1 20 46 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/b4fc76c68c6d164a23d36c81d23ba68f.pdf e0af96c16f760b12f984990196924c19 PDF Text Text �4 / . CONTENTS THE METHOD OF APOLWNIUS John Ritner 1 SONG Pierre Gagnier 4 A HERO'S TALE RETOLD Eve Gartner 5 PROBLEMS WITH KANT, PROBLEMS WITH FAITH Richard Miller 23 EGG, BEAT HER John Keith 26 HO ENI AUTOS EN HEAUTO Joe DeGrazia THE MIRROR HELD UP TO NATURE George Iannacone SPRINGTIME Gretchen Berg PLAYING WITH IMAGES Susan Maguire 44 FOR FRANCES SCHOLARSHIP H. Stephen Morse 46 NEGATION, WILLING AND THE PLACES OF THE SOUL William O'Grady 47 MAKING MUCH ADO ABOUT "NOTHING" Jim Bailey 56 •i -----. ~.~.~~.~~ _________...__ . 81 �1 ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. The Method of Apollonius John Ritner STAFF Kathleen Bergren Ann Burlein Barbara Cooper Christian Holland Susan Maguire Martin Marklin Richard Miller Alexandra Mullen Joe Sachs Merle Sokolik ~ ~ ON THE COVER: Many thanks to Gisela and Laurence Berns for their kind permission to reproduce this print. In an examination of the first book of Apollonius' Conics, two relationships are of particular importance: that between the cone and planes, and that between description and definition or naming.· The particulars of the structure of the work are further clarified by considering the relationship between the three conic sections. Only when the work is considered in the light of all three of these relationships together is it possible to obtain a clear understanding of the structure and intention of Apollonius' work. Apollonius starts by defining in his first three definitions a conic surface, a cone, and a right cone; he then proceeds to define in the last five definitions diameters and axes taken in a single plane. The cone and planes seem set in opposition from the ver:y beginning, but by proposition three he brings cone and plane together by cutting the cone with planes; and he continues this process through proposition fourteen. Ih propositions eight and nine, he constructs the three conic sections without defining or naming them, and this points to the second relationship: that between describing and naming. Before Apollonius names each section, ' it is important that we be able to find one diameter (proposition eight) for each, know that an ellipse is not a circle . (proposition nine), and know that a hyperbola and a parabola can be increased . indefinitely (proposition ten). Thus we have a certain description without naming or defining. Then in the defining propositions eleven through thirteen, Apollonius describes how each section is constructed from the cone, and then he defines each section in terms of a parameter. Only then does he give each section a name, for the names are not descriptive of the curves themselves (they are not called "elongated circles" or "curved angles" or any such thing), but rather the names are determined by whether square figures on the ordinates are equal to, greater than, or less than the rectangles made up of parts of the diameter and this mysterious parameter. In short, the parameter ~y be said to be the true definer of the sections, for "it never changes for a given section and a given diameter, while the parts of the diameter and the· ordinates do indeed change in size. By using a parameter to define sections which have been cut from the cone in different ways, each section is so defined that we may remove it from the cone. We start wit}). several lines which are in the cone but outside of the planes of the sections, and with these lines we determine one single line, the parameter, which may be included in the plane of the sections. Thus, given the parameter these ~onic sections may be thought of and analyzed as plane sections, something far easier to do than considering them in the cone. Accordingly, after proposition fourteen defines opposite sections of a hyperbola and guarantees their similarity, Apollonius dispenses with the cone and deals exclusively with the derived sections, until he reconstructs the cone in proposition fifty-two. In proposition fifteen, he constructs another diameter, in fact a conjugate diameter, and this is even proven in the proposition. But he does not name his new diameter. It seems 1 �1 I diameter as "the straight line drawn from the center parallel to an ordinate, being a mean proportional to the sides of the figure and bisected by the center." In regard to the opposite sections which are examined in proposition sixteen, this definition makes even less sense, and the contrivance about mean proportionals seems pulled out of the air; but a little thought about proposition fifteen, which employs the same contrivance to construct the second parameter, reveals the aptness of this contrivance. Quite independently of this contrivance, we can prove that· this new diameter ED is a mean proportional to the sides of the figure AB, AN i made up of the old diameter and old parameter. To prove this we need only prove that rectangle AN, AB equals the square on ED, and this follows from the facts that rectangle AN, AB equals 4 times the area AP; area AP equals the square on CD; and 4 times the square on CD equals the square on ED. Thus the position of these two propositions is no mistake, and neither is their frustrating seeming incompletness. Fifteen is left without a second named diameter until Apollonius can prove that all the lines going through the center are diameters; and the picture in sixteen remains incomplete until he can conclude Book I by constructing the conjugate sections in propostion sixty. These two propositions also point out the close relationship between the hyperbola and ellipse, for the same mean proportional contrivance is used for both, and both have conjugate diameters, even though this