and slapstick. The Magic Flute is a magical work that reflects
on magic, especially the magic that is music. It offers us a
perfect opportunity to examine the elements, principles, and
causes of musical phenomena in an admirably distilled and
lucid form.
Peter Kalkavage is a tutor at St. John’s College in Annapolis. This essay
was first delivered as a lecture at Thomas Aquinas College on 11 November 2011.
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The Magic Flute has been called Mozart’s “Masonic
opera,” and so it is. Mozart was a serious Freemason. So was
his librettist, Emanuel Schikaneder, at whose Viennese theatre the work was first produced and who was the first to play
the birdman, Papageno. The opera—or rather Singspiel, “play
with songs”—is filled with the ideals, symbols, terms, rituals,
and numerology of Freemasonry.1 The Masonic Three is especially prominent: three flats in the key signature, Three
Ladies, Three Boys, Three temples, and, of course, three
tones in the major triad, which Mozart celebrates in the middle of the Overture and throughout the opera.2 The sovereign
Three is the major triad, which Mozart highlights in various
ways throughout the opera. I say all this now because the Masonic influence, though pervasive, will not be my concern. I
want to focus instead on the power—and, as I hope to show,
the wisdom—of Mozart’s music.
Part One: The Story
The plot of the Magic Flute is strange, to say the least, and
often confusing. Since it may be unfamiliar to some of you,
I will go through it briefly.
Our story begins with Prince Tamino, lost in the dark
wood of C minor and pursued by a giant serpent.3 He carries
a bow but no arrows. Three Ladies who work for the Queen
of the Night slay the serpent and give Tamino a portrait of
the Queen’s daughter, which causes the prince to fall in love
and to express his feeling in the aria we are about to examine.
By this time, he has heard Papageno sing his lusty birdcatcher song. The Queen majestically appears. She tells a sad
story about her daughter’s abduction by Sarastro, and sends
Tamino on a mission to rescue Pamina from this fiend.
Tamino is given a magic flute, and Papageno, now Tamino’s
sidekick, is given silver chimes. The flute inverts the dark
passions of its listeners: its magic turns sadness to smiles,
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cold-heartedness to love. Flute and chimes will protect the
two friends, who are also assigned guiding spirits: Three
Boys who are said to be “young, beautiful, gracious, and
wise.”
In the next scene, we meet Pamina. Her cruel treatment
at the hands of the slaves and the Moor Monostatos (“he who
stands alone”) suggests that Sarastro is indeed a villain and
tyrant. Papageno arrives ahead of Tamino. He and Pamina
become fast friends, as the birdman tells her about his longing
for a mate and the young prince who is on his way to rescue
her. The princess and the birdman sing a graceful 6/8 duet in
E-flat major. It is an ode to marriage. “Man and Woman,
Woman and Man,” they sing, “reach unto divinity.”
This brings us to the Finale of Act I. Having arrived at
the stronghold of Sarastro,Tamino enters the Temple of Wisdom and meets a priest, who tells him he will never achieve
the reward of love and virtue while he burns with death and
vengeance. The priest disabuses Tamino of his false opinion
about Sarastro, who rules in this Temple. Tamino is told that
many of his questions must for now remain unanswered. One
thing he does learn: Pamina is alive.
His spirits renewed, Tamino plays his flute, as wild animals gather and listen, their impulses tamed by the flute’s
warbling. Papageno and Pamina arrive, but before they find
Tamino, Monostatos and the slaves arrest them. Papageno
plays his silver chimes and, for the moment, charms his
would-be captors. Then Sarastro enters, as the chorus sings:
“Hail, Sarastro! He it is to whom we joyfully submit!” Pamina, resolved to tell the truth, confesses her guilt. She gives
Sarastro two reasons for her escape: the Moor’s lustful advances and the sweet sound of her mother’s name. Sarastro
cuts her off. Her mother is a proud woman, he says: a man
must guide Pamina’s heart. Monostatos drags in Tamino, and
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he and Pamina see each other in person for the first time.
Monostatos thinks he has earned a reward but is brutally disappointed. Sarastro sentences him to seventy-seven strokes
on the soles of his feet. As Monostatos is led off, the chorus
resumes its song of praise. Tamino and Papageno are then
taken to the Temple of Probation to be purified.
Act II begins with Sarastro’s prayer to Isis and Osiris. He
asks the deities to send the spirit of wisdom to the young couple, along with patience in the upcoming trials. If Tamino and
Pamina succeed, they will have proved themselves worthy of
one another and of acceptance into the priesthood. The male
hegemony will be transformed through marriage. It will incorporate Woman into the ruling class—a bold move on the
part of Mozart and Schikaneder, since women were not allowed to become full-fledged Freemasons.4
Tamino and Papageno go through the first trial together.
They resist the temptations of the Three Ladies, who now appear in their true, demonic form. Meanwhile, the Queen of
the Night comes to Pamina and is similarly unmasked. She
gives Pamina a dagger and commands her to murder Sarastro.5 “The vengeance of hell,” she sings, “boils in my heart.”
If Pamina refuses, her mother will cast her off forever. After
the Queen leaves, Monostatos enters. He has heard everything about the planned murder and blackmails Pamina, who
can save herself and her mother only by yielding to his lust.
When Pamina refuses, Monostatos says: “Then die!” As he
raises the dagger to kill her, Sarastro enters and holds him
back. He dismisses the Moor and reassures Pamina with an
aria that is warm, regal, and deep-sounding. Pamina need not
fear that Sarastro will take vengeance on her mother. In these
sacred halls, he says, vengeance is unknown, and the spirit
of friendship and forgiveness reigns supreme.
Tamino and Papageno must again endure a test: this time
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they must remain silent in the face of all temptation to speak.
Papageno has a comic interchange with an old woman who
brings him water. She is about to reveal her name when a
thunderclap calls her away. The Three Boys come on the
scene and hand Tamino and Papageno their instruments. The
flute attracts Pamina, who arrives to find her beloved sad and
silent. She takes this as a sign that Tamino no longer loves
her. She sings of her despair in a deeply tragic aria, which
sadly mimics the lilting 6/8 rhythm of Pamina’s marriage
duet with Papageno.6
Sarastro tells Tamino that two “dangerous trials” remain.
Pamina is summoned, only to be separated from Tamino, who
goes off to face the test alone. Meanwhile, the old woman returns to Papageno and gets him to promise marriage, at which
point she is magically transformed into Papagena—a female
Papageno! But when Papageno tries to embrace her, she is
led away by an official who tells her that Papageno is not yet
worthy of her. Papageno and Pamina are now paired once
again, but in contrast to their duet, in which they sang joyfully
about the blessings of marriage, this time they sing separately
about their loneliness and despair. Both attempt suicide, but
they are stopped by the Three Boys, who rekindle Pamina’s
hope by informing her that Tamino is waiting for her.
Tamino prepares for his first dangerous trial, thinking that
he must go it alone. He hears Pamina’s voice. “Tamino, stop,”
she calls, “I must see you!” The two Men in Armour—who
gravely warn Tamino about the need to be purified by the
four elements, and to conquer the fear of death—switch to a
jolly tune once Pamina shows up. They tell the pair to enter
the Temple hand in hand. Pamina vows never to leave
Tamino’s side and to face whatever hardships come their way.
“I myself will lead you,” she says, “love will guide me.” She
urges Tamino to play his flute, so that by the power of music
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they may “walk joyfully through death’s dark night.”7 After
they endure the tests of fire and water, the chorus greets them
with a song of triumph.
The scene shifts to Papageno. After preventing his suicide, the Three Boys remind Papageno about his magic
chimes. The chimes play, and Papagena appears. The pair
sing a courtship duet suited to their birdy nature. They take
turns repeating the opening syllable of their names—“Pa, pa,
pa”—in a musicalized rendition of panting. They sing about
all the offspring they plan to have.
But a menace looms. Monostatos, the Queen, and the
Three Ladies march on the temple, supported by a threatening
accompaniment in the key of C minor. Thunder and lightning
defeat them, and they are plunged into “eternal night.” The
scene then shifts to the Temple of the Sun, as Sarastro stands
on high, and Tamino and Pamina appear dressed in priestly
vestments. “The sun’s rays,” he says, “drive away the night,
destroy the stolen power of the hypocrites.” At the end, a jubilant chorus hails the two initiates and offers thanks to Isis
and Osiris. “Strength,” they sing, “conquers and crowns, as
a reward, beauty and wisdom with an eternal crown.”
Part Two: The Unfolding of a Song
We love music because of how it makes us feel. We listen to
some works more than others because we want to experience,
again and again, the feelings they stir in us. But feeling is not
primary in music, nor is it always the reason why we listen.
Sometimes we listen to a piece of music because we wish to
hear a quality or perfection that is present in it. The reason
for listening is an active, even strenuous, contemplation
through which we participate in, and unite with, the life and
shape of the musical object—not the emotion the object
arouses.8 Our feelings, in any case, are grounded in, and
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prompted by, what we perceive in the tones; they are rooted
in what is there in the phenomenon we call music. As we now
turn to Tamino’s aria, I shall make the attempt to say what is
there.
Tamino’s aria is inspired, as we know, by an image of
Pamina, or, as we might call it, given Tamino’s fervent devotional response, an icon. The image is said to be magical,
but it surely needs no magic beyond Pamina’s likeness to enchant the young prince, who sings as if caught up in a dream.
The words to his song are as follows:
This image is enchantingly beautiful,
such as no eye has ever seen!
I feel it, how this divine portrait
Fills my heart with new emotions.
I cannot name this,
yet I feel it here burning like fire;
Could the feeling be love?
Yes, yes, it is love alone!
O, if only I could find her!
O, if she were standing before me!
I would, warm and pure . . . what would I?
Enraptured I would press her to this burning breast,
And forever would she be mine.
Tamino’s words trace out a progression in three stages: first,
he admires a divine image; second, he asks whether the feeling it inspires in him, and which at first he cannot name, is
love, but then affirms that it must be love; and third, he wonders what he would do if the beloved were standing before
him, concluding that he would press her to his breast, and she
would be his forever.
Tamino is doing more in this song than expressing his
feelings. He beholds his inner state and makes it an object of
reflection. He wonders at the power of the magical object that
he perceives and his passionate response to it. He does not
immediately identify his new emotion with love but rather
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reaches that conclusion through inner dialogue and questioning. Mozart’s music perfectly expresses the stages of Tamino’s
response, the meaning of his words, and the motions of his
soul.
The music that accompanies these words is one of
Mozart’s greatest love songs. Young listeners are sometimes
put off by the aria, as if embarrassed by Tamino’s heart-onthe-sleeve outpouring of feeling. It is easy to be condescending toward Tamino, who is young, naïve, and not very bright.
He lacks irony.9 His aria, nevertheless, towers above immature judgment and puts it to shame. As a musical object, a
work of art, the song is gorgeous, brilliant in its shadow play,
and deep. It is also truthful—a faithful rendering of the
human soul in one of its most profound shapes. Do we want
to know what it is like for a young, noble soul to experience
romantic love for the first time? If so, then we should immerse ourselves in the aria—in what tones can tell us about
love.
My musical starting-point is the observation that “Dies
Bildnis” is a precisely formed, perfectly balanced whole.
Tamino is agitated and confused. But his music, though passionate, is restrained, stately, and inward-sounding.10 It expresses his awareness, not just his feeling. The music critic
and writer of tales E. T. A. Hoffmann once said that Haydn,
Mozart, and Beethoven all had the musical virtue of “Besonnenheit.”11 The word means something like rational awareness, sensibleness, being in one’s right mind. Tamino’s aria,
with its beautiful melding of feeling and form, passion and
restraint, is a superb example of this virtue.12
The song is in E-flat major—the solemn, heroic key of
the opera—and has a moderately slow, two-beat measure. It
is scored for strings, clarinets, bassoons, and French horns
(no flutes or oboes). Their sound is like a warm glow ema-
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nating from Tamino’s heart. The aria is in a truncated version
of sonata form. It follows the usual tripartite structure of the
sonata—exposition, development, and recapitulation—inasmuch as its key-area plan goes from tonic to dominant and
then back to the tonic; but there is no repeat of the opening
theme as is customary in the sonata. Unlike song-form, which
is also tripartite, the sonata emphasizes the progressive, forward-moving unfolding of musical ideas. Circularity is
achieved, but only at the end. Along the way, the tones move
in a linear, arrow-like trajectory.13
The opening sound: a tender statement of the E-flat major
triad spelled out in dotted rhythms and played by the strings.
Clearly, the singer we are about to hear—unlike Papageno,
with his bouncy bird-catcher song—is noble. Tamino’s first
utterance is a leap on the words “Dies Bildnis,” “This
image”—a rising major sixth from scale degree 5 up to scale
degree 3 (B-flat up to G). This tonal leap expresses an event
in Tamino’s soul, the passionate wonder inspired by Pamina’s
likeness.14 When his sentence is spoken in German, the accent
is on “schön,” “beautiful”—“Dies Bildnis ist bezaubernd
schön.” Mozart’s melody shifts the accent to “Bildnis,”
“image,” leaving no doubt that for Tamino the focus is on
what he sees, on the source and cause of his surging passion.15
After the inspired leap from 5 to 3, the melody gently descends by steps, pausing on degree 4 (A-flat), an unstable degree that tends downward toward 3. The musical phrase
corresponds to the first phrase of the sentence: “This image
is enchantingly beautiful.” As Tamino moves to the second
part of his sentence—“as no eye has ever seen”—he sings a
second rising sixth—from 4 up to 2, A-flat to F. He then descends by steps to 3, the tone to which his earlier 4 was pointing. Whereas the first phrase landed on a tone that was
unstable and “wanted” to move, the second complements the
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first and brings it to rest. The two phrases, thanks to the postponement of the move from 4 to 3, form a single phrase—
not two sets of tones but one coherent movement composed
of two sub-movements.16 The entire phrase is bounded by an
octave that extends from the high 3, to which Tamino leaps,
to the low 3, to which he descends by step.
Mozart’s musical language is that of tonal harmony. This
means that the music is firmly grounded in a tonal center, the
tone to which all the other tones point, and has a background
or underpinning in the movement of what we call “chords.”
We can say that this movement is an accompaniment to the
melody, but it is more precise to say that the harmony is the
structured movement that interprets the melody and reveals
its depth.17 Harmony is present in the two-part phrase we have
just examined. The harmonic movement is from the I chord,
or tonic, to the V7 chord, or dominant seventh, and back again
to I—a musical oscillation. This works because the instability
and tension of the V7 chord has a precise direction: it points
unambiguously to the I chord, in this case the E-flat major
triad. And so, we can regard Mozart’s opening two-part
phrase as the cooperation of melody and harmony, or rather
as the unity of two simultaneous kinds of tension that beget
movement: the melodic tension of individual tones and the
harmonic tension of chords. It is possible to argue that these
directed tensions and their various relations to one another
are the primary object of musical perception, that to listen to
music, at least in the tradition of tonal harmony, is to perceive
not pitches per se but forces—dynamic qualities that manifest themselves in and through pitches and hold the piece
together.18
After the opening phrase, which goes harmonically from
I to V and back again, the tones open up and move forward.
This effect is due largely to the harmony, which, having so
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far confined itself to I-V7-I, now moves to the IV chord, or
subdominant, a chord that signals the “away” move in a tonal
journey, as well as a certain leisureliness and lessening of harmonic tension. Tamino moves from the picture to his inner
state: “I feel it, I feel it, how this divine portrait fills my heart
with new emotions.” As he says “I feel it, I feel it,” he sings
appoggiaturas on “feel”—B-natural to C, then A-natural to
B-flat. Appoggiaturas are leaning tones, unstable tones on
strong beats, which briefly delay the arrival of a main tone
in the melody. The effect is an increased expressivity, an inflection perfectly suited to Tamino’s word “feel.” The accompaniment echoes the heartfelt leaning tones: as Tamino leans
into his feeling, the entire string section leans as though in
sympathy with him.
Right after his appoggiaturas, Tamino speaks of his heart,
“Herz,” and the new emotions that have been aroused in it.
He expresses an outburst on “Götterbild,” “divine portrait,”
with a second dramatic leap, this time from B-flat up to Aflat, the highest tone of his song. The interval, a minor seventh, is an even bigger leap than his opening sixth. The
melody here outlines part of the V7 or dominant-seventh
chord. The music does not resolve this tense chord, which
points to the tonic, but rather stresses it and lingers on it.
When the tonic chord finally arrives, it is not the end of
the previous phrase but the beginning of a new one. Now past
his initial outburst, Tamino retreats to a calmer, more inward
mood as he completes his sentence: “fills my heart with new
emotions.” The accompaniment is measured and lovely, like
the gentle strumming of a guitar: bass note, chord / bass note,
chord. The harmony takes us on a little musical journey, as
the melody above begins and ends on scale degree 1, that is,
E-flat. The sequence of chords here—I6, IV, I6/4, V7—arouses
the expectation that the tense V7chord will resolve to the
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tonic, which would fit with the E-flat, or scale degree 1, in
the melody. But this does not happen. When Tamino sings
his E-flat on “füllt,” “fills” (which in German closely resembles “fühlt,” “feels”), the harmony subverts the expected closure. It interprets this E-flat as part of a dissonant diminished
seventh chord based on A-natural. The tones seem to have
gone off course.
We have here a so-called deceptive cadence: we expect
the cadence to reach its end, but the harmony takes a detour
at the last minute and puts instability (in this case, extreme
instability) in place of stability. This creates tension and the
need for continued movement—for a repeat of the formula
that will finally reach its destination. This is in fact what happens. The unexpected and darkly passionate diminished-seventh chord is an applied dominant (or secondary dominant).
This is a dominant that tenses toward a chord other than the
tonic, in this case, to the V7 chord of E-flat: a B-flat dominant
seventh chord. As Tamino rises up stepwise to his E-flat on
“fills,” the tones fill the measure with a mounting passion.
On this word, three kinds of musical tension unite in a single
chord: deceptive cadence, applied dominant, diminished seventh chord. Tamino’s unassuming E-flat in the melody does
not reveal the depth of the word he sings or of the passion it
expresses. But the harmony does: it interprets Tamino’s Eflat and releases in it an unexpected possibility.19 This harmonic inflection of a melodic tone recalls what Wagner said
about harmony in general: that it is “the first thing that fully
persuades the feeling as to the emotional content of [the]
melody, which otherwise would leave to it something undertermined.”20 The more we perceive the structure and detail of
this flawless movement of tones when Tamino first sings the
word “fills:—this marriage of melody and harmony—the
more intimately we move with it, know it for what it is.21
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Right after the deceptive cadence, the first violins, as if
inspired by Tamino, sing rising phrases that form a gentle
two-part wave: up and down, higher up and down. Their
tones outline the degrees of the B-flat7 chord, to which the
diminished-seventh chord was pointing. With this move, the
tones regain their direction in the musical journey.
The dominant seventh chord spelled out by the first violins gently leads Tamino to repeat his sentence, this time with
musical closure. Again he sings his passionate rising sixth
from B-flat to G on the words “mein Herz,” “my heart,” and
then goes even higher—to his A-flat. He ends his phrase with
a smooth 3→2→1. The harmony here traverses a complete
cycle or journey, at the end aligning itself with Tamino’s Eflat: I, ii6, I6/4, V7, I. I observe in passing that this conventional
symbolism, which is admittedly useful for analysis, conceals
the true phenomenon, which is not a succession of separate
tone-stacks but rather a continuous movement of closely related phases: starting-point (I), stepping away (ii6), preparing
to point back (I6/4), pointing back (V7), and being back (I).22
Moreover, the cadence formula is not tacked on but grows,
as if organically, from what has come before. Not a device
that merely stops movement, it is a true telos, the gratifying
completion of Tamino’s opening 16-measure period.
Throughout my discussion I have emphasized musical
tension. Indeed, the Greek word for tone, tonos, derives from
the verb tenein, to stretch or strain. Tonal music makes sense,
even to the untutored ear, because we directly perceive the
continuity and the whole formed by the interrelation of musical tensions. Precise expectations are aroused, postponed,
and ultimately fulfilled. Tonal harmony may thus be characterized as erotic, as constituting a musical universe animated
by a desire or longing that is present in the tones themselves.23
That is perhaps why the tones can arouse longing in the per-
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ceptive-passionate listener. In the tones we hear the strains
of our souls: the music gives them coherent shape and represents them as objects for our contemplation.24
Right after his opening 16-measure period, Tamino
pauses, as clarinets in gentle thirds take us into a new section
of the exposition. Here the music changes key from E-flat to
B-flat, from I to V. This is a standard move for a sonata-form
piece in a major key. But it is not an imposition of a prefabricated abstract schema. It is rather an organic, natural continuation of musical movement. I and V are intimately
related: they are neighbours on the circle of fifths. Also, V is
the harmonic degree that points to I. Finally, in the music of
Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, V functions as a sort of
counter-pole—an opposite that competes with I for tonal supremacy.25 In our present case, we should note, above all, how
E-flat is dislodged and B-flat established as the new tonic.
The upper clarinet goes from G to F, that is, from 3 to 2 in E
flat, and then repeats the F. Had it gone from G to F and on
to E-flat, the key of E-flat would have been maintained:
3→2→1. It is the emphasis on 2 that subtly begins to move
the harmony from I to V. It blocks the move to E-flat as scale
degree 1, and begins to set up F as degree 5 of our new key,
B-flat. The appearance among the tones of A-natural, scale
degree 7 in the B-flat scale, solidifies this move.
Earlier, Tamino sang his appoggiaturas and the orchestra
followed. Now the reverse happens. The upper clarinet introduces a new musical strain, which Tamino follows, as if inspired by it. “I cannot name this,” he sings, “yet I feel it here
burning like fire” (“Dies Etwas kann ich zwar nicht nennen;
doch fühl ich’s hier wie Feuer brennen”). In imitation of the
clarinet, Tamino begins on his high G (now scale degree 6)
and descends stepwise. His gently undulating phrase ends
with a leaning tone (C-sharp leaning into D) on the word
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“nennen,” “name.” He then repeats the phrase, with a slight
variation, on the words “yet I feel it here burning like fire.”
The harmony is simple: oscillation between the tonic (now
B-flat) and the dominant (now F).
A brief transition in dotted rhythms, played by clarinets
and bassoons, takes us to Tamino’s first question, which he
stresses by singing it twice: “Could the feeling be love?”
(“Soll die Empfindung Liebe sein?”) Both phrases end on
tense chords: the first on an applied dominant (the V7 of V),
the second on the dominant of B-flat (an F major triad). This
harmonic tension—this upward-tending interrogative gesture—is reflected in the melody. Tamino’s first utterance of
his question outlines the B-flat triad and ends on an E-natural,
a tone foreign to B-flat (the F at the top of the triad becomes
a leaning tone to the E). His second utterance begins with a
downward leap from G to B-flat (the inverse of his opening
sixth) and ends on the unstable scale degree 2. The E-natural
with which Tamino ends the first utterance of his question is
especially affecting: “Could this feeling be love (“Liebe
sein”)?” The chromatic E-natural (highlighted by the preceding F as leaning tone), the applied dominant of which it is a
part (C7), and the florid notes of the first violin all sound as
though a light were beginning to dawn, as though the question “Could this be love?” was more than just a question. The
anticipation of the answer is heightened by the brief interlude
played by the clarinets. Their rising phrases in dotted rhythms
give Tamino his cue. His “Ja, ja!” completes the sequence of
upward melodic gestures.
Tamino answers his question: “Yes, yes, it is love alone,
love, love, it is love alone.” He utters the word “Liebe,”
“love,” four times in all—three times with an expressive leaning tone and once with a climactic flourish called a “turn.”
At the end of his first phrase (right after “Ja, ja!”), Tamino
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sings a straightforward 3→2→1 (D→C→B-flat) on the word
“allein,” “alone” or “only.” But the harmony undercuts the
stability of his final B-flat with a deceptive cadence. Instead
of V→I, we get V→VI, where VI is a minor chord. Musically, this is a subtle way of extending the phrase and producing the need to move on. Also, the minor VI adds a gently
dark inflection and fervor to the word “allein.” But the deceptive cadence may also suggest, in this case, that Tamino’s
certitude is doubtful, that he is still in the dark about what he
is feeling, just as he is ignorant of what it really means to
love.
As Tamino repeats his sentence (“It is love alone”), he
dwells on “Liebe” and makes it into its own musical phrase
in three parts: first a leap that gently descends by step, then
this same phrase repeated, and finally an embellished ascent
to a high G. The chord on this G is a dramatic diminished
seventh chord that points to the F major triad, the V of B-flat.
Both melody and harmony are at this point up in the air, begging for resolution. The eighth-note rest that follows heightens the suspense. After the rest, tension is released, as Tamino
completes his sentence: he drops more than an octave to an
F and proceeds by step to B-flat, scale degree 1, this time supported rather than undercut by the accompanying harmony.
The cadence, embellished by a turn played by the first violins,
brings the section to a close. It provides the release that the
preceding deceptive cadence had postponed.
We now enter the development or middle section of the
aria. I think you will agree that although not much time has
passed, much has happened. We have perceived the unfolding
of a musical idea that expresses the unfolding of Tamino’s
enraptured soul: music has given us access to the soul that
words alone cannot give. That the tones are embarking on a
new large section of the piece is signalled by a pronounced
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shift to quicker rhythms in the accompaniment. The tonal
drama now has more forward momentum. Up to this point,
it has been pretty much a matter of beautiful phrases in starts
and stops. This new section as a whole, this middle of the
aria, is the point of maximum tension—the crux of the tonal
drama. As we put ourselves into this extended moment of
mounting tension, we are unsure of where the tones will go.
How will the tones end this section and lead into the recapitulation? How will the recapitulation resolve all the tensions
that have built up in the course of the song?
The quicker rhythms in sixteenth- and thirty-second notes
are played by the strings. The winds enter with a recurring
pattern of syncopations or offbeat rhythms. Underneath this
dense rhythmic complex, the bass viols provide support with
a persistent B-flat in sixteenth-notes (a so-called pedal point).
They are the quickened pulse and heartbeat of this part of
Tamino’s music. Mozart brilliantly adds yet another rhythmic
element that heightens tension: he has the first violins surge
upward in thirty-second-notes grouped in quick pairs, followed by a rapid succession of appoggiaturas. These leaning
tones then take over and become the principal theme of the
violins. They are like little flutters of the heart produced by
heightened expectation. All the rhythms together form a complex musical image of the surging yet reflective passion that
leads Tamino to his second, more pressing question: “O, if
only I could find her! O, if only she were standing before me!
I would, warm and pure . . .what would I?”
The melody here begins as a stepwise ascent, which
Tamino then repeats, from B-flat, that is, scale degree 1, to
the high A-flat. Could this A-flat be hinting that we are already on our way back to the home key of E-flat major, or is
it just part of an applied dominant? When Tamino sings the
A-flat to complete his sentence “O, if only I could find her,”
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he outlines three-fourths of the dominant seventh chord that
points to E-flat (the pitches he sings are A-flat, F, and D). But
the harmony does not go to E-flat. The tones seem to be
caught in a region of harmonic indeterminacy, which is highlighted as Tamino repeats the same phrase with the same harmony. As he approaches his second question, he breaks the
pattern and sings a perfect fourth from C up to F on “ich
würde” (“I would”), then another perfect fourth from B-flat
up to E-flat on “würde” repeated. The repetition alone suggests that Tamino is suspended in mid-thought by the indeterminacy of his feelings and intentions. His melodic
indeterminacy is echoed and strengthened by the accompaniment, which here plays mysterious, dusky sounding measures with a flurry of chromatic appoggiaturas. When Tamino
sings “warm and pure,” he uses a warm-sounding G-flat on
“warm.” The harmony interprets this G-flat as part of a diminished seventh chord on A-natural, scale degree 7 of Bflat. This chord points to the B-flat major triad. The tones
seem to have found their direction, their tonal center, in scale
degree 1 of B-flat. But as Tamino now utters his second question (“what would I?”), he ends his phrase by falling a major
sixth from F down to the A-flat an octave below the A-flat
we heard earlier. The gesture is an anticlimax, coming as it
does after Tamino’s three dramatic rising phrases: two ascents
to A-flat and one to G-flat. The gesture suggests a momentary
deflation—rising confidence that is suddenly at a loss. The
low A-flat blocks the reassertion of B-flat as key. It is part of
a B-flat7 chord, the dominant seventh of E-flat major, our
home key. Tamino’s question “What would I?”, melodically
a deflating fall from F to A-flat, finds a fitting harmonic expression in an upward gesture of incompleteness—an unresolved V7 chord that leaves this entire section of the aria
hanging.
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The intense anticipation that has built up is further emphasized by the full measure of rest that follows. It is the
longest, most dramatic pause in a song full of pauses. The
soundless measure is no mere absence. It is an active nonbeing—the tense non-being of eros, that greatest and most
potent of all human tensions, the tension music seems
uniquely suited to express.
Once again, the orchestra leads the way, as the bass viols
play a constant E-flat in sixteenth notes and the violas play
an oscillating figure called an Alberti bass in thirty-second
notes. This confirms that the B-flat7 on which Tamino’s question ended was indeed the V7 of E-flat. We have returned to
the home key, and the recapitulation has begun. In this final
section of his song, Tamino, with rising self-confidence, answers his second question: “I would press her to this burning
breast, and forever would she be mine.” The harmony is refreshingly determinate. We know where we are—firmly
planted in E-flat major—as the harmony oscillates repeatedly
between I and V7. We are hearing a tonal homecoming.
Tamino’s melody is straightforward: first, a little melodic
wave that starts on a B-flat and rises to E-flat through an appoggiatura on F—“ich würde sie” (“I would her”)—then the
same melodic phrase repeated—“voll Ent-zü-cken” (“enraptured” or “utterly thrilled”). His next phrase, which begins
similarly, introduces a pattern of skips and ends on a chromatic D-flat: “an diesen heißen Busen drücken” (“press to
this burning or heated breast”). The E-flat to D-flat on
“drücken,” “press,” captures the act of pressing. This chromatic tone tenses forward. It conspires with the tones in the
accompaniment to form a I7 chord, that is, the E-flat major
triad with D-flat as a destabilizing seventh. The I7, which interprets and deepens Tamino’s D-flat, is an applied or passing
dominant that pushes into the final phrase of the aria: “und
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ewig wäre sie dann mein,” “and forever would she be mine.”
Tamino repeats this final phrase five times in all, three
times with the upbeat “und” (“and”) and twice without. The
phrases without the “und” have greater urgency and are allowed to begin on the crucial word “ewig,” “forever.” The I7
chord on “drücken” tends toward an A-flat triad, the IV
chord, or subdominant, in E-flat major. But as Tamino moves
to his first utterance of “and forever would she be mine,”
Mozart substitutes the ii6 chord, which plays the same role as
IV in the harmonic cycle—the moment of stepping away and
preparing for the dominant. Why the substitution? No doubt
because the ii chord, being minor, has greater warmth. On
this ii6 chord, which lasts an entire measure, Tamino sings a
smooth ascent to his high A-flat. He then drops to D, scale
degree 7 in E-flat, by way of a leaning tone. The first violins
second this lovely melodic phrase. The D is part of the chord
played by the strings: the V7 of E-flat. The music pauses on
this tense dominant chord.
Then, something familiar returns: the calm measured
phrase from the exposition, where Tamino sang the words
“fills my heart with new emotions.” The first appearance of
this phrase ended with a deceptive cadence on a diminished
seventh chord (on the word “fills”). Mozart repeats that cadence here. But whereas in the exposition Tamino ended his
second phrase serenely on scale degree 1, here, at the corresponding moment, he bypasses the E-flat and leaps to a high
G on “mein.” This is the measure in which phrases with
“und” switch to phrases without it. This change quickens the
movement of the song. It also produces an elision on the
tones G, E-flat, and C that allows Tamino to combine “mine”
and “forever” in the single phrase “mine forever.”
Tamino goes on to stress the degrees of the E-flat major
triad in a smoothly flowing phrase that seems destined to land
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on a low E-flat, that is, scale degree 1. But at the last moment
he leaps from low F (scale degree 2) to the G a ninth above
on the word “mine”— and then overtops the G with an A-flat
on “ewig.” This is the most dramatic moment in the aria, as
Tamino intensifies his previous elision, his musicalized,
heartfelt dream of eternally possessing his beloved. Tamino
sounds very heroic and confident here. He sings his signature
G a lot, as though this single tone, scale degree 3, embodied
the whole of his passion. When he gets to the last restatement
of his phrase, the melody emphasizes the tones of the E-flat
major triad. He leaps, for one last time, to his signature G—
this time, significantly, on the word “sie,” “her.” This G is
not a stable degree of a chord but an appoggiatura tending toward F, scale degree 2. Tamino, in other words, does not
merely stress the pronoun that refers to Pamina with a high
note; instead he puts his whole heart into the word and leans
toward his beloved. Having reached high G, the tones now
descend to E-flat, scale degree 1, by step, with the assistance
of D, that is, scale degree 7: 3→2→1→7→1 (“sie dann
mein”). A straightforward cadence affirms closure: IV, I6/4,
V7, I.
The entire orchestra ends the piece with a brief, noblesounding coda composed of two complementary phrases. The
phrases are the tonal expressions of the two complementary
sides of Tamino’s nature, as it is revealed in the aria: the first
heroic and forte, the second tender and piano, a recollection
of the fervent E-flat chords with which the song began.
So ends my journey through Tamino’s aria. I have tried
to be faithful in speech to what is there in the tones. I have
not, of course, captured all that is there. No one could.
Mozart’s music, like all great music, is inexhaustible, and
every act of listening brings new discoveries. I have tried to
present the aria as a wondrous object—a time-structure—that
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comes to us and is welcomed by our musically receptive
souls. This time-structure “speaks” to our passion and our
perception, just as the enchanted portrait, a visual or spatial
form, “speaks” to the soul of Tamino.
I have placed special emphasis on tonal tension, and on
directed tension as the possible ground of coherence and
unity in tonal music. To listen to Tamino’s aria—his strain of
musicalized longing—is not just to hear coherence from one
moment to the next. It is to hear the tension at work in the
whole: in the overall form that unfolds in time, by analogy
with organic growth. The exposition is an ordered accumulation of tension. The development section extended and
heightened that tension; it expresses Tamino’s point of maximum anticipation and perplexity. Of all three sections, it is
the one that most has the character of an arrow. The recapitulation takes us home, reaffirms E-flat as the central key, recalls part of the music from the exposition, and brings the
whole time-structure to perfect balance and resolution. It does
all this by accumulating its own tensions, with which the
tones move swiftly and urgently to a satisfying close.
To listen perceptively to the aria, to hear what is there, is
demanding. It takes effort and study. I would like to suggest
that behind all the complexities, a simple scheme prevails.
The melody, as we know, begins with a rising sixth to a G,
scale degree 3 of E-flat major. The entire piece may be heard
as the attempt by 3 to reach 1 through the intermediation of
2: G→F→E flat. Recall that the first key change came about
because the first clarinet played 3→2→2 rather than 3→2→1.
This facilitated the transformation of 2 in E-flat into 5 in Bflat. The rest of the piece—key changes and all—exploits and
further develops this move to 2.26 The completion of the move
3→2→1 in the overarching scheme takes place only at the
end, only after the recapitulation has affirmed E-flat, not
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merely as the key of the final section but as the governing
tone of the entire aria. Only at the end of the journey do we
really have the beginning.