at first makes sense only for the ellipse. The propositions from seventeen to forty-five deal with the sections out of the cone and at first glance seem to have little relevance or importance. We soon find out that their function is to explore the characteristics of the sections and especially of their tangents and unnamed new diameters. We also constantly see the hyperbola and ellipse being taken together in the same proof, while the parabola is usually taken alone. Often Apollonius: will prove something for the parabola and f that the half of the proof was dealing most importantly with certain properties or descriptions, namely, of the relationship between the old figure (eidos), made up of the old diameter and parameter, and the new figure, made up of the new diameter and parameter. Yet the second part of this proof, the bisection of GW, begs that ED be called a diameter, just as FG was called a diameter in the porism to proposition seven. We shrug and pass on to sixteen, in which he constructs a conjugate diameter for opposite sections of a hyperbola and even names it: what is important here is a definition and not an exploration of certain properties. But what does it mean for this line XD, which does not even touch either of the opposite sections, to be called a new diameter? The definition exists, but a full account is lacking, begging for a proposition sixty to complete the picture. It is significant that at this point Apollonius introduces three new definitions. The first two rather routinely deal with the naming of the center of the hyperbola, ellipse, and opposite sections, but the third one is interesting. It defines the second G . . Pn0Pos1T10x l n N 2 ,I .; ·I . then the equivalent for hyperbola and ellipse. This he does in propositions forty-six and forty-seven, when the propositions assume new interest with the general proof for construction of diameters. Using what he has proved about tangents and other properties of the sections, he proves that any line drawn through a parabola parallel to the first diameter is itself a diameter, and any line drawn through the center of an ellipse or hyperbola is a diameter. But he still refuses to call them diameters. Only in forty-nine after he contrives a parameter, does he call this new diameter a diameter, for only then does he have the complete picture of a removed section. From the beginning, he constructed a parameter before he removed the section from the cone, and even defined the sections in terms of the parameter. So it is only logical to require a parameter for this new diameter before naming it a diameter, despite the fact that a parameter is nowhere required in the original definition of a diameter. Further, the parameter is the link back to the cone. Proposition fifty-two constructs a parabola with a given diameter, vertex, and parameter, and no proposition after eleven is used, but the ordinates must be at right angles to the dia~eter. Proposition fifty-three is the general construction proof, given any angle between the ordinates and the diameter, and it depends upon that proposition forty-nine which determined the parameter. The parameter also assumes importance as the finite line whi~h helps determine the axial triangle around which the cone is constructed, from which cone the parabola is constructed . Propositions fifty-four to fifty-eight construct hyperbolas and ellipses, following the same order of parabola-hyperbola-ellipse which was established in the beginning; fifty-nine constructs opposite sections; and finally, sixty constructs the never-before-seen conjugate sections; and most of the'se propositions depend on the paramete~ . proofs. Indeed, only the constructions of the sections with ordinates perpendicular to the diameter are-not dependent upon the; parameter proofs, in fact depend upon no proof after the defining proofs eleven through thirteen, for only the original diameter determined by the axial triangle is used. It is characteristic of Apollonius' method to wait to do any constructions until he is not limited to a special case, and to save these interesting constructions, including the conjugate sections, until the end of Book I. In general, the necessity of starting with a cone to construct plane figures produces a mathematics more complex than Euclidean geometry. To deal with these conic sections outside of a cone and in one plane, it is necessary to have a parameter which is determined by the cone, but which can also be put in the same plane as the conic sections. Thus the parameter is the key for the first important relationship in conic sections: that between the cone and the plane. And the parameter is so important that Apollonius defines the sections in terms of it, and he derives their names from figures drawn on the parameter, rather than assigning names more descriptive of the shape of the curves, such as elongated circle. Once the parameter has enabled him to remove the eections from the cone, Apollonius deals with many of the properties of the sections, but he does not name new diameters until he has found their parameter~. In. this way he maintains safe ground, either dealing with a figure still in a cone, ·or talking about diameters only when he has their defining parameters. In this way, the parameter is the link in the second important relationship: that between description and definition or naming. Apollonius may describe properties of the conic sections in the earliest proofs and describe properties of new diameters in the middle proofs, but he can define and name the sections and new diameters only once he has their parameters. And just as in the 3 �beginning the parameter was the link from· the cone to the plane, so its importance is emphasized once more at the end of Book I, when it proves to be the link from the plane back to the cone. In this way the cycle from cone to plane to cone is completed; and given the role and importance of the parameter, the method of Apollonius in Book I seems logical and 'even inevitable. A Hero's Tale Retold Eve Gartner Song Pierre Gagnier By bell, by bell, by change, By roll and rise of form, From form to flow -- the rock, The threshing cliff (this bone Of mountain interposed) -Threshes the stars. The souls Are threshed from their husks, By water, rock and wind. 1982 4 r I ' body brutally torn and scattered throughout the labyrinth, she offered hiin a gift of love, a clew of thread. But it was more than thread: it was his life and he took the gift in the spirit of love. He must not forsake it for it would lead him out of the labyrinth and he would. be freer when he left than when he entered. So Theseus, whose only hope of freedom was the thread, entered into the labyrinth as into a prison. As he passed through the walls he recalled his past conquests, and relived them each one by one. He walked through the corridors, unwinding Ariadne's gift, knowing that many lives, including his own, depended on his ability to re-trace his steps through those halls.' As he entered the center of the labyrinth he was imprisoned with the minotaur. His blood did not run coid. He was not afraid. He knew that either it must die or he would. Theseus grabbed the minotaur by the hair and this monster--half-man, half-beast--clawed at his face and chest. They wrestled. The minotaur quickly obtained the advantage, but Theseus struggled to get himself on top and finally stabbed the minotaur between the eyes. The hero got up and fled the labyrinth, tracing the thread he trusted would take him to freedom. But as Theseus bravely followed the gift of love, he realized he did not know if the monster. had truly been slain or was merely wounded. Had he been freed of it forever or only given a reprieve? Androgeus, man of the earth, came away victorious from all his contests at the festival. He was the son of the King and he was the best, until the envious Aegeus s~nt. the Marathonian bull to challenge th.is youth of Crete. His muscles were taut, his mind alert as he prepared to wrestle the beast. But the bull did not know the rules, did not care and charged young Androgeus while he stood thinking his brave thoughts. He had no warning; he merely died. Deeds like Aegeus' do not go unpunished and to avenge his son, Minos ordered that seven young men and seven young women be sent each year from Athens to Crete to be fed to the minotaur. Every year as the boat set off for Crete, the chosen youths of Athens knew they would not return and as they set sail they looked back in horror at the city that had ordained their deaths. The third year of this atrocity came, and Theseus, worthy son of Aegeus and hero like no other, volunteered to join the condemned fourteen and try his hand at slaughtering the minotaur. Theseus had no choice. His life was the slaying of monsters, the freeingof men. The boat left Athens with black sails under the condition that if Theseus ,lived and was victorious it would return with white ones. Minos anxiously desired to see the young Athenians who would nourish his monstrosity. So the fourteen youths and maidens and Theseus their hero lined up before him. His daughter Ariadne stood by his side and as she watched Theseus--his shoulder, his thighs--she blushed with love. Unable to stand the thought of this beautiful soul· perishing, of this young * * * * * This story has no author. 5 I pass it on �to you as it was passed to me. I do not know the truth of all I say for I was not there, but though the details may have changed through time, the spirit of the hero Theseus remains. The life of his spirit depends on this tale, on its telling. When we stop recounting his story, Theseus will die. in small ways over time in order to express better the daring, the heroism, the grief. The story-teller, unlike the witness, is not present at the occurrence and thus is not responsible for·accuracy-for the small details, for the literal sequence of things. His absence is a gift of license: he must only be faithful to the spirit of the deeds. Phaedo is Socrates' witness; Plato, the maker of his myth. As Phaedo recounts tqe list of those present at Socrates' death, we learn that Plato was ill. He, like a maker of myths, is not a witness to what becomes his story. In this dialogue it is Socrates and not Plato who has authority. We look to Socrates to inspire in us our opinions and beliefs. This is his dialogue. As Plato himself says in his second letter: "For this reason I myself have never yet written anything on these subjects, and no treatise by Plato exists or will exist, but those which now bear his name belong to ' a Socrates become beautiful and new." (314 c 2) Plato's absence gives Socrates dominion over his own story. Cebes asks Socrates why he, who has never written poetry before, began composing verses in prison. Socrates tells him of a dream he has had frequently in which he is told to "engage in the Muses' art (mousiken) and practice it." (60 e 7) Philosophy, it had always seemed, was the greatest of the Muses' arts and so he had nothing to fear. As his death neared, however, he considered that his dream had meant making "what is ordinarily called music." (61 a 9) So not wanting to displease the gods, he began writing verse. Thus he wrote a hymn to Apollo, whose festival had postponed his death, and then considering that a poet, if he is really to be a poet, must compose myths and not speeches, since I was not a maker of myths, I took the myths of Aesop, which I had at hand and knew, and turned into verse the first I came upon. (61 b 4) I Socrates, the