Part Three: Wisdom
My account of Tamino’s song would be incomplete if I did
not talk about Pamina, the enchanting object of Tamino’s
love. Pamina is the focal point of the opera. Of all the “good”
characters, she endures the greatest and most prolonged sufferings: her mother’s absence, the stern tutelage of Sarastro,
the violent advances and blackmail of Monostatos, and the
revelation of her mother as a demon bent on a murder Pamina
herself is ordered to commit. Finally, she suffers despair over
what she thinks is lost love, and is almost driven to suicide.27
Pamina is also an exalted figure in the opera. It is she who
most embodies what is new about the new order. It is she, a
virtuous woman, who gives the lie to all the negative things
said about women in the opera. Sarastro told her that a man
must guide her heart. This is true, in a sense: Tamino gives
Pamina’s heart its proper object and bearing. But in the last
two trials, it is Pamina who guides Tamino, as love guides
her. Finally, it is Pamina who reveals that the magical vocation of music is not to gain power over others, or merely to
amuse oneself, but to ward off the fear of death.
When Pamina joins Tamino for the final trials near the
end of the opera, the two face each other in more than the obvious sense. They now see each other clearly for the first
time. There is mutual recognition. This recognition is mirrored, or rather enacted, in the complementary phrases the
lovers use to sing each other’s names: “Tamino mine! O what
happiness!” “Pamina mine! O what happiness!” The string
of monosyllabic German words that the lovers sing to each
other—“O welch ein Glück”—is both simpler and more con-
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crete than this English translation. A more accurate rendering
is: “O what a stroke of good fortune!” Tamino and Pamina
are not referring to a subjective state or feeling, but to an
event, to something wondrous that has just happened and that
presents itself to their perception: the arrival and the presence
of the beloved. The phrases they sing are two halves of a little
musical circle or period in F major. When Pamina sings
Tamino’s name, she does so with a rising major sixth—the
same interval with which Tamino’s soul rose up in response
to Pamina’s image. But this is not mere repetition. The sixth
at the beginning of Tamino’s aria was the sound of passion
that aspired but did not know itself. It had shadows. Pamina’s
sixth is different. It is pure, luminous, and rationally aware.
It has “Besonnenheit,” and in more than the strictly musical
sense.28 Pamina’s sixth is the enlightenment and perfection of
Tamino’s. It is the sublime moment in which passion, now
perceptive, finds its purpose.
When Tamino first responded to the magic that was Pamina, his love was mediated by an image. He asked himself
what he would do if the beloved were standing in front of
him. That moment has arrived, for here stands Pamina, not
as image but as solid reality. Tamino’s first rush of love was
itself a kind of image and dream, a first step in the soul’s journey from erotic striving and heroic aspiration, through painful
disillusionment and trials, to the moment of enlightenment,
when images are seen for what they are, and when the lover,
having transcended mere feeling, now grasps what love really
is. Pamina is the Other in and through whom Tamino can
know himself as the man who loves Pamina, not as a possession but as partner. He can see who he is in the eyes of the
beloved because the sound of her rising sixth, as she sings
his name, shows him how. Her sixth, her love in musical
form, is his unfailing guide.
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Pamina is more than Tamino’s beloved, more than a symbol of virtuous womanhood (her mother in redeemed form),
more even than the first Woman Ruler of a new order based
on marriage and reconciliation. She is Tamino’s wisdom, and
the wisdom—and true magic—of Mozart’s Magic Flute.
NOTES
1. For an exhaustive study of the Masonic elements in Mozart’s opera,
see Jacques Chailley, The Magic Flute, Masonic Opera, trans. Herbert
Weinstock (New York: Knopf, 1971). Chailley finds Masonic meaning
even in the number of notes used in individual phrases. His analysis
makes the plot more coherent but ultimately distracts us from Mozart’s
music.
2. Chailley makes the interesting observation that there were originally
five Ladies, in keeping with the Masonic number for the Female, and that
this was reduced to three due to “necessities of casting” (109-110).
3. “[T]he key of C minor throughout Die Zauberflöte is nearly always
connected with death or the threat of death.” From Erik Smith, “The
music,” in Peter Branscombe, W. A. Mozart: Die Zauberflöte, Cambridge
Opera Handbooks (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 130.
4. During Mozart’s time there existed ancillary Masonic lodges that accepted women—so-called “Lodges of Adoption”—but the members of
these lodges were barred from the loftier honors and duties open to men
(Chailley, 74-79).
5. The Queen explains that killing Sarastro is the only way she and her
daughter can retrieve the “seven-fold Circle of the Sun,” which Pamina’s
father, at his death, gave Sarastro. She recalls, resentfully, that the father
wished to give the magical object to the “manly” care of Sarastro and refused to entrust it to “your woman’s spirit.” In the Queen’s resentful mind,
the murder of Sarastro will topple the dominance of the Male and assert
the supremacy of the Female.
6. Pamina’s aria is in G minor, the key her mother used to tell the story
of her daughter’s abduction. It is also the key Papageno will use when he
prepares to commit suicide. Charles Rosen observes the following: “In
all of Mozart’s supreme expressions of suffering and terror—the G minor
Symphony, Don Giovanni, the G minor Quintet, Pamina’s aria in Die
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Zauberflöte—there is something shockingly voluptuous.” The Classical
Style, 2nd ed. (New York: Norton, 1997), 324-5.
7. It is here that Pamina reveals the history of the flute, which her father
carved, amid thunder and lightning, from the heart of a thousand-yearold oak.
8. See Eduard Hanslick, On the Musically Beautiful, translated by Geoffrey Payzant (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1986). Hanslick famously attacked
the “aesthetics of feeling”: “to induce . . . feelings in us is not the task of
music or of any other art. Art first of all puts something beautiful before
us. It is not by means of feeling that we become aware of beauty, but by
means of the imagination as the activity of pure contemplation” (4). Unfortunately, Hanslick’s dichotomy makes it impossible to understand the
musical bond between feeling and contemplation, or, in the terms of this
essay, between passion and perception.
9. Kierkegaard (or rather one of his personae) criticizes Tamino, who
compares poorly with Don Giovanni, Mozart’s fully developed embodiment of music as eros: “As a dramatic character, Tamino is completely
beyond the musical, just as in general the spiritual development the play
wants to accomplish is a completely unmusical idea” (“The Immediate
Erotic Stages or The Musical-Erotic,” in Either/Or, translated by Howard
V. Hong and Edna H. Hong, 2 vols. [Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1987], Vol. I, 82.) The Magic Flute is musically deficient, it would
seem, because “the whole piece tends toward consciousness,” that is, toward the clear daylight delineation of good and bad, or the ethical. It celebrates marriage, which “is absolutely unmusical” (ibid., 83). In these
assertions, Kierkegaard (or rather his alter ego) seems unaware of the
subtly dark, erotic side of the noble characters in Mozart’s fairy tale. See
note 3 above.
10. Ingmar Bergman’s film portrays Tamino accurately as he sings this
aria. The actor gazes lovingly at the picture and, at one point, presses it
to his heart. The singer performs the song not as though he were seeking
the admiration of an audience, but as an internal, musical-erotic meditation. Even his high notes, which sound properly heroic, retain this inward
quality.
11. Hoffmann defends Beethoven against the charge that he doesn’t know
how to control himself as a composer: “In truth he is fully the equal of
Haydn and Mozart in rational awareness, his controlling self detached
from the inner realm of sounds and ruling it in absolute authority.”
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(“Beethoven’s Instrumental Music,” in E. T. A. Hoffmann’s Musical Writings, edited by David Charlton, translated by Martyn Clarke [Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1989], 98.) Mozart’s own affirmation of this
virtue appears in a letter to his father. Explaining his reasons for a certain
key change in the Abduction from the Seraglio, Mozart writes that just as
“passions whether violent or not, must never be expressed to the point of
exciting disgust,” so too “music, even in the most terrible situations, must
never offend the ear, but must please the listener, or in other words must
never cease to be music.” (The Letters of Mozart and his Family, translated and edited by Emily Anderson [New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1966],
Vol. II, 769).
12. The Queen, too, in her most hysterical moments, sings in a way that
is orderly, lucid, and musical. She is always a pleasure to hear. In Mozart’s
universe, even the Queen exhibits “Besonnenheit”—though, admittedly,
she pushes the envelope.
13. For the authoritative treatment of sonata form, see Charles Rosen,
The Classical Style (cf. note 4 above). For a revealing account of “circle”
vs. “arrow,” see Karol Berger, Bach’s Cycle, Mozart’s Arrow: An Essay
on the Origins of Musical Modernity, Berkeley: University of California
Press, 2007. Berger argues that whereas the music of Bach presents time
as a self-enclosed, circular image of eternity (“God’s time”), that of
Mozart affirms an arrow-like progression that imitates “the temporal disposition of events” (179). Circle and arrow are central metaphors for Victor Zuckerkandl, who stresses the arrow-like movement of counterpoint.
He acknowledges, however, that the classical sonata combines “chain”
(arrow-like succession of phrases) with “circle”: “The whole [of a movement] is symmetrical: A—B—A; but within each section [exposition, development, recapitulation] the chain principle is dominant” (Victor
Zuckerkandl, The Sense of Music [Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1959], 96).
14. It is tempting to compare Tamino’s rising major sixth with the most
famous rising sixth in all of music—the minor sixth at the very beginning
of Tristan and Isolde. What do these sixths show us about the nature of
eros? Do they point to two different kinds of erotic love? Or are they two
sides of the one passion we call eros?
15. For a fuller discussion of Mozart’s shift of accent in the Magic Flute,
see again Erik Smith’s essay in Branscombe, Magic Flute, 120-124 (cf.
note 2 above).
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16. Hanslick stresses the perception of movement in music in his famous
definition of music’s content: “The content of music is tonally moving
forms” (The Beautiful in Music, 29). He does not, however, speculate on
the cause and nature of this movement.
17. On harmony as the third dimension of depth, see Victor Zuckerkandl,
The Sense of Music, 171-179. Throughout this essay, I use the term
“chord” loosely and without much reflection. It is in fact not easy to say
what a chord is, and hence what it means for harmony to be the movement
of chords. At one point in his discussion, Zuckerkandl asks: “Where is
the chord?” He answers: “the chord is not in the tones but, in a sense,
above them, more immaterial than the tones themselves” (ibid., 184). This
leads him to the fascinating assertion that a chord is “something like an
idea—an idea to be heard, an idea for the ear, an audible idea.”
18. The theory of tones as “dynamic qualities” is that of Zuckerkandl,
who develops the theory in three amazing books: The Sense of Music,
Sound and Symbol, and Man, the Musician (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1959, 1956, and 1973 respectively).
19. It is worth noting that a deceptive cadence is not a sudden, disruptive
shock, but rather a musical surprise that makes sense to the ear. The reason is that the unanticipated chord has at least one tone in common with
the chord we expect. In the most common deceptive cadence, the V7 chord
goes to VI, which has two tones in common with the I chord. In the present case, the deceptive chord—the diminished-seventh chord built on Anatural—has in it the two tones common to I and VI (C and E-flat), but
adds the destabilizing tones A-natural and G-flat. That this tense unexpected chord arrives so naturally, and just as naturally leads to the V7 of
the key of E-flat, points to the marvelous fluidity and ordered freedom of
harmonic movement.
20. Wagner on Music and Drama, selected and arranged by A. Goldman
and E. Sprinchorn (New York: Da Capo Press, 1964), 214.
21. The psychologist Géza Révész writes the following about the musical
listener: “He is able to follow the composer’s intentions, even at times to
anticipate them. It is also characteristic of the musical person to sink himself into the mood of the music, and achieve a relation to it that has an effect on his whole spiritual being. He experiences the art work so inwardly
and so profoundly that he feels as though he were creating it” (Introduction to the Psychology of Music [New York: Dover, 2001], 133-134).
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22. One especially problematic aspect of the usual chord notation is that
it implies but does not emphasize the motion of the bass. The various
“positions” of triads—root, first inversion, second inversion, etc.—are
really ways of composing a bass line. In the present case, where the
chordal progression is I6, IV, I6/4, V7, vii5/6 of V, V7, the bass has a beautifully continuous ascent: G to A-flat to B-flat to B-flat repeated to C to D,
and finally to the E-flat, the root of the E-flat triad that begins Tamino’s
complementary phrase and the harmonic progression that culminates in
the perfect cadence to the 16-measure period. A good way to hear this
bass line, this voice in its own right, is to sing along with it.
23. Zuckerkandl, following the music theorist Heinrich Schenker, calls
this Tonwille, the will of the tones.
24. Schopenhauer is perhaps the only philosopher who attempts to explain
the intimate connection between music and the human self, and to explicate the classical idea according to which music is a form of imitation.
Music, he argues, is a copy of the will that is the source of all representation. This will, to which we are tragically enslaved, is an urge or desire
that is incapable of being satisfied. In music, we hear this urge as pure
striving detached from particular objects. This removal of determinate
objects permits us to enjoy the pleasant, aesthetic contemplation of the
tragic source of all things, and of ourselves. Through this enjoyment, we
gain momentary refuge from the suffering and curse that is human life.
See The World as Will and Representation, translated by E. F. J. Payne
(New York: Dover, 1969), Vol. I, 255-267, and Vol. II, 447-457.
25. See Charles Rosen on this point: “The greatest change in eighteenthcentury tonality, partly influenced by the establishment of equal temperament, is a new emphatic polarity between tonic and dominant, previously
much weaker” (Rosen, The Classical Style, 26). I have borrowed the term
“counter-pole” from Zuckerkandl, who uses it to characterize the role of
scale degree 5 in the major scale (The Sense of Music, 26).
26. The “history” of F in the piece tends to support my suggestion: the
initial emphasis by the clarinet at the first key change, the continued emphasis of F in the melody that follows, the peak of Tamino’s “Ja, ja!” and
the appoggiaturas that follow, the Fs that appear in various roles in the
development, and the appoggiatura Fs at the beginning of the recapitulation, which lean temptingly to E-flat, as if asking other tones to help it
make a final convincing close. (The harmonic move from II to I occurs
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in the second Act, where the key of F major, with which the Act begins,
returns right before the E-flat Finale.)
My suggestion about 3→2→1 as the underlying structural principle
derives from Heinrich Schenker’s notion of the Urlinie or “primordial
line.” See his Free Composition, translated and edited by Ernst Oster
(New York: Longman, 1979), 3-9.
27. Branscombe notes another important aspect of Pamina’s suffering:
“Without the advantage accorded to Tamino and Papageno of knowing
about the trials to be undergone, she survives her own trials”
(Branscombe, Magic Flute, 217).
28. Pamina shows her capacity for straight speech when Sarastro appears
at the end of Act I. Papageno anxiously asks her in C minor: “My child,
what now shall we speak?” The harmony intensifies his anxiety with the
extremely tense augmented sixth chord, an applied dominant to the V on
which the question hangs. Pamina responds with a soothing move to C
major: “The truth, the truth, even if it were a crime.” Charles Rosen observes that when Pamina sings “the truth,” “the music takes on an heroic
radiance unheard in opera before then” (Rosen, Classical Style, 319).
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Socrates, Parmenides, and the
Way Out
Judith Seeger
Before I begin, I would like to warn you that you must not
expect this lecture to present a definitive interpretation of
Plato’s Parmenides. Indeed, I am so far from being an expert
on Plato that I am somewhat amazed to find myself here behind the podium, where experts usually stand on Friday
nights. Furthermore, the Parmenides is perhaps one of Plato’s
most difficult dialogues—a fact that, curiously enough, gives
me comfort, for I have yet to hear or read an unambiguously
persuasive interpretation of it. In any case, as you know, the
lecture itself is only part of these Friday-night events. If I succeed in opening a discussion in which we all can participate
and learn, then I will have accomplished something. My goal,
you see, is modest.
The talk will consist of the following sections. First, I will
summarize the story for you, drawing your attention to the
character of the interlocutors as it is revealed through their
words and through the narrator’s observations. I will explore
in particular the character of young Socrates, and I will also
give some attention to Plato’s portrayal of Parmenides as
compared with what we know about the philosopher Parmenides. Then, I will consider the fundamental questions
raised by the dialogue, which are, I believe, put most succinctly: “What is philosophy?” and “Is philosophy possible?”
Finally, I will suggest that the dialogue not only raises these
questions, but also answers them favorably, though in such a
Judith Seeger is a tutor at St. John’s College in Annapolis. This lecture
was originally delivered on January 20, 1995.
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way that we are forced to look beyond the words themselves
and compelled to pursue the answers. That is, we are invited
to engage in philosophy ourselves.
I don’t remember where I was when I first read every dialogue of Plato’s, but I do remember where I was when I first
read the Parmenides. The year is 1990. It is the afternoon of
the day before seminar. I am sitting in my living room on the
dark blue loveseat between two windows. My back is to the
west wall, and, looking up, I can follow the sun’s slow sinking by observing the lengthening patches of brightness (cold
brightness, because it is a January afternoon) on either side
of me. They stretch toward the opposite wall, then reach and
start to climb it. Dust motes, drifting lazily in the sunbeams,
begin a crazed dance as the furnace fan kicks on. When the
fan goes off, the dance subsides.
Do you get the impression that I was having trouble concentrating on my reading? Actually, it was maddening. When
I reached the end of the assigned reading (which is partway
through Parmenides’ argument for the existence of the One,
after which we jump directly to the final statement) and managed, out of respect for the other dialogues in the volume, not
to pitch the book against that same wall the sunlight was
climbing, I was convinced that I had just read a very old joke,
which I was possibly the first one ever to “get” (for otherwise
why would we be wasting our time reading it?), but which
wasn’t really very funny. I was relatively new to philosophy.
But it seemed to me that Plato had been pulling our collective
leg for a long time.
That seminar conversation, and the one the following
year, when I read the dialogue for the second time, helped a
little; but neither one dispelled my conviction that the dialogue was, at best, seriously unbalanced, a feeling which became only more acute when one of my seminar co-leaders
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dismissed the last sentence of the dialogue as “nonsense.”
Parmenides concludes (in R.E. Allen’s translation): “Then let
this be said, and also that, as it seems, whether unity is or is
not, both unity and the others are and are not, and appear and
do not appear to be, all things in all ways, relative both to
themselves and to each other.” To which young Aristotle, who
has been Parmenides’ chosen interlocutor during the exercise,
replies “very true” (166c). Recall, also, that this particular
Aristotle, as we are deliberately told in the dialogue, later became one of the Thirty Tyrants, whose crimes Socrates speaks
about in the Apology (32d).
So Parmenides’ display of dialectical fireworks in the second part of the dialogue seems to be nonsense, and possibly
dangerous nonsense, to boot, if someone who is as thoroughly persuaded by it as young Aristotle seems to be grows
up to be a tyrant so ruthless as to try to implicate innocent
men, including Socrates, in the murder of other innocent men.
(Cf. Republic 537e-539d, on the dangers of teaching dialectic
to young men). Nonetheless, Parmenides’ dialectical exercise
follows an impressive presentation of young Socrates in the
beginning of the dialogue. Plato shows us what appears to be
Socrates’ first, sincere, if perhaps somewhat naive, account
of the Forms. And he shows us Socrates exploring one of the
difficulties raised by the concept of Forms: the so-called
problem of participation. Thus, a fundamental tenet (perhaps
the fundamental tenet) of Socratic and Platonic thought is
paired with what appears to be closely reasoned gobbledygook. This presents us at the outset with a formidable
dilemma. The Parmenides, like many other Platonic dialogues, but perhaps more blatantly than most, seems to have
a split personality, to be composed of two parts that fit together uneasily at best.
The problem of unity in this dialogue, then, part of which
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is at least ostensibly about the One, is striking, even on the
level of its organization. Questions arise which, like the problem of participation itself, will simply not go away. What is
the nature of this exercise Parmenides calls a “devious passage through all things” (136e), without which he claims the
mind cannot attain to the truth? How are we to read it? There
are several possibilities. One is that Parmenides’ tedious
“gymnastic,” with its nonsensical conclusion, is so far from
being a legitimate means of searching for truth that we might
read it as Plato’s example of exactly what not to do if you
want to pursue philosophy. The sort of reasoning we scornfully call logic-chopping comes to mind. In this reading, Parmenides is the consummate sophist, who can manipulate
words to mean anything he wants, with the inescapable outcome that ultimately they can mean nothing at all. If this Parmenides is really supposed to represent the philosopher by
that name, the sense of such an interpretation would be that
the older man has not only been displaced but has also been
made to discredit himself. He becomes an old fool, who
would be dangerous if we were foolish enough to take him
seriously.
There are, nonetheless, problems with this reading. It
does not take into account the care Plato apparently lavished
on this dialogue, or the respect with which Socrates seems to
regard the older philosopher. Parmenides claims that the exercise he performs regarding the One is necessary for
Socrates’ philosophic maturation; and young Socrates, so far
as we know, remains present and attentive throughout (although at least a few of the members of my preceptorial on
Parmenides thought that surely he must have silently departed—at least, that is what they would have done). It seems
not unreasonable to suppose that Socrates is learning something necessary, and before we decide that this necessary
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something is how not to proceed, the dialogue deserves a
closer look. So let us return to the first part of the dialogue to
examine its setting and characters and try to determine who
this Socrates is, who this Parmenides is, what the one might
have to learn from the other, and what we might have to learn
from it all.
The part of the dialogue before Parmenides begins his exercise comprises only a bit more than a third of the entire
piece. It is immediately evident that the dialogue is set in a
“present” which is very remote from the conversation among
Socrates, Zeno, and Parmenides that it recounts. Though we
are given no date, we may assume that all the participants in
the original conversation are dead, including Socrates, if only
because, had Socrates been alive, Cephalus, who is the firstperson narrator of the entire piece, would certainly have gone
directly to him rather than to a man who had acquired the
conversation second-hand. In the “present” (which is itself
actually a “past” recounted by the primary narrator to unnamed listeners who become us, the readers), Cephalus and
some of his fellow-citizens who are interested in philosophy
have come to Athens from Clazomenae in Ionia. They have
made this journey because they have heard that someone in
Athens has memorized that long-past conversation, and they
would like to hear it. This Cephalus, by the way, is not the
Cephalus of the Republic, a man who, you will recall, was
not sufficiently interested in philosophy even to stay in his
own home when Socrates was brought there (331d), much
less to go out of his way to seek out a dialogue from the distant past.
The opening scene of the Parmenides is, nevertheless,
reminiscent of the beginning of the Republic, both in the
name of its narrator and in the first sentence, which recalls
Socrates’ narration of his descent into the Pireaus. Cephalus
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begins, “When we arrived at Athens from our home in Clazomenae, we met Adeimantus and Glaucon in the Agora”
(126a). Unlike Socrates in the Republic, Cephalus is not
forcibly detained by eager questioners. Instead, Glaucon and
Adeimantus (who are those once-young men of the Republic)
welcome him cordially, and he tells them he has come to ask
a favor. He would like for them to take him and his friends
to their half-brother, Antiphon (who is also Plato’s halfbrother), who, he hopes, may be persuaded to recite from
memory the conversation held by Socrates, Zeno, and Parmenides that Antiphon learned from a student of Zeno’s
named Pythodorus, who was present at that encounter many
years ago. Antiphon—who was once sufficiently interested
in philosophy, if not to practice it, at least to memorize an exceedingly complex conversation—is now more interested in
raising horses. The others come upon him instructing a smith
how to make a bit. At first, Antiphon is reluctant to comply
with their request, for reciting the conversation will be, as he
says in words later nearly echoed by Parmenides himself, an
arduous task. But he finally allows himself to be persuaded
to perform, as Parmenides will later in the dialogue (and did,
earlier in time).
Since Antiphon was not present at the conversation he is
about to relate, he gives his listeners Pythodorus’s account.
As Pythodorus told it, Zeno and Parmenides once came to
Athens for the Panathenaia festival, and stayed outside the
walls in Pythodorus’s house. Parmenides was elderly at the
time, quite gray, and distinguished-looking. Zeno was about
40 years old, tall and handsome. It was said that Zeno had
been Parmenides’ favorite; the suggestion is of an erotic relationship. We do not know the age of young Socrates, but
the dialogue emphasizes that he was very young, though
older than Parmenides’ interlocutor Aristotle. Socrates, at the
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beginning of Pythodorus’s account, has been listening to
Zeno read a treatise, of which we readers hear nothing, for
Pythodorus had heard the treatise before, and, evidently not
caring to hear it again, enters the house with Parmenides only
after Zeno has finished reading. Socrates asks Zeno to read
the beginning again, and Zeno does; but the second reading
serves only to emphasize the utter unimportance of Zeno’s
text, for the narrator does not give it to us, even though he is
now present. We hear instead only Socrates’ summation of
it, which is this: “If things are many, then it follows that the
same things must be both like and unlike, but that is impossible, for unlike things cannot be like or like things unlike”
(127e). Zeno agrees that this summary is accurate, and
Socrates presses on: “Now, if it is impossible for unlike things
to be like and like things unlike, it is also impossible for there
to be many things; for if there were, things would undergo
impossible qualifications. Isn’t that the point of your arguments, to contend, contrary to everything generally said, that
there is no plurality? And don’t you suppose that each of your
arguments is a proof of just that, so that you believe that you
have given precisely as many proofs that there is no plurality
as there are arguments in your treatise? Is that what you
mean, or have I failed to understand you?” (127e). It appears
that Socrates is baiting Zeno, suggesting that he has become
mired in the contradiction of providing many arguments to
prove that there is no such thing as many. But Zeno, again,
graciously concedes that Socrates’ estimation of his work is
correct. Since innuendo did not work, Socrates now attacks
outright. Addressing not Zeno but Parmenides by name, he
accuses Zeno of saying much the same thing as Parmenides
himself while misleading his readers into thinking he is saying something different. Parmenides remains silent, and again
Zeno, clearly stung, replies, but quite mildly considering that
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he has just been accused of a kind of cheating. He protests
that this particular treatise was, in the first place, the work of
a young man written in a spirit of controversy, not of an older
man zealous for reputation, and, in the second place, that it
was stolen from him and published without his consent.
Though the effect of these disclaimers is less to enlighten us
than to cause us to wonder why he is reading the discredited
treatise of his youth now that he is older and presumably
knows better, Zeno continues to agree that Socrates did not
misrepresent his thesis. Parmenides, meanwhile, makes his
presence increasingly felt by saying not a word.
Socrates has tried both innuendo and direct accusation in
what appears to be an unsuccessful attempt to draw first Zeno
and then Parmenides into discussion. He plunges on. The paradox of unity and multiplicity raised by Zeno has a simple
solution, Socrates claims. The answer is the Forms, which
exist alone, by themselves. If someone could demonstrate to
him that Forms could change, that would be amazing,
Socrates asserts. But it is not at all remarkable that other sorts
of things should share contrary characteristics. Socrates uses
himself as an example. In order to say that he is many, that
is, partakes of multitude, all anyone would have to do would
be to consider his front, his back, his upper body, his lower
body, and so on. If, on the other hand, someone wanted to
say that he partakes of unity, that person would need only
consider him one of the seven—but remember that only five
are named—present at this particular conversation (129d).
With regard to the changeable things we perceive, plurality
and unity depend, in effect, on how you look at them. There
is no genuine paradox in this, only a manipulation of language. The tone of Socrates’ speech is aggressive. He seems
to be implying that Zeno is either a liar or a fool.
I have tried to capture something of Socrates’ tone in this
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summary. He has, of course, expounded his opinions at much
greater length than I just have. If you were reading it your
impression would likely be that this brash young man has indeed gone too far: he’s smart all right, but he is also rude and
offensive. That is, evidently, the feeling the reader is supposed to have, because suddenly we are recalled to Pythodorus, who, Antiphon says, expected Zeno and Parmenides
to become angry, and was surprised when instead they
glanced at each other from time to time as Socrates spoke and
smiled as if in admiration. Now, for the first time, Parmenides
speaks, and his words reveal that young Socrates, in flailing
away at Zeno, has been, in effect, setting himself up. Young
Socrates is about to meet his master.
First, Parmenides blandly commends Socrates on his talent for argument; then he asks if he himself was responsible
for the distinction between Forms and the things that partake
of them. Parmenides does not give Socrates time to reply to
this question, so I suppose we do not really know the answer.
Instead, he immediately becomes more specific. Is there, he
asks Socrates, a likeness apart from the likeness we possess?
Is there One? Is there Many? “Of course.” Then what about
the just, the beautiful, the good, and all such things? “Yes.”
Then are there Forms for such things as man, fire, and water?
Socrates has no answer. Within three simple exchanges, Parmenides has reduced him to a state of perplexity, that condition of ignorance which is discomfiting to say the least,
because anyone who is aware he is in it also knows that he
must escape from it, and there is, at least as far as Socrates
can see at this point, no way out.
This is a most important moment, for it is evidently the
first time that Socrates has realized that he is in the state to
which he will later try to reduce all those with whom he
speaks. The force of this image of aporia, recalling Zeno-
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phon’s use of it in the Anabasis (III.1.11-13), is of a desperate
need to escape from imminent danger, to find a pathway to
safety where none is apparent. If Parmenides had stopped
here he would have accomplished quite a lot, but he is not
yet finished with young Socrates. What about certain other
things, he asks, vile and worthless things, like mud, dirt, and
hair? At first Socrates seems to have returned to firm ground.
Not at all, he answers, in his previous assured manner. That
would be impossible. But then he stumbles a bit, driven to
face the abyss, I think, both by the questions of a man he
clearly respects and by a characteristic honesty as remarkable
as the intelligence and talent for argument he has already
demonstrated. “Still,” young Socrates says, “I sometimes
worry lest what holds in one case may not hold in all, but
when I take that stand, I retreat, for fear of tumbling undone
into depths of nonsense. So I go back to the things we just
said have characters, and spend my time dealing with them”
(130d). This is no way to escape from aporia. It may very
well be that there is a significant difference in kind between
justice, say, and hair, but a simple assertion of that difference
is not sufficient to make it so, and Socrates knows it. He is in
this position, Parmenides says, because he is still young and
philosophy has not yet taken hold of him. When he is older
and more experienced he will despise none of these things.
Now he still pays too much attention to what people think.
This reply is problematic for a sympathetic reading of
Parmenides, if it implies that he considers mud, dirt, and hair
equal in kind to justice, beauty, and the good. I do not think
that he does, if only because he calls them particularly vile
and worthless, but we will consider this further when I explore the question of who this Parmenides is. Whatever the
reading, it is clearly not Parmenides’ intent here to explore
what sorts of things have Forms. Rather, simply by raising
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the question, he has done this bright young know-it-all the
immense favor of reducing him to a state in which he has
been forced to admit perplexity and doubt, a state which we
know (because we have read dialogues in which the older
Socrates partakes, dialogues that were composed before this
relatively late one) is absolutely necessary for him to recognize if he is to understand that he is in danger and must search
for a way out—that is, he must pursue philosophy. At this
point in young Socrates’ education, concentrating on such
ideas as justice, virtue, and the good is a retreat, in so far as
it represents a failure to face the real dilemma inherent in the
notion of Forms. Furthermore, Socrates has confessed that
fear of falling into nonsense has caused him to turn away
from questions that had occurred to him before his encounter
with Parmenides. Parmenides, then, has forced the young
man to admit, first, that, despite his intellect and talent for argument, he is in a perilous situation; second, that he must
search for a way to escape from this danger; and, third, that
his fear has led to intellectual cowardice and laziness.
Whether there actually is a possible way of escape remains
to be explored, and this is the question to which Parmenides
immediately turns his attention.
Assuming with Socrates that Forms exist even though we
are not yet sure which of the things we perceive has a Form,
Parmenides directs the conversation to the problem of sharing. This in turn raises the dilemma of participation, which,
in its most general expression, has to account for the relationship between the Forms and the things that partake of them.
The effect of this conversation will be to reduce Socrates
once again to perplexity, and it will lead to a difficulty that is
more fundamental than the question about which of the things
we perceive partake of Forms. Parmenides readily agrees
with Socrates that there are unalterable Forms, but, through
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questioning, he compels Socrates to admit (and readers to
see) that if we cannot discover a relationship between the
things we see and the Forms—that is, if we cannot find a way
to escape from deceptive change into the reality of the absolute—there can be no knowledge and, hence, no philosophy.
How, Parmenides asks Socrates, can there be any relationship between the things we see and the Forms of which
they partake? More specifically, how can a Form be at once
in itself and in the others (that is, the things that partake of
it) without being separate from itself? Socrates has an ingenious solution to this problem: It might be like a day, he says,
which is in many places at once yet not separate from itself.
“Very neat,” replies Parmenides, flattering the young man,
“you mean like a sail spread over many persons at once.”
“Perhaps,” responds Socrates, apparently sealing his doom
in the discussion, since a sail really does not seem to be like
a day at all. Unlike a day, it is a material object, capable of
being cut into pieces, a characteristic Parmenides will exploit
in his refutation of the idea. Why does Socrates accept the
substitution? Is he being polite? He wasn’t very polite to
Zeno, but he obviously has more respect for Parmenides. Did
he succumb to the older man’s flattery? For whatever reason,
Socrates, perhaps with some reluctance, accepts the sail in
place of the day. Parmenides then raises the paradox of divisibility, with an argument that irrefutably concludes, to put
it briefly, that other things cannot partake of Forms either as
parts or as wholes. Next he raises the difficulty of infinite
regress. Using largeness as an example, he obliges Socrates
to agree that when we look at a number of things that are
large we believe there is the same Form of largeness in all of
them, and thus believe that Largeness is one. But then don’t
we need yet another largeness by which that one largeness
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can appear large, and then another, and another? The search
for the last largeness will never end. Socrates, trying to escape from this infinite regress, suggests that Forms are
thoughts (noēma, a word that is rare in the Socratic dialogues); but Parmenides parries that for a thought to be true
it must be a thought of something that is, and Socrates, if he
is not to be trapped in relativism, is compelled to concede.
Perhaps, then, he replies, the Forms exist in nature as paradigms, which other things resemble and imitate. But if this
is so, Parmenides counters, the Form must resemble the object that resembles it, in so far as that object resembles it, and
thus a third “entity” is called into being: that by participation
in which like things are made like. Again we are faced with
an infinite regress, a hall of mirrors.
All of these arguments, none of which Socrates can refute, lead to what Parmenides calls the greatest difficulty of
all: If we maintain that the Forms are separate, independent
beings, we are in danger of having to concede that they cannot be known, and the consequence of that is that there is no
way out of our difficulty. Aporia becomes absolute; philosophy is impossible. If this is our condition, Forms may or may
not exist; if they exist, they may have their nature relative to
themselves, and the things we perceive may have their nature
relative to themselves. But if the Forms and the things among
us have no relationship to each other, Parmenides and
Socrates agree that we can have no knowledge of truth. Put
another way, we cannot know any of the Forms because we,
by our nature, cannot partake of absolute knowledge. The
gods, on the other hand, by their nature, would have absolute
knowledge, but that would make no difference either to us or
to them, for if there is no connection, no path, between the
transient and the absolute, the gods could know our world no
more than we could know theirs, and we all might as well go
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raise horses.