new Theseus, spent his last day with fourteen friends. The followers gathered at daybreak at the court where the trial took place and then walked together to the prison where Socrates was held. They were not in the habit of meeting so early, but the impending death of their beloved teacher and friend demanded special attention, and the earliness of their arrival ensured that they could spend an entire day with Socrates. The fullness of their final day calls to mind Aristotle's observation in the Poetics that "Tragedy endeavours to keep as far as possible within a single circuit of the sun, or something near that." (1449 b 13) Is Plato suggesting that Socrates' death is a tragedy? Let us see. The story begins with Echecrates questioning Phaedo. His first words ring out "Autos, £ Phaidon," and Phaedo echoes back "Autos, 2_, Echekrates." Phaedo speaks in the manner in which one who had seen the death of Androgeus would describe that slaying. He is a witness to an event and not a teller of stories. He saw the death of Socrates, he was there: The "Autos" resounds letting us know that Phaedo himself will present the account "as accurately as he can." (58 d 12) Androgeus died and the minotaur was fed on Athenian youths until Theseus slayed it. These are the facts of Theseus' heroism, but how do they become the myth of Theseus? An event occurs, a lifetime passes, but it is not a story. A man relates an incident to a friend and still there is no story. A story condenses the event to bring out its power, changes it 6 The. taking of a story and making it into another story is at once a creating and a not-creating. How do Socrates' versions of Aesop's myths differ from Aesop's versions? And Plato's telling of Socrates' story: what does he add that Phaedo's account leaves out? In some ways Socrates' description of his verse-writing is reminiscent of Plato's myth-making. Each takes what already is and re-shapes it to meet his need. If Socrates' re-telling of Aesop's stories was the composition of music, is Plato composing music when he tells us the tale of Socrates? The dialogue contains neither chords nor octaves--it is not in verse--but there is a true music in its form. Plato makes Socrates start off slowly, for Socrates must not shock his followers with new ideas, but instead plays for them the same arguments they've heard before. He has an ear for timing and feels the urgency to say certain things before he dies but must wait for the proper moment so that they have the right effect. Socrates has individual modes of addressing each man and expects different things from each of them in return. From his fourteen friends he will not tolerate tears, but from the servant of the Eleven he accepts tears graciously and even remarks on the nobility of his weeping. And from the fourteen individually also, there will be different objections and different responses, and Socrates will treat each uniquely. As the dialogue builds up to its final resolution, we are carried by its music. assert that philosophers practice dying all their lives and thus welcome death when their time comes. Cebes cannot understand how a man as wise as Socrates could "leave us and the gods, who are, as you yourself agree, good rulers." ( 63 a 11) Socrates quickly admits that he must defend himself "as if we were in a law court. " ( 63 b 3) This reminder of his recent trial pains but also comforts Simmias and Cebes · who expect to hear a speech similar to what they've already heard in court. They want · to be re-assured that their teacher is the same in dying as he was in life. They want to be certain that the man whose life they've tried to model theirs after does not regret the things he's said and done. Socrates says he will try to b'e more convincing this time than last time; but when he changes his view from that of the Apology, that death is either "a virtual nothingness" or "a change and mi.gration of the soul from this to another place," (40 c 7) to his statement in the Phaedo that' "I would assert as positively as anything about such matters that I am going to gods who are good masters," ( 63 c 1) Simmias and Cebes do not appear to have heard the . "as anything" which rings so clearly in: our ears. Before Socrates has a chance to defend his view, the first dissonance sounds as Cri to warns Socrates not to talk so much because talk warms the body which retards the effects of the poison and thus prolongs life. It is an absurd warning, but Socrates cannot ignore the image it presents of the cold body quickly succumbing to the spreading poison, nor can we forget that this is more than an apologia. The dialogue is not a defense, but a teaching. Socrates' arguments are not meant to justify what he has done, but to show young men how to think and ask questions about the things that matter to them. As Socrates begins his reasoning, he refers to his followers as "tois dikastais," (63 d 8) as justices, the.name he rightly gives to his just supporters in the Apology. (40 a 3) By using it again here, he lets Simmias and Cebes know that As Theseus entered the labyrinth, He began to unravel the thread. He walked slowly, remembering all the deeds of his days, for though he knew what awaited him, he did not know how he would conquer it. * * * * * Socrates' first dialectical step is to 7 �4 what he is about to tell them, he says because they are his true friends and champions. As they are friends, he will talk to them about what is on his mind; but since they are not aged men, how much will they understand of what he now faces? Old men do not talk to young men about death, they talk to them about life. They do not confide in them their fears or hopes for th'emselves in another world, but rather talk about what they have done rightly or wrongly in this world. They counsel and give advice and reflect on what they've learned. _ Let me propose that Socrates uses the assumption that philosophers desire death as an occasion to say something about life, and not as an argument to defend his choice to die. Let us see what way the arguments in this dialogue address the questions of young men who are on the eve of living in the world without a teacher for the first time. The core of Socrates' lengthy argument defending the notion that philosophers desire death comes from the idea that'the body and the senses--hearing, seeing, feeling, desiring, fearing--obscure thought, and therefore realities, by deceiving the soul. Thus the soul of the philosopher, loving truth, hates the body and does all it can to avoid it and its illusions. Since Socrates defined death as the separation of the soul from the body (64 c 4) , it is this state of death that the philosopher strives toward. Socrates begins to test Simmias on ·the truth of what he's said. He asks Simmias if "we say" (phamen) there is such a thing as absolute justice, and Simmias responds "we say" (phamen) there is. ( 65 d 4) Clearly Socrates is calling into play Simmias' familiarity with one of his favorite ideas--the forms. This is the time to talk about ideas they've shared, not the time to raise new hypotheses. Socrates must help Simmias recall what they have spoken of together, to remember the best things they have done together. He wants Simmias and Cebes to remember these arguments because they are the currency of their friendship.__ These conversations have brought them -together, but once Socrates is gone, Simmias and Cebes will need to begin new arguments on their own. They will try to follow the intellectual path of Socrates, starting off with safe but simple accounts which evolve into more ingenious arguments. Simmias and Cebes will need - a starting place for their philosophic inquiries. Perhaps the arguments of which Socrates seems intent on reminding them can serve this purpose. Once Simmias agrees that they say there are such things as true justice, beauty and goodness, Socrates asks him if he has ever reached any of them with his bodily senses. His answer, of course, is no.· Socrates goes on to elaborate the attributes of the man who could know such things. Several times in his - account he retreats from certainty, saying such things as: "the man who approaches each thing, so far as possible, with the reason alone," (65 e 8) and "who removes himself, so far as possible, from eyes and ears" (66 a 5) and concludes with "Is not this the man, Simmias, if anyone, to attain to the knowledge of reality?" (66 a 8) Simmias, apparently not hearing the uncertain "if anyone," chimes in "That is as true as true can be, Socrates" (Huperphuos hos alethe legeis). (66 a 10) Though Socrates' manner is calm, his hesitancy to assert anything definitely carries over to his own future. He admits that when he gets to where he is going he will, "if anywhere," (67 b 9) find that for which he has been striving. Though Simmias and Cebes are not yet ready to hear these doubts from their teacher, he cannot deceive them with false confidence. Socrates knows about their doubts and thus the argument he tells them is similar to what they're accustomed to hearing from him. In Book Five of the Republic, for instance, he says: Well, now. This is separate them out. side I put those of were just speaking, 8 how I On one whom you the lovers esting that in a dialogue in which Socrates maintains that the body gets in the way of learning, he makes our bodily experience the instrument of learning. If he were truly trying to exalt the unencumbered intellect, why wouldn't he have made an argument l,ike the one - he makes to Glaucon? of sights, the lovers of-arts, and the practical men; on the other, those whom the argument concerns, whom alone one could rightly call philosophe~s ..• The lovers of hearing and the lovers of sights, on the one hand, surely delight in fair sounds and colors and shapes and all that craft makes from such things, but their thought is unable to see and delight in the nature of the fair itself. (476 a 9 - b 6) * * * * * As Theseus rounded a turn in the corridor, he caught sight in the distance of the minotaur'& tail. He shuddered slightly at what lay before him. This account of the body's interference in the pursuit of true knowledge resembles the one given in the Phaed,Q •. and this resemblance must comfort Simmiai:i" ·and Cebes · who do not want to believe that death might change what they've always thought to be true. The argument in the Republic, though, has a different appeal from that of the Phaedo. In the Republic Socrates tells Glaucon that the root of the dichotomy between body and soul lies in the twoness of opposites and therefore the ' oneness of each member of the pair. The deception comes because each is one but shows itself as many through its conjunction with actions and bodies. The true philosopher, he says, is the one who sees the thing in itself apart from its union with the physical world. (475 e 476 c) The argument invites Glaucon to consider what makes something unified and what makes a unified thing appear diverse. Socrates' argument is an appeal to Glaucon' s reason, to his ability to understand and see through the apparent deception that bodies cause. In the Phaedo, on the other hand, Socrates appeals to the bodies of Simmias and Cebes for confirmation of what he has told them. His argument depends on their having bodies so that they may recognize the power their bodies have over them. When Socrates says, "For the body keeps us constantly busy by reason of its need of sustenance," (66 b 9) it is not our reason, but the immediate experience of our appetites whi:ch