This is not to say that Parmenides has given up. He asserts twice (133c and 135d) that there are ways out of this
dilemma, which are open to people of wide education and
ability who know how to seek them. Further, Socrates clearly
possesses the considerable natural gifts that will allow him
to seek a way out, and perhaps eventually to teach others to
do so. Parmenides knows this because he heard Socrates discuss these questions with young Aristotle the day before, and
he observed his noble and divine impulse toward argument
(logos), as well as his refusal to discuss problems in terms of
visible objects, appealing instead always to absolutes. The
problem is that Socrates is trying too soon, before he is properly trained. He must exercise and train himself in an art that
the many call idle talk if the truth is not to escape him. Parmenides approves of Socrates’ attention to the things that are
rather than the things that merely seem to be. But he claims
that Socrates lacks rigor; he must learn to examine the consequences that follow from each hypothesis, for example,
“should you hypothesize if likeness is, or if it is not, what
will follow on each hypothesis both for the very things hypothesized and for the others, relative to themselves and relative to each other” (136a). The same procedure must be
followed for anything that may be hypothesized as being and
as not being, and as undergoing any other affection whatever.
Before looking at the exercise in more depth, let us return
to several questions raised in the segment of the dialogue I
have just summarized. I would like, in particular, to explore
the characters of young Socrates and of Parmenides, as they
are presented in the dialogue, and the problem of participation as it is framed here, with the consequences it has for the
pursuit of philosophy.
Let us look first at Socrates. Much is made in the dialogue
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of the fact that he is young. Parmenides has remarked upon
his youth, and Pythodorus, too, as quoted by Antiphon, observes that he was very young. He seems in his interchanges
with Zeno to be exhibiting some of that controversial spirit
of youth to which Zeno, speaking of himself, alludes.
Socrates’ attacks on Zeno show that he has mastered argument; but his remarks are glib and aggressive, the over-confident assertions of someone who (in a contrast that could not
be more striking with the older Socrates) knows it all. Young
Socrates, a sort of philosopher warrior slashing away with a
sword of words, does not hesitate to take on the leading
philosophers of the day. Though it is not used, the word thumos (in the sense of spirit, heart, will) comes to mind. And,
as we have seen, both Zeno and Parmenides are delighted.
This is surely not because of the easily-avoided swipes
Socrates is taking at Zeno in his apparent wish to replace him
in the great man’s affections, but rather because of his eager
desire for logos and his conviction that there are absolutes.
Socrates is a young man of great gifts in dire need of a lesson
in directing those gifts if he is to find the true way of philosophy. And who better to give the lesson than Parmenides?
I know that this is a tricky question, for the character of
Parmenides in this dialogue is problematic. Respected commentators have argued that this Parmenides cannot be intended to be the philosopher by that name because the real
Parmenides could not possibly have spoken in the way this
Parmenides does; but I, at least at this point in my study, am
compelled to follow the more direct route of believing that
Plato meant this Parmenides to represent the great philosopher, while, of course, writing the character to suit his own
purposes.
Many of you probably have not read Parmenides’ poem
on being, and I do not have time here to give more than the
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briefest of summaries of a work which is very hard to summarize, both because of its inherent difficulty and because it
has survived only in widely scattered fragments and quotations which have been stitched together, leaving great gaps.
Parmenides of Elea would have been born around 515 BCE,
if we use Plato’s dialogue (about whose date, of course, we
can only conjecture) as a way of estimating his birth date. He
wrote a poem in the archaic hexameters of Greek epic poetry
whose first-person narrator is a youth of great thumos who
has undertaken a sort of mystic journey. Well-guided horses
pull the youth in a chariot whose axle glows and whistles
with heat along a wide road leading out of darkness into light.
Maidens, identified as daughters of the sun, escort him along
the road and through a mighty doorway into the abode of a
goddess. The maidens then persuade the goddess to give the
youth two accounts, one of which has been called the Way
of Truth and the other the Way of Seeming.
The Way of Truth states that being is and non-being is
not, and that only being can be thought or learned. Being has
certain characteristics, which the goddess lists for the youth:
It is ungenerated, imperishable, whole, single-limbed, untrembling, complete, indivisible, changeless, held in limits
by the chains of justice. Most mortals, she continues, do not
realize that only being is knowable; instead they wander, twoheaded, lost along the well-trodden but misdirected way,
thinking, mistakenly, that they can name and know opposites.
This mistaken way is the Way of Seeming, and its relationship to the Way of Truth is not completely clear in the poem.
What is clear is that being is one and absolute (though finite)
and that it can be truly known, while non-being, as it does
not really exist, cannot be known or even thought.
Now this is not quite the doctrine that Parmenides upholds in the dialogue. The Parmenides of the dialogue does
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still maintain the fundamental principle of the poem, namely,
that only absolute being can be known. Nonetheless, by accepting without question Socrates’ notion of Forms, he has
allowed multiplicity into being. So if the Parmenides of the
dialogue is the Parmenides of the poem, he has changed at
least part of his understanding of the nature of being. Furthermore, in the dialogue he raises that fundamental difficulty
which young Socrates has apparently not considered fully,
namely, the relationship of Forms to the things of this world.
This difficulty, as Parmenides sees it, has two parts. One part
is the question of which things in our world participate in
Forms, and the other concerns the nature of that participation.
The Parmenides of the dialogue is very concerned with the
relationship between seeming and being, a relationship which
is truly problematic in the poem, where, after stating that only
being can be known, the goddess provides a surprising
amount of information about seeming things, particularly
heavenly bodies and sex. Remember that we have no way of
knowing how much of the Way of Seeming has been lost, and
its reconstruction is particularly difficult because the fragments are so short and puzzling. If there is any connection
between the Way of Truth and the Way of Seeming in the
poem, we have to devise it ourselves; it is not given to us. In
fact, we have already seen that the poem tells us as plainly
as it tells us anything that one way is true and the other is
false.
So the poem and the dialogue concur that only being is
absolute and knowable, but in the dialogue we have a Parmenides who, unlike the author of the poem, has, in the first
place, accepted a plurality of absolutes (that is, the Forms)
and who, in the second place, considers the relationship between those absolutes and seeming things to be of utmost importance. Furthermore, he engages in an exercise that takes
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the form of dialectic, an interchange of a sort entirely absent
from the poem, whose young man remains silent, listening
(in a way reminiscent of Socrates’ encounter with Diotima in
the Symposium) to the teachings of the goddess.
These are three undeniably significant differences between the Parmenides of the poem and the Parmenides of the
dialogue. Our conclusion might be that these are different
men. It seems more fruitful to say that Plato has taken the
fundamental questions raised by Parmenides in the poem and
pushed them in the direction he felt they had to go if the approach to knowledge was to be anything other than a
metaphorical journey leading to a mystical vision. Who better
than the great philosopher himself to give his blessing to such
an enterprise, and to anoint young Socrates as the spirited
youth, the young hero, capable of pursuing it, if only he can
summon the courage to undertake such an arduous task? The
dialogue, in effect, resurrects the venerable authority and has
him declare, with Zeno’s approval, that Socrates is his true
heir.
Parmenides passes his legacy to Socrates in five ways.
First, the great philosopher who first asked the question
“What is Being?” has accepted the Forms as the answer to
that question. Second, he has repeatedly complimented young
Socrates on his ability and divine inclination toward logos.
Third, Parmenides has, by his questioning, forced Socrates
to recognize that he is in a state of aporia, by raising the question of the status of such things as mud, dirt, and hair—which
the author of the Way of Truth could never have valued any
more than Socrates ever will. Fourth, he has shown the young
man a possible way out of his aporia by instructing him in
the method that he will later adopt, that is, dialectic. And,
fifth, he has given him a demonstration of the courage that
young Socrates showed he lacked when he admitted he was
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afraid to face the possibility that mud, dirt, and hair might
partake of Forms.
Parmenides demonstrates courage to Socrates when he
allows himself, despite a fear that he voices several times, to
be persuaded to undertake the exercise of exploring the consequences, both for the One and for the others, of the existence and of the non-existence of the One. This is the most
difficult part of the dialogue to read. I have already raised one
possible interpretation: that the exercise is intended to
demonstrate how not to proceed if we are seeking truth. The
consequence of this reading, however, is that Parmenides becomes a buffoon, and I do not believe the dialogue supports
that contention any more than do later mentions of the
philosopher in the Theatetus, where Socrates, an old man
himself, refers to the nobility of Parmenides’ “reverend and
awful figure” during the encounter we are discussing (183e),
or in the Sophist, where, even though Father Parmenides is
killed by his own Eleatic follower, Socrates remembers the
magnificence of the arguments he employed in that long-ago
meeting (217c). Even allowing, as we must, for the possibility of irony, it is not at all clear what purpose would be served
by making a buffoon of the philosopher who first conceived
of being as unchanging and as capable of being known. More
consistent with the raising of Socrates into true philosophy
is the reading that makes Parmenides into a revered elder,
aware of his own limitations, but still able to inspire a spirited
youth to carry on the journey that, for an old man like himself, has become just another run around the track. No longer
a youth pulled by well-guided horses, but rather like an old
horse himself, Parmenides is nonetheless capable of recognizing a worthy heir and guiding him to pursue philosophy
along the correct route.
As I have observed, the novelty of the dialogue with re-
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spect to Parmenides’ poem as far as the practice of philosophy is concerned is the introduction of dialectic. Parmenides
in the dialogue has already shown a dialectical bent uncharacteristic of the poem in his questioning of Socrates. This
questioning is suggestively juxtaposed with Zeno’s reading
of an old essay—an essay that the author himself, when challenged, repudiates. And when Parmenides agrees to perform
his exercise, it is dialectical rather than expository; that is, it
is unlike the teaching of the goddess in Parmenides’ poem.
He then chooses the youngest one present, that is, young Aristotle, to be his interlocutor, giving three reasons. First, the
youngest will give least trouble; second, he will be most
likely to say what he thinks; and third, his answering will give
the older man a chance to rest. The first and third reasons indicate that Parmenides’ primary interlocutor in this exercise
will really be himself. This locates his demonstration of the
method closer to exposition than to dialogue. But the second
reason is interesting insofar as it recalls Socrates’ demonstration with the slave boy in the Meno; like the slave, who has
no reason to hold back from Socrates’ questioning, young Aristotle possesses a kind of pure outspokenness, a kind of fearlessness, that tends to be smothered by conventional thought
as a person ages. We can see that even the gifted young
Socrates has already fallen prey to convention if we read the
“perhaps” with which he accepts Parmenides’ substitution of
a sail for the day as a grudging acceptance of a substitution
he does not really admit. Whether he is being polite or he is
responding to the flattery Parmenides has just lavished on
him, Socrates, who contradicts Zeno so freely, seems unable
to contradict the admired older man.
The exercise itself is extremely difficult to read and understand, but it is carefully organized. (This is a feature that
is not evident in the truncated seminar assignment). Par-
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menides has said that he will consider the consequences both
for the One and for the others of the hypotheses both that the
One is and that it is not (135e-136c and 137b). I will repeat
the tangled conclusion he reaches:
Then let this be said, and also that, as it seems, whether
unity is or is not, both unity and the others are and are not,
and appear and do not appear to be, all things in all ways,
relative both to themselves and to each other (166c).
It is, as I said earlier, possible to read this as a demonstration
that nonsense is the only possible outcome of this particular
method of reasoning. In contrast, some commentators have
claimed that Parmenides’ exercise has indeed answered the
questions of participation that he raised in the first part of the
dialogue. Constance Meinwald, for example, argues ingeniously that it is possible to make sense out of the final statement, essentially (though, of course, this follows a complex,
book-length argument) by reading the verb esti, “to be” as
existential in some occurrences and predicative in others.1
According to this reading, the exercise would have explored
the possible pitfalls of language in general, and of that troublesome verb in particular. I would like, however, to argue
for a third interpretation. I believe that Parmenides has answered the questions he has raised, but that the answer is so
deeply buried that its very hiddenness begs to be explored.
Let us begin to do this by looking at the organization of the
argument in the light of Jacob Klein’s “Note on Plato’s Parmenides.”2 As its title suggests, Klein’s piece is no more than
a brief observation. The concern of the note is the “indeterminate dyad,” mentioned by Aristotle in the Physics and
Metaphysics.3 Aristotle’s contention is that the indeterminate
dyad was the substitute for the single “unlimited” or “indeterminate,” and, further, that this dyad consisted of “the Great
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and the Small.” Aristotle observes that the indeterminate dyad
is never explicitly mentioned by Plato. Klein believes, however, that there is a clear, if oblique, allusion to it in the Parmenides, specifically in Socrates’ apparently casual remark,
following Pythodorus’s observation that “many” others came
with him to hear Zeno’s reading. I mentioned earlier that
there were, in fact, seven men present at this conversation,
of whom only five are named. Parmenides also calls our attention to the group, without, however, numbering it, when
he agrees to engage in his laborious pastime. Klein suggests
that this equation of “many” with “two” is deliberate, and
that it is a veiled but unmistakable reference to what Aristotle
called the indeterminate dyad. Klein continues:
Zeno’s lecture (composed in his youth) was meant to show
that the consequences which flow from the assumption of
multiplicity in this world are even more absurd and ridiculous than the consequences which flow from the derided
Parmenidean assumption that “the One is” (128d). The
thesis of multiplicity, in Zeno’s presentation, seems to
imply the absence of unity, just as Parmenides’ assumption
divorces the One entirely from any multiplicity. It is noteworthy that, in the dialogue, Parmenides himself unfolds
before his listeners—young Aristotle acting as his dialectical partner—the contradictions involved both in the assumption and in the rejection of the “One” as the one and
only archē. There is an imbalance between Zeno’s thesis
and Parmenides’ performance: the denial of multiplicity is
not subjected to any scrutiny. What is lacking is a discussion of the consequences which flow from an explicit rejection of the many (cf. 136a).
Instead we are led by Parmenides and Aristotle to the
threshold of the insight that the root of the contradictions
concerning the “One” taken by itself is precisely the nonadmittance of another archē responsible for the “Many”
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and correlated with the “One.” The dialectic of the “One”
cannot avoid bringing this other archē, the “Other,” into
play. But its role within the framework of the dialogue is,
as it were, illegitimate. Still, its power is there, conspicuously, though silently present. The two undetermined men
in the audience represent it. They embody the elusive “indeterminate dyad” itself. This is their mimetically ironic
role.4
The structure of Parmenides’ exercise supports Klein’s
interpretation. Precisely what is lacking is what Klein has
called scrutiny of the denial of multiplicity. The structure of
the exercise is relatively simple.5 With one exception, it is divided into four sections, which follow Parmenides’ stated
plan. Two segments of the exercise consider (each one in two
parts) the consequences for unity and for the others if unity
exists. The other two (also each in two parts) consider the
consequences for unity and for the others if unity does not
exist. The opening argument, however, stands alone. Parmenides’ initial assumption is that the One is not Many. Of
course, young Aristotle agrees, for if anything is obvious, it
is that one is not many. Nevertheless, the outcome of this assumption is disastrous. Parmenides concludes that if the One
is not Many “then it cannot be named or spoken of, nor is it
an object of opinion or knowledge, nor does anything among
things which are perceive it,” and young Aristotle concurs
that none of those things can be true of unity (142a). Well, if
the One is not not-Many, does it then follow that the One is
Many? This is the balancing argument, which is missing. It
seems so absurd. There is no way in our everyday language
that the one can be many. There is no speakable way out of
this perplexity. And this is perhaps the crux of the indeterminate dyad, the manyness in the one that cannot be named but
which must somehow exist if we are to be able to link the
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Forms with the things of this world, that is, to practice philosophy. There is, then, a missing argument (and it could not
be otherwise, for the argument cannot be made with language
as we know it)—a fact that becomes apparent only when we
step back from the words and look at the structure of Parmenides’ exercise. This missing argument, necessarily absent,
is the one for the indeterminate dyad, the multiplicity within
the One, to which the presence of two unnamed men in the
first part of the dialogue points.
Let us look briefly once again at the principal questions
that the dialogue has raised and, I believe, answered. The first
is “What is philosophy?” In this dialogue Socrates is located
firmly within the Parmenidean tradition with respect to the
question of the nature of being: Only unalterable being is true
and knowable, and the philosopher seeks to know the truth,
that is, being. The second question—“Is philosophy possible?”—is no less important for human beings who would
seek to know. For if there is no way out of our perplexity—
and there is no way out unless the things we see can be related
to the things that are—then we are trapped in the world of
change, and the questions that philosophy raises are inaccessible to us. This is the difficulty with which Parmenides is
principally concerned in this dialogue; and the dialogue
shows us, if we know how to look at it, that there is a relationship between the things that are and the things that seem
to be. There is, in other words, a way out. That way is what
Aristotle called the indeterminate dyad, the multiplicity
within the One, and it must be sought in the dialogue as a
whole.
Let us return to the puzzling last sentence of the dialogue.
What are we to make of the stupendously unsatisfying conclusion to Parmenides’ exercise? If it is true that the dialogue
is seeded on various levels with covert allusions to the un-
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named and unnamable indeterminate dyad, the nonsensical
end of the dialogue may be a truly thumping clue that there
is a meaning here, and that the actual words are not where it
is to be found. This is a reading that takes us outside the text,
where we meet Socrates, who is, as it were, “in on it,” for he
is the one who alludes to the indeterminate dyad by mentioning that there are seven men present. Would Plato be capable
of performing such a trick—for our benefit, of course? I think
so. There is duality everywhere you look in this dialogue; and
furthermore, it is a duality that by its very ostentatiousness
implores us to attempt to forge a simple unity of it. Plato does
not coddle his readers, for one of his points is that philosophy
is hard work. We must be alive to the difficulties of reading
at every level of his intricately composed mimetic texts.
In conclusion I would like to recall a conversation I had
during a paper conference with one of the students in my Parmenides preceptorial, Adrienne St. Onge. She was troubled
by what she feared was an implication that only the young
had the spirit necessary to pursue philosophy. The initiate in
Parmenides’ poem is, after all, a young man, and in the dialogue, the point is made again and again that Socrates, the
spirited one, is very young. Zeno, a member of the generation
before Socrates, is frozen in time. Rereading old, repudiated
treatises, he is going nowhere. Indeed, if the significant difference between youth and age is the difference between zeal
for controversy and zeal for reputation, there is nowhere to
go. Parmenides, a member of the generation before Zeno’s,
provides an example that is not much better, comparing himself both to an aged lover and to an old racehorse reluctantly
running around in circles—that is, once again, going
nowhere. But as we talked we began to realize that this is the
beauty of the posthumous setting. Cephalus has come to
Athens because of what Socrates later became. And we read-
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ers know what Socrates became because we have read dialogues written earlier, but situated later in his life. We know
that Socrates never lost his desire for philosophy. We know
that he never confused truth with mud. Plato contrives to have
the venerable philosopher anoint and assist his heir, and what
that heir has become we already know.
Still, the “present” of the dialogue is troubling. It is true
that men have come from Clazomenae to hear the conversation, but the state of philosophy after Socrates’ death seems
perilous. I doubt that we ever expected Glaucon and
Adeimantus to become philosophers; but Antiphon, who in
this dialogue is the closest link to Socrates’ time, is shown
instructing a smith to make a bit for a horse. I can’t help but
read this as a discouraging allusion to the well-guided horses
pulling the young man’s chariot toward the light of truth at
the beginning of Parmenides’ poem. Antiphon is not a man
of philosophical desire or spirit. The text, as he recites it, is
trapped in time, as dead as Zeno’s treatise.
So is it only exceptional people who can become philosophers? We have Socrates, who surpassed his mentors, and
Plato, himself, who by implication may have surpassed
Socrates. But now what? The dialogue assures us that philosophy is possible, but it does not suggest that it is easy. On
the contrary, the philosopher must possess unending desire,
unusual intelligence, and divine devotion to truth. This is all
the more reason to wonder if Plato deliberately planted in his
dialogues hints that would not be accessible to the many,
those who despite everything and will always persist in traveling the wide and well-trodden, but wrong, way. Plato will
not do our work for us, for if he did we would not be moved
to philosophy. Both in this dialogue and more explicitly in
the Phaedrus, he warns us of the danger of dead texts. To
have meaning, the writing must somehow live. For more than
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two thousand years we have been trying to tease meaning out
of Plato’s texts, and the Parmenides has been among those
most resistant to our efforts. Manifestly, Plato would not expect such endeavors to lead everyone to philosophy, but insofar as our search for meaning has led us to seek a way out
of our perplexity, we have engaged in the only philosophy
Parmenides and Socrates (and, I think, Plato) would agree is
real: the living search for a path to knowledge.
NOTES
Constance Meinwald, Plato’s Parmenides (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1991).
1
In Jacob Klein, Lectures and Essays (Annapolis: St. John’s College Press, 1985), 285-87.
2
3
For references see Klein, 285.
4
Klein, Parmenides, 287.
I owe a debt of thanks to a student, Darcy Christ, for making this
clear to me.
5
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Elliott Carter at St. John’s College
Tutor, 1940-1942
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Rolling His Jolly Tub:
Composer Elliott Carter,
St. John’s College Tutor,
1940-1942
Hollis Thoms
Away went he out of town towards a little hill or
promontory of Corinth called (the) Cranie; and
there on the strand, a pretty level place, did he roll
his jolly tub, which served him for a house to
shelter him from the injuries of the weather.
—Rabelais
Elliott Carter, now one of America’s foremost living composers, was a Tutor at St. John’s College from 1940 to 1942.
This was a turbulent time both for the College and for Carter.
The College was still in the process of phasing out the “old”
curriculum and was trying to establish the “new” Great Books
curriculum. Then, just after the last students under the old
regime were graduated in 1941, World War II began to coopt
college-age men for the war effort. In Carter’s life, his recent
marriage, together with the lingering effects of Great Depression, made it imperative for him to secure an academic
position. At the same time, he was transforming his compoHollis Thoms is a composer and researcher from Annapolis, Maryland,
who received the Master of Arts in Liberal Arts degree from St. John’s
College in 2006. Many thanks are due to individuals at St. John’s who
facilitated research for this paper: Chris Nelson, President; Catherine
Dixon, Library Director; Cara Sabolcick, Public Service Librarian, Daniel
Crowe, Registrar; Jacqueline Thoms, Assistant Registrar; Eric Stoltzfus,
Music Librarian; and Mark Daly, Head of Laboratories. Thanks also to
Dr. Philip Allen, who edited the first draft.
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sitional practice, casting off traditional influences, and moving
in a radically new musical direction. The story of Carter’s
time at St. John’s is the story of two interlaced experiments:
the College’s experiment in higher education, and Carter’s
experiment in finding his vocation as a composer.
Elliott Carter, 1908-1940
Elliott Cook Carter, Jr. was born in New York on December
11, 1908 to lace-import businessman Elliott Cook Carter, Sr.
and his wife Florence, née Chambers. The young Elliott was
intended to succeed his father at the lace-import firm. As he
grew, however, his musical talents and interests led him away
from business and toward a career in music. The elder Carter
was openly contemptuous of such an impractical scheme
(Wierzbicki 2011, 5-6). But Clifton J. Furness, music teacher
at the Horace Mann School where Carter studied from 1920
to 1926, recognized and encouraged his student's talent. He
took the teenage Carter to avant-garde concerts, exposing him
to new music by composers such as Bartók, Ruggles, Stravinsky, Varèse, Schoenberg, and Webern. And he introduced him
to many New York musicians and composers, including
Charles Ives, the eccentric millionaire businessman and experimental composer. Ives often invited Carter to join him
and his wife in their Carnegie Hall box for performances by
the Boston Symphony, which, under the leadership of Serge
Koussevitzky, commissioned many new works by living
composers. Ives became a musical and intellectual role model
for Carter (Wierzbicki 2011, 7-9).
The distance between the younger Carter’s ambitions and
his father’s continued to grow during these years. When
Carter was sixteen in 1925, his father took him along on a
business trip to Vienna, where all his attention was focussed
on trying to acquire all the currently available scores of
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Schoenberg and Webern. Carter remembers going with his
father to a performance of Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring,
which the father summed up with “Only a madman could
have written anything like that.” Yet that performance was
one of the experiences that inspired the young Elliot to become a composer (Edwards 1971, 40, 45).
So, contrary to his father’s wishes, Carter decided to
study music at Harvard. Ives wrote a letter of reference in
which he pointed to Carter’s artistic instincts:
Carter strikes me as rather an exceptional boy. He has
an instinctive interest in literature and especially
music that is somewhat unusual. He writes well—an
essay in his school paper—“Symbolism in Art”—
shows an interesting mind. In don’t know him intimately, but his teacher in Horace Mann School, Mr.
Clifton J. Furness, and a friend of mine, always
speaks well of him—that he’s a good character and
does well in his studies. I am sure his reliability, industry, and sense of honour are what they should
be—also his sense of humor which you do not ask
me about (Schiff 1983, 15-16).
He intended to major in music at Harvard in the fall of
1926, but lasted only a semester in that program. He remained at Harvard, however, but opted to spend his undergraduate years working on a degree in English literature. The
Harvard music department was not to his liking, since it
would have nothing to do with the new music in which
Carter was interested. Carter said that he “would have been
glad if somebody at Harvard had explained to me what went
on in the music of Stravinsky, Bartok and Schoenberg, and
had tried somehow to develop in me the sense of harmony
and counterpoint that these composers had” (Wierzbicki
2011, 11).
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Carter enjoyed his English literature experience, but, as
with music, he went further than the traditional literature offerings, which stopped with reading Tennyson. He preferred
reading more avant garde authors such as Gerard Manley
Hopkins, William Carlos Williams, Marianne Moore, T. S.
Elliot, e. e. cummings, James Joyce, D. H. Lawrence,
Gertrude Stein, and others. In addition to studying classics,
philosophy, and mathematics, he also studied German and
Greek—which, in addition to his fluency in French, made
him quite proficient in languages. Carter spent his undergraduate years pursuing the broadest possible education, for he
saw music not merely as a technical study, but as an art form
embedded in and intimately connected with the liberal arts.
He, did, nonetheless, participate in more traditional musical
activities during his time at Harvard, taking instruction in
piano, oboe, and solfeggio at the Longy School. He sang
tenor in the Harvard Glee Club and in a Bach Cantata Club.
He also spent time studying the scores of the past masters,
taking full advantage of the vast holdings of the Harvard
music library (Wierzbicki 2011, 15-19).
Carter’s youthful interest in the new music can be seen
in the repertory of works he performed with his old music
teacher Clifton Furness in a joint piano recital in Hartford,
Connecticut on December 12, 1928: the program included
pieces by Igor Stravinsky, Darius Milhaud, Arnold Schoenberg, Francis Poulenc, Alfredo Casella, Gian Francesco
Malipiero, Henry Gilbert, Charles Ives, Eric Satie, Paul Hindemith, and George Antheil (Schiff 1983, 15).
After Carter graduated, he went on receive an MA in musical composition at Harvard, because, when Gustav Holst
came as a visiting composer and Walter Piston returned from
studying in Paris, there was a new interest in contemporary
music at Harvard, so that Carter felt more at home in the al-
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tered the musical environment. Piston recommended that
Carter go to study with the well known teacher of composition Nadia Boulanger at the École Normale de Musique de
Paris, and Carter did so from 1932-1935. Carter’s fluency in
French made Paris a natural choice; and because both Piston
and Aaron Copland, whom Carter knew and admired, had
studied with her, he felt that it was a reasonable thing to do
(Wierzbicki 2011, 20-21).
Despite persistent financial worries while in Paris—his
father did not approve of the plan and cut his allowance in
half, though his mother continued to supplement the allowance—Carter thrived as a student of Boulanger, whom he
remembers with admiration for the way she illuminated both
the past and the future of music:
The things that were most remarkable and wonderful
about her were her extreme concern for the material
of music and her acute awareness of its many phases
and possibilities. I must say that, though I had taken
harmony and counterpoint at Harvard and thought I
knew all about these subjects, nevertheless, when
Nadia Boulanger put me back on tonic and dominant
chords in half notes, I found to my surprise that I
learned all kinds of things I’d never thought before.
Every one one of her lessons became very illuminating. . . . Mlle. Boulanger was a very inspiring teacher
of counterpoint and made it such a passionate concern
that all this older music constantly fed me thoughts
and ideas. All the ways you could make the voices
cross and combine or sing antithetical lines were
things we were involved in strict counterpoint, which
I did for three years with her—up to twelve parts,
canons, invertible counterpoint, and double choruses—and found it fascinating.” (Edwards 1971, 50,
55. Emphasis added.)
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Then also, when I was studying with Mlle. Boulanger
I began for the first time to get an intellectual grasp
of what went on technically in modern works. I was
there at a time when Stravinsky, who was of course
the contemporary composer she always admired
most[, was also in Paris]. . . . The way she illuminated
the details of these works was just extraordinary to
me. . . . I met Stravinsky, because he used to come to
tea at Mlle. Boulanger’s. . . . [W]hat always struck
me every time I heard Stravinsky play the piano—the
composer’s extraordinary, electric sense of rhythm
and incisiveness of touch that made every note he
played a “Stravinsky-note” full of energy, excitement
and serious intentness” (Edwards 1971, 51, 56. Emphasis added.)
Boulanger’s attitude toward music matched his own: in
his daily lessons, composition as a craft was combined with
composition as in the context of the liberal arts. Carter spent
three years studying with Boulanger, and as a result of her
tutelage, he gained both the musical craftsmanship and the
self-confidence to produce compositions that he considered
worth preserving. It was only “after Paris” that Carter “could
begin to compose” (Wierzbicki 2011, 24).
After his return from Paris, Carter immersed himself in
musical activities, groups, and composing, first in Boston and
then in New York. He wrote a number of choral works including one called “Let’s Be Gay,” a work for women’s chorus and two pianos based on texts by John Gay. It was written
for, and performed by, the Wells College Glee Club in the
spring of 1938, which was led by his friend Nicolas Nabokov,
who was to figure again in Carter’s career a few years later
(Wierzbicki 2011, 25).
The Great Depression made it impossible for Carter to
find a secure job, but he was able to become a regular con-
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103
tributor to Modern Music, a journal that had been founded in
1924 as the house organ of the New York-based League of
Composers. In the process of writing thirty-one articles and
reviews for the journal, he gained familiarity with current
compositional activity in New York, and he developed the
skills of a professional music critic (Wierzbicki 2011, 26-27).
In addition, he was hired as a composer-in-residence for
the experimental ballet company Ballet Caravan, formed in
1936 by Lincoln Kirstein, whom Carter had met in Paris. In
that same year, Carter wrote the piano score of a ballet for
the company, called Pocahontas, which premiered in 1939.
In June of 1940 the New York Times announced that an orchestral suite drawn from the ballet had won “the Julliard
School’s annual competition for the publication of orchestral
works by American composers.” This prestigious award finally launched Carter’s career as a composer at the age of 31
(Wierzbicki 2011, 27).
Shortly before the premiere of Pocahontas, on July 6,
1939, Carter married Helen Frost-Jones, a sculptor and art
critic, whom he met through his friend Nicolas Nabokov.
With the possibility of a family now on the horizon, Carter
redoubled his efforts to find employment. At Aaron Copland’s suggestion, he applied in the spring of 1940 for a
teaching position at Cornell University. Cornell was actively
considering him, but the school was not in a hurry to hire.
Carter, on the other hand, wanted a position for the fall. So
instead he accepted an offer to teach music, mathematics,
physics, philosophy, and Greek at St. John’s College in Annapolis (Wierzbicki 2011, 28).
The offer from St. John’s was also due to Carter’s friend
Nicolas Nabokov, who recommended Carter after himself
turning down the offer of a position for 1940-1941. In a letter
to Stringfellow Barr dated June 22, 1940, Nabokov ex-
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plained, first, that he could not accept the position for that
year because his wife was expecting a child and, since they
lived in Massachusetts, it would be too inconvenient to move
or to commute between the arduous new job and his family;
second, that the compensation offered at St. John’s College
was not adequate for him to take care of his new family; and
third, that he could not in good conscience leave Wells so
soon before the beginning of the fall term.
In declining the position, Nabokov recommended a substitute: “Mr. Elliott Carter of whom I spoke to you the other
day and more extensively to Mr. Buchanan would in my opinion fit perfectly into the St. John’s place of education. . . . Mr.
Carter as you will see from his curriculum vitae and the enclosed articles is a very thorough, serious and reliable man
and I recommend him to you very highly. . . . [H]e is very
anxious to undertake the job.” He suggested that Carter could
substitute for him for during the coming school year, and then
Nabokov himself would come to St. John’s the following
year. Nabokov did indeed arrive at St. John’s the following
fall to take over the teaching of music; but Carter did not
leave. Instead he spent a second year at St. John’s teaching
Greek, mathematics, and seminar (Nabokov 1940).
Carter’s decision to accept the position at St. John’s could
not have been easy to make. He was just beginning his career
as a composer, trying to develop a distinctive creative voice
in challenging financial circumstances, which were made
even more challenging by his recent marriage. This was certainly a turbulent time in his life.
He was to join the St. John’s community at a turbulent
time in its own history. The college had recently launched an
educational experiment unprecedented in American higher
education, the success of which was far from certain. The
prospect of teaching at the third oldest college in the nation
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105
(the direct predecessor of St. John’s, King William’s School,
was founded in 1696, after Harvard in 1636 and William and
Mary in 1693) might have seemed a more stable position than
anything the young composer could find in New York, but he
would soon discover a great deal of unstable dissonance in
the community he was to join.
St. John’s College in 1940: Turbulence
In 1937, St. John’s College found itself at a crossroads. In addition to a severe financial crisis, the physical plant was in
deep disrepair. A weak Board of Governors and Visitors had
appointed three new Presidents within nine years in an attempt to find someone who could remedy the situation. All
three had failed, however, and the College had lost its accreditation status with the Middle States Association of Colleges
and Schools. Demoralized faculty members were leaving.
(See Murphy 1996 and Rule 2009 for the facts in this section.)
The stronger members of the Board decided to take drastic action. They named Robert Hutchins, President of the University of Chicago, who had long been involved in attempts
to revive the liberal arts, to chair the Board. The Board also
hired two colleagues of Hutchins’ from the Committee on
Liberal Arts at Chicago as President and Dean, Stringfellow
Barr and Scott Buchanan. Their charge was to effect a complete transformation from a traditional college curriculum to
a radically “old” Great Books curriculum. There would no
longer be the traditional options leading to specialized degrees; the faculty would no longer teach only in their areas
of expertise, but in all areas of the curriculum; the college
would no longer participate in intercollegiate sports; there
would no longer be fraternities on campus.
Instead, the completely renovated curriculum, known as
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the “New Program,” consisted of two seminars (discussion
groups) per week on one of the books on the prescribed reading list, five tutorials (small classes) per week in mathematics, five language tutorials per week, at least one three-hour
laboratory period per week, and at least one formal lecture
per week. (Barr 1941, 44.)
In order to effect the change, the New Program was
phased in over a four-year period. Students entering in the
fall of 1937 were allowed to choose which curriculum they
would pursue. Thereafter, all incoming freshmen entered the
New Program. Carter arrived in the 1940-1941 school year,
the last year of the unsettled transitional period, at the end of
which the last graduates under the old curriculum were
awarded their degrees alongside the first graduates under the
New Program. By Carter’s second year, 1941-1942, the New
Program had completely replaced the old curriculum.
Clearly, the board was taking a risk by instituting such an
innovative and untried curriculum, and the risk paid off
slowly. On 1937 there were twenty freshmen who entered in
the New Program; in 1938, forty-six; in 1939, fifty-four; and
in 1940, when Carter arrived, there were ninety-three. The
total number of students held steady at around 170 during the
first four years, so the transition seemed relatively painless
from the enrollment point of view. But the exodus of faculty
members continued, since quite a few were not prepared to
give up their specialties to become co-learners along with
their students in an environment of cooperative learning in
all the liberal arts.
In his quarterly report to the board of April 1939,
Stringfellow Barr described the sort of student and the sort
of tutor that would thrive in the New Program. The students
would have to be able to think clearly and imaginatively, read
the most diverse sorts of material with understanding and de-
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107
light, distinguish sharply between what he knows and what
is mere opinion, have an affinity for first-rate authors and an
aversion to second-rate authors, derive great pleasure from
exercising his intellect on difficult problems, and desire to be
a thoughtful generalist rather than a highly proficient specialist. The tutors, on the other hand, would have to transcend
divergent intellectual backgrounds, be clear expositors, imaginative artists, and cooperative fellow seekers, know how to
teach and learn through discussion, and, above all, be intellectual treasure-hunters.
For unquestionably, the treasures our authors had
written were for our generation partially buried. We
needed men who wanted to help our students dig
them up. The best that we could do, the best indeed
that could be done, was to call for volunteers, volunteers for the treasure hunt, remembering for our comfort that this treasure hunt has never wholly ceased
during the intellectual history of our Western civilization (Nelson 1997, 52-59).
When Stringfellow Barr and Scott Buchanan recruited Elliott Carter they were looking for a “treasure hunter.” They
found in him a kindred spirit who transcended intellectual
narrowness, thought clearly, and was an imaginative artist.
Their relationship continued long after all of them had left
St. John’s. Years later, in 1962, when Barr was invited to
nominate Elliott Carter for an honorary degree at Rutgers
University, Carter replied from Rome in a letter that testifies
to their enduring friendship. (Barr was affectionately called
“Winkie” by his close friends. Carter, 1962.)
Dec. 18, 1962
Dear Winkie —
I am sorry to say that I will not be back in New York
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until July — I do thank
you very much for thinking of me in connection
with the honorary degree
from Rutgers but again I
must beg off — to my sorrow — because as usual
my work seems to have
taken over and dictated
the plan of my life for me
— and I must stay here
until I finish my Concerto
— Merry Xmas and
Fig. 1: Letter to Scott Buchanan
Happy New Year to you (St. John’s College Library Archive,
and Tak [?] — And thanks
Barr Personal Papers, Series 2,
Box 10, folder 20)
for the suggestion Sorry
not to be able to accept it —
Affectionately, Elliott
1940-1941: Tutor and Director of Music
In the college catalogue of 1940-41, Carter was listed as
Tutor and Director of Music (St. John’s College Catalogue
1940-41). His responsibilities included supervision of the entire music program. According to the college newspaper, The
Collegian, which ran a long article in October about the upcoming year’s music program, Carter would plan and schedule a series of six concerts by visiting artists; he would give
a lecture the week before each concert to discuss the works
on the program; he would organize and direct student instrumental ensembles to appear in recitals and accompany the
Glee Club; he would conduct the Glee Club, which was to
rehearse three times per week and give numerous recitals during the year; he would lead a music discussion group on Saturday mornings for interested students; he would lead a
counterpoint, harmony, and composition class for interested
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students; he would supervise concerts of recorded music four
times per week; he would prepare the music room in the late
afternoon each day for students to listen to recorded music
(The Collegian, Oct. 19, 1940).
Carter seems to have taken to these duties enthusiastically, if the pictures in the 1941 St. John’s College Yearbook
give any indication. In the faculty section of the yearbook
there is a picture of Carter working assiduously at his desk,
and in the Glee Club section there is a photo of him directing
the singers with deliberation. The yearbook also provides a
positive evaluation of Carter’s work with the Glee Club over
the year:
The aims of the Club are primarily to foster competent group singing (not necessary concert competency), to gain a better understanding of choral music,
and . . . to let the ear hear what the voice does. To date
the criticisms received from the two mid-winter
recitals give encouragement to the feeling that the
Glee Club is headed in the right direction. Studies,
scholarship work, and talents turned toward other
interests have naturally
taken their toll of the initial
roster, but there still remains a group large
enough to work with the
music under consideration.
The members are from the
three lower classes, which
means that their return next
fall will leave only the task
of inducting freshmen and
learning new songs; this is
Fig. 2: Carter’s four-part setting
indeed a strong incentive
of “St. John’s Forever”
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for the club’s continuation and success (St. John’s
College Yearbook, 1941, 30).
And the work Carter did with the music program was indeed quite varied. For instance, on Saturday, December 20,
1940, the Glee Club performed, at the request of Scott
Buchanan, on the St. John’s College monthly radio broadcast
from WFBR in Baltimore. On that occasion they sang “St.
John’s Forever,” arranged especially by Carter for the broadcast. (A copy of this arrangement can be found in the St.
John’s College Music Library.) They also sang at “Miss
Alexander’s Christmas Party” on December 18. And Carter
assisted in making the musical arrangements for the end-ofterm variety show That’s Your Problem, which showcased the
vaudeville talents of both students and tutors (The Collegian,
Nov. 13 and Dec. 13, 1940).
When the first performance of the year’s concert series
was announced, The Collegian took the opportunity to explain the purpose of the lectures that Carter would give in
preparation for each concert:
While Mr. Carter plans to discuss primarily the program for each concert, the entire lecture series will
form a course in music appreciation. As Mr. Carter is
himself a talented musician, the course affords a
unique opportunity in musical education (The Collegian, Nov. 1, 1940).
The Collegian also reviewed each concert, and while the performances were sometimes panned, sometimes praised, there
was no criticism of Carter’s work in organizing the series and
lecturing on the pieces performed.
Things went less swimmingly with some of Carter’s other
duties. The counterpoint, harmony, and composition class
that had been announced in October was “on the verge of collapse” at the start of the second term because of waning at-
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tendance. The Saturday morning music discussion class was
considered to be “somewhat irregular”; nevertheless, in January the group had just finished an analysis of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, and was starting to study Beethoven’s
Diabelli Variations (The Collegian, Jan. 31, 1941). In February it was announced that, “at the request of a small group
of students,” Carter would be offering a new class in eartraining and sight-singing on Saturday mornings (The Collegian, Feb. 14, 1941).
Taking into account the addition of this new class,
Carter’s teaching schedule for his first year at St. John’s
looked like this:
Elliott Carter’s Teaching Schedule, 1940-41
Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday
4-6
Sunday
Music
discussion
and ear
training
10-12
2-3
Saturday
Counterpoint
Music
Music
Room
Room
Music
Room
Music
Room
Counterpoint
Music
Music
Room
Room
Recorded Glee
Music
Club
Recorded
Music
Glee
Club
Glee
Club
6-7
7-8
Recorded
Music
In addition to his teaching hours, it seems that Carter was
responsible for writing several manuals relating to musical
studies during the fall 1940 term. Not surprisingly, he authored a “Manual of Musical Notation” explaining how to
read and write music, which was no doubt intended for the
use of students in his various music classes. But his name is
also attached to several manuals of musical studies that were
part of the Freshman Laboratory curriculum: “Musical Intervals and Scales,” “The Greek Diatonic Scale,” and “The Just
Scale and Its Uses” (Schiff 1983, 336). Another manual exists
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for a fourth laboratory unit called “The Keys in Music,”
which, though unsigned, must also have been devised by
Carter, because the musical examples are written in his distinctive musical script. (All the documents mentioned in this
paragraph can be found in the St. John’s College Library
Archives.)
All these manuals demonstrate Carter’s understanding of
the integration of music with the rest of the curriculum of the
New Program. The “Manual of Music Notation,” for instance, likens music to language, and musical notation to linguistic writing systems.
Musical notation is the method used to represent
graphically the patterns of sound which are the basis
of music. Like the writing which represents the language of words, it serves man to overcome his lapses
of memory by maintaining a more permanent record
and aids him in the transmission to other men of the
work of his mind as well in art as in thought.
The simplest kind of notation of music sounds indicates in a general way the prolongation or shortening
of the vowels of words and also the rise and fall of
the voice while it is sounding them (Carter 1941, 1.)
The comparison between music and language was a favorite notion of Scott Buchanan’s, and Carter seems to have
agreed with him. It is likely that the two discussed the matter
before Carter wrote this manual. There is a record from this
period of Buchanan’s thoughts on music—a three-page outline of the topic “Music” dated November 8, 1940 that shows
clear parallels to Carter’s formulation. The first page of the
outline contains these notes (Buchanan 1940, 1):
Voice—noise
Words
3 Dimensions of Words
Pitch
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113
Time
Accent-Rhythm
Other Dimensions
Expression
Music Without Words
Measurement and Words
Verbal Analogies
Figures of Speech
Metaphor
Simile
Analogy
Allegory
It appears that the two men were in agreement that music is
one of the writing and reading disciplines in the liberal arts
tradition, and that this view needed to be expressed somehow
in the New Program.
If Carter’s music-notation manual links the study of
music to the study of language, his laboratory manuals even
more clearly link it to the study of mathematics and physics.
In 1939-1940, the year before Carter’s revision of the music
element in the laboratory program, there was only one music
laboratory exercise during the entire year, and the text of the
manual for that exercise was a mere five pages that described
the design of a simple, two-string sonometer (sounding
board), gave instructions for duplicating Pythagoras’ experiments on musical ratios, provided directions for creating various musical scales, and posing questions to be answered in
laboratory reports. Carter’s four laboratory units brought the
total number of manual pages devoted to musical topics up
to sixty-eight, and the experiments he devised demonstrate a
wide-ranging knowledge of early music theory and mathematics. The lessons covered Pythagoras’ experiments, Euclid’s division of the canon, the music of Plato’s Timaeus,
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and Kepler’s notions of the musical relations among the planets; he had the students create eight- and thirteen-string
sonometers to explore the discovery and historical development of musical intervals, modes, scales, melodies, harmonies, and chord progressions from the most ancient
tunings through the experimental temperaments of the
Baroque and early Classical period to modern equal temperament. (The sonometer
in the accompanying
photo is located in the
St. John’s College
Music Library.)
Moreover, these
lessons were coordinated with the readings that students
were doing in matheFig. 3: Carter’s Sonometer
matics tutorial and seminar. According to the teaching schedule, the Freshman music
laboratories would have occurred during the fifteenth through
the eighteenth weeks of the school year, that is, probably in
December and January. These units therefore would have followed previous laboratory studies of physical phenomena
dealing with rectilineal angles, areas, weights and measures,
light, lenses, and circular motion, and mathematical studies
of polygons, simple ratios, compound ratios, and simple
quadratic equations.
Virgil Blackwell, Carter’s personal assistant, calls the two
years at St. John’s the “lost years,” because they have not
been much discussed by Carter’s biographers. He also told
me that Carter had a good laugh when he saw the image of
the sonometer I had sent via email (personal communication,
Nov. 6, 2011); he remembered that “the students made the
�ESSAYS & LECTURES | THOMS
115
sonometer” (personal communication, Nov. 8, 2011). These
remarks indicate that Carter approached the teaching of the
music laboratories in the participatory, exploratory, experimental spirit of the New Program. He and his students would
investigate the most complex concepts of tuning by means
of the sonometers they built with their own hands, by applying bridges, weights, rulers, wires, nails, rubber mallets,
bows, and resin to manipulate string lengths in an effort to
discover the mathematical underpinnings of the auditory phenomena.
While Carter thus set the foundations for the mathematical study of music at St. John’s, his initial designs began to
be modified in the very next school year. Since the program
of study at the college has always been under continuous revision, the music labs too went through changes over the
years, until Carter’s original contributions were all but forgotten. His four laboratory exercises lay neglected in the library archives, together with the drawings of the eight- and
thirteen-stringed sonometers. The seventy-year old sonometer, discovered some years ago in a basement storage room,
was tucked away as a curious relic in a corner of the music
library, its purpose and origin unknown.
1941-1942: Tutor of Greek, Mathematics, and Seminar
In the 1941-42 school year, Carter’s friend Nicholas Nabokov
arrived at St. John’s to take over the duties of Director of
Music. Nabokov expanded the music program considerably.
While the Glee Club continued, he added two new vocal
groups: a chamber choir and something called the “Vespers”
group. He also started a chamber ensemble and a community
orchestra.
Since Carter had relinquished his responsibilities to
Nabokov, he then took on the regular teaching schedule of a
tutor at the College. Initially it was difficult to determine ex-
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116
actly what he taught during his second year. After seventy
years, the original records of teaching schedules and tutor assignments had been lost. But the current Assistant Registrar
at St. John’s, Jacqueline Thoms, recently discovered some
ledgers detailing all the classes attended by each Senior in
the graduating class of 1945 during their four-your career, together with the names of their tutors. By compiling the
classes that these students attended during their Freshman
year, it was possible to identify the classes Carter taught during the 1941-42 school year, and the number of students in
each of his classes (Ledger 1941-42).
This research confirms the facts that were already known
about Carter’s teaching that year. He taught Freshman Greek,
Freshman Mathematics, and his four Freshman Laboratory units
when they came up in December or January. In addition, he coled a Freshman Seminar with fellow tutor Bernard Peebles.
Elliott Carter’s teaching schedule 1941-42
Monday
9-10
Greek
Tutorial
9 students
Tuesday
Greek
Tutorial
9 students
Wednesday
Greek
Tutorial
9 students
Thursday
Greek
Tutorial
9 students
Friday
Greek
Tutorial
9 students
10-11
11-12
Mathematics Mathematics Mathematics
Tutorial
Tutorial
Tutorial
9 students
9 students
9 students
Mathematics Mathematics
Tutorial
Tutorial
9 students
9 students
12-2
Laboratory
Freshman
Exercises 15-18
2-5
5-8
8-10
Seminar with
Peebles
18 students
Seminar with
Peebles
18 students
Although Carter’s responsibilities as Director of Music
were no doubt heavy, his responsibilities as a tutor were even
heavier. In addition to facilitating discussion in his Greek and
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ESSAYS & LECTURES | THOMS
Mathematics tutorials, he also had to set up, prepare, and lead
the laboratory exercises for the students. All these classes also
required him to read and respond to short papers and reports,
and to devise and correct occasional quizzes. In his Seminar
he had to complete the extensive required readings from the
Great Books, moderate the two-hour long seminar discussions twice a week, read longer papers, and conduct oral examinations. In addition, he also would have spent considerable
time advising students individually on their classwork, and
helping them to write, revise, and complete the required essays.
One can get an idea of the sheer amount of reading Carter
had to do for seminar alone from the schedule of readings
from the 1940-41 school year, which would not have changed
much during the following year:
September 26
September 30
October 3
October 7
October 10
October 14
October 17
October 21
October 24
October 28
October 31
November 4
November 7
Homer, Iliad, 1
November 11 Aeschylus, Choephoroe, Eumenides
Homer, Iliad, 2-4
November 14 Plato, Charmides, Lysis
Homer, Iliad, 5-10
November 18 Plato, Symposium
Homer, Iliad, 11-16
November 21 Herodotus, History, 1-2
Homer, Iliad, 17-24
November 25 Herodotus, History, 3-5
Plato, Ion, Laches
November 28 Herodotus, History, 6-7
Homer, Odyssey, 1-8 December 2 Herodotus, History, 8-9
Homer, Odyssey, 9-16 December 5 Plato, Gorgias
Homer, Odyssey, 17-24 December 9 Plato, Republic, 1-2
Plato, Meno
December 12 Plato, Republic 3-5
Plato, 3 works
December 16 Plato, Republic, 6-7
Plato, Phaedo
December 19 Plato, Republic, 8-10
Aeschylus, Agamemnon
Christmas Vacation
January 6
January 9
January 13
January 16
January 20
January 23
January 27
January 30
February 3
February 6
February 10
Plato, Cratylus
Plato, Phaedrus
Sophocles, 2 works
Aristotle, Poetics
Sophocles, 2 works
Euripides, 3 works
Plato, Parmenides
Plato, Theatetus
Plato, Sophist
Hippocrates, 4 works
Hippocrates, 5 works
February 13
February 13
February 20
February 27
March 3
March 6
March 10
March 13
March 17
March 20
Plato, Philebus
Plato, Timaeus
Aristotle, Categories
Aristotle, Prior Analytics
Aristotle, Posterior Analytics
Aristotle, Posterior Analytics
Aristotle, Posterior Analytics
Thucydides, History, 1-2
Thucydides, History, 3-4
Thucydides, History, 5-6
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Spring Vacation
March 31
April 3
April 7
April 10
April 14
April 17
April 21
April 24
April 28
Thucydides, History, 7-8
Aristophanes, 3 works
Aristophanes, 3 works
Aristotle, Politics, 1-4
Aristotle, Politics, 5-8
Plutarch, 5 works
Plutarch, 3 works
Nicomachus, Arithmetic 1
Nicomachus, Arithmetic, 2
May 1
May 5
May 8
May 12
May 15
May 19
May 23
May 26
May 29
Lucretius, On the Nature of Things
Lucretius, On the Nature of Things
Euclid, Elements, Bks. 5, 10, 13
Aristarchus, Sun and Moon
Aristotle, Physics, 1
Aristotle, Physics, 2-3
Aristotle, Physics, 4
Archimedes, Works (unspecified)
Lucian, True History
(Barr Buchanan Series III, Curriculum in Motion, December 1940,
Box 2, Folder 25, St. John’s College Library Archives)
As we have seen, Carter’s remarkable education prepared
him well for his duties as a tutor at St. John’s. Nevertheless,
the new experience of teaching Freshmen, the pace of the curriculum, and the many hours spent meeting individually with
students must have kept him extraordinarily busy.
1940-1942: Elliott Carter, Composer
According to Virgil Blackwell, Carter says that his choral
work In Defense of Corinth was written during his time at St.
John’s College, and that he began working on the sketches
for his Symphony No. 1 immediately after leaving the college,
when he and his wife moved west to Arizona and New Mexico. Both works relate to our consideration of Carter’s career
at St. John’s.
In Defense of Corinth for speaker, men’s chorus and
piano four hands, was commissioned by the Harvard Glee
Club and performed by them on March 12, 1942, with G.
Wallace Woodworth conducting (Schiff, 329). The work has
many similarities to Stravinsky’s Les Noces, Schoenberg’s
Moses and Aaron, and Orff’s Carmina Burana. It is based on
a passage from “The Author’s Prologue” to Book Three of
Gargantua and Pantagruel by François Rabelais (14951553). The text could be construed as a satirical commentary
on militarism and a mockery of war-hysteria. Carter’s work
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was composed close to the bombing of Pearl Harbor on
December 7, 1941. The satirical attitude toward war displayed in the piece did not, however, carry over into Carter’s
personal life: he attempted to enlist in military service as soon
as the United States entered hostilities, as did many of his St.
John’s students over the next few years. Because he had terrible allergies, however, he was rejected for active duty on
health grounds. Eventually, from late 1943 until June 6, 1944
he worked as a musical advisor for the U. S. Office of War
Information (Wierzbicki 2011, 29).
Whatever his personal political feelings, Carter’s In Defense of Corinth is a musical metaphor for his situation as
composer in a world made mad by war. The work is divided
into three distinct sections. In the first section, a speaker and
male chorus use the spoken narration, speech-song, and full
singing of a speaker and male chorus join with a four-hand
piano accompaniment to build up musical textures in imitation of the building up of the Corinthian war effort against
Philip of Macedon:
Everyone did watch and ward, and not one was exempted from carrying the basket. Some polished
corslets, varnished backs and breasts, cleaned the headpieces, mail-coats, brigandines, salads, helmets, morions, jacks, gushets, gorgets, hoguines, brassars and
cuissars, corslets, haubergeons, shields, bucklers, targets, greaves, gauntlets, and spurs. Others made ready
bows, slings, crossbows, pellets, catapults, migrains or
fireballs, birebrands, balists, scorpions, and other such
warlike engine expugnatory and destructive Hellepolides. They sharpened and prepared spears, staves,
pikes, brown bills, hailberds, long hooks, lances, zagayes, quarterstaves, eesleares, partisans, troutstaves,
clubs, battle-axes, maces, darts, dartlets, glaives,
javelins, javelots, and truncheons. They set edges upon
scimitars, cutlasses, badelairs, backwords, tucks,
rapiers, bayonets, arrow-heads, dags, daggers, mandou-
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sians, poniards, whinyards, knives, skeans, shables,
chipping knives, and raillons. . . . Every man exercised
his weapon. (Rabelais 2004, 265.)
Accompanying this relentless concatenation of weaponry, the
musical elements continue to pile up, steadily getting louder,
sharper, more percussive; the voices progress to confused
speaking and shouting, reaching a climax in pure noise.
Fig. 4: In Defense of Corinth holograph score
(Library of Congress, ML96.C288 [Case])
The brief second section is a quieter setting in which the
main character, Diogenes, seeing everyone around him so
hard at work making war while he is not employed by the
city in any way, contemplates what he should do. Surely this
must reflect Carter’s state of mind at the time: unable to join
the war effort because of his allergies, he finds himself surrounded by young men, including his students, preparing for
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and leaving for war. Like Diogenes, he must have been contemplating his situation, and what he should do next.
In the third section Diogenes, in a moment of sudden
awakening, is roused and inspired by the war effort going on
all around him. He leaves town, goes toward a little hill near
Corinth called Cranie,
and there on the strand, a pretty level place, did he roll
his jolly tub, which served him for a house to shelter
him from the injuries of the weather: there, I say, in a
great vehemecy of spirit, did he turn it, veer it, wheel
it, whirl it, frisk it, jumble it, shuffle it, huddle it, tumble it, hurry it, jolt it, justle it, overthrow it, evert it, invert it, subvert it, overturn it, beat it, thwack it, bump
it, batter it, knock it, thrust it, push it, jerk it, shock it,
shake it, toss it, throw it, overthrow it, upside down,
topsy-turvy, arsiturvy, tread it, trample it, stamp it, tap
it, ting it, ring it, tingle it, towl it, sound it, resound it,
stop it, shut it, unbung it, close it, unstopple it. . . . And
then again in a mighty bustle, he . . . slid it down the
hill, and precipitated it from the very height of Cranie;
then from the foot to the top (like another Sisyphus
with his stone) bore it up again, and every way so
banged it and belabored it that it was ten thousand to
one he had not struck the bottom of it out. (Ibid.)
This text is set with hocket imitation and short fugue-like segments, piling the words on top of one another, so that the result is quite similar to the raucous first section. And also like
the first section, it undergoes a steady crescendo until it
reaches a thundering climax.
At this point, the final section begins. The narrator speaks
the last few lines quietly:
When one of his friends had seen, and asked him why
he did so toil his body, perplex his spirit, and torment
his tub, the philosopher’s answer was that, not being
employed in any other charge by the Republic, he
thought it expedient to thunder and storm it so tempes-
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tuously upon his tub, that amongst a people so fervently
busy and earnest at work he alone might not seem a loitering slug and lazy fellow. (Ibid.)
It is not too far-fetched to imagine that Carter may have seen
himself in the role of Diogenes, and that composing this wild,
raucous piece was Carter’s way “tormenting his tub” in order
to avoid being seen as doing nothing while everyone around
him was consumed by the war effort. There is certainly no
doubt that the atmosphere on campus after the declaration of
war resembled the situation in Rabelais’ Corinth. The preparations for the war were both pervasive and intrusive. There
were military exercises on campus, information poured in
about military employment opportunities, new classes appeared on the mechanics of gasoline engines and the electronics of radio devices (The Collegian, various issues from
1942). Periodic lectures about the causes and progress and
status of the war were offered, and a rash of military enlistment by the students so depleted enrollment that by the war’s
end there war great concern that the St. John’s might have to
close its doors. In Defense of Corinth certainly reflected the
conditions that surrounded Carter while he composed the
work, and no doubt reflected his inner state as well.
Carter’s second major work of 1942 is his Symphony No. 1,
which he completed in Santa Fe, New Mexico, about six
months after leaving St. John’s. In the sketches for this work,
which are housed at the Library of Congress along with holograph score and the revised score from 1954 (Carter 1942),
it seems that Carter is again playing the role of Diogenes tormenting his tub; this time, however, the tub is the Symphony.
The 184 pages of sketches show beating, battering, slicing,
compressing, enlarging, twisting, and transforming of apparently innumerable musical ideas from all three movements
in the finished piece. There is an explosive vitality combined
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123
Fig. 5: Sketches for Symphony No. 1
(Library of Congress ML96.C288 [Case])
with a restless energy in the musical handwriting, which
seems almost thrown onto the pages in instants of creative
inspiration.
What is more, this material is not limited to musical notations. The sketches fall into ten categories: 1. Fragments of
one to many lines, some crossed out; 2. single-line drafts
worked out and developed; 3. two-part piano reductions of
sections in progress, for playing at the piano; 4. fair copies
of two-part part piano reductions, including one of the entire
first movement, 5. reductions of three to five parts, for working out complex ideas; 6. larger orchestral reductions with
instrumentation noted; 7. full-score drafts with instrumentation noted; 8. verbal notes, such as “add a few dotted
rhythms” or “avoid too many accents on the first beat”; 9.
letter designations for the various motives and themes, such
as “A,” “B,” “C,” and so forth; 10. verbal notes on the se-
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quential organization of musical elements within a section.
Out of all these disparate elements, Carter fashioned an
elegant, hand-copied full score of 149 pages on December
19, 1942. In this pre-xerox, pre-computer era, it must have
taken a considerable amount of time just to write out such a
meticulous manuscript. And if one adds to that the amount
of time that was clearly devoted to beating the tub while inventing, revising, discarding, reworking, drafting, and redrafting the thousands of sketches, it seems plausible to think
that Carter began working on the symphony while still at St.
John’s. Blackwell, however, indicated that Carter was “adamant”
about the fact that he began working on the piece only after
leaving St. John’s. If that is correct, then the explosive creative
energy displayed in the sketches suggests that his compositional urge had been suppressed by his intellectual and instructional responsibilities at St. John’s, so that once those
responsibilities were lifted, his musical imagination was able
to generate ideas profusely.
The Symphony No. 1 is a Janus-faced work, looking backward toward the influence of slightly older contemporaries
like Roger Sessions, Roy Harris, and Aaron Copland, but also
forward toward traits that would become characteristic of
Carter’s style—cross-accents and irregular groupings of
rhythms, interplay of tonal centers, fluidity in the shaping of
musical motives, a transformational approach to motivic development, evocative orchestral coloring (particularly in the
use of woodwinds), and simultaneous balancing of dissimilar
ideas (Schiff 1983, 117-121). The Symphony already shows
the continuous ebb and flow from sparseness to complexity,
from delicacy to brutality, from quietness to cacophony, from
simple textures to convoluted contrapuntal intricacy that
would appear fully developed in his masterpiece, the Concerto for Orchestra of 1969. One can see in the sketches and
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hear in the music that 1942 was a time of compositional turbulence for Carter. He must have been bursting with competing ideas from old and new sources, all pushing him toward
discovering his unique artistic voice. Whatever attractions
the undeniably novel environment of St. John’s held for him
as a curious, intelligent, inquisitive, and liberally educated
thinker, he must have felt that, in his heart, he was essentially
meant to be a composer. What else could he do but leave, so
that the potential composer within him could become actual?
Epilogue: Elliott Carter, Composer and Liberal Artist
In the years just after leaving to pursue his composing career,
Carter wrote two essays that relate to his tenure as a tutor at
St. John’s. The first, “Music as a Liberal Art” (Carter 1944),
which was written only two years after he left the college,
discusses the decline of music as a liberal art in America. Citing the fundamental importance of musical training in Plato’s
Timaeus and Aristotle’s Politics and Poetics, Carter laments
the fact that music has become a specialized and technical
discipline, divorced from the connection it once had to the
other liberal arts. At St. John’s, however, he says, “music has
actually been taken out of the music building. It is no longer
the special study of the specialist, of the budding professional. Instead it is examined in the classroom, seminars, and
laboratories, in an effort to give it a working relationship with
all other knowledge” (Carter 1944, 105). After describing in
greater detail the relations between music, mathematics, philosophy, and physics in the St. John’s curriculum, Carter
maintains that
[w]hen the student sees the interconnection of all these
things, his understanding grows in richness. And since
today no widely acepted esthetic doctrine unifies out
though on the various aspects of music, such a plan at
least conjures up the past to assist us; it helps to raise
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the various philosophical questions involved. In one
way or another these questions must be considered, for
it is not enough to devote all our efforts to acquiring
the technical skill essential to instrumentalists, composers, and even listeners. There must be good thinking
and good talking about music to preserve its noble rank
as a fine art for all of us, and the college is one of the
logical places for this more considered attitude to be
cultivated. (Carter 1944, 106).
As we have seen, Carter’s view of music education was
deeply attuned to the experimental approach being taken at
St. John’s. This alignment must have made his teaching in
the New Program a meaningful and rewarding experience for
him, and this article is evidence of how highly he regarded
the method of musical studies at St. John’s.
The second article, “The Function of the Composer in
Teaching the General College Student” (Carter 1952), reveals
a second aspect of Carter’s understanding of music as a liberal art. While it is certainly true that reconnecting music to
the other liberal arts provides students with a more profound
understanding of music than specialized musical instruction,
it is also true that connecting the other liberal arts to music
provides students with a more profound understanding of
their own inner life than specialized instruction in any discipline. In this article, Carter discusses the difference between
the “outer-directed” man, whose primary focus is on adapting
his inner life to the demands of society, and the “inner-directed” man, who primary focus in on adapting the demands
of society to his individual conscience and imagination. Both
the teaching scholar and the teaching artist, according to
Carter, are trying to “preserve that liveliness of the individual
mind so important to our civilization” (Carter 1952, 151). But
they go about it in different ways.
On the one hand, the teaching scholar of the general
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music student aims for the “all-embracing, the dispassionate
view of his subject” and “tries to find a harmonious and rationally explicable pattern in the past and present.” By contrast, the teaching artist is “only occupied with those aspects
of music most important to him as an individual”; his goal as
an artist is to create unique artworks that can move his audience and possibly shift societal demands. In short, he teacher
treats music objectively, the artist, subjectively. This basic
difference in attitude toward the subject gives rise to a difference in emphasis that marks the gulf between teaching
scholar and teaching artist: the scholar highlights the “pastness of the past,” and communicates to students the impassive
historicity of the subject matter, whereas the artist highlights
the “presentness of the past,” and communicates to students
the pliability of the past as material for the reshaping powers
of the creative individual. Carter admonishes higher education for its preference for teaching scholars, who give students “scraps of information” about the past; he praises the
teaching artist for “constantly trying to find a more powerful
method of making his students more culturally alive,” by reshaping the past into a living and vital present (Carter, 1952,
153-154). At present, Carter emphasizes,
we have got to help our students to realize that to enjoy
the arts creatively and imaginatively will be far more
rewarding to them as individuals in terms of stimulating vividness of thought and feeling, quickness of understanding, and ingeniousness in dealing with new
problems—far more rewarding than the mere passive
enjoyment which most mass-produced entertainment
invites (Carter 1952, 155).
The contemporary serious composer must be able to engage
students in the “presentness of the past,” must be able to absorb the musical past, sublimate its essence, and recast it into
new shapes that speaks movingly to the present while at the
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same time embodying what was most enduring in the music
of the past.
At this point in the article, Carter once again describes
the music program at St. John’s. Because the college wanted
to move away from the teaching scholar’s approach to music
toward a teaching artist’s point of view, “they called in a composer on the hunch that he would grasp the idea more than
other members of the musical profession, and a plan was
worked out from which it was hoped that students of widely
different musicality could make contact with art” (Carter
1952, 156). It was hoped that students might attain “esthetic
awareness” by studying music under the guidance of a composer, who could help the students see beyond the “pastness
of the past” to the “presentness of the past” by showing them
music history and the masterworks of the great composers
through the contemporary lens of his actively creative perspective.
But the teaching artist is not limited to exhibiting his
works to his students. On the one hand, by means of his compositions, the teaching artist “can give life to and express all
those things which, at best, he can but poorly indicate with
words.” On the other hand, “sometimes verbal teaching, that
is, the articulation of the principles and ideas he strives to
embody in his works, is a valuable part of his development
as a composer; and in this case he can be a useful member of
the academic world” (Carter 1952, 158). In this last circumstance, the artist can bring his students along into the internal
aspect of his creative process, and possibly stimulate them to
develop their own creative powers.
In this essay, as in much of his music, Carter seems to be
trying to hold together two complex and somewhat contradictory themes. It is simultaneously true not only that the
composer is the best teacher when he is writing music and
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indirectly teaching others, but also that his students, and the
composer himself as well, also benefit from his talking about
music and directly teaching others. The two truths conflict.
The working composer must be somewhat solitary; he must
spend time away from others pursuing his personal creative
projects. The teaching composer must engage in communal
life; he must bring “presentness to the past” by speaking with
others about listening to, performing, and creating music. For
the teaching artist, this counterpoint of competing activities
can enrich and deepen his creative life. But no one can do
both at the same time.
For Carter, his two years at St. John’s as a teaching artist
seem to have stimulated his already intense creative drive—
so much so, that he found it necessary to stop teaching in
order to focus on his art. Over the years, he has returned to
the role of teaching artist often, giving innumerable workshops, coaching prospective composers in academic and nonacademic settings, lecturing and writing essays about music
education for academic audiences. One could argue that it
was Carter’s decision to join the faculty at St. John’s that provided the opportunity for him to become an extraordinary
teaching artist, and that it was his decision to leave St. John’s
that provided the opportunity for him to create the many enduring artworks through which he could reach an ever widening circle of students with his teaching. Without both coming
and going from St. John’s, Elliott Carter could not have become Elliott Carter.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Blackwell, Virgil. 2011. Personal email messages to and telephone conversations with the author in November.
Buchanan, Scott. 1940. “Music,” three-part handwritten note dated November 8, at Harvard University Libraries, MS Am 1992, No. 1547.
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Carter, Elliott. 1941. “Manual of Music Notation.” St. John’s College Library Archives.
———. 1942. Sketches for Symphony No. 1, Library of Congress Performing Arts Manuscripts, ML96.C288
———. 1950. The Defense of Corinth. Library of Congress Performing
Arts Manuscripts, ML96.C288
———. 1944. “Music as a Liberal Art,” Modern Music 22:1, 12-16.
Reprinted in Else Stone and Kurt Stone, The Writings of Elliott Carter
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1977), 105-109.
———. 1952. “The Function of the Composer in Teaching the General
College Student,” Bulletin of the Society for Music in the Liberal Arts
College 3:1, Supplement 3. Reprinted in Else Stone and Kurt Stone, The
Writings of Elliott Carter (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1977),
150-58.
———. 1962. Personal letter to Scott Buchanan. St. John’s College Library Archive, Barr Personal Papers, Series 2, Box 10, folder 20.
The Collegian. (St. John’s College newspaper.) Various issues, 19401941, 1941-1942. Maryland State Archives, St. John’s College Special
Collection, MSA 5698.
Edwards, Allen. 1971. Flawed Words and Stubborn Sounds: A Conversation with Elliott Carter. New York: W. W. Norton and Company.