assents. I_t is inter:~ Cebes agrees with most of what Socrates said, but matters concerning the soul, le observes, are subject to much disbeli~. Men fear that the soul is not immortal, that when a man dies his soul also _perishes. In Cebes' apprehension. Socrates catches his first glimpse of the minotaur which awaits him, of the true monster to be conquered which is the fear of death. Cebes calls for two distinct responses--arqument and proof--to allay his fears of the soul's dispersal. He does not merely want assurance that the soul exists apart from the body, but also that it will continue to have both power and intelligence_ (~ esti ,.!! he psych@ apothanontos ~ anthr~u kai tina dunamin echei kai phron~sin). (70 b 4) This is a strange request, for in what world do dunamis and phron~sis flourish? These are the attributes of the soul functioning on this earth. They are the striving toward and the practical knowledge of a soul acting in an imperfect world rather than a· world of entelecheia and nous. Cebes sets ""\iP the two distinct questions which will concern them for the rest of the dialogue--whether the soul is immortal and whether death is something to be feared. As we will see the two are wholly connected. Before Socrates begins to argue for the immortality of the soul, 9 �he reminds Simmias and Cebes (do they need reminding?) that these ideas and questions are of the utmost concern to him. He warns us not to get too caught up in the arguments and forget the circumstances under which they take place. He lets us know that these arguments are not a game, but the questions they ask raise the most serious problems any of them could face. If we are still supposing, though, that Socrates is trying to teach these young men something pertinent to their own lives, why does he begin to discuss the immortality of the soul? What effects will the soul's immortality have· on the way Simmias and Cebes act in this world? Socrates attempts to show the immortality of the soul by convincing Cebes that opposites come from opposites, and therefore what is living comes from what is dead. This conclusion must show, Socrates claims, that our souls existed in another world. The argument has Pythagorean origins, and so Simmias and Cebes, two Pythagoreans, are probably familiar with its premise, while Plato familiarizes us with this argument at the beginning of the dialogue when Socrates is released from his fetters. Rubbing his newly-freed leg, Socrates observes that pleasure and pain do not come at the same time, but one inevitably follows after the other. Socrates' speculation contrasts sharply with Phaedo' s observation to Echecrates immediately before, that "a very strange feeling came over me, an unaccustomed mixture of pleasure and of pain together, when I thought that Socrates was presently to die." (59 a 6) Socrates likens his notion to a two-headed beast which sets the stage for Cebes to ask about his verse-writing, as well as introducing us to the idea of many-headedness which appears again later in the dialogue. As Socrates begins his proof that opposites come from opposites, Phaedo does not mention that at that moment he is experiencing the contrary feeling of opposites mixing within him. He does not tell his friend that the thought of his death fills him with both pleasure and pain simultaneously. Phaedo is persuaded by Socrates to agree with something that a moment's reflection would tell him isn't true. The discussion, which begins with the example of nobility and disgrace and other absolute opposite entities, quickly changes to a discussion of relative opposite qualities. The emphasis turns to processes Qf generation and becoming rather than being, although Socrates makes no attempt to examine the middle increments of generation which occur before the opposites emerge. When at the conclusion of this argument Cebes quickly adds that the theory ·of recollection is further proof for the pre-existence of the soul, it is clear that the opposites from opposites argument was not convincing. Further proof is needed. But Socrates is in a battle and the individual blows do not matter. All that counts is that the campaign as a whole be victorious. As with the previous argument, we are introduced to some of the reasoning of the recollection account earlier in the dialogue when Simmias and Socrates discuss the existence of the forms. In this context, though, Simmias does not recall the recollection hypothesis and thus himself needs to recollect. Cebes helps him. The hypothesis first appears in the Meno where it is used to show that the soul has already learned everything before it enters the body. The theory is thus an answer to Meno's query, "How will you look for something when you don't in the least know what it is?... [Even] if you come right up against it, how will you know that what you have found is the thing you didn't know?" (80 d 4) Socrates answers that you will recognize it because the soul once possessed all knowledge, and so when you see the truth, you will recognize it because the memory of it exists within your soul. In the Phaedo, in response to a wholly different question, Cebes presents the theory of recollection as Socrates did in the Meno, but now Socrates is not 10 I • satisfied with the explanation and must elaborate upon it. His first elaboration takes the theory out of the realm of the forms and brings it into our world with the example: "Well, you know that a lover when he sees a lyre or a cloak or anything else which his beloved is wont to use, perceives the lyre and in his mind receives an image of the boy to whom the lyre belongs, do you not?" (73 d 5) Socrates does eventually bring the idea of abstract qualities into the discussioni but whereas in the ~ our understanding of the