Ledger 1941-42. Large format class ledger. St. John’s College Registrar’s
Office Archives.
Murphy, Emily A. 1996. “A Complete and Generous Education”: 300
Years of Liberal Arts, St. John’s College, Annapolis. Annapolis, Maryland:
St. John’s College Press.
Nabokov, Nicholas. 1940. Letter to Stringfellow Barr, June 22, 1940. St.
John’s College Registrar’s Office Archive.
Nelson, Charles. 1997. Stringfellow Barr: A Centennial Appreciation of
His Life and Work, 1897-1982. Annapolis, Maryland: St. John’s College
Press.
Rabelais, Francois. 2004. Five Books Of The Lives, Heroic Deeds And
Sayings Of Gargantua And His Son Pantagruel, translated by Sir Thomas
Urquhart and Peter Motteux. Whitefish, Montana: Kessinger Publishing.
Rule, William Scott. 2009. Seventy Years of Changing Great Books at St.
John’s College. Educational Policy Studies Dissertations. Paper 37.
http://digitalarchive.gsu.edu/eps_diss/37
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Schiff, David. 1983. The Music of Elliott Carter. New York: DaCapo
Press.
St. John’s College Catalogue 1940-41. St. John’s College Registrar’s Office Archives.
St. John’s College Yearbook, 1940-1941, 1941-1942. St. John’s College
Library Archives.
Stone, Else and Kurt. 1977. The Writings of Elliott Carter: An American
Composer Looks at Modern Music. Bloomington: Indiana University
Press.
Wierzbicki, James Eugene. 2011. Elliott Carter. Urbana: University of
Illinois Press.
OTHER RESOURCES LOCATED AT ST. JOHN’S COLLEGE
In the St. John’s College Library Archives
Photo of Elliott Carter at desk
Musical programs from 1940-41
Carter’s Five Laboratory Manuals :
“Musical Intervals and Scales” (Laboratory Exercise 15, 1940)
“The Greek Diatonic Scale” (Laboratory Exercise 16, 1940)
“The Just Scale and Its Uses” (Laboratory Exercise 17, 1940)
“The Keys in Music” (Laboratory Exercise 18, 1940)
“Manual of Musical Notation” (1 March, 1941)
In the St. John’s College Music Library
Carter’s sonometer
Carter’s four-part setting of “St. John’s Forever”
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�REFLECTIONS
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Talking, Reading, Writing, Listening
Eva Brann
I imagine that on Parents’ Weekend there might be some parents attending this once weekly occasion when the college assembles to hear
a lecture. By its very name, a lecture is read—but read out loud, delivered in the writer’s voice. Thus, the sequence goes: I thought, I
wrote, I read, I speak. Although this is the principal way of teaching
at institutions of higher education, it is a curious one. Here at St.
John’s, we show our respect for the possible profit we might derive
from it by requiring our students to come to a lecture every Friday
night—just when, elsewhere, it is prelude-time to party night. And we
express our suspicion of lecture-hearing by asking students to listen
to a lecture—but only once a week. So this one weekly hour of just
sitting and listening is mandatory, and about as enforceable as a
mandatory evacuation before a storm. (This simile appears here because this lecture was written in the dark during Hurricane Irene.)
The attendance that we do take utterly seriously is presence in
class—seminar above all. In seminar, no speeches are delivered. Instead we talk, in turn, to one another. So rather than call my lecture
“Speaking, Writing, Reading, Listening,” I have substituted “Talking”
for “Speaking.” Talk seems to denote a more conversational, almost
social mode of speech, less formal, more spontaneous, more participatory. And yet our seminar is a mandatory, scheduled class, with prescribed texts. Is that a setting for talk?
So I would like to think in public about our modes of being together, about the how and what of this college as a community of
learning. Since we, the tutors, collude with our students in making
them a little impatient with being talked at, I’ll sneak around that resistance, which I share. I’ll snaffle their good will (old books on rhetoric called this formal beginning of a speech the captatio benevolentiae,
This lecture was delivered at St. John’s College in Annapolis on the Friday
of Parents’ Weekend, November 4, 2011. Eva Brann is a tutor and former
Dean of the College.
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“the capture of benevolence”) by speaking about talking itself and
what it entails.
Your children, our students, will probably have told you now and
then that parents don’t know anything. Freshmen, on the other hand,
know everything. They are fresh, unimpaired in spirit—and also, perhaps, somewhat fresh in a now obsolete meaning of the term: cheeky.
Sophomores know a little less; their class name means “wise fools,”
as their knowledge of Greek will tell them; it is a combination of
Greek sophon, “wise” and moron, “foolish.” Juniors and the college
elders, the seniors, have reapproached their parents and become almost perfect in ignorance.
I am, in fact, being serious. The members of this community of
learning are not ashamed to own up to their own ignorance; indeed
we think better of this thoughtful confession than of a profession of
expertise. It’s why the teachers here call themselves “tutors,”
guardians of learning, rather than “professors,” authorities of knowledge, and it is why our students are to some degree our fellow-learners. Thus we are apt to think of even the most positive, content-replete
learning as a specification of our ignorance. It’s a fancy way of saying
that all our learning starts and ends in questions— a point to which I
will return as we go along. So this acknowledged ignorance is not
false humility, but a confident, even competent, way to conduct a college. Yet, of course, sub specie aeternitatis, “under the aspect of eternity,” as the philosophers say, we are, as limited beings, all
equal—equally diminutive before the infinitely distant ultimacies we
long for. This is cause enough for some personal modesty and even
occasional dejection.
I’ve been saying “we,” meaning the college of students and tutors.
Now I’ll mean mainly the tutors when I say that, although there’s
probably nothing we all agree must be true, there is something we all
agree must be done. Some of us, perhaps even most, think that the
Appearances before our senses bespeak a Being behind them; some
of us suppose there is a Ground in which all nature is rooted; and some
of us believe there is a realm of Divinity above us. Others see no reason to agree to any of these. But we all agree that, in regard to our ignorance about matters of most persistent importance to human beings,
we are close to our students, and that we are therefore guardians of
learning rather than transmitters of doctrine.
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We have a model for this unteacherly mode of teaching, presented
to us in the writings of Plato: Socrates. Not all of us, particularly freshmen, take to him. He describes himself now as a gadfly, stinging a
sluggish horse into wakefulness, now as a demon mediating between
earth and heaven (Apology 30e, Symposium 202d, ff.). So he is both
irritating and elusive. One moment he argues like a sophist, that is to
say, a trickster of the intellect; another moment he intimates his most
genuine relation to truth. He is both bully and benefactor. So when he
declares, often and insistently, that he is ignorant, we must suspect
irony. “Irony,” eironeia, is the Greek word for dissembling, pretending
to be what one is not. What then is this Socratic ignorance, which in
some of us engenders trust precisely by causing dis-ease?
We’ve all come across genuine inarticulate cluelessness, truly
dumb ignorance—though I think it is fairly rare in human beings. Socratic ignorance, on the other hand, is anything but dumb; it talks, and
that makes all the difference. For example, in the first philosophical
work our students read together, Plato’s dialogue Meno, Socrates
blames himself for knowing “nothing at all” about human excellence
(71b). That is why he can genuinely ask: What is it? But look what
this question involves. First of all it is an admission, actually an assertion, of self-knowledge. People who ask, know what they lack.
They know what they don’t know. Acknowledged ignorance is important knowledge about ourselves.
And second, it is a very precise negative knowledge of what we
are asking after. The word “comprehend” comes to mind; it means
“to get, to enclose, in one’s grasp.” Human thinking is wonderfully
prehensile. It can get at, wrap itself around, something it does not yet
really “get” in the sense of “understand.” In this dialogue, Meno is
Socrates’ “interlocutor,” which is learned Latin for “conversational
partner.” I use the term here because Meno—who, as we know from
other sources, was as bad a man as you’ll never want to meet—can’t
really be a partner, and certainly not a participant, in the sort of searching conversation Socrates cares about. In fact he tries to forestall such
talk by producing a clever argument. He has the clever ignorance that
defines human badness for Socrates. This obstructionist argument
turns that very wonder of question-asking, which I’ve described as
our ability to wrap our thought around what we haven’t yet got, into
an obstacle: If you know something why would you ask about it? If
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you’re ignorant of it, how would you recognize it if you did get it?
Socrates has a reply that has resonated down through the ages; it
bears on the essential character of talking, and I’ll come to it soon.
Meanwhile, there’s a third aspect to questions, shown in their very
asking. We ask ourselves in inner speech, but in the world, and in that
little world, the seminar, we ask each other. This asking presupposes
a sort of trust: the trust that we will be comprehended and met halfway
by our fellow learners. For a question is a sort of appeal: “Share my
perplexity; help me.”
A fourth trait of asking is one that Socrates, who claims to know
so little, claims to know for sure: To inquire, to seek by questions, to
search for what one does not know—that makes us better, braver, less
lazy than giving in to Meno’s clever sophism (86b-c).
And finally a fifth feature, which sounds odd but is central. I
know of only one subject in which Socrates claims outright to be an
expert: He says of himself that he “knows nothing else than matters
of love” (Symposium 177d). There are in the dialogues several examples of a wonderfully illuminating word-play: love, eros, and questioning, erotesis, sound very much alike (Symposium 199d, Phaedrus
234c); they are almost homonyms. The love in which Socrates is an
expert is the longing for knowledge, the “love of wisdom” which is
the English translation of the Greek word philosophia. But this longing, this pressure of desire is exactly what you might call the question-feeling. It transfigures apparently insoluble problems into
beckoning mysteries, where by a mystery I mean an ultimate problem
that attracts energizing reverence rather than dispirited resignation.
Our students’ much misused word “awesome” applies here, for once.
Thus genuine asking is the expression of a desire. For Socrates—
and for all of us—such question-desire is always close to real human
love. In fact Socratic love has a great penumbra of intermingling
loves, among them the affectionate delight that elders feel for the
young, the fond respect that colleagues—at their best—feel for one
another, and, best of all, that lifelong care which develops between
students who have spent many a night talking together. It’s a tutor’s
delight to hear the selfless admiration in the voice of a student who
tells of having found such a partner—admiration together with a very
proper and surely life-long pride in having accomplished such a
friendship. Here is half a line from Schiller’s “Ode to Joy,” which, in
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Beethoven’s setting, our Freshman Chorus often sings:
Wem der grosse Wurf gelungen
Eines Freundes Freund zu sein. . .
One who’s managed the great fortune
To become a true friend’s friend . . .
such a one is entitled to join in this ode to joy.
Schiller has it just right: Friendship is an effortful accomplishment
resting on great good luck. This school is its propitious setting: In the
talk that is a questioning, friends are found.
Aristotle, Plato’s true—that is to say resistant—pupil says
brusquely: “[Socrates] asked, but didn’t answer, for he claimed not to
know” (On Sophistic Refutations, 183b7).
Now ironic Socrates is surely unsettling, but no-nonsense Aristotle is often more so. Does he mean it? If I take him at face value,
then he is certainly wrong. Socrates does answer, probably always,
though often not in explicit words. His questioning doesn’t lead to the
levity of easy skepticism.
He does often begin by “questioning.” Light-minded talk about
higher education tends to fall into two camps. One camp thinks that
this education happens when authorities pour expertise into mostly
recalcitrant pupils. The other camp thinks this education occurs when
academics incite all too willing students to “question,” that is to test,
with the implicit intention of refuting, received wisdoms. Socrates
often does begin by showing that people’s opinions are wrong-headed
or incoherent, and, above all, not their own thought but some received
doctrine confidently proclaimed to the world but negligently adopted
within the soul. That is questioning in the somewhat hostile sense; it
is “interrogation.” But it is only done in order to clear the decks for a
second, more gracious question-asking, by which what ordinary people are really after is confirmed. Socrates is a horsefly to the lazy, to
wake them up, but a winged love-god to those ready to be impassioned.
I said Socrates gives answers. About present human life he proposes himself as a model that says to us, “Live to learn, and learn to
leave life, to be dead” (Phaedo 61c ff.). What he means, I think, is
this: Devote some of your time every day to reaching for what is behind, beneath, above the world we live in. Here many thoughtful peo-
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ple part company with him—and our students often do, understandably. About ultimate things he offers only working conjectures and
hypotheses, which he leaves to his companions to take up. And indeed
that is what happened; the thinking generations took him up. Alfred
North Whitehead—it figures here that an emigrant to America is
speaking to you—says that “the European philosophical tradition . . .
consists of a series of footnotes to Plato” (Process and Reality, Ch.1,
Sec.1)—and that means largely Socrates as Plato pictured him speaking. I am about to leap into that two and a half millennia-long footnote
for help in thinking more precisely about our kind of talking.
Each seminar starts with a question, asked by a tutor. Framing
seminar questions is the one expertise a tutor might be said to develop.
Such a question might well have much thought behind it, but it shouldn’t be an invitation to guess the tutor’s pet theory. It could be a wideopen admission of puzzlement, but it shouldn’t be mushily vague. It
might take off from an inconspicuous but significant detail of the text
but it shouldn’t run the conversation up the creek of a side issue.
Why start with a question rather than, say, a tutorial interpretation? A question is, of course, the very embodiment of a teaching
mode devoted to eliciting thought rather than delivering thought-products. The reason lies in the five features of question asking I’ve mentioned, the most pertinent of these being that questions solicit
responses by evincing trust in the willingness and ability to respond
in those addressed in the question mode.
What then is responsive talk? Here I’ll go into the footnote mode.
In the Middle Ages, certain thinkers developed the notion of “intentionality.” In fact it had come to Europe through the Arabic philosopher Avicenna (c. 1000 C.E.). Most good ideas have their comeback
time, and intentionality has been brought back in modern times. It’s
probably not wrong to say that its beginning is in Socrates’ passion
for this question: What is it that is knowable in our ever-changing, illusion-rife world, and how is it that words can convey what things
are?
Intention is both a characteristic of thinking and a capability of
speaking (where it is called “imposition”)—one that we can ascribe
to nothing else in the world or out of it. Its meaning is the action of
“stretching towards,” of reaching for something. Its descriptive name
is “aboutness,” the action and the result of something laying itself
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about, of “comprehending” something. Perhaps words show more of
the stretching, reaching-toward motion, while thoughts are more like
embracing, enclosing structures.
Take an example of what intentional aboutness isn’t: a wrapped
gift. The gift paper is distinguishable from the box of nougats—and
so you can unwrap the candy—but it’s also of the same kind, material
stuff. What you can’t do is put the gift-wrap about your affectionate
wishes, as you can’t wrap your sentiments around the nougat—except
poetically. Now think a thought. Let’s not be particular about its exact
nature—whatever we mean when we say that we have something in
mind—an object, a relation, an idea, an interpretation—any thoughtthing. Then ask yourself, Can I unwrap my thinking from the thought?
When I say that I am thinking a thought, is my thinking separable
from the thought? Or it is rather that thinking (that is, a form of the
verb for which thought is the noun), is the same as the thought, so that
when I think of something, intend it, attend to it, my mind becomes
that thing? Do thinking and thought become one? If that’s what happens, then which element wins out—the mine-ness of my thinking or
the object-ness of the content? Do I taint it with my prejudices, do I
rectify it to my standards, or do I let it be what it is? When I think, it
is often about a material object in a worldly environment. What aspect
of things comes to or into my mind—a mental, quasi-visual image,
some ideal essence, or just their use? In what way, as I attend to the
world of objects, do they tend toward me? When my talk is for real—
that is, when it is about something—how do I begin? How do I get
my thoughts to collect themselves in words? Or does my acquired language in fact produce the mental state that feels like thinking, and by
its very grammar give me the sense that there are mental objects? How
are my words about objects? Do these offer labels that present themselves for me to read off insofar as I know the vocabulary of the world,
or do my words tend out from me to the objects, throwing from my
mind an ideal sort of lasso, a thinking-noose, that will cast itself about
them and snaffle them in a mental shape suitable for my mind?
This long litany touches the Socratic mysteries, which, I have
said, he started on their way along with some conjectured elucidations.
Not that, after all, it matters much who began. These questions, at
least, are now ours.
Questions about thinking and speaking must surely be central to
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the education of human beings, who, as even animal ethologists are
willing to admit, are the only animal that can ask questions rather than
solicit reactions. But my main point here was to establish one sure
thing about talking—that it has the capacity of aboutness, which turns
out to make a piece of life like the seminar possible to begin with.
Now in the world at large there is much talk that has the aspect
of serious, even sophisticated, meaning but that, like many a hard-tocrack nut, has no kernel. So too, in the seminar, there is twaddle—
quite a lot of it.
Twaddle has in fact a sort of squatter’s right in the seminar. Concern for spontaneity and respect for potential make us leery of suppressing it too soon. I can think of three kinds of seminar twaddle.
Some among us are so eager to capture attention that they utter words
before they have collected a thought. Others are so abashed by the insufficiency of their speaking that they go on for quite a while after
they have finished; in the hope of amending their fault they make it
worse. This happens to us all and is easily fixed. We just have to become aware of it, as we do of any minor habit.
The third kind of twaddle goes much deeper. All worthwhile activities have their specific nullifications, and twaddle is the negation
of intentional talk. It is the consequence of a curious negative ability
that human beings have: the ability to fashion well-formed sentences
that express none of their own thinking, but that sound comfortably
explanatory. Here is an inevitable example from the first freshman
seminar: Why is Achilles so unassuagably angry when Agamemnon
takes his woman away? Student answer: Because he feels dishonored,
and “in the culture of that time honor was important.” Tutor’s overt
follow-up question: What do you know more about, the culture of the
time of Homer’s epics (this time happen to be a fictional composite
of times) or about Achilles? Tutor’s suppressed internal question: How
did this most murky of notions—culture—come to seem like a handy
explanatory principle to generations of students? Equally silent answer: Because Socrates’ notion of opinion is so right. We all share in
the remarkable inclination to find satisfaction in surrendering our
minds to enticing terms of thought without reaching for the intended
thought itself. “Culture” is the most perfect cover-all, the universal
wet-blanket for glimmers of penetrating thought.
A somewhat impatient tutorial response to twaddle is thus, What
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are you talking about? And generally, what are we talking about in
seminar?
Books. We prepare for seminar by reading assignments, and then
we bring our readings to class. For my part, I don’t care how the readings are delivered. If students find graven stone tablets their medium
of choice, let them bring those, or if e-books, let them bring those,
provided they don’t get diverted and distracted by appended applications, and provided they can find their place. After all, one reason we
center seminar on books is so that we may all be on the same page.
Let me interrupt myself here for an observation. Our faculty recently had a long discussion about the question: Should e-books be
permitted in seminar? We sensibly decided to leave it up to the tutors.
In last year’s freshman seminar I was expecting an invasion of electronic tablets. Not a one of them appeared. Word was that upperclass
members were discouraging them as not in our spirit. The world’s
opinion is that the young thrive on novelty; the truth as I’ve experienced it is that, having found a place to cherish, they become its radical conservatives. I have much sympathy. The material book—be it
of papyrus, parchment, paper—has, besides its sensory pleasures, one
great advantage: it’s all there at once in real space. This is a handy
representation of one important characteristic of a text: it’s an all-present whole; it exists simultaneously with itself.
And now that I’ve used the word “text” let me explain this slightly
pretentious term. I use it, first, because it is broader than “book,”
which is usually composed of words. But we read, in a broad sense,
also compositions of notes (musical scores) and books containing
more diagrams and symbols than words (mathematical texts).
Moreover, “text” reminds us of two etymologically related words:
“textile,” a woven fabric, and Greek techne, “skill, craft.” Books are
artfully crafted, carefully coherent artifacts.
Well, not all books. The tutors of this college are pretty much at
one in thinking themselves not so much entitled as obligated to discriminate between great books and lesser books. St. John’s College
is, unpopular though that term may be with terminally egalitarian
souls, a great books school. Let me say right away that the not-sogreat but good books, as well as the mediocre ones, and even the outright shoddy stuff—all these have their saving graces. The best policy
is to read some of everything. (When I was a little girl I developed
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for a while a passion for reading product labels, especially the fractured instructions written by people for whom English was a second
language.)
But together we read great books, because, to use a gross
metaphor, these are the ones you can sink your teeth into, the ones
that stick to your ribs. There are statable criteria for them, of which
I’ll mention the ones most pertinent to the life of the seminar: Great
books are usually self-sufficient, so that no background information
or annotation is absolutely necessary to getting absorbed in the text;
the best context for them is another great book—perhaps, but not necessarily, its chronological predecessor.
Second, a great book, approachable as it is on one level the first
time around, is inexhaustibly new, so that on opening it a fifth time
you ask yourself, “Could I have read this before? Where was I, to miss
so much?”
Third, such books are endlessly artful—sometimes beautiful from
shapely depth and something ugly with significant contrivance.
And fourth, great truth-seeking texts of reflection are full of imagination and great imaginative works of fiction are full of reflection.
The former present universals corroborated by particular instances,
the latter represent particulars coruscating with universal application.
Thus philosophy and fiction go hand in hand. Take, for example that
famous first sentence of Anna Karenina: “All happy families are alike;
each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” What is it but an
applied version of Aristotle’s dictum in the Nicomachean Ethics:
“There are many ways of going wrong but only one way which is
right” (1106b28)?
So such texts are what seminar talk appears to be about. To prepare for seminar we all read the same book—students for the first, tutors for the umptieth time. Reading is, for us, a silent, solitary activity.
I say “for us”; Augustine in his Confessions (c.400 C.E.) tells with
amazement how his beloved bishop, Ambrose, read. As his eyes
moved down the page, “his heart sought out the meaning but his
tongue remained silent” (VI, 3). It was an inestimably great revolution,
this inward relocation of the written word, which, among other things,
made possible summary reading both divorced from and unconcerned
about precise wording. We are the heirs of this revolution.
This preparatory reading we do is a curious business, then. New
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readers actually mouth the words; more mature ones read silently but
subvocalize the text laryngeally; others let the writing glide directly
into the mind. They get the thought, but see rather than hear the words.
They register whole sentences through the eyes and turn language, the
business of the tongue, into sight-seeing, the work of the eyes. However they do it, they now have in their minds and hearts the words and
thoughts of someone else.
Our texts, then, are writings, for the most part. And surprise, surprise! Books are written before they are read. How does writing come
about? Here is how I do it myself and imagine it for others: Writing
comes after talking, in two ways. First, in my own personal history I
learned to speak way back, effortlessly, but to write later, with difficulty. I also know that in the larger history of human beings, writing,
especially the kind that records the sound of speech, alphabetical writing, did not, in fact, come to Greece until the late eighth century
B.C.E. (where in my early years as an archaeologist I had a chance to
publish some of the earliest graffiti—that is, scratched letter-words).
Second, before and as I write, I talk to myself, because speech is the
concretion of thought; it collects its misty pressure into concise sentences and utters them in sensory shape. It’s often said that the primary
purpose of speech is “communication.” The evidence seems to me
otherwise. I imagine that most of us say to ourselves in the course of
our day hundreds of words for every word we say to others. Speech
certainly begins that way. Listen to what students of child development call “jargoning,” that sweetest, most melodious gibberish of late
infancy, which issues from a lonely crib. Whether it is the antecedent
of adult twaddle or carries mental meaning no one knows.
This internal speech is what we write down. In “paper conferences” with students tutors can’t do better than to persuade them that
it is this talk with themselves that they ought to record, without dulling
rectification in the interest of a risklessly pompous formality. An author—the word means an originating “augmentor”—is a recorder of
an inner speech that improves upon the banal ordinariness of a relaxed
inner life by saying something original, either in the sense of “neversaid-before” or in the sense of going to the origin of things—or both.
This is practically a definition of what the authors of our great books
accomplish. They are the masters of pouring thought into the mold of
inner speech and of turning that mold out onto the expectant paper.
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I must add here that, although you’d scarcely believe it, both
claims—that books have authors and that speaking comes before writing—have been disputed in the later part of the last century. The former claim, that there is no originating authorship, is disputed because
whatever is said has been pre-shaped by predecessors and will be reshaped by readers. The latter claim, that writing precedes speaking,
is disputed on the ground (too sophisticated for presentation here) that
writing has a character more original than speech and in fact, subsumes it.1
Reading presupposes writing, and writing poses at least two dangers. The one I’ve just touched on is that in the interest of liberating
our students from being possessed by the opinion of others we in fact
subject them to four years of others’ very powerful opinions. Another
way to put this is that even—or especially—the devoted study of
books is not direct thinking, immediate aboutness. It runs the danger
of producing a commentator’s soul. I mean that to study books is not
quite the same as to think about things; it is to be attending to a secondary sort of aboutness. By thinking in a primary way I mean appropriating the cry of early modern scientists: “To the things
themselves!”—without mediating texts.
The other danger, really the complement of the first, is set down
in Plato’s dialogue Phaedrus. Socrates tells approvingly of an Egyptian king who refused the gift of writing because, he said, those who
put trust in writing will learn to forget how to go into themselves to
recollect the truths within. Writing will then turn out to be no medicine
for memory, but merely a reminder (272c ff.). Writing is external
memory; we call on it to remind us now and then of baggage we do
not care to keep always with us. Whatever is readily accessible as a
filed record becomes storable stuff, a bit of fractured fact, related to
living thought as a cellophane-wrapped fish filet is to a frisky live
fish. It becomes information, which is as apt to wreck as to rectify
judgment. I think this is an up-to-date version of Socrates’ misgivings
about writing. However—you might call this Platonic irony—this
condemnation of writing is delivered to us in the most ravishing piece
of philosophical writing I know of, the work that drew me into phi1
Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology (Paris: Les Éditions de Minuit, 1967),
Chapter 2. Derrida, the author of both claims, at one point instituted a suit
for plagiarism. Imagine!
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losophy as a graduate student. Evidently Plato thought of a way to
overcome the rigidification of writing—by incorporating conversation
into the text. We extend this trick by incorporating books into a living
dialogue, the seminar.
How do we then mitigate these drawbacks? Well, we get together,
come out of studious privacy, to talk with each other. In universities,
“seminar” means an advanced study group under the leadership of a
professor. Papers are written, read, and discussed. It is a place of
earnest, highly disciplined speech. Our seminars are serious, but perhaps not earnest, or at least not dead earnest, but live earnest—lively.
Walk through our corridors on seminar nights, and if you don’t hear
hilarity issuing from behind this or that door, you may conclude that
we’ve turned into the sitting dead, like the ancestral mummies the
Incas brought out to sit at their feasts. For laughter is the explosive
expulsion of breath that follows from having one’s equanimity pleasantly pinpricked by an acute incongruity—the result, in other words,
of a startling insight.
Laughter is the grace note of our seriousness. To be sure, the
books lie before us, well used, even marked up (which is why we
should buy, not borrow, seminar books), and they are the first focus
of our attention. But that is also a misapprehension. Books, texts, are
occasions, not ends. We don’t live in but through books. That formulation would be mere verbiage, were there not a way of study that
stays strictly with the text and in it. For instance, in graduate study,
say, in English or philosophy, all the student’s effort is really invested
in the text. The goal is to know the text accurately, to be acquainted
with scholarly opinions about it, to work out its arguments in detail,
all the while setting aside questions of truth-telling and personal illumination.
We encourage a different kind of reading—more direct, and if
you like, somewhat naïve. Because the author wrote about or expressed something, we feel entitled to pass through the text to that
something. We find it plausible sometimes to ask “What did the author
have in mind?” and sometimes “Does this representation agree with
our experience of life?” and sometimes “Can I corroborate this claim
in my own thinking?” Not that we ignore the literal words in their artfulness—not at all—but we regard them as a sort of come-on to catch
and hold us to the text until it gives up its meaning.
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Let me give an example from the freshman seminar that was
going on while I was writing this lecture —a wonderfully lively seminar. We asked: “Do the Homeric gods, in all their irresponsible levity,
look the same to Homer as to his heroes, does he have access to a view
of Olympus, transmitted to him by the Muses, that none of his humans
have?” We asked: “Is it in accord with our experience that gentle,
thoughtful Patroclus is transformed into a wildly impetuous warrior
just by wearing Achilles’ armor?” We asked: “Can we follow Socrates
in his claim that truth already lies in us and can be retrieved, ‘recollected,’ as he says, by the right questions?”
So to sum up our sort of reading: We pay careful attention to details for the sake of the text’s—the author’s—intentions, and we pay
attention to these for the sake of world and life. That effort requires
skills, namely, the arts of reading in the broad sense, the liberal arts.
We have the corresponding tutorials, where we practice dealing with
thought-laden words in the language class and with thought-structured
symbols in the mathematics class. We add to these the latest of the
liberal arts to appear on the scene, the art of making nature speak in
numbers; for that we have the laboratory class.
I’ve now talked in turn about talking, reading, writing. Now
comes the high point: listening. Among the boons of living within a
study program like ours—one that is stable and changes, though
steadily, yet slowly—is that truly new experiences can come to us tutors. For our students, it’s all new anyhow. By contrast, when so-called
innovation, that is, deliberate variation, is the universal background,
we may indeed be stimulated by novelty—the ever-diminishing frisson accompanying continual variety—but we can scarcely experience
newness, which is the poignant sensation of a substantial accession—
a real expansion of our psychic holdings. Under the influence of continual novelty our mind, as Shakespeare so tellingly puts it, “Like to
a vagabond flag upon the stream, / Goes to, and back, lackeying the
varying tide, / To rot itself with motion” (Antony and Cleopatra,
1.4.45-47).
Thus it was that through our way of acquiring truly new insights,
I belatedly discovered a philosopher—as it happens the very first one
whose writings we have. He was born around 540 B.C.E. I had often
glanced over, but had never made my way into, his sayings. He thinks
in aphorisms, that is, terse revelations. The most enticing one of these
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begins in this way:
Listen not to me but to the logos . . . (Heraclitus, D50).
Logos is one Greek work all our students are apt to have something
to say about. It had dozens of uses and more than one central meaning:
word, speech, saying, thinking, reason, ratio. Heraclitus’s saying goes
on to tell us what we must, in turn, say when we listen to the Logos,
the Logos with a capital L. This Logos is the principle that governs
everything, and it has something to say to us. I won’t go into the entirety of the world-informing thought that the Logos utters to Heraclitus, but I’ll attend to the first part of it. I think it has, and is meant
to have, several meanings—a fact that governs many of Heraclitus’s
sayings and makes reading him so pleasurably difficult. One of these
sayings, the one just quoted, is, as it were, made to be the principle of
our seminar. I’ll retranslate it:
Listen not to me but to my intention.
The civility of the seminar, expressed in our addressing one another by last names together with the honorific Ms. or Mr., goes much
deeper than a mere form of address. It makes for respectful distance.
It means listening past personalities to the thought-gist of our speaking. It enjoins us to try to hear what our fellow speakers intend us to
hear, even if we have to hear past the words they are actually, and
perhaps ineptly, saying. Of course, we take in each other’s looks, mannerisms, gestures. It is, after all, through these that the human being
to whose intention we are to listen appears to us. Of course, the “me”
Heraclitus wants us to listen past is unavoidably up front. We all, particularly tutors, whose business it is to form impressions of the candor,
seriousness, and preparation of speakers, observe the physical façade.
Any student who imagines that tutors don’t know, by such observations, whether they’ve done their seminar reading or are improvising—be it brilliantly, be it twaddingly—is living in cloud-cuckooland. The tutors’ version of Heraclitus’s injunction is the prospective
principle of hopeful pretense: Listen for the intention, for what the
speech is about, listen to all the speeches extendedly and intently, until
they are about something; help students frame what they mean or find
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out what they intended to say by evincing a staunch faith (even against
all evidence) that they did mean or intend something. What is for Heraclitus a call to hear the speech of Thought—capital T—itself, is for
us a pedagogic principle: Give respect even before it is due, so that it
may become due. Advise students with tacit benevolence as Hamlet
does his mother with demonstrative bitterness: “Assume a virtue if
you have it not” (Hamlet, 2.4.162). For Aristotle teaches that virtues
are acquired by being practiced before they are truly possessed (Nicomachean Ethics 1103a-b).
So also should students listen to each other in the Heraclitean
mode: Suppress animosities and aversions, go for the significant gist
in one another’s talk. The question “Did you mean . . . ?” is helpful
respect made audible.
After all, the seminar was intended to bring us out of the isolation
of studious reading and the rigidity of recorded, written speech, and
to introduce responsiveness into the life of learning. The underlying
hypothesis here, which we hold to through thick and thin, is that to be
human is, given a chance, to be intelligent. Now intelligence has this
feature, one that has been the millennial preoccupation of thoughtful
people: What we each think with is our very own intelligence—which
makes us interesting to one another—and that what the intellect is
about is common to us all—which makes it possible for us to hear one
another to begin with.
In my hurried summary of the liberal arts and the tutorials devoted
to them I left out the music tutorial and the chorus. Among the Greeks,
music stands near the apex of the liberal arts; it is the prime mode of
praising God for the Hebrews; and it stands close to theology for certain Christians. (See, e.g., Plato, Republic 530d ff.; Psalm 33:3;
Luther, “On Noble Music”). Our president recently put music at the
center of his convocation address, and then, to confirm his words, the
college sang. For as we are rightly called a talking college so we are
surely a music-making community. As words are to our thoughts, so
is music to our feelings. Without music our program would be radically incomplete; we would be neglecting the affective root of our nature, our sensibility, and our passions. We have been called a severely
intellectual college, and this could be an accusation rather than a compliment, if we did not also have a place in the program for cultivating
the very sense, hearing, that both takes in linguistic utterances ad-
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dressed to the intellect and also hears tonal structures calling to our
passions. In the music tutorial we learn how passions are informed by
number, not by the merely quantitative but by the wonderfully qualitative mathematics of tones in a scale. Moreover, we consider how
sounds and words respond to each other, and we attend to a relation
of sensation and thinking which we expect to carry over into all our
learning—that tenacious thinking is replete with feeling, that steady
passion is contoured by thought, and that the sensory surface itself,
be it conduit or last stop, is deeply questionable.
And finally, in Chorus, we are the singing college. In talking we
face toward each other and speak to each other, turn and turnabout,
vice versa—that is the very meaning of con-versa-tion. But we sing
with rather than to each other, and we do it mostly not in turn but simultaneously. We are together in the presence of something we are at
once hearing and doing, receiving and producing; we are absorptive
and responsive, listening to ourselves and to our fellow choristers. It’s
like hearing a heavenly lecture, for that’s how I imagine the angels
listen.
And that is the end of this merely earthly lecture, addressed to the
parents over our student’s heads, so to speak, but really meant for
them. So thank you all for listening.
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Caged Explorers:
The Hunger For Control
Howard Zeiderman
To achieve happiness and freedom you must desire
nothing else but what is entirely in your control—
and that is only your own thoughts and opinions.
—Epictetus, The Manual
The letter’s return address had a name, the letters MHC, and a number
next to it. I had no idea what it meant, but it was obvious from the
carefully lettered envelope and handwritten letter that great effort was
spent preparing it. The letter was a strange and bold request. It would
lead me to the gates of the Maryland House of Corrections, a high
medium/maximum security facility, the flagship of seven prisons surrounding a place in the Maryland landscape called Jessup, only a few
miles from Fort Meade, the home of the National Security Agency.
My first contact with the Maryland House of Corrections had occured sometime earlier, when I had received a request for some Touchstones materials to be distributed during an information fair at a
prison. Twice a year, the organizations that assist prisoners arrange
some contact with their families, and the many self-help programs
that are designed to encourage prisoners present their information in
a large activity area. Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous, violence prevention programs, parenting advice, various Christian and Muslim ministries, and even the Junior Chamber of
Commerce send representatives with brochures. Touchstones is a program originally designed for pre-college students of all backgrounds
to overcome their passivity and enable them to collaborate and explore. It uses short seminal texts to initiate discussions in which students transform their thinking and their behavior toward others and
themselves. Since at that time my work with Touchstones was primarily in schools, I sent the first high school volume of texts along with
Howard Zeiderman is a tutor at St. John’s College in Annapolis, and President
of the Touchstones Discussion Project. This account is dedicated to the memory of Brother Robert Smith, who wished that it be shared with the St. John’s
College community.
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the accompanying guide explaining how leaders should utilize these
materials. I thought nothing of this until two months later when I received the letter.
The letter was from Marvin, a prisoner serving, he said, “life plus
30.” The language was simple and direct. “Dear Professor,” the letter
began, “I’ve been looking at your books. They’ve been in the Legal
Clinic office for a while. Two days ago I started reading them. First I
was confused. But now I see how the leader’s guide can help you run
the meetings. But we need someone to help us get started. Would you
come meet with us? I talked to a few of the guys. We all think this
would be good here. Nothing they give us here makes any sense. But
last night six of us were sitting around. I read out loud the story about
the old man asking for his dead son back. And we talked about it. We
were thinking about it. How brave the old man was to face his son’s
killer and what pain he felt.” I was startled as I read his account of a
text in our Volume I—a text from Homer’s Iliad, in which the old king
Priam begs the young warrior Achilles for the return of the dead body
of his son Hector. He went on to say he hoped we could talk about
how such a program might work in a prison.
Though I was stretched in my commitments with Touchstones’
efforts in public schools, with my normal teaching at St. John’s, and
with an executive group of investment bankers, CEOs, lawyers, and
journalists up in New York, I couldn’t think of a sufficient reason to
say no. In addition, I knew of a pilot program that had been tried at
the New Mexico State Penitentiary, where the ghastly riot had occurred in 1981. I was intrigued by the idea of working with prisoners,
and I had hoped we could find a location closer to home
Each type of group we work with is unique. Each group brings
specific talents to the program as well as specific needs. Each new effort is therefore a collaboration. The program that Marvin reviewed
was designed for high school students, both for the gifted and for those
who couldn’t read. For that reason, it was a good first step. It seemed
wrong not to answer the request.
But in spite of my desire, I was hesitant. I was influenced by what
the media reported about prisoners. I had the images of countless
movies and memories of the hostages at Attica in my imagination. I
remembered the atrocities, the disembowelments, at the New Mexico
prison outside of Santa Fe. I’m afraid I must admit that often in the
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early days I went into the prison because I couldn’t think of a way to
avoid going in without embarrassing myself. So in September of 1995,
I took the thirty-minute drive to Jessup and entered a vast structure
that from a distance looked like an ancient nineteenth-century Liverpool textile mill, but on closer inspection was revealed to be a fortress
designed to keep two worlds entirely separated from one another. It
was a Tuesday evening when I crossed the barriers of double steeland-glass doors and razor wire to meet the nine men who would embark with me on the exploration of a world that none of us knew
existed. I was reminded of Plutarch’s description of England as seen
by the Romans before they crossed the water from Gaul: a land that
existed only in myth and legend. Over the next two years we would
take the first steps together into unknown territory.
I would later realize that my entry on that day was remarkably efficient. My name was listed on a count-out document at the first control booth and I was moved quickly through sets of double doors
where I saw chains, handcuffs, and shotguns in a glass-enclosed watch
area. I walked nervously past interrogation rooms and holding cells
to what was called the Main Control Area: a large, cubical, steelbarred enclosure filled with guards. Unlike other such enclosures in
the prison, this one contained the only exit to the outside world. A corrections officer announced through a loudspeaker that we were leaving
the cage—which, ironically, was the Main Control Area—and entering the actual prison. We were now on the inside, surrounded by tiers
of cells and the sound of the movement of a thousand men. I was escorted by a guard up a flight of stairs past a hundred men descending
from their cells. At moments I was lost in the crowd, but with great
effort I moved upstream through the confusing mass of people. After
a brief and nervous wait at a landing, a metal door opened into a large
space, perhaps thirty by seventy feet, in which another guard sat at a
small desk.
The meeting took place in a small room at the edge of this large
activity area where we would eventually hold all our sessions, amid
the 100-decibel noise of the prison and the rival claims for space of
the Nation of Islam and the Jessup Jaycees. Around the open area were
a number of these rooms, allocated to the use of various prisoner organizations. There was the writer’s club, the prisoner newspaper, the
Colts—a sports club whose allegiance now focused on birds—Orioles
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and Ravens—instead of horses. There were the rooms for AA and NA,
and the fifteen-by-ten-foot area where men who had expressed themselves through crime now used brushes and paints. We met in the room
of the most important prisoner organization—the Legal Clinic. This
was where the men came for advice from other more experienced prisoners on how to represent themselves, since, whether guilty or innocent, their previous defenses had rarely warranted the name.
It was significant that we met here, since this was where prisoners
most felt the distance between themselves and the world outside the
walls. This was where they experienced most acutely their helplessness in the subtle labyrinth of our society’s legal system. Five of the
men I met were the high priests of this order. They were the officers—
present and past—of the Legal Clinic. They held the keys to helping
others at least attempt to control their futures. The four others were
equally important. They were presidents of other prisoner organizations. These were all older men, men who had somehow survived the
years of indignity and abuse and isolation. The youngest was in his
late thirties, and all but one were serving at least one life sentence,
whereas most were serving multiple such sentences either concurrently or in succession. These were men for whom prison was to be
their world and not merely an interlude before reinserting themselves
into ours.
I was clearly nervous as I entered, and they had me sit in a part of
the small room where I was no longer seen by the guard in the main
area. The meeting began awkwardly. I thought they knew what they
wanted from my visit, but in fact some were only vaguely aware of
why they were meeting. Marvin began by having us go around the
room and state who we were. I said I was a teacher, and others spoke
briefly about themselves. They never said it explicitly, but each said
enough for me to infer that I was sitting with nine men convicted of
murder, in a small room concealed from a guard. When we finished,
Marvin took the lead again. “Why don’t you tell us about the program,” he said in a voice filled with suspicion. I had thought that he
would be my ally in this alien world but his tone was distant, as if he
now wished to appear that he had played no part in my coming into
the prison. From the introductions, it became clear that half were invited to this meeting to hear about the program for the first time. I
could see a couple of the men whispering to one another and even
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heard one ask—to no one or to all—why I was there. Rather quickly
the roles had become reversed. Instead of being asked to come to respond to their request, it seemed that I had to convince them that they
should become involved.
I could feel control slipping away from me. Perhaps it was implicitly a test to see if one more white volunteer could offer something
they really wanted, or perhaps it was an exploration they were undertaking to find out what they needed. When they asked me to describe
the program, I did a very poor job. I kept speaking in ways that were
either too abstract or too rudimentary. I hoped to interest them in probing the conceptual presuppositions and biases of our culture though I
didn’t describe it in quite those words. Such an exercise hardly moved
them, however, since their incarceration incorporated the presuppositions and biases of our culture. Of all the men I met in prison, very
few asserted their innocence. Yet most felt that they were political
prisoners—prisoners on account of our country’s politics stretching
back to the very origins of the European conquest of the New World.
They didn’t offer this as an excuse, but merely reported it as a fact.
They saw their crimes as pretty much along the lines of infractions
against their masters on the plantations. Nor were they particularly
engaged by the prospect of increased skills. The skills they needed
were quite specific, and it wasn’t clear how Touchstones could help
them overturn a conviction.
While I was speaking, becoming more uneasy as I felt their eyes
glued to me, a short, heavily tattooed prisoner interrupted. “These
guys,” he said, referring to the authors of the texts in the collection
he had in his hands, “are all white.” I was taken aback by his claim.
In regard to the specific volume I had sent in, he was correct. I again
started trying to explain that this program was very different from
classes they had in school and that the Eurocentrism of this particular
collection of texts wouldn’t affect what we discussed. But they looked
skeptical. The meeting seemed to be going nowhere until Marvin
looked up from fingering the book of readings. “It could help us think
for ourselves,” he said calmly. “That’s something they can’t control.”
Immediately, I could see their faces change as if they finally heard
something that might be useful or even important. “You think that?
Say more,” said Lee, the president of the Legal Clinic whose great
knowledge earned him the respect of everyone in spite of a terrible
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stutter. “Yeah, it’s like when we talked about that dead guy. That Trojan. And you asked us how we would mourn a friend. There was no
one to tell us who was right and what to say. We were all thinking.” A
few of the most senior nodded agreement and the others—even the
tattooed critic—seemed to concur. That remark finally penetrated to
the core of their concerns. Perhaps Marvin had sensed this in the description of the discussion format. Perhaps these experts in the omnipresence of arbitrary control sensed an opportunity for the first time
to undertake the pure act of thinking. Perhaps my own inability to supply an answer allowed them the leisure to determine what they needed.
In their eyes, I was no longer a professor or a teacher of the kind they
had previously experienced. I was merely a technician who could help
them create the structure through which their own thought would take
shape.
“Thinking for yourself” was not an offhand expression for them.
Within that phrase was lodged the full intensity of their suffering. In
prison, all control and initiative was stripped from them. After one session in which we discussed a passage from Martin Luther King’s Letter
from Birmingham City Jail and why we need the stability of laws,
Eddie, a lifer who had served 25 years, took me aside out of the hearing
of the others. “Here you’ve got to be careful. Yeah, even you. They
change the rules every day. And they never tell you. That way they
control all of you.” To supply the desperate need they felt to establish
a realm in which they were not entirely passive, they had two options.
He took me further aside as if to confide a great truth about his life.
“We try to fight it. We work out with weights in the yard or in the gym.
That way we at least control how we look. Or we control the fags and
the slaves.”
A rigid hierarchy of keepers and kept transects the prison. The
keepers tell the kept what to do, how to act, and what to think. The
thoughts of the kept are as imprisoned as their bodies, since the constant pressure of others establishes a tyranny that overrides the distinctions between guard and prisoner. Control in its rawest form flows
everywhere in the prison, and it was their horror at this that these men
felt our programs might transform. The task was now clear: to go
about establishing the conditions for prisoners to reassert their freedom, their ability to become human again, by bestowing significance
on their lives through the mere act of thought.
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By the end of the meeting certain things had been settled. I had
committed to coming in every Friday evening for two hours, though
we never had that much time. Security always dictated how long it
took to enter. Sometimes I would be held in a control area for an hour
only to be told the paperwork couldn’t be found. This was always exasperating; however, when I once complained to the group about it,
they just laughed. Roderick, one of the older prisoners, explained,
“We were hopin’ it would happen. It’s good for you. It’ll help you understand something about here.” From then on I sometimes even savored the delays, because they revealed in a trivial and temporary way
what the prisoners experienced continually. I began to grasp what it
meant to be no longer a person but only a thing. These men had no
control over their lives. I too felt that lack of control every time I entered the facility. It was as if I had entered another world in which I
had no standing and no say about what might happen to me. It was a
separate world, dimly lit, and chaotic. Anything could happen in those
dark passageways as I walked past the correctional officers and groups
of prisoners. My only security was the hope that it wasn’t worth their
effort to interfere with me.
Control as it is implemented and experienced in our prisons is a
uniquely modern construct. In contrast to ancient prisons, our prisons
reduce prisoners to beasts through control and dehumanization. Although ancient prisons were dark and oppressive places where vermin,
neglect, and disease dominated, prisoners were not dehumanized.
Those vast ancient structures held people of various sorts, often in accommodations that suited their relative rank. Prisoners still retained
respect, and, in some cases, the accoutrements of their position in society. The ranks the prisoners held were part of them and could not be
stripped from them whatever their crime or infraction. This began to
change as religion and science struggled for our souls. Prisons, in a
temporary compromise, became penitentiaries, places where fallen
human beings would do penance and assert their humanity again.
These prisoners were not yet considered fundamentally different from
those who would confess their sins in prayers during church services.
The distinction was only that they required a more intense regimen of
prayer in places where there were fewer distractions from the work
of their salvation. As religion lost its primacy to scientific technology,
however, the penitentiary became the house of correction.
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Some of the group, a few who had served over forty years in prisons in many different states, could actually remember this change.
Once, when we were considering a drawing as a text, we suddenly
heard the story first-hand. The text was a drawing by Kathe Kolwitz,
Prisoners Listening to Music. The three prisoners depicted are skeletal, with hollow eyes—and all seemingly gripped by something. The
session was not going very well, and I regretted trying to use a text
that connected too vividly with their situation. A number of the
younger members were clearly repulsed by the drawing. When I asked
why a few who often spoke were being silent that evening, Larry answered. “It’s scary looking at them. I don’t want that to be me.” As he
finished, another prisoner, Craig, a man almost seventy years old who
first served time more than fifty years before, laughed. “You don’t understand nothing. They’re not dying. They’re gettin’ past their
hungers. It’s the music that makes them pure—like angels. Listen—
when I was young down south we had a chaplain. Every day he would
play music for us. Old music, beautiful. At first we couldn’t listen to
it. We never heard nothing like it. Sometimes a song would last a long
time, no words. But then we started to love it. We would listen like in
the picture, and we’d remember things. And we’d cry. Sometimes you
could hear ten men cry. And sometimes the priest would cry too. We
were all together in it. But then he retired and a new chaplain came.
He was different. He wanted us to see the doctors and counselors, the
caseworkers. They would ask us questions about ourselves and make
us go to classes, programs. They were working on us and the music
ended. It was different. It was them against us.” Correction, as Craig
sensed, is entirely different from penance.
This is one reason why the allegory of the cave from Plato’s Republic, one of the most powerful Touchstones readings for any group,
is especially fertile in a prison. The status of the modern prison as its
own self-enclosed world became explicit during a discussion about
this text. It is the story of people who are themselves prisoners in a
barely illuminated cave, and who believe that the shadows they see,
cast by objects that move behind them, are reality. Eight weeks into
the program I decided use this text to encourage the prisoners for the
first time to speak explicitly in the group about their own situations
as prisoners. For a while they argued about details of the allegory, but
finally Thomas, a serious and highly intelligent prisoner, moved the
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discussion to their own reality. He started to consider how a freed prisoner from Plato’s cave who saw the reality outside would communicate, if he were to reenter the cave, with those who were still
underground. To make his point about the difficulty of communication, he began to describe his own return to prison. “When I came
back in,” he said, “I thought I’d find my old friends, and I’d talk to
them. But I couldn’t. Nothing I said made any sense. I had to learn a
new language.” Ken, who had been silent, agreed. “Nothing here
makes sense out there. Nothing you would do out there works in here.
It’s like going from earth to Pluto. They make us into aliens, animals,
and then they wonder why we end up coming back to the barn.”
It was into this highly controlled and dehumanizing space that I
had entered in response to an appeal from nine lifers attempting to
reestablish themselves as men who had committed crimes rather than
as members of a separate species, a criminal class. Like the priest who
played the music and cried with his prisoners, perhaps like Dostoevsky’s Father Zosima crying for himself as much as for them, I was
joining them on a journey we would have to undertake together.
Soon, the nine men decided to involve another ten so we would
have a group of about twenty. They had to explain our goal to the others as best they could. The goal was a rare one in the prison. I would
undertake to turn over control of the program to them so they could
spread the program throughout the facility. In short, I wasn’t—like
other teachers or volunteers—coming to do something for them.
Rather, I would try to make it possible for them no longer to need me.
That is what all teachers want, but here it was essential that they not
feel indebted to me. The program would only work if they felt it was
also theirs—that they had collaborated in its creation. However, I
knew that it would be as difficult for me to surrender control to them
as it would be for them to accept it. I created the program they would
learn. I felt I knew better than they what would work and what structure was best. Yet to succeed I would have to enable them to collaborate with me actively in shaping the program for prisons. I was
worried that I might not be able to achieve this act of surrender. And
would they be able to forget who I was and allow me to be involved
without feeling I was judging them, that I was the expert and therefore
in control of the situation? Here we were touching on some of the
deepest issues of our culture, issues that pervaded both the prison and
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also our own lives—questions about the need for control, the fear of
surrender, and the very ownership of one’s words.
Every discussion group confronts the same set of barriers to a
genuine collaborative activity. There are always initially the issues of
control, power, and expertise. This initial stage is followed by competition among groups or individuals—in other words, factions—who
struggle with each other to assert dominance. The next barrier is the
problem of listening without imposing our own thoughts on one another. After overcoming these impediments, there is the effort one
must make to evolve a type of leadership and responsibility that is
shared among all the participants. These issues raise the most complex
human problems and questions irrespective of culture. The culture determines how the group approaches these problems, but not what the
barriers are.
In addition to these problems, there are others that characterize a
group as a unique collection of people immersed in a specific institutional or social environment. These problems concern all of us in some
measure, but specific groups face certain peculiar problems that pervade their lives and their circumstances. They have special expertise
in dealing with the particular problems they must continually face,
problems that the rest of us share to a lesser and more occasional extent. They can therefore become a resource for us all as they struggle
in the discussion environment to overcome the barrier that uniquely
affects them and shapes their lives. The prisoners had their own specific and complex needs, needs that centered on the issue of control
and their attempt to overcome the passivity imposed by their violent
and arbitrary environment. They had a hunger for control. But in order
to create a genuine group, they would have to transmute this desire
into a form that enabled them to surrender control in its customary
forms. It was with regard to such issues that they could most clearly
be a resource for others.
Prisoners also certainly need the intellectual skills and the skills
of cooperation to better equip them to enter society as employable
people. The needs expressed by these prisoners, however, had a different urgency. These nine men were to spend their lives in prison,
and their needs dealt not with the future but with the environment in
which they all lived. Their needs were threefold.
The first involved the fact that MHC, like all prisons, was over-
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crowded. There was a certain freedom of contact and movement simply because there was not enough space to keep prisoners separated.
This mobility, of course, increased the possibility of collisions among
prisoners or gangs of prisoners. Through spreading Touchstones in
the prison, the men aimed gradually to change the environment where
they all lived. A modest success was recounted one evening after one
of the discussions. We had just discussed the opening scene of Ellison’s Invisible Man, in which the “invisible” narrator collides with a
white man and comes close to killing him. During the session they
had mostly considered their prejudices, their assumptions about one
another. But near the end of our time, Alan, a white man, spoke up
more personally about James, a black man who sometimes attended
our sessions. “This happened yesterday. I was on line at lunch, carrying my tray. James was in front of me. Don’t know how, but I bumped
into him. His lunch fell. Three months ago he would have hit me hard,
maybe killed me. But he didn’t, and we cleaned up the mess. And
other people gave him some of their food. That’s never happened here
before.” Lee, one of the leaders, seemed to speak for all of them, when
he commented on this incident. “They try to make us savages. And
before we started talking to one another, we used to believe them.” In
short, their startling goal was to humanize their world—a world in
which they were viewed, and viewed themselves, as barely human.
Their second need involved a peculiar paternal attitude toward
the younger men. These men were old timers, men who had survived
years of abuse and indignity from guards and other prisoners. They
knew how to remain alive. They were the wisest of the wise. Each of
them was unique, and the only image that captured their stature for
me was a comparison with the Greeks and Trojans of the Iliad: Ajax,
Sarpedon, Patrocles, Achilles, and Hector. These men hoped to influence the young ones, seventeen-to-twenty-five-year-olds, who came
for two or three years and then graduated, as if they had attended a
college course in how to commit crimes. These young felons never
grasped that they too might spend their lives behind these walls. The
group of lifers felt that speaking directly wouldn’t work. They hoped
that their words would carry more weight after having worked together in these more neutral, though important, discussions.
The third need was the one that affected each of them most intimately. It wasn’t just a matter of their environment or a concern for
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those who would follow the paths these men regretted having themselves pursued. Rather, it was the sense that they too, even in these
hostile and precarious and dehumanizing conditions, were capable of
contemplating the deepest issues that confront all of us. This became
vivid to me and to them one Friday evening. The text was a short passage by Kant on morality. He claims that we are moral only when we
act from duty and not because we want to. Most of the group considered him crazy. They gave example after example of helping others—
family, friends, even enemies—because of pity or affection. Finally
Sam interrupted. “You guys really don’t get it. He’s saying that what
you’re talking about is only like eatin’ when you’re hungry. That’s no
big deal. It’s only when it’s hard, when it hurts, and you do it anyway
that you can respect yourself. Then you know you’re a man.” As he
spoke, I and others nodded in agreement. The intensity of Sam’s
thought, exploring an idea that no one had been able to consider, enabled me and others to take Kant’s claims more seriously. In these
sessions they felt they could finally exercise control over their own
thoughts—they could, as Sam did, think for themselves. This they
sensed would once again make them fully human in their own minds
and capable of respecting themselves as well as others.
The task that we set ourselves was to create a group of about ten
discussion leaders, each of whom would eventually be able to conduct
groups for other prisoners. The ultimate aim for the men was to involve as many prisoners as possible in the programs and to make these
discussions part of the ongoing life of the institution. In addition, a
collection of texts was to be selected and tried out for use both in this
prison and possibly in others as well. In this program and the other
programs I have designed, the texts are understood as tools, as touchstones. Though they are sometimes—like the Kolwitz drawing—specific to particular groups, most texts selected, like Ellison’s or Kant’s,
touch so deeply on our habits, our expectations, and our past cultural
and historical inheritance that they are useful for a wide variety of
groups. In the case of the prison population, we needed to determine
which texts would enable the participants to consider the issues of real
concern to them. At the same time, the process should not force them
into areas that they would only want to approach in their own time.
So it became necessary both to explore the problems these leaders
would face and to understand why certain kinds of texts were used.
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In other words, for the men to learn to lead a group, they would have
to grasp, to a certain extent, the underlying structure of the program.
The men in the group were therefore a core of nine who had committed to the project together with a varying group of others who
would join only as participants. These latter were sometimes known
to the other participants, though prisoners sometimes appeared for one
or two meetings who were not known to the main participants. In certain cases we knew that prisoners were asked to attend in order to inform prison officials and to monitor what was happening. I never
knew who these other occasional participants were. I never knew if
they were sent to disrupt the session, either by another prisoner organization that objected to what was happening, or by the prison administration, or simply by another prisoner who might be angry at one
of the participants or upset by the idea of changing the status quo of
the institution. Uncertainty is built into the nature of the discussion
process, and these visitors exacerbated the uncertainty surrounding
our work. This ongoing uncertainty also made it clear to me that, in a
real discussion, no one is ever in control. Both participants and leaders
are dependent on one another. And consequently a genuine discussion
cannot be an event that is isolated from the environment or culture or
organization in which it occurs.
The first stage of our work was to give the men the experience of
genuine discussion. I used texts from the Touchstones series, nine
graduated volumes ranging from works for third- and fourth-graders
up through high schoolers and beyond. These volumes, especially
those of the middle and high school series, are also perfectly suitable
for adults. In a school setting, the volume a group uses is rarely a function of reading level, since the program can be done orally, but is
rather a matter of experience with discussion. In high schools, our
goal during the first year of participation is for the participants to understand each stage of the process itself and, after twenty to twentyfive sessions, to begin conducting the classes themselves. This became
the model for our prison group. Each session was filmed, the video
was copied, and one of the copies was returned to the men. A typical
session would involve my passing out a text which was read aloud,
followed by preparatory individual and small-group work. The whole
group would then reunite, and I would lead the discussion. This would
last about fifty to sixty minutes. Then I would break the discussion,
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and for the last thirty minutes we would analyze what had occurred.
This was the procedure we followed week after week. Often the
analysis of the discussion process would revert to the text or revive
the topic of the main discussion. Once, after a discussion of the short
essay “About Revenge” by Francis Bacon, one of the prisoners named
James interrupted an argument between two very assertive men about
whether there had been dominance in the session. “Hey,” he asked in
an innocent tone, “did anyone take revenge during the meeting?” For
a few moments no one responded, though a number of eyes turned to
Michael, the man James had seemed to address. Then Lee acknowledged that he had been tempted to respond to what he had taken as a
slight—but didn’t. Finally, Michael spoke up. “I did. What Vaughn
said rubbed me wrong and I thought he knew that—so I went at him.
It was stupid.” The group then recurred to the text on revenge: Michael
and Lee discussed how they had reacted in different ways, why one
tried to get even while the other didn’t, and how they felt about their
actions.
This sort of event was common in the post-discussion analysis
sessions. The process of the discussion freqauently echoed the text.
In order for this to happen, texts must be selected that exemplify the
structures and attitudes of our society and institutions. The discussion
then becomes a unique kind of cultural exploration, in which the presuppositions of the culture can be made visible, and new forms of
thinking and behavior can be explored.
The entire history of slavery was continually present in the prison.
Jessup, like most American prisons, is filled primarily with black
men—the descendants of slaves once again in something very like
slave quarters. Not only are their cramped cells and chains reminiscent
of slavery, but, as the states increasingly involve prisons in various
commercial enterprises, we are once again witnessing the use of what
is essentially slave labor. The entire drama and stage setting of incarceration duplicates the four hundred year history of slavery on this
continent. Slavery and the complete lack of control over one’s decisions, one’s future, and one’s life were clearly the issues that should
be probed by these men. They have an expertise that the rest of us
don’t have and yet sometimes need in our own lives—an expertise in
surviving while facing the passivity imposed on us.
It is part of the aim of these discussions ultimately to enable the
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participants to discuss the most vital and volatile issues. But no one
is prepared to undertake this without the skills that the program develops. It is only quite late in the process that texts are dispensed with
and topics themselves confronted. When that occurs prematurely, the
result is mere conflict, or a series of monologues. It requires great discipline to undertake a genuine discussion of what one cares deeply
about. Thus, though slavery was at least one of the main concerns of
this group, its discussion as a topic would not occur until much later.
We would approach it through the mediation of specific texts until the
group became more skilled. Every group has certain issues like this,
and these will come up in the process itself, in the experiences the
group has in their lives, and in the institutional structure within which
they live.
I therefore selected texts at various stages which would push aspects of the issue of slavery to the surface. The choice of a passage
from Epictetus’s Manual was a first attempt. The passage is a terse
statement of stoicism, a very abstract claim about slavery and freedom
which holds that we are all enslaved, and that only by desiring what
is completely and entirely in one’s control could anyone be free.
Epictetus goes on to claim that only our thoughts and opinions are entirely in our control. This, he argues, is because all people for whom
we might feel love or affection and all property we possess or desire
could be lost through some unpredictable event. The discussion of this
text occurred about two months into the program.
The group was large that Friday night—about thirty—so the
shape of the arrangement of chairs had departed far from from the
customary circle into a very elongated ellipse. The configuration of
the chairs often plays a key role in a discussion, since everything in a
format like this has significance. I wanted to modify the shape of the
ellipse and make it more uniform but I hesitated. I always felt I should
accept the circumstances that presented themselves in the prison as
much as possible. Whether one manipulates the seating arrangement
depends on the setting, the group, and the leadership role. Leading a
discussion is not a uniform task. There is not one model that all must
adhere to in every situation. The goals remain the same across groups
of the same kind but how one achieves them can vary considerably.
I was at pains to make few demands on the situation and on the
men in it. I didn’t wish to be perceived as part of the organizational
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structure that moves them from place to place. When a prisoner would
run the group, he would exercise much more control and direction
than I did. It makes sense for that approach since he needs to demarcate himself as an expert in the initial phases whereas I wanted to minimize that status. This is the great issue confronting this effort to create
a genuinely collaborative activity. People want an expert who will
take control and yet wish to be free of that very desire. So the question
is how one should share leadership and authority. That of course is a
problem that will face all of us in every aspect of life. These discussions therefore are a laboratory in which the new directions to be pursued in our society can be explored and worked out.
I sat on the long side of the ellipse where I could best see all the
men. Many of them were new. There were three foci to the discussion.
One group was led by a large man named Karem, who sat at one of
the endpoints of the major axis—a dominant place in such a configuration. Karem agreed with Epictetus. He contended that the prison had
enslaved his body but his mind was free. He argued that they couldn’t
enslave that. “No one can chain my mind,” he boasted. “Though my
body is locked in this sewer, my mind can roam everywhere.” He
spoke in such a forceful way that many men, in spite of themselves,
agreed. Kevin, on the other hand, violently disagreed. The officers
didn’t just control his body. By controlling that, they controlled him.
They determined when he could move and where he could be. And
these decisions controlled his life, his desires, his thoughts, and his
dignity. While Karem held that he still felt free, Kevin vividly described what had happened to all of them—a need to urinate while
waiting somewhere in the prison. “And,” said Kevin, “they take their
damn time. They know what’s happening. They can read our faces,
and we’re forced to humiliate ourselves. They turn us into children or
animals.” Kevin went on to claim that such an indignity can happen
at any moment, and that to deny one’s feelings about it is not to be
free but rather to be less than human.
Karem tensed at this point. It was as if someone had said the
words that exactly characterized the situation all of them were in, and
which they were all striving to change by their own efforts. Sometimes
it is difficult to lead a discussion because what is said grips everyone
with the reality of the lives of some of the participants. Even with experienced leaders, when a discussion becomes intensely personal to
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the participants, it is difficult for the leader to focus on the long-range
goals of the project. Here I was listening to a discussion of Stoicism
by people who weren’t merely speculating and imagining what it
would be like to practice it. These were people whose very survival
and sanity often depended on their living that way. Some people in
that room were in fact stoics and could speak to Epictetus as if they
were colleagues. on the same path. Others knew well the temptation
of stoicism; perhaps they had tried it and abandoned it.
It is this aspect that gives such power to discussions that are designed to use text and experience to echo one another. This productive
tension between the experience of the group and the text reveals how
such discussions differ radically not only from education in the traditional sense—in which an idea or text is explored and but also from
therapy—in which what is at issue is the experience of the particular
participant. In discussion, personal experience is mediated by a text
that is often the seminal source of a concept or institutional structure;
yet, because of the difference betwwen text and personal experience,
the participants can view themselves from a distance. In fact, this very
issue itself came up in the discussion on Epictetus and soon became
the main focus. One of the men—Eddie, a former Black Panther who
was a lifer but always proclaimed his innocence—brought this home
to all of us. “None of us are free. We’re all enslaved,” he said, breaking
into a brief moment of silence between Kevin and Karem. “And not
just those like us in prison. Yeah, we’re held in place by bars and wire,
but that’s not all. Our minds themselves are enslaved. And not just
ours, Howard’s too and everyone out there. Our thoughts aren’t our
own. They’re just the ones we grew up with. How can we be free when
how we think is our prison?”
This took everyone aback. Everyone realized this was an important thought that we would have to continually consider and struggle
with. Eddie’s remark defused the tension between Karem and Kevin
by revealing how this issue of our slavery was the struggle we all had
to face. The men bounced all these ideas around as if they were in a
three-sided tennis match. No one changed an opinion, but each gave
the others the chance to speak. And this session was decisive for the
group because they finally recognized, as Eddie implied, that I had
nothing more to offer on this subject than they had, and in fact less.
After an hour I broke off the discussion so we might evaluate what
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had just happened.
In order to encourage people to emerge briefly from the prisons
in which Eddie claimed we were all captive, I wanted the men to
spend time with prisoners they didn’t know. I asked the men to count
to four and get into small groups according to number. That would effectively separate friends from one another, and I instructed them to
consider what they felt were the strong and weak points of the discussion. When these groups reported their analyses, most of the groups
agreed. They felt there had been a presentation of views but no discussion. As Vaughn said, “no one changed an opinion, and no one
looked at what they themselves were saying. We were just stating our
minds.” But Thomas responded: “That isn’t so terrible. At least we
could finally say what we really thought. And the rest of us listened
even if we didn’t react. That was important. Others listening—we get
some dignity that way,” he claimed. A number of men agreed.
But then Karem, who had been listening with a clear expression
of discomfort, interrupted. “But that means you need others to be free.
And how could this Epictetus be right about being free in your
thoughts when we need one another for our own self-respect? And
don’t you need self-respect for freedom?” It was there in the metadiscussion that the real discussion finally occurred. It was when they
had made the claims of stoicism visible to themselves in their very
activity that they could seriously consider the implications. The discussion did in fact act as an experiment for discerning new forms of
activity.
There was no official status in my position, and the men received
nothing for their participation. There was nothing concrete they would
gain. I therefore had no power to bestow anything obviously useful
or valued in that environment. The men came because they were allowed to think. The excitement of thinking and knowing that they too
were capable of this activity drew them into the group. They weren’t
here to learn from a book but to explore, together with me, both themselves and this new terrain we were bringing into being. Discussion
is possible only when there is no agenda. I had no agenda in terms of
the conclusions we would reach or the paths we would take, though I
clearly had a goal. I wanted to tailor the program to this institution.
This meant I would try out texts, and explore the means by which I
could turn over the responsibility for the program to these men. Often
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they would ask me about our other programs and I would tell them
about the possibilities and the difficulties we faced in the program
with Palestinians in Gaza, or indentured children in Haiti, or CEOs at
the Harvard Club, or middle school students, or senior citizens, or
plebes at the Naval Academy, or my students at St. John’s. I think it
was very important to these men to realize that what they were doing
was identical in some of its fundamental principles with attempts
being made throughout the world by people who were willing to risk
high levels of uncertainty to undertake the effort to change themselves.
It was the start of a sort of community where, we—there in the
bleak activity area of a nineteenth-century prison, in the third floor
private meeting room at the Harvard Club in Manhattan, in senior citizen centers, and in Haitian churches—were taking steps to explore a
world which, though continuous with strands of all of these disparate
worlds, nonetheless revealed glimpses of other forms of life and new
ways of being and thinking. It happened sporadically, but often
enough to hint at the outlines of a new possibility. The men knew that
they were exploring in an unfamiliar territory of human experience.
The trips to space were not the successors of the trips of Columbus
and Magellan. Those early explorers needed to change their fundamental conception of their world in order to make room for what they
saw. The astronauts merely solved the comparatively trivial problem
of how to get from one visible and relatively known place to another,
though the scale of their journey was immense. The problem we faced,
on the other hand, was not going from here to there, but from now to
then. It was exploration into a future that would no longer be a consequence of our pasts.
These men serving life sentences for serious crimes felt part of
the small bands of people making these journeys, and they sensed they
were bringing a perspective that was uniquely theirs but necessary to
all the others. This sense, I think, caused them to hae some respect for
me, in spite of the fact that I was merely one more among them—although I knew a bit more than they did about sketching a rough map
of our explorations, and had an instinct for recognizing apparent harbors that were only the temptations of sirens. Neither I nor they, however, could give a detailed account of this new terrain. Sometimes I
thought we were on solid ground and in a familiar region, when suddenly the ground would open up and I found myself, as in the con-
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ventional dream, falling endlessly with nothing to grab onto. And then,
just as suddenly, the scene would change, and I could see that we were
in a bucolic valley and the sense of falliing had been an illusion. I constantly had to seek my bearings along with the men, and that made
vivid the reality of our mutual dependence.