abstract entity enabled us to recognize the physical thing, in the Phaedo, we obtain our knowledge of the abstract form from our knowledge of the physical. "Did we not, by seeing equal pieces of wood or stones or other things, derive from them a knowledge of abstract equality?" (74 b 7) We know that the forms must exist in our souls when we come to the realization that things in this world fall short of what they might be. Socrates asks, "Do not equal stones and pieces of wood, though they remain the same, sometimes appear to us equal in one respect and unequal in another?" And when Simmias agrees and then also agrees that absolute equals do not ever seem unequal, Socrates concludes, "Then those equals are not the same as equality in the abstract." (74 c 3) The world is imperfect and our recognition of that tells us that we are aware of perfection. It is through our senses that we perceive that "all sensible objects strive after absolute equality and fall short of it," (75 b 1) and thusit is our senses which tell us that the forms live within us. The argument concludes by saying that we are born with a , certain knowledge which we acquired before our birth, thus showing that our souls must have existed in another ·world, the world · of the forms. The recollection account in the Phaedo differs greatly from the account in the Meno. It appeals to the experience of Simmias and Cebes with tangible things like cloaks and lyres and not with their recognition of mathematical truths. The· argument is at once a reminiscence of past times and past discussions, a reassurance that Socrates still believes the things he once held to be true and .an occasion for us to wonder why this recollection, in contrast to the recollection of the Meno, is inspired by sensible objects. ~ Socrates asks Sinmias. if all men can give an account of these' things and Simmias sorrowfully admits that though he wishes it were true, "I fear that tomorrow, at this time, there wi11 be no longer any man living who is able to do so properly." (76 b 10) This fear, thouqb perhaps selfish, is based on the realization we all have when faced with the death of a dear friend, the realization that they have something no one else has. At this moment, Sinmias is only thinking of himself, only thinking that he is losing the man who taught him to see the truest things. As Socrates continues to conclude the recollection argument, he is a dying man recalling with his close•t fiends the things that· were best in his life. * * * * * As Theseus entered the center of the labyrinth, the minotaur's eyes beckoned in challenge. Simmias and Cebes each become convinced that our souls existed before we were born, but they still have the fear of dispersal, the fear that the soul is a breath which will fade with a man's last words. Socrates teases them about their childish fears, and Cebes the child dares him to persuade them "not to fear death as if it were a hobgoblin." (77 e 5) Still lightly Socrates tells them to sing charms every day to charm away their fears. We are immediately reminded that this dialogue is Socrate•' song, and Cebes, too, recognizes Socrates as his charmer of fears. "Where shall we find a good singer of such charms, since you are leaving us?" Cebes asks. (78 a 1) Socrates replies in earnest this time, telling them to search 0 11 �, everywhere for such a charmer. He knows that the fear of death is not a childish fear. He knows it is the fear of death which gives power to tyrants, the threat of death which keeps men from acting justly. Socrates must do all he can before he dies to allay their fear of death. He must show them that the danger of death need never determine their actions. In order to assuage their fears, Socrates asks them what things naturally suffer dispersion, and then, he adds, we must see if the soul is that sort of thing. They decide on two types of being: the first--non-composite, unchangeable, invisible1 the second--composite, changeable and visible. The forms fall under the first heading, but things like cloaks are always changing and thus fall into the second category. After some discussion they draw the tentative conclusion that "[the] soul is more like the invisible than the body is, and the body more like the visible." (79 c 1) Cebes, under Socrates' tutelage, determines that the soul has a kinship with the forms and the di vine and thus will be "entirely indissoluble, or nearly so." (80 b 11) This emerges from its context, but in many ways it is utterly different from Socratic thinking. In the Sophist the Eleatic stranger tells Thaetetus that: uncertain in a dialogue where most of the questions raised are about immortality of the soul, yet the forms are assumed from the beginning to be everlasting and timeless. We fear for our souls but have faith in the eternality of the forms. If there were a true kinship between souls and forms, would Simmias and Cebes have anything to fear? Perhaps another way to understand this argument can be found in a pun. Socrates makes Cebes agree that the soul is invisible (aeides) and pure and divine and thus enters the · realm of the pure and everlasting, which is Hades (Haides). Puns can be deceptive because frequently the maker of the pun has a true and meaningful idea when he begins to speak it. The pun seductively enters his mind, and though it is not exactly what he meant to say, before he knows it, it has rolled off his tongue. The speaker gets caught up in the sound of his own words, (in the coincidental (aeides/Haides) and loses the original intention. I do not mean to suggest that Plato sacrificed his meaning for the seductive effects of language, but perhaps the thought process of the maker of puns can be a model by which to understand what Socrates does. Maybe