Up to this point I had led the discussions, selected the texts from
the Touchstones series, and designed the meeting format. But since
our goal was for the core group to develop the skills necessary to lead
discussions with other prisoners, I knew at some stage I would have
to turn over the responsibility to them. I must say I kept postponing
the step. I kept worrying that I hadn’t communicated enough to
them—and this remained a concern despite my understanding that one
cannot prepare for every eventuality in any complex activity, let alone
in a genuine discussion, which, if properly engaged in, changes from
moment to moment with a life of its own. Nonetheless, I also recognized that these were merely excuses I was using in order to avoid
surrendering control, and I was finally able to overcome my resistance
because of what the prisoners were able to do. We were approaching
the stage of the program in which the group must begin to observe
and judge itself.
In all the programs I have developed, the text, the experience of
the participants, and the dynamical issues arising in the process all interpenetrate and echo one another. To prepare the way for self-judgment and self-criticism of the group we first discussed a worksheet
that asked the men questions about how they judged others on first
meeting them. They were asked if they did so at first glance by clothing, by posture, or by eye-contact. In a prison, judging correctly at
first meeting is very important: one needs to be able to distinguish between a newcomer who poses a threat and one who does not.
Two men sharply disagreed on the best way to make such judgments. Idrus asserted it was by the person’s posture, whereas Eddie
focused on the eyes as the most revealing trait. This exchange went
on for a few minutes, and we could see Eddie becoming increasingly
impatient. Idrus was wearing dark glasses and Eddie, annoyed, finally
said what he had been thinking: “What’s behind those glasses?” In response Idrus tensed, started to rise, but then remained seated and
replied. “You’ve known me here for twenty years and you’ve never
seen that.” The moment was explosive and I quickly moved to the text
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for that day to re-establish control. They reconsidered this issue of
self-observation and self-judgment by discussing two self-portraits of
Rembrandt, one in which he concentrates on his eyes, and another in
which he elaborates his clothing while the eyes are in almost impentrable darkness. The discussion got past that moment of tension to
consider how Rembrandt had changed the manner in which he depicted himself.
The next week, Idrus—the prisoner who had shaded his eyes for
twenty years—came to the session without his dark glasses. We were
all stunned. All of us spoke haltingly as the session began, hardly able
to absorb the momentousness of his action. He had taken such a monumental step that I felt I should follow suit. I immediately changed
what I had planned for the session, and resolved that I would surrender
control to the group the following week. To begin that process immediately, I decided to explore with them what we would discuss in the
next session; that is, I began encouraging them to think through the
issues involved in leading a group.
A discussion leader always comes to a session with a goal. The
goal can be a topic that is essential for the group discuss, or a problem
the group must overcome—such as dominance by a few—or an opportunity for the group’s development, or a part of the text that seems
particularly important. The leader might well have to surrender this
goal immediately if it becomes clear that the group will not go along
with it, or that they are ready for a different goal. In this case it was I,
the group’s leader, who was finally ready for something more significant.
After almost a year of hesitation, I was finally ready to collaborate
with them, to surrender control. I therefore asked them to consider
what topic we as a group should discuss. For an hour they suggested
various subjects but the main one was “What is God?” Some claimed
that this was far too personal and sensitive too discuss, others claimed
that the group was capable of attempting it. Some then claimed it
wouldn’t be a discussion where one might change one’s mind. Instead
they would simply state their opinions, indifferent to what the others
might say. But in spite of their reservations, they were willing to attempt it. At the end of the session we chose a text that we could use
to focus our exploration, a selection in a Touchstones volume: the
story of the sacrifice of Isaac from the book of Genesis. The session
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had been so penetrating in examining what constituted a discussion,
what role texts can play in channeling the exploration, and how to
avoid having it turn into an empty ping-pong match of quotations and
scattered opinions, that I also decided the next session for the first
time would be led by one of the prisoners.
I could have chosen any of the group, but Michael volunteered.
A thirty-five-year-old prisoner, he had been serving a life sentence
since the age of fourteen when he was sentenced as an incorrigible
offender. Michael began quietly. He asked: “What sort of God would
make such a request?” There was silence for a few moments and then
first Eddie and then Thomas and then Lee all plunged into the discussion to shed light on the mystery of God’s purposes. For ninety minutes, Michael led a discussion on the difference between sacrifice and
murder and the role of God in our lives with a group of men all of
whom had either committed murder or were at least convicted of it.
And they identified even more closely with Abraham. As another of
the prinsoners, Vaughn, pointed out, “We here must constantly ask
ourselves just what Abraham must have asked himself during that
three-day trip to Mt. Moriah: why me, God, why me?” Though there
was a text, it was impossible to tell whether this was a textual or nontextual discussion. They had finally achieved that intermediate point
in which the distinction breaks down. The following week we spent a
good part of the session discussing what had occurred and whether
their expectations were satisfied. Had it been possible to discuss these
subjects or were they simply presenting monologues? Everyone
agreed that their worst fears had not materialized. In fact, the discussion was a great surprise even to those who expected that we would
be able to pursue it. As one of the men said, “It was like a wheel, it
just moved round and round.”
These men were discussing the issue most personal to them—the
murder of another human being. Yet they had the discipline to depersonalize their own experience and allow others to participate in a discussion. They could surrender control of what was most intimate, and
yet at the same time they never made it an abstract discussion. They
were able to fuse a textual exploration with one in which their own
experience lent credibility to their comments.
The session on the sacrifice of Isaac was a decisive moment for
the group. It was a great success, far greater than I or they or anyone
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could have imagined. They felt that with some advance preparation
one of them had been able to conduct a session. It was in fact a session
on a topic—what is God?—that most felt they wouldn’t be able to
handle. But even more, it was a discussion of the very crime for which
they were serving life sentences. The discussion was thoughtful and
probing, without self-pity and without avoidance of self-examination.
Once we began this process we decided to continue. The next week
we decided we would have another leader and would go in rotation
until each of the nine men had practiced with this group. This was a
major step. I also thought it was better to allow the leader to know in
advance and for him to be able to select the text and the approach.
The next volunteer was Vaughn, who had played a very strong role in
the last discussion. Michael, who had led the discussion, had the best
sense of how to keep himself out of the way. I knew others would have
more difficulty.
It is always a challenge to lead a group. Leading has little to do
with whether you enjoy discussions yourself. In fact often the worst
leaders are precisely those who want to be participants. However,
there is no one model for conducting a discussion. One has to discern
one’s strengths and determine how to use them in the new environment. Vaughn’s great strength as a participant would in fact, I expected, cause him problems as a leader. There was great seriousness
and intensity in Vaughn. In a discussion he often took the group to
new levels by his passionate thinking about a problem. In the Abraham
discussion, when the discussion was becoming fragmented, Vaughn
focused it on what we all knew we should talk about. He imagined
Abraham during those three days journeying with Isaac. He uttered
what everyone in the group was asking about Abraham and about
themselves, “God, why me, why me?” It was Vaughn who could suddenly transform a meandering route into one of deep engagement. As
one prisoner at a different prison said of a discussion on the Iliad, at
some point it left the streets of Troy for those of Baltimore. Vaughn
could effect that translation too. But this very power could also cause
problems.
It is wonderful when a participant deepens a discussion. But when
a leader does it, the group can become dependent on his enthusiasm
or it can become defensive and even go into opposition. A leader must
show that he respects others and feels that the issues they have raised
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are serious. Vaughn, however, was not generally attentive to the needs
of others in the group. He was not vain at all, but simply so engaged
by the question or topic that he would lose a sense of where the others
in the group were in their thinking. Each of the men had different
kinds of issues they would have to face as leaders, but Vaughn’s was
one of the most difficult. He would have to subordinate his own ideas
and help others to bring out theirs. He would have to surrender control
of the content and focus on his responsibility to others. If anyone had
to learn service it was he. My difficulty at the time was that I had to
let him choose the text.
What he selected startled me, and and was even more troubling
than the fact that he would lead the discussion. It was a piece by an
eighteenth-century ex-slave about what owning slaves does to the
slave owner. In one sense it was potentially useful because it at least
took a perspective that the group would not immediately relate to, but
would have to infer. But because it touched so directly on the topic of
slavery, it seemed beyond the ability of this group—much more so
than the question about God. I was amazed that this was the text chosen, yet I had resolved that I would do nothing to change it. They had
to learn to select texts for a specific group at a specific time in their
evolution and this was at least a start. And I had to learn to surrender
my position and become a participant in the group. Though I was convinced that the discussion would fail, I hoped we could analyze it afterward in order at least to decide why it failed. The analysis would
present an opportunity to explore the role of texts and how one selects
them.
I decided I would sit next to Vaughan, thinking that I might be
able to control, at least to some extent, how much he spoke. Though
the previous week had been so disciplined, this discussion collapsed
within moments. The first question took us far from the text into a
dispute about why white people enslaved black people. All the issues
surrounding enslavement and abuse came up immediately, and the
group could hardly sustain any exchange at all. Within minutes I
sensed that we were near an abyss. The few white men in the room
tried to speak, but were not taken seriously. Some got up and left the
circle, angry at what was happening. Most eventually returned and sat
down again, however, since there was no place else for them to go.
Even the others began to attack one another. All the alliances that had
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developed over time broke down. I felt I had no idea where we were
going, no idea whether the group could hold together for the hour or
whether I would have to break it off if they allowed me. At that moment I was certain that all the effort of the past year had been wasted,
and the apparent progress had been an illusion. The session became
electric when a prisoner nicknamed “Shaka” said that in 1975 he was
born a slave in Baltimore and his life would be devoted to becoming
free. I remained silent, unable to speak after my one contribution was
ignored.
After an hour, Vaughn suddenly broke off the conversation, saying we had to move on. I was relieved that we had all survived this
experience, and was ready to pack up and depart feeling that I had
failed in this entire effort. But before I could close out the session, in
a very steady voice Vaughn asked each person to reflect on the activities of the previous hour—what were the strong and weak points, was
it a discussion, was it a success or a disaster, and how could it have
been improved? I was startled both at what Vaughn had attempted at
this stage and also at how the men responded. They were very circumspect and considerate in their comments. Both the white prisoners
and the black prisoners spoke calmly about what had transpired, and
they were even able to discuss the reason why some had felt compelled to leave the circle. At the end of the main discussion I hadn’t
expected that we could ever revive the discipline they had attained
the previous week. But during the analytical conversation everything
changed. The men began to reflect on other aspects of the issue once
they no longer felt that they were expected to defend their respective
races.
After about fifteen minutes during which they considered how
Vaughn had conducted the session, someone abruptly broadened the
issue. Stuttering, Lee asked whether anyone had ever tried to enslave
someone in the prison, or even whether that had happened during the
discussion. There was a long silence and I could see many moving
nervously in their chairs. Finally Thomas acknowledged both. And
within moments, as if finally given the freedom to speak openly, all
entered the discussion as if they were no longer just the victims but
also the perpetrators. They began to describe the complexity of their
emotions as slave owners. They recounted how when they first enslaved someone on the tiers they felt a power and sense of victory.
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They no longer felt imprisoned but human again. But then they began
to feel the enslaved person to be a burden. Instead, only the free prisoners interested them. Their slaves were servile, willing to say or do
anything they felt would ease their lot. These men here, all of whom
were acknowledging themselves as slavers, wanted respect. They said
they didn’t want it from their slaves but from others—from one another. All felt that the moment they enslaved someone his respect was
worthless and their own self-respect diminished. And others would
not respect them for such pointless conquests. After their first moment
of euphoria, they said they felt debased and less human. And they
began acting that way. It was through reflecting on themselves and
their discussion that the text Vaughn had chosen was finally explored.
As I drove back to Annapolis that evening, I finally had occasion
to reflect on what I had just experienced. In the prison I had encountered the genuine reality of a critical section of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit—the section on Lordship and Bondage. Unlike the
obscure and illusive abstractions in the Phenomenology, the prisoners
had actually lived through the failures described so speculatively by
Hegel. They too, as Hegel points out about all of us, felt the deep and
fundamental urge to be recognized as human, to be acknowledged as
beings who were different from the rats and insects that populated
their world. And they struggled for this even in their most heinous
acts. These men, enslaved by their past and by their world, used others
in their attempts to break free; they tried to display their humanity
through acts of conquest; they were willing to die in order to assert
themselves as lords over a cell block or over a part of the yard. And
in the moment of success, in the moment of attaining complete control
over a space and its inhabitants, they acknowledged feeling their sense
of themselves slipping away into emptiness. In addition, the very men
whose submission and recognition was meant to guarantee their own
mastery and control showed to them the futility of seeking that recognition. By succumbing, the vanquished prisoners showed that they
couldn’t appreciate what the victor truly was, and therefore couldn’t
offer genuine acknowledgement and recognition. And so the victors
began to recognize themselves as slaves even in their moment of conquest. In Hegel’s story of the progress of human consciousness toward
complete self-awareness, the master who conquers is a dead end. The
story continues through the trials and struggles of the slave. And it is
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self-discipline that points the way to Hegel’s all too joyous conclusion
at the end of what he called the path of despair.
Here too was despair, here in these yards and in the echoing corridors—and yet these men had showed a self-discipline that I hadn’t
expected of them. They had gone farther than I could have imagined,
farther than I could go myself. They no longer needed a text to mediate
themselves. For a brief hour, they had raged about their pain and anger
and humiliation, and then, in a remarkable display of self-awareness,
they reflected objectively on their own strengths and weaknesses.
Though the road they had taken was not directed toward Hegel’s auspicious culmination of history, their exercise of self-discipline had
nonetheless revealed the path to the self. As Shaka—who considered
himself a slave even though he had been born in 1975—said, it was
in these discussions that he found his voice for the first time. These
men had attained more than anyone could give them, something that
any act of bestowal would itself destroy. These men had to find their
own voices. They had to surrender the idioms of their age and class
and race and gender, and for the first time risk hearing themselves.
Together they had to break free from the prison that, as Eddie pointed
out, they and I and all others inhabit. These prisoners thanked the discussions for making that possible. Perhaps that was true, but it was
also true that they had created the discussions. The discussions weren’t
there waiting for them. And suddenly I realized what it meant for me
to surrender control. The most that I had been able to do was to set
the stage for acts of courage that I could admire, but might never have
the privilege to display. I left the prison realizing that for a brief moment I had seen, in men confined to cells for their entire lives, a
degeree of mutual respect and recognition—of freedom—that the rest
of us rarely achieve.
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POETRY
The Love-Song of the Agoraphobic
Elliott Zuckerman
O sing a song
of standing alone
on the steppes of central Asia
and celebrate when thinly dressed
the stark surrounding white
of arctic ice.
Tell me these are Patagonian seas
and I’ll sing louder.
Have you noticed that the deck-chairs
tame the ship-board
by cutting off the terrible full circle?
Every market-place
is emptiness.
I cannot count the ears
of the endless rows
in the Iowa of my imagination.
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Henry Kissinger on China:
The Dangerous Illusion of
“Realist” Foreign Policy
A Review of Henry Kissinger’s On China.
New York: Penguin, 2011. 608 pages, $49.95.
Joseph A. Bosco
Henry Kissinger, an avid student and admirer of the “realist” statecraft
of Machiavelli, Metternich, and Mao, is viewed (not least by himself)
as the archetypical practitioner of Realpolitik in America’s foreign
policy establishment. His latest memoir, On China, describes how he
and Richard Nixon established American relations with the People’s
Republic of China in 1971-72, after nearly a quarter-century of mutual
isolation, suspicion, and hostility. He touts the China opening as
demonstrating the putative success of their “pragmatic” and “non-ideological” approach, and he makes the case with his customary erudition, aplomb, and Churchillian use of the English language. The book
is also a richly detailed account of the personal and sometimes philosophical interactions among the four key players: Nixon, Kissinger,
Mao Zedong, and Zhou-En-lai.
In an earlier book, Kissinger wrote that the China initiative
“marked America’s return to the world of Realpolitik.”1 Despite
China’s horrific human rights record and aggressive behavior since
the Communists took power in 1949, Washington sought rapprochement, convinced that it was “central to the establishment of a peaceful
international order and transcended America’s reservations about
China’s radical governance.”2 Kissinger can justifiably claim at least
partial results in one important objective of the strategy—relations
with Moscow: “[T]he Nixon Administration managed to create a
major incentive for Soviet moderation” that led to a brief period of
detente and a series of strategic arms control agreements,3 though it
Joseph A. Bosco served as China country desk officer in the office of the Secretary of Defense, 2005-2006, and previously taught graduate seminars on
China-Taiwan-U.S. relations at Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service.
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was soon followed by one of the most fraught periods in Soviet-U.S.
relations.
But pursuit of the other immediate goal sought by the NixonKissinger diplomacy—China’s cooperation in terminating the Vietnam War on “honorable terms” for America—ended in ignominious
failure. “We made the withdrawal of our military forces from Taiwan
conditional on the settlement of the Vietnam war.”4 Kissinger blames
the outcome in Vietnam on Congress’s unwillingness to enforce the
Paris Peace Treaty. He says that he and Nixon foresaw Hanoi’s “massive violations” of the Treaty, but he signed it nevertheless because,
if necessary to ensure compliance, the use of air power to enforce the
agreement was never ruled out, either in the minds of members of the
Nixon Administration or in its public pronouncements.5 Obviously,
Hanoi was not deterred by the administration’s warnings that “we will
not tolerate violations of the Agreement.”6 As North Vietnam’s main
army forces poured over the 17th Parallel into the South, the Treaty
collapsed along with South Vietnam. Kissinger earned a Nobel Peace
Prize for having negotiated the agreement along with North Vietnam’s
Le Duc Tho, who declined the Prize.
Hardheaded realism requires that the overall China engagement
policy be examined over the long-term. Did it attain the peaceful international order Kissinger described as its goal? In this regard, the
results of Kissinger’s Realpolitik with China—which Nixon enthusiastically endorsed but also regarded as a “strategic gamble”—may
well be judged as one of the greatest miscalculations in American
diplomatic history.
Kissinger, of course, does not see it this way. He seems still to
revel in the momentous negotiations that shook the world, even
though its aftershocks grow increasingly ominous as time goes by.
The Shanghai Communiqué, drafted by Kissinger and Zhou En-lai,
was the seminal document in the new Sino-U.S. relationship. It clearly
stated the premise of the U.S. position: “[I]mproving communications
between countries that have different ideologies . . . lessen[s] the risks
of confrontation through accident, miscalculation, or misunderstanding.”7
Kissinger looks back with satisfaction over the ensuing four warfree decades, during which he continued to play influential roles—
often simultaneously—as a successful commercial entrepreneur in
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China and as an unofficial strategic adviser to both the American and
Chinese governments. His personal longevity, intellectual vigor, and
ongoing involvement in international affairs have enabled him to consult on an intimate basis with each of the four men who have led China
since the creation of the People’s Republic (and now with Xi Jinping,
the designated fifth-generation leader), as well as with the eight American presidents who have largely carried out Kissinger’s policies. “Despite occasional tensions . . . [i]n the forty years since [the Communiqué]
was signed, neither China nor the United States has allowed the issue
[of human rights] to interrupt the momentum of their relationship.”8
Yet during that period the United States and China have experienced their third Taiwan Strait Crisis; several dangerous clashes at
sea; the EP-3 incident; two separate nuclear threats against American
cities by Chinese generals; Beijing’s undermining of American objectives on nonproliferation, on North Korea, and on a range of rogue
state issues; and China’s creation of an alternative development model
that violates international standards of accountability, transparency,
and good governance. Kissinger’s massive volume does not do justice
to these events, where it mentions them at all. To demonstrate how
far U.S.-China relations have progressed since the historic opening,
Kissinger writes: “Nixon had to overcome a legacy of twenty years
of American foreign policy based on the assumption that China would
use every opportunity to weaken the United States and to expel it from
Asia.”9 He gives short shrift, however, to China’s contemporary demands, backed by their historically unprecedented military strength,
that the U.S. curtail its activities in international waters like the Taiwan
Strait, the East China Sea, the Yellow Sea, and the South China Sea.
He sees Chinese “triumphalist” rhetoric as unreflective of official Chinese policy and merely a hypothetical danger. At a recent meeting
with South Korea’s defense minister, which occurred too late for inclusion in On China, the chief of the People’s Liberation Army’s general staff, General Chen Bingde “issued an unusual and caustic tirade
against . . . America’s hegemonic attitudes toward other countries.”10
Such Chinese accusations are not unusual, never having disappeared
despite Kissinger’s rosy assessment of the achievements of the Shanghai Communiqué. Given the longevity of such Chinese views of
Washington’s motives, coupled with China’s economic and military
surge, it is no wonder that, thirty years after his historic opening,
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Nixon worried, “We may have created a Frankenstein.”11 Kissinger,
however, remains untroubled over his role in establishing and perpetuating the framework for U.S.-China relations, and unconcerned about
what that undertaking has produced. James Clapper, the Director of
National Intelligence, told the Senate Intelligence Committee in 2011
that China now presents “the greatest mortal threat” to the United
States.12
On China, together with the author’s extensive promotional interviews for the book, may well be Kissinger’s last concerted attempt
to establish a favorable historical record for the landmark oopening
to China. It is certainly a vigorous defense of Realpolitik in the crucible of U.S.-China relations. But even on its own realist terms the
book ultimately fails in its mission of vindication. This is partly because the story is not over and indeed is worsening as China’s economic and military power continue to grow. But the evidence of
long-term strategic failure is now sufficient to conclude that Nixon’s
strategic gamble has already failed—nearly a half-century after the
opening, the two powers should not still be seriously contemplating
scenarios for going to war with each other. But we are.
The issue that had always stymied Sino-U.S. relations until the
Nixon-Kissinger overture was the status of Taiwan. As Kissinger approvingly recalls, Washington initially lost interest in Taiwan after
Mao’s Communists defeated the Nationalists in 1949, during which
the U.S. remained on the sidelines. “Having conceded the mainland
to Communist control and whatever geopolitical impact this might
have, it made no sense to resist Communist attempts to occupy Taiwan.”13
Secretary of State Dean Acheson and General Douglas MacArthur
effectively reflected that thinking in late 1949 and early 1950, when
they publicly delineated U.S. strategic interests in Asia and excluded
both Taiwan and South Korea from America’s security perimeter. In
his book, Kissinger criticizes Acheson’s National Press Club statement
in January, 1950: “To the extent deterrence requires clarity about a
country’s intention, Acheson’s speech missed the mark.”14 Actually,
Acheson was, if anything, too clear in indicating, as MacArthur had
done a month earlier, that Washington did not intend to use military
force to defend Taiwan or South Korea. No wonder, then, that Kim
Il-sung, Josef Stalin, and Mao Zedong thought they had a U.S. green
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light to pursue aggressive unification. But after North Korea’s attack
on South Korea converted hypothetical danger to stark reality, a
shocked foreign policy establishment changed its perception of the
Asian Communist threat: “When American policymakers came faceto-face with an actual Communist invasion, they ignored their policy
papers.”15 President Truman mobilized a United Nations defense of
South Korea and sent the Seventh Fleet into the Taiwan Strait to prevent a Chinese attack there, frustrating Mao’s openly stated intentions
to do just that. As Kissinger put it regarding the Korean War, “The
United States did not expect the invasion; China did not expect the
reaction.”16
After the war ended in a military and negotiated stalemate, President Eisenhower signed Mutual Defense Treaties with both South
Korea and Taiwan in 1954. The U.S. military presence maintained the
peace for the next decade and a half. Nevertheless, Kissinger expresses disdain for the sterile Sino-U.S. impasse over the island’s status that kept the two governments isolated from each other during that
period: “China would discuss no other subject until the United States
agreed to withdraw from Taiwan and the United States would not talk
about withdrawing from Taiwan until China had renounced the use of
force to solve the Taiwan question.”17 At that point Nixon and
Kissinger entered the scene wielding the sword of Realpolitik. They
cut the Gordian knot—simply acceding to China’s position. Washington informed Beijing that the Seventh Fleet—the primary obstacle to
a Chinese attack on Taiwan—was leaving the Taiwan Strait forthwith
and all American forces would be withdrawn from Taiwan in stages.
The fact that these commitments were made even before the start
of the official Sino-U.S. dialogue violated one of the Nixon-Kissinger
realist admonitions against making advance concessions and appearing overly eager to please. “We have a tendency to apply our standards
to others in negotiations. We like to pay in advance to show our good
will, but in foreign policy you never get paid for services already rendered.”18 As Nixon instructed his adviser, “We cannot be too forthcoming in terms of what America will do [by saying] we’ll withdraw,
and we’ll do this, and that, and the other thing.”19 But U.S. actions
had already conveyed the impression that Washington craved the rapprochement far more than did Beijing. Any fair-minded realist would
have to say that this impression weakened American negotiating lan-
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guage, strategic clarity, and deterrence in perpetuity. As Kissinger
takes justifiable pride in noting repeatedly, seven subsequent administrations have followed the Nixon-Kissinger approach. For more than
four decades, consequently, Beijing has taken full advantage of that
Western indulgence, deriving the benefits from the international system while enjoying wide latitude in its domestic and international behavior.
Kissinger has presented confusing, and even contradictory, accounts of the origin of the Sino-American “understanding” on Taiwan
established during Nixon’s historic meeting with Mao. In On China,
he writes: “[A]fter decades of mutual recrimination over Taiwan, the
subject in effect did not come up” except for some sarcastic banter
about Chiang Kai-shek.20 A few pages later, he reaffirms that “Mao
had omitted any substantive reference to Taiwan.”21 To bolster this
point, Kissinger reports his own conversation with Mao a year after
the Nixon meeting: “[T]o remove any element of threat Mao explicitly
delinked the issue of Taiwan from the overall U.S.-China relationship.”22 Although Mao warned that he did not believe China and Taiwan would be able to effect a peaceful transition,23 as far as
China-U.S. relations were concerned, “Mao made his principal
point—that there were no time pressures of any kind.”24 Mao also told
him, “I say that we can do without Taiwan for the time being, and let
it come after one hundred years.”25 Kissinger explains that Mao actually had two principal points of equal importance: First, “that Beijing
would not foreclose its option to use force over Taiwan—and indeed
expected to have to use force someday.”26 Second, “for the time being
at least, Mao was putting off this day.”27
Kissinger’s account of the Mao-Nixon the discussion in On China
is consistent with Nixon’s own description of the meeting in his 1978
memoir.28 Inexplicably, however, Kissinger told the story quite differently in two books he wrote between Nixon’s Memoirs and his own
On China. In 1979 and again 1994, Kissinger put Mao’s talk of delay
in Taiwan’s demise not in a one-on-one meeting with him, but in
Mao’s meeting with Nixon, at which Kissinger was also present:
“[T]he Chinese leader wasted no time in assuring the President that
China would not use force against Taiwan: “We can do without them
for the time being, and let it come after 100 years.’”29 In these earlier
accounts, Kissinger saw Mao’s statement to the President as a mani-
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festation of large-minded statesmanship: “Mao asked for no reciprocity for the assurance America had been seeking for twenty years.”30
Whichever version is accurate, Kissinger’s perception that Mao
was making a major unilateral concession is astoundingly innocent.
Nixon and Kissinger had already given Mao the quid for his quo—a
commitment to withdraw U.S. forces on and near Taiwan. Indeed,
they had already given Mao much more. Kissinger remarks that
“Nixon and his advisers . . . deemed diplomatic contact with China
essential” and, as early as 1969, had publicly committed the United
States to defend China’s independence against a Soviet attack—a
unique security guarantee from an American president to a hostile
Communist government.31 Moreover, Kissinger did not even seem to
regard Taiwan as a strategic bargaining chip. He once expressed bemused incredulity to Mao that China would wait so long to take Taiwan: “Not a hundred years,” he remarked. Mao responded: “It is hard
to say. Five years, ten, twenty, a hundred years. It’s hard to say.”32 Despite the shifting target dates, Mao’s comments about Taiwan consistently made clear that China would use force to take it: “[W]e are
going to fight for it.”33 So, Nixon and Kissinger, the two hardheaded
practitioners of Realpolitik, knowingly traded a concrete action China
wanted—permanent U.S. withdrawal from Taiwan—for a vague and
temporary expression of the action Washington had sought—China’s
commitment not to use force against Taiwan. It is worth noting that
on none of the occasions when Mao affirmed China’s intention to attack Taiwan did Kissinger raise any question or objection. Nor did he
suggest that the United States would feel compelled to defend Taiwan
on the basis of its “interest in a peaceful settlement” as stated in the
Shanghai Communiqué. Nixon, Kissinger, Mao, and Zhou, who might
be called the Gang of Four Realists, all understood that American public opinion and the U.S. Congress would not tolerate abandonment of
Taiwan to Communist China at that time. After a decent interval, however—in Nixon’s expected second term—the deed would be done.34
China would get its “full meal.” While Nixon shared wholeheartedly
in that original Realpolitik cleverness, his view significantly evolved
as Taiwan itself moved from dictatorship to democracy; unlike
Kissinger, he concluded that democratic Taiwan is now permanently
divorced from Communist China. (See discussion below.)
On China suffers from surprising historical inaccuracies and glar-
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ing omissions on some pivotal events in China-U.S. relations.
Kissinger recounts the Third Taiwan Strait Crisis, which began in July
1995 when China fired missiles toward Taiwan to protest a U.S. visit
by Taiwan’s appointed president, Lee Teng-hui. China then conducted
military exercises in the Strait during the period leading up to Taiwan’s
parliamentary elections in December. Chinese officials, clearly intent
on avoiding North Korea’s 1950 miscalculation, put the crucial question directly to their American counterparts during a November visit
of Assistant Secretary of Defense Joseph Nye: How would the U.S.
respond if China attacked Taiwan? Here was an ideal opportunity for
supposedly realist Washington to provide the strategic clarity and deterrent message Kissinger found lacking in Acheson’s Press Club
speech.
But Nye, even as he cited that earlier Korean experience, answered equivocally: “We don’t know and you don’t know; it would
depend on the circumstances.”35 Understandably wary of signaling an
Acheson-style green light, Nye erred in failing to red-light China’s
ambitions by a plain commitment to Taiwan’s defense. Instead, he
gave China a yellow light—what came to be known as “strategic ambiguity”—and it worked for that moment as China decided to proceed
with caution for the time being. When asked the same question by
American interviewers weeks later, Defense Secretary William Perry
enthusiastically adopted Nye’s statement, and it has been Washington’s official stance ever since. Curiously this pivotal incident does
not appear in On China, and neither Nye nor Perry is mentioned in
the book. Equally surprising is Kissinger’s failure to note the extraordinary threat conveyed by a Chinese general to an American scholar
at that time: “You care more about Los Angeles than about Taiwan.”36
Within a month of Nye’s statement, the Nimitz carrier group
passed through the Strait—the first such transit in the 23 years since
Nixon had removed the Seventh Fleet. After China protested, Washington explained that this passage was merely a weather diversion,
not a warning or a signal of commitment to Taiwan’s defense—
thereby undermining the impact of “the most significant American
show of force directed at China since the 1971 rapprochement.”37
Kissinger fails to note the missed deterrent opportunity for the United
States: having sent the ships through the Strait, it could have reminded
Beijing matter-of-factly that no U.S. explanation or Chinese indul-
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gence was required for the exercise of America’s freedom of navigation rights in international waters.38
Kissinger’s account also misstates the date and context of the
Nimitz Taiwan Straight passage. He places it not in December 1995,
when it actually occurred, but three months later in March 1996, prior
to Taiwan’s first presidential election, when China tested the U.S.
again by resuming its missile firings across the Strait. On that second
occasion in March, President Clinton deployed both the Nimitz and
the Independence to the area. But when Beijing threatened a “sea of
fire” if the ships entered the Strait, they changed course and avoided
the Strait. As a result, Washington’s attempt to signal deterrence was
trumped by Beijing’s message of counter-deterrence. This compounded the garbled strategic signals in December. A former senior
U.S. official who had been in office at the time later described the
1995-96 confrontations as the Clinton administration’s “own Cuban
missile crisis,” and said they had “stared into the abyss.”39 Kissinger
uses similar language to describe the crisis: “Approaching the
precipice, both Washington and Beijing recoiled.”40 But his failure to
note the mismanaged U.S. messaging during this critical period is surprising given his lifelong career focus on the roles of ambiguity and
clarity in international diplomacy generally and in the famously complex and nuanced U.S.-China relationship in particular.41
Nor does he remark on the significant lessons China learned from
the tense episode. According to subsequent Defense Department reports on China’s military power, after 1996 Beijing resolved to develop the capacity to deter or delay U.S. intervention in any future
Taiwan crisis. It has done so by deploying a formidable arsenal of
“area denial” and “anti-access” weapons, including advanced attack
submarines and the world’s first ship-killing ballistic missiles.
Kissinger takes no notice of these ominous developments. Nor does
he mention the existence of the congressionally mandated Pentagon
reports on China’s dramatic military advances.42
On China also ignores President George W. Bush’s abortive attempt in 2001 to restore the clarity of America’s commitment to Taiwan’s security that prevailed from 1950 until the Nixon opening to
China in 1972. The president said he would do “whatever it took” to
defend Taiwan now that it had become a democracy.43 Shocked China
experts within and outside the administration scrambled to walk that
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statement back, restoring the ambiguity of the earlier, presumably
safer policy. But it was the attacks of September 11, 2001 that put the
Taiwan issue on the back burner as Washington managed to convince
itself that Beijing was now on the same side with the U.S. in the war
on terrorism, counter-proliferation, and even controlling North
Korea’s nuclear ambitions.
Notwithstanding Kissinger’s omissions and historical errors, On
China offers an illuminating account of the similarities and differences
between Kissinger and Nixon on China policy. The two clearly agreed
on the compromises and ambiguities that enabled the China opening.
They also agreed that their successors should continue the engagement
policy because abandoning it would entail seriously adverse consequences. They parted company, however, over the future of Taiwan
and the attendant prospects for Sino-U.S. conflict.
Nixon recalled how “the Shanghai Communiqué negotiated by
Henry Kissinger and Zhou Enlai brilliantly bridged the differences
between the two governments.”44 But he also wrote:
Realistic reappraisals of U.S. relations with Taiwan,
and of the relations between the governments in Beijing and Taipei, are overdue. . . . The situation has
changed dramatically since then. . . . China and Taiwan publicly have irreconcilable differences. The
separation is permanent politically, but they are in
bed together economically.45
He advocated that the two sides simply accept their mutual dependency, and he also recommended that the United States strongly support
Taiwan’s membership in international economic organizations. He
exhorted Washington to “begin extending to Taiwan government officials the diplomatic courtesies that the leaders of one of the world’s
major economic powers deserve.”46 And he expressed optimism for a
long-term peaceful outcome: “The Chinese will not launch a military
attack against Taiwan as long as Beijing knows such an attack would
jeopardize their relations with the United States.”47
Kissinger assesses the situation differently. He still believes, as
Nixon did, that the “ambiguous formula” he inserted in the Shanghai
Communiqué was masterful: “ambiguity is sometimes the lifeblood
of diplomacy.”48 Unlike Nixon, however, Kissinger believes that
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China will use force against Taiwan unless it accepts “peaceful reunification through peaceful means,” as Premier Wen Jiabao put it to
President Bush in December 2003.49 But Kissinger recalls a 2001 conversation with President Jiang Zemin, in which he mentioned the possibility of military action against Taiwan. Kissinger took the remark
seriously enough that he “felt obliged to reply to this threat of force”
by saying, “In a military confrontation between the U.S. and China,
even those of us who would be heartbroken would be obliged to support our own country.”50 Kissinger did not predict that the U.S. would
in fact defend Taiwan, and he makes clear in his book that he doubts
it will: “The crucial competition between the United States and China
is more likely to be economic and social than military.”51 Given the
state of Sino-U.S. economic interdependence and the dramatic increase in China’s military power, it is unlikely Kissinger would find
a U.S. defense of Taiwan more palatable today than it was in 1949,
when the PLA was a lot weaker. This is why he has publicly urged
Taiwan to exercise the “peaceful” option and come to terms with Beijing before China feels compelled to resort to force. This is also the
reason Kissinger warns Washington about continued arms sales to Taiwan: “It would be dangerous to equate [China’s] acquiescence to circumstance with agreement for the indefinite future.”52 Nixon believed
that war over Taiwan could be avoided by self-interested Chinese selfrestraint; Kissinger believes that peace can be assured only if Taiwan
and the United States accept Taiwan’s unification with China—
thereby consummating the deal he made with Zhou En-lai in 1972.
“[The] series of ambiguities [that] sustained much of normalization
for forty years . . . cannot do so indefinitely.”53
It may be that Kissinger has fallen victim to the ancient realist
principles he admires in Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, teachings that anticipate Realpolitik in emphasizing “subtlety, indirection, and the patient accumulation of relative advantage.”54 This sort of approach
involves “building a dominant political and psychological position,
such that the outcome of a conflict becomes a foregone conclusion,”55
for “strategy resolves itself into a psychological contest” that sometimes requires “subterfuge and misinformation.”56 Like Sun Tzu,
“Mao believed in the objective impact of ideological, and above all,
psychological factors.”57 Mao and Zhou applied these principles
adeptly in their interactions with Nixon and Kissinger, and their suc-
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cessors have continued the tradition. For example, despite his dissatisfaction with Washington’s continued arms sales to Taiwan, Deng Xiaoping skillfully managed his relations with Washington so that, as
Kissinger concedes, “the People’s Republic achieved another decade
of American assistance as it built its economic and military power.”58
Kissinger also uses On China to warn against too much emphasis
on China’s human rights record. Once called “the American Metternich,” Kissinger espouses the realist position that national interest
must be based on seeing the world as it is, not as we would like it to
be, and certainly not with an over-emphasis on human rights and democratic values (which he calls crusading moralism) important as they
are to America’s national identity. The best way to influence China
on human rights, he informed Fareed Zakaria in a recent televised interview, is to leave it to himself and a few others who have earned the
trust and confidence of China over the years and can broach the subject in private rather than embarrassing its leaders in public. But the
record of the past forty years reveals that his realist approach has proved
to be decidedly unrealistic. That is because, contrary to Kissinger’s
teaching, the counterpoint to realism is not always idealism or excessive morality. Clearheaded pursuit of the national interest can also be
clouded by sentimentality, wishful thinking, illusion, grandiosity, even
self-delusion. Kissinger long ago convinced himself that he and Chinese leaders shared a hard-nosed pragmatism based on mutual selfinterest. “I could not have encountered a group of interlocutors more
receptive to Nixon’s style of diplomacy than the Chinese leaders.”59
He was comfortable in his assumption that the Chinese perceived their
own self-interest as he believes he would have seen it if he were in
their place. So he constantly projected onto Beijing his views of their
self-interest. It is a variation of a phenomenon Kissinger often decries:
American diplomats sometimes contracting what has been called clientitis. They become the policy captives of the countries to which they
are posted and end up advocating that government’s views to Washington instead of the reverse. But Kissinger, with characteristic intellectual complexity, takes clientitis to a new level. He sympathetically
presents to his American audience not merely the official Chinese position, but also his own imaginary conception of what the Chinese position would be if they were as rational as he is. Kissinger has written
that in “our opening to China . . . [o]ur objective was to purge our for-
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eign policy of all sentimentality.”60 It may be that he and Nixon only
replaced one form of sentimentality with their own, though Nixon,
unlike Kissinger, apparently recovered his perspective enough to predict a future Taiwan free of Chinese Communist domination.
Some passages in On China suggest Kissinger’s knowing psychological susceptibility to China’s advances. Kissinger fully recognizes how “Chinese statesmen historically have excelled at using
hospitality, ceremony, and carefully cultivated personal relationships
as tools of statecraft.”61 His chapter on the history of China’s relations
with the outside world contains an interesting passage from the Han
Dynasty: “For those who come to surrender, the emperor [should]
show them favor [and] personally serve them wine and food so as to
corrupt their mind.”62 A few hundred pages later, Kissinger describes
the lavish banquets his Chinese hosts bestowed on him—and includes
in his book a photograph showing Zhou En-lai using his chopsticks
to place food on Kissinger’s plate.
Whether Kissinger has been beguiled and seduced by a series of
Chinese leaders, or has merely invested so much of his life in vindicating the original flawed Sino-U.S. understanding that he can no
longer deviate from his own orthodoxy, the consequences are the
same. Or perhaps the explanation for Kissinger’s vulnerability to Chinese influence is more geostrategic and less psychological. Intellectually and professionally, Kissinger’s, and Nixon’s, strong anti-Soviet
background doubtless predisposed them to align the United States
with China, Moscow’s chief adversary at the time. (“The enemy of
my enemy is my friend.”) Kissinger probably exaggerated his own
neutrality when he described the debate within official national security and foreign policy circles over which way American policy should
tilt. He recalls that there were “Slavophiles,” “Sinophiles,” and those
who advocated Realpolitik. “Not surprisingly,” he writes, “I was on
the side of the Realpolitikers.”63 Richard Nixon’s seminal thinking on
the need to open relations with China was set forth in his October
1967 article in Foreign Affairs, in which he wrote: “[W]e simply cannot afford to leave China forever outside the family of nations, there
to nurture its fantasies, cherish its hates, and threaten its neighbors.”64
When, in 1994, Kissinger reviewed the consequences of his approach to China, he concluded that “[t]he certitudes of physical threat
and hostile ideology characteristic of the Cold War are gone.”65 But
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three years earlier, Deng Xiaoping—supposedly the un-Mao, who had
already ordered China’s military to “shed some blood”66 in Tiananmen
Square—gave fair warning of what lay ahead for the world: “hide our
capacities and bide our time.”67 Given the present state of Sino-U.S.
relations, the danger of conflict over Taiwan, North Korea, the South
China Sea, Beijing’s essentially subversive role on proliferation and
third world governance, and a myriad of other issues, it is fair to ask:
Who are the true realists?
As he again surveyed China-U.S. relations recently in the context
of increasing Chinese assertiveness in the South China Sea and elsewhere, Kissinger warned: “Care must be taken lest both sides analyze
themselves into self-fulfilling prophecies.”68 The problem is that there
has been too little reflection and fresh thinking in the West regarding
Communist China’s long-term motives. We are now being forced, belatedly, to reexamine long-held premises and assumptions. Kissinger’s
On China provides abundant evidence of the reasons why reassessment
is needed—now more than ever.
NOTES
1. Henry Kissinger, Diplomacy (New York: Simon and Shuster, 1994), 724.
2. Henry Kissinger, On China, (New York: The Penguin Press, 2011), 447.
3. Kissinger, Diplomacy, 719.
4. Kissinger, On China, 249.
5. Kissinger, Diplomacy, 696.
6. Ibid.
7. Joint Communiqué of the People’s Republic of China and the United States
of America, February 28, 1972, reprinted in Richard Nixon, Speeches, Writings, Documents (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008), 225.
8. Kissinger, On China, 272.
9. Ibid., 216.
10. Miles Yu, “Inside China,” The Washington Times, July 20, 2011.
11. William Safire, “The Biggest Vote,” The New York Times, May 18, 2000.
12. Testimony of James Clapper, Director of National Intelligence, before the
Senate Intelligence Committee, March 10, 2011.
13. Kissinger, On China, 119.
14. Ibid., 125.
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15. Ibid., 129.
16. Ibid., 132.
17. Ibid., 159.
18. The Diane Rehm Show, Interview with Henry Kissinger, WAMU-FM,
April 7, 1994. Emphasis added.
19. Kissinger, On China, 266.
20. Ibid., 258.
21 Ibid., 279.
22. Ibid.
23. Ibid., emphasis added.
24. Ibid.
25. Ibid., 280.
26. Ibid.
27. Ibid.
28. Richard Nixon, RN: The Memoirs of Richard Nixon (New York: Grosset
and Dunlap, 1978), 561-564.
29. Henry Kissinger, White House Years (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1979), 1062; and Diplomacy, 727. Emphasis added).
30. Ibid.
31. Kissinger, Diplomacy, 723-724.
32. Kissinger, On China, 307.
33. Ibid.
34. Kissinger, On China, 271. “[Nixon’s] intention, he affirmed, was to complete the normalization process in his second term.”
35. Joseph Nye, The Boston Globe, February 7, 1996, 6.
36. William Perry, The New York Times, January 24, 1996, 1.
37. Ibid., 476.
38. After China complained about a Strait transit by the Kitty Hawk in 2007,
Admiral Timothy Keating, the Pacific Commander, replied: “We don’t need
China’s permission to go through the Taiwan Straits. It is international water.
We will exercise our free right of passage whenever and wherever we choose
to.” “Sino-American Showdown in Taiwan Strait: Chinese Navy Confronted
USS Kitty Hawk,” Global Research, January 16, 2008. Kissinger does not
mention the incident.
39. Off-the-record Washington speech by a former U.S. official.
40. Kissinger, On China, 477.
41. Kissinger is decidedly ambiguous on the role of ambiguity in statecraft,
at least as it is practiced by others. Critical of Acheson’s lack of deterrent
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clarity in 1950, he takes great pride in his own “one China” formulation in
the Shanghai Communiqué, which could be a model of ambiguity as “the
lifeblood of diplomacy.” But then he criticizes President Reagan’s Third
Communiqué on Taiwan arms sales because it “is quite ambiguous, hence a
difficult roadmap for the future.” Kissinger, On China, 383.
42. See, e.g., Annual Report to Congress: The Military Power of the People’s
Republic of China, 2005, Office of the Secretary of Defense.
43. David E. Sanger, “U.S. Would Defend Taiwan, Bush Says,” The New York
Times, April 26, 2001.
44. Richard Nixon, Beyond Peace (New York: Random House, 1994), 133.
45. Ibid., 134. Emphasis added.
46. Ibid.
47. Ibid.
48. Kissinger, On China, 356.
49. Ibid., 492.
50. Ibid., 484.
51. Ibid., 525.
52. Ibid., 385.
53. Ibid., 356. To Chinese readers of Kissinger’s book, the title words On
China may look very much like “One China.”
54. Ibid., 23.
55. Ibid., 26.
56. Ibid., 29.
57. Ibid., 101.
58. Ibid., 386.
59. Kissinger, Diplomacy, 726.
60. Kissinger, White House Years, 191.
61. Kissinger, On China, 237.
62. Ibid., 21. Emphasis added.
63. Kissinger, White House Years, 182.
64. Richard Nixon, “Asia After Vietnam,” Foreign Affairs, 46.1 (1967): 121.
65. Kissinger, Diplomacy, 835.
66. The New York Times, June 4, 2010, 1.
67. “Deng Initiates New Policy ‘Guiding Principle,’” FBIS-CHI-91-215,
quoted in Kissinger, On China, 438.
68. “Avoiding a U.S.-China Cold War,” Henry A. Kissinger, The Washington
Post, January 14, 2011. See also “Our Fraught Place with China,” Joseph A.
Bosco, The Weekly Standard, January 21, 2011.
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Everything is One
A Review of Eva Brann’s The Logos of Heraclitus: The First Philosopher of the West on
Its Most Interesting Term. Philadelphia: Paul
Dry Books, 2011. 160 pages, $16.95.
David Carl
The Greeks had but one word, logos, for both speech and
reasoning; not that they thought there was no speech
without reason, but no reasoning without speech; and the
act of reasoning they called syllogism, which signifieth
summing up the consequences of one saying to another.
—Hobbes, Leviathan I.iv.14
What is the relationship between what we say and what we think, or
how we think? In her new book Eva Brann demonstrates that these
questions are among the oldest (and most interesting) questions taken
up by Western philosophy, and that they find their origin in the Logos
of Heraclitus. This Logos, however, is not initially something spoken,
but something heard, and much hinges on the content and the nature
of Heraclitus’s hearing.
What Heraclitus heard was the Logos, for the Logos speaks (is a
Speaker) and the philosopher is one who hears. Heraclitus is “that
aboriginal listener to the Logos” (87).* But this is the beginning of the
mystery, not its solution; and teasing out the implications, the ambiguities (or ambivalencies), the paradoxes and possibilities of what the
Logos says is the primary task of Ms. Brann’s book. How exactly did
he hear what the Logos said? To whom or what was he listening? How
did he learn to hear so well? And how will he share, across the centuries, the timeless truth of what he heard?
Brann begins her account of Heraclitean hearing by introducing
us, by means of an analysis of Raphael’s School of Athens, to the figDavid Carl is a tutor at St. John’s College in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
*
Page numbers in parentheses refer to Eva Brann’s Heraclitus.
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ure of Heraclitus, and briefly relates the history of logos, as distinct
from the Heraclitean Logos. She then turns her attention, over the
course of four closely reasoned pages, to a detailed consideration of
a two-line fragment from Heraclitus’s lost treatise known as On Nature, D-K 50:1
To those hearing not me but the Saying, to say the same is
the Wise Thing: Everything [is] One. (16)
Through consideration of etymological detail informed by an imaginative intimacy with the history of Western philosophy and literature,
an understanding of this fragment emerges which highlights the stakes
of Heraclitus’s hearing: the Logos is a “Wise Thing,” and it is wise
for us to have knowledge of it “since it governs the relation of all
things to everything” (19). As we will see, the key word in this understanding is “relation.”
Seeing as Hearing
In the next sections of her book, Brann leads her reader towards an
appreciation of how the Logos both embodies and reveals the unity
“of all things to everything.” She first shows us that Heraclitus is particularly interested in the within and without of the cosmos, and that
he looks within in order to understand the without: “no one has ever
listened harder to the Logos within!” (87). This is not an unconscious
mixing of metaphors: this looking that is a form of listening is part of
the essential doubleness of Heraclitus’s thinking—a doubleness which
is as apparent in his form and style as it is in the content of his writing.
Brann’s discussion of fragmentation (“his inherent fragmentariness
entails a certain philosophical completeness” [93]), metaphor, and
Heraclitean punning is illuminating in this regard.
Twenty-five hundred years after Heraclitus composed the writings
we know as his Fragments, Wallace Stevens observed that “[t]he
world about us would be desolate except for the world within us,”2
and “it is a violence from within that protects us from a violence from
without.”3 Brann shows us that this salutary tension between the
within and the without, together with Stevens’ notion of violence, is
essential to the way Heraclitus listens to the Logos. Indeed, as we will
see, salutary tension is at the heart of Heraclitus’s understanding of
the cosmos.
His hearing will constantly merge with metaphorical forms of see-
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ing, for Heraclitus pays a great deal of attention to the physical world
around him. (“[O]f what there is sight, hearing, learning—these I
honor especially” [75].4) Moreover, the Logos he hears “is not audible
to the ears but to the soul” (76), nor is the cosmic Fire he sees visible
to the physical eye. For Heraclitus the eye and the ear are both
metaphors for forms of knowing, namely, listening and seeing. There
is deliberate, salutary tension in a mixed metaphor, and the harmony
at the core of Heraclitus’s view of nature is driven by tension—the
kind of tension that goes into stringing a bow or tuning a lyre. This is
why Heraclitus says that “[a]ll things come to be by strife” (106).5
Because of this strife, wrestling is another illuminating metaphor
in Heraclitus’s “tautly vital, twangingly alive, strainingly static cosmos”—a cosmos “locked in inimical embraces” that displays “a mode
of being that is a harsh, ever-unfulfilled striving” (90). On the way toward understanding how Heraclitean harmony (“there is a Unity relating Everything and All Things” [18]) arises out of this notion of
strife and tension, Brann treats us to insightful observations about Heraclitus’s relationships with Aristotle, Parmenides, Pythagoras and the
Milesian “proto-physicists”; she discusses the importance of metaphor
and ratio (“the Greek name for ratios is logoi, and logoi are the cosmic
unifying relations” [124]); she interprets Heraclitus’s notion of Fire
(“that pervasive quasi-material that allows all the elements to enter
into quantitative ratio-relations with each other” [44]); and she delves
into the etymological details of Heraclitus’s Greek in a revealing and
delightful way that is free of pedantic stodginess.
Ratios and Fire are both ways of putting things into relation with
one another. Relation “bonds two terms without merging them” (38),
and this is the key to understanding Heraclitus’s notion of the Logos.
Brann’s claim is a radical one, startling and yet compelling: she suggests that Heraclitus not only pondered what made “the multifarious
world one” (perhaps an inevitable question for a philosopher), but also
went on to posit that The Logos (as distinct from logos) was “all at
once the relater of all relations, beyond and within them, a maker of
the world-order and himself that order, a world governor, and also the
world—a doer, a sayer, and perhaps himself a listener” (42). Thus
Brann reveals the extreme possibilities of a Heraclitean “world-order,”
an order that is coherent and unified—a (contentiously) harmonious
and beautiful order—but also mysterious and enigmatic, for “non-
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sensory logoi govern the sensory world” (43). It is consequently an
order that demands a careful listening. But how do we listen to the
non-sensory? By developing the faculty that is capable of hearing
what Thinking itself has to say, both to us and about itself.
At this point Heraclitus sounds like something of a mystic. But
Brann’s book grounds Heraclitus’s thinking so firmly and compellingly in the context of musical ratio, chemistry, and physics that
the potential vagaries of mysticism are firmly left behind (“I don’t
think so ultimately uncompromising a philosophical physics ever
again comes on the scene” [89]). More importantly, Brann shows us
how Heraclitus’s thought transcends such distinctions as “mystic/rationalist” or “poet/philosopher” by taking us behind the screen of such
divisions. “One : Everything” [21] is the ultimate expression of the
Heraclitean philosophy. Heraclitus speaks to us from a time before
the distinctions between philosophy, science, and religion had been
so starkly delineated. For Heraclitus, investigating the cosmos was
the work of an entire human being, and understanding it required an
understanding of how “One : Everything” makes sense. This understanding requires us to grasp the relationship between the human and
divine as well as between man and nature. Thus Brann’s book ranges
through discussions of painting, sculpture, music, mathematics, theology, poetry, philosophy, and physics to reveal the prismatic aspect
of Heraclitus’s thought. It is not mysticism, but a way of thinking that
precedes the division between mysticism and rationalism. It is not science, but a mode of inquiry that antedates the schism between science
and philosophy.
Fire
Not surprisingly, in Brann’s account Fire is the key to the Heraclitean
system. What is surprising is how coherent a picture of the cosmos
Brann reveals behind the enigmatic darkness of Heraclitus’s fragments. Aristotle may have called him, “the obscure one,” but for
Brann the Heraclitean view is unified and eminently comprehensible
because it is rational. And because it is rational, it is measurable. The
measurability of everything is at the heart of Brann’s radical interpretation of Heraclitean unity, and it is Fire which makes this possible:
“Fire enables the Logos to inform the cosmos with the most determinate relationality thinkable, that expressed in number-ratios” (63). For
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a long-time reader of Heraclitus, this claim hits like a stunning revelation. Suddenly the possibility of a coherent Heraclitean system
emerging from those “darkly oracular sayings” (68)—sayings that
Socrates claimed it would require a Delian diver to understand6—
seems not only possible, but positively inevitable. Through her discussion of ratio and measure Brann carries us down to the bottom of
Heraclitus’s dark sea, and she reveals the hidden treasures buried
there.
Brann’s account of the Heraclitean notion of fire has something
in common with the following lines from Sir Thomas Browne’s Hydriotaphia:
Life is a pure flame, and we live by an invisible sun within
us. A small fire sufficeth for life, great flames seemed too
little after death, while men vainly affected precious pyres,
and to burn like Sardanapalus, but the wisedom of funerall Laws found the folly of prodigall blazes, and reduced
undoing fires unto the rule of sober obsequies, wherein
few could be so mean as not to provide wood, pitch, a
mourner, and an Urne.7
Browne would have agreed with Brann’s description of fire’s double
nature “as being one element among elements and as acting like a
principle through them all” (69). Again we see in “One : Everything”
a union of poetic imagery and suggestiveness with a deep philosophic
insight into the nature and workings of the cosmos.
Other revelatory (and controversial) statements in Brann’s book
include the claims that he is the first philosopher in the West as well
as the first physicist (that is, the first to give an account of the conservation of matter); that he is the “discoverer of transcendence” (99);
that scholars have deformed a central aspect of Heraclitus’s thought
be replacing the ratio aspect of his thinking with various forms of the
copula “is,” thereby misunderstanding the importance of relation to
the Logos; and that he is not the infamous and perplexing philosopher
of flux many of us have long considered him to be—especially those
of us who formed an early impression of Heraclitus from our encounters with Nietzsche.
Tension vs. Flux
Brann’s argument that Heraclitus is not a relativist is easy enough to
accept. That he is also not the enigmatic philosopher of flux, however,
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is a more disconcerting, but equally well-supported thesis of Brann’s
book.
Brann does not resolve all of Heraclitus’s “paradoxes and contradictions” (68), nor would she care to; for paradoxes are “the expressions precisely adequate to his world-order” (86). Moreover,
“Heraclitus speaks paradoxically because that is how the world is”
(88). Paradox is a form of verbal and logical tension—and tension,
for Heraclitus, is the source of harmony. Tension is “Heraclitus’s most
remarkable physical notion” (78), and this notion replaces the more
familiar notion of Heraclitus’s flux. It is tension that makes the fundamental ratio “One : Everything” cohere. Brann explores the idea of
this unifying tension through discussions of war and wrestling, music
and harmony, punning, paradox, and metaphor.
In a consideration of the way in which Heraclitus uses metaphor
(helpfully set out in contrast to the way Homer uses metaphor), Brann
observes that “Heraclitean aphorisms are meant to be unsettling”
(71)—but not therefore unintelligible. Unlike Homer’s often consolatory or comforting metaphors, Heraclitus employs metaphors that
highlight the “antagonistic opposition” (72) of his terms. Understanding how Heraclitus’s metaphors express this antagonistic opposition
helps us to comprehend the role that tension-dependent harmony plays
in the overall ratio-based ordering of the cosmos. (The famous image
of stringing the bow and the lyre in D-K 51is a perfect example of
this sort of metaphor.)
The cosmic ordering based on the ratio “One : Everything” is the
touchstone to which Brann’s book constantly returns. However far her
reasoning or examples wander, she always comes back to this fundamental way of understanding how tension holds the Heraclitean account of the cosmos together, and how the “pervasive mutuality of
force is the principle of oneness—of coexistence in a force-community” (79).
“The universe isn’t mine: it’s me.”8
And at times the book does wander far, but it is a wonder-full wandering. Brann’s book, divided into five sections of unequal lengths,
considers the figure of Heraclitus, the history of logos, Heraclitus’s
unique Logos, the afterlife of the Logos, and the Soul of Heraclitus.
Along the way, and especially in the “afterlife” section, there are brief
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but fruitfully provocative accounts of Euclid, Homer, John the Evangelist, Nicholas of Cusa, Descartes, Galileo, Newton (she calls Newton’s Third Law “the dynamic formulation of Heraclitus’s world”
[79]), wrestling, war, Hegel, Baudelaire, Heidegger, the coining of
money, logic, Force, matter, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Zoroaster, Plotinus, and perhaps most surprisingly of all, co-author of The Federalist
James Madison.
Brann’s claim that Madison’s theory of faction (developed in The
Federalist, No. 10) is Heraclitean and that therefore “the Founders’
classical liberalism . . . honors the Heracliteanism of the world” (121)
may be the most delightfully audacious moment in the book. Yet she
presents her case with such calmly reasoned grace that even her most
spectacular suggestions seem obvious. It had never occurred to me,
before reading Brann’s book, that there was such a thing as “the Heracliteanism of the world,” and certainly not that it found expression
in the Founding Fathers’ notion of liberalism. But her argument presents us with convincing reasons for both hypotheses.
In the “afterlife” chapter, Brann considers not so much the disciples of Heraclitus as those figures who have contributed to the ongoing development of the Heraclitean Logos, figures like Plato, Aristotle,
Hegel, Nietzsche, and Madison. I would like to briefly consider another such figure here—an author who may never have read a word
of Heraclitus and yet whose work seems to express in twentieth-century terms the “Heracliteanism of the world” that Brann reveals in the
works of earlier writers and thinkers.
The connection with Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa was suggested to me by a footnote in which Brann says that Heraclitus was
one who “declined to travel—except within himself” (151). I was reminded of a passage from Pessoa’s mysterious prose work The Book
of Disquiet. Pessoa refers to himself as a “nomad in my self-awareness”9 and exhorts his reader to be “the Columbus of your soul.”10
And he also wrote of the Logos: “there are also, in prose, gestural
subtleties carried out by great actor, the Word, which rhythmically
transforms into its bodily substance the impalpable mystery of the universe.”11 Pessoa’s “great actor” is a descendant of Heraclitus’s Logos,
performing the Heraclitean act of transforming “impalpable mystery”
into “bodily substance.” Even the fundamental ratio “One : Everything” finds expression in Pessoa’s writing:
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And so, in order to feel oneself being purely Oneself, each
must be in a relationship with all–absolutely all–other beings, and with each in the most profound relationship possible. Now, the most profound relationship possible is that
of identity. Therefore, in order to feel oneself being purely
Oneself, each must feel itself being all the others, absolutely consubstantiated with all the others.12
Reading this passage in light of Brann’s emphasis on relationality as
the key to understanding Heraclitus’s view of the cosmos one is reminded of D-K 10: “Out of everything one and out of one everything”
(56).
One and/or Many
One of the most intriguing parts of Brann’s book is her account of the
relationship between Parmenides and Heraclitus—a relationship that
will be characterized by tension, and thus ultimately be more Heraclitean in its nature than Parmenidean. These thinkers are usually understood as presenting us with a clear choice: being or becoming.
Brann’s reading is more nuanced, and if her book deprives us of the
romantic notion of Heraclitus as the wild philosopher of chaos and
flux and the bête noire of formalists, systematizers and the methodologically hidebound (“the picture of Heraclitus as the philosopher of
ultimate instability, of radical mutability, is just ludicrous” [100)]),
then she gives us something much richer in return.
By rejecting the picture of Heraclitus as “a fluxist all the way
down” (102) and as a “philosophical whirling dervish” (104), Brann
allows his thinking to enter into provocative relation with that of Parmenides. Brann places Heraclitus and Parmenides “into a time-and
space-indifferent dialectic” (102). While Heraclitus will appeal to
those who “are gripped by the strife-locked unity of the physical cosmos” (102) his view is nevertheless no longer presented as an either/or
alternative to Parmenidean being. Instead Brann poses for us what
may well constitute the most interesting question of Western philosophy: What is the relation between Logos and Being? Tracing the
forms that this question has taken in epistemology, metaphysics,
ethics, and aesthetics over the past 2,500 years would be a massive
undertaking, but Brann opens the question up for us in a few pages,
starting with the provocative claim that “Being is largely mute sub-
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stance, Logos mostly talkative relationality” (103). Brann finds common ground for Heraclitus and Parmenides in the claim that “they
both see the same, a Whole, an All, a One, and search out its nature”
(104). The nature of this “One” is different for each of them, but the
fact that they are both intent on searching out the nature of what is
and how it is unites them in a common philosophic endeavor.
Whether what is is Being itself or the tension-unifying Logos
(“the Logos works in self-opposing ways” [106]) is a millennia-old
philosophical question. By analyzing brief passages from the two writers and focusing on their uses of pan, “all,” and panta, “everything,”
Brann reintroduces her reader to the timeless immediacy of philosophical investigation.
Soul
Throughout her book, Brann reveals Heraclitus as psychologist,
philosopher, poet, proto-chemist, and physicist (“the first modern scientist” [46]). In the unity of these various modes of inquiry the fundamental ratio of the Logos, “One : Everything,” is embodied in his
own work. Brann constantly revisits Heraclitus from the different perspectives that characterize his work: the human side, the cosmic side,
and the divine overview that unifies the immanent and transcendent
aspects of the first two perspectives.
The final chapter of The Logos of Heraclitus sums up, steps back,
and takes a swing at what, along with Logos and Being, may be the
most perplexing of Western philosophic categories—that of Soul.
Brann’s distinction between logos—what, at the human level, is
“the more or less thoughtful utterance of our mind and its mindfulness”—and Logos—“which is divine but perhaps not a nameable
deity” and which “governs and pilots the cosmos” (123)—reminds
us that in terms of the ordered relations that constitute and govern
the cosmos it is the Logos “as cosmic fire” that makes sense of the
“One : Everything” relation, even when it comes to understanding
the relation between the human and the divine. Even here some form
of rigorous measurement is possible.
At the end of her book, Brann returns to her thesis that “Logos is
both nature and its language, and it expresses itself in measures”
(125). All ratios are forms of measurement, and measurement is an
essentially scientific way of approaching the cosmos. She raises the
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question that has been looming since we first heard of Heraclitus’s
enigmatic hearing: “how does Heraclitus himself come to know and
understand this language?” (126). In exploring this question, Brann
suggests an answer to the question, “What is the soul?” Her answer
begins with D-K 101: “I searched myself.” Heraclitus’s searching
ranges across the dual realms that Stevens referred to as “the world
about us” and “the world within us,” because for Heraclitus there is
no understanding that does not encompass and unify these worlds.
There can be no distinction between outer and inner; harmony requires
tension, but not chaos; unity requires conflict, but not dissolution.
“Heraclitus walks the ways of his soul, which are boundless,” and
Brann is our guide on this exploration of “the never-ending ways of
an enormously capacious inner place” (126). She offers us a conception of the soul as “a mirror of the cosmos”; yet the journey she leads
us through remains mathematical and grounded in measurement (“this
world soul is a concatenation of compounded ratios” [127]), so that it
avoids the abyss of vague mysticism. There is no flabbiness in this
inner journey. If Heraclitus is to remain a mystical thinker he will have
to do so on the most rigorous of terms, and only by unifying mysticism
with a scientific account of the cosmos—another unifying tension in
Heraclitus’s thought.
Personal Knowing
Heraclitus’s accomplishment—the most radical form of fulfilling the
Delphic injunction to “know thyself”—is open to anyone. Unlike Parmenides, he was not specially chosen to be a unique human passenger
in a god’s chariot. Heraclitus’s conveyance is not a magic carpet; it is
rigorous introspection aimed both at self-knowledge as a form of cosmic awareness and at cosmic understanding as a form of self-knowing.
This is serious thoughtfulness, engaged, sustained, and maintained.
Thoughtfulness by means of the Logos is available to anyone, as Heraclitus says in D-K 113: “Common to everyone is thinking.” Brann
points out the pun on xynon, “common,” and xyn nooi, “with mind,”
that appears in several of Heraclitus’s fragments (129-30). In D-K
107, he excludes only those with “barbarian souls” from participation
in this common cognition, for they are “the speechless souls of those
who are incapable of hearing and agreeing with the Logos and of employing logoi, rational expressions” (76).
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Brann’s investigation of Heraclitus is witty, personal, insightful,
and scholarly; but she remains on guard against the pitfalls of traditional academic scholarship. She is right to interpret D-K 40 as saying
that “heaps of learning lead to knowing everything and nothing. It
drowns out the Logos” (27). And she is also right to approach Heraclitus as she does: as a fellow eavesdropper and co-conspirator in his
investigations rather than as a stuffy academic parading out an impressive knowledge of Greek grammar and the Western tradition to
show us how much she has read. Brann’s book does not drown out
the Logos; it strives to clear a space for its greater resonances. Her
take on Heraclitus is a personal one, and therefore an intimate and revealing one. The Logos of Heraclitus shows us by example how to be
“keenly and extensively observant” (27), and leaves us, as inspired
and excited readers, to determine for ourselves the quality and nature
of what we see and what we hear.
There is an overarching perspective from which “human beings
have the life of divinity within them” (136). “Gods may always have
some touch of mortality in their nature and humans may become immortal in time” (82). This is the most inclusive perspective that Brann
reveals to the reader, a perspective from which the paradox of fathoming man’s relation to the divine and the relation of divinity to the
human are equally puzzling, and equally necessary to our own fullest
self-understanding. Attaining this perspective is the task of the Heraclitean philosopher, the person determined to understand how “everything is one.” But Brann does not rest content with mere understanding.
The final fragment to which she turns her attention completes the
bridge between saying (a form of the logos) and doing (a form of
being). “What does it mean to do true things?” she asks (138). This is
the note on which Brann chooses to end her book, the note that completes the hearing of Heraclitus, who learned how to listen to the cosmos. But he learned to listen in order to do what? That question
remains to be taken up by the reader.
NOTES
1. The fragments of Heraclitus’s text, which survive mostly in the form of
quotations in the works of later authors, were compiled and numbered in Die
Fragmente der Vorskratiker, translated by Hermann Diels, edited by Walter
Kranz, Vol. I (Berlin: Weidman, 1903; reprint of 6th ed., Munich: Weidman,
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1992). This book has become the standard text for citing the fragments, which
are usually referred to by “D-K number”; for instance, the passage cited here
is known as D-K 50.
2. Wallace Stevens, The Necessary Angel: Essays on Reality and the Imagination (New York: Vintage, 1942), 169.
3. Ibid., 36.
4. This is Brann’s translation of D-K 55.
5. Brann’s translation of D-K 8.
6. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Eminent Philosophers, trans. Robert Drew
Hicks (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925; reprint with an introduction by Herbert Strainge Long, 1972), II.22.
7. Thomas Browne, Hydrotaphia, Urne-Buriall; or, A Brief Discourse on
the Sepulchrall Urnes lately found in Norfolk (London: Henry Brome, 1658),
80-81.
8. Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, trans. Richard Zenith (New York:
Penguin, 2001), 112.
9. Pessoa, Disquiet, 101.
10. Ibid., 400.
11. Ibid., 198.
12. Fernando Pessoa, Always Astonished, translated by Edwin Honig (San
Francisco: City Lights Books, 1988), 30.
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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<em>The St. John's Review</em>
Description
An account of the resource
<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.
Creator
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Office of the Dean
Publisher
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St. John's College
Identifier
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ISSN 0277-4720
thestjohnsreview
Contributor
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
Text
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Original Format
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paper
Page numeration
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206 pages
Dublin Core
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Creator
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Office of the Dean
Title
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The St. John's Review, Spring 2012
Date
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2012
Contributor
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Pastille, William
Brann, Eva T.H.
Hunt, Frank
Sachs, Joe
Van Doren, John
Williamson, Robert B.
Zuckerman, Elliott
Arnaiz, Deziree
Sachs, Joe
Carey, James
Kalkavage, Peter
Seeger, Judith
Thoms, Hollis
Zeiderman, Howard
Bosco, Joseph A.
Carl, David
Format
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pdf
Description
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Volume 53, Number 2 of the The St. John's Review. Published in Spring 2012.
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St. John's College
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Annapolis, MD
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text
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English
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ISSN 0277-4720
St_Johns_Review_Vol_53_No_2_Spring_2012
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
St. John's Review
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