Socrates does not really believe that souls are like forms, but rather that they approach being like forms. (In the opposites from opposites argument the emphasis was on processes of becoming, but there he talks of purity rather than purification. Ought it be different?) This would make sense in the context of its being an essentially Pythagorean argument, for the Pythagoreans believed that man progressively purifies himself in a process that is never completed in life. Perhaps Plato blurred the distinction between purification and purity, between souls and forms, leaving out the middle ground of approach. In a certain way, the process by which souls come closer to being like forms is a non-active activity. Souls approach forms by contemplation which is an activity of stilling, a momentary unchangeability during which we come closest to being If knowing is to be acting on something, it follows that what is known must be acted upon by it, and so, on this showing, reality when it is being known by the act of knowledge must, in so far as it is known, be changed owing to being so acted upon--~11d that, we say, cannot happen to the changeless. (248 d 11-e 4) Here it seems that what is changeless cannot be known, for knowing is a change. Can it be that the forms are changeless and thus not knowable? Even the premise that there is a kinship between souls and forms seems 12 divine. In this way, the motion that Socrates may have chosen not to mention is a non-motion, the approach, a stopping to think. It is interesting, though, that Socrates omits contemplation. Why does he do this? Socrates presents a predominantly Pythagorean argument to two Pythagoreans, but leaves out the process of becoming which is characteristic of that school. Must not he be inviting them to scrutinize, inviting them to search for what he has left out? That type of scrutiny is for later, though, for the time when Socrates will no longer be there. In his absence, he leaves them this argument which does not quite work, as something on which they should spend more time. For now, though, the true battle with fear of death must continue. Let me pause for a moment to look back. The first three arguments in defense of the soul's immortality do not convince me. I assume, though, that Plato did not intend for his readers to be convinced. Socrates' arguments are, like Ariadne's thread, gifts of love. They are gifts to men who will be struggling with something alone and who need confidence that they are heading in the right direction. Simmias and Cebes will soon be facing the trial of living a good life without the guidance of their teacher. These arguments are Socrates' gifts to them so that they may follow this type of reasoning and it will lead them rightly. They are gifts which Simmias and Cebes can keep with them always as reminders of Socrates, for the arguments themselves are reminiscences into the past. When Socrates finished talking there was a long silence and Phaedo tells Echecrates that his teacher was "apparently absorbed in what had been said." (84 c 1) We know nothing of his thoughts but that they were of the utmost seriousness, for he tells Simmias and Cebes, who were conversing between themselves, that they may raise any questions they have about these matters, but "if you are considering anything else, I have nothing to say." (84 c 7) Simmias acknowledges that both he and Cebes have questions to ask, but they were afraid to trouble Socrates with them for fear of displeasing him in his present misfortune. When he says that, Socrates laughs (egelasen) -as both Simmias (64 a 12) and Cebes (62 a 11) had each done once before, when neither of them was in.the mood to do so. Socrates' laughter is the opening measure of his song of death, his gentle music in imitation of the calling of the swans. "I, too, am a swan, " his laughter says, "and my laughter heralds my death as the swans sing in their prophetic joy." Socrates' laughter evolves into words,, and the words are in meter so that he does not lose the song-like nature of his story. He sings to Simmias and Cebes about Apollo's birds, the swans, who like their master are endowed with gifts of prophecy which enable them to see fnto the blessings of the other world. They sing for joy and not for sorrow, and their song welcomes death. Socrates' song is his joy too, not only for what it portends, but for what it is. He revels not only in the story his song tells, but in the telling itself. Does Theseus only look forward to having slain the minotaur, or is there also joy in the actual slaying of the beast? Socrates' song is sung not only· in anticipation of what awaits him, but in the knowledge that the ·song itself is a creation of a better future. Unlike argument which is meant to persuade, Socrates' swan song is meant to seduce Simmias and Cebes into believing that their teacher has seen into the future and knows that death is not to be feared. His song guarantees them of his happiness, for it is the music of laughter. It is not reasoned, but emotional. Socrates charms their fears by lulling them away with tales of animals who are wise and sing in their wisdom. This charming away of the fear of death promises to make Simmias and Cebes lead better lives, for it is the fear of death which threatens to destroy the Socratic tradition of acting rightly for its own sake rather than having one's actions determined by the rewards and 13 �, -punishments which will come from them. In this way the song which proclaims a joyful future plays an important role in the implementing of that future. In Cebes' request that the immortality of the soul be proven, he seems 'to be talking about the soul' s immortality on earth, an immortality of ideas and traditions, an immortality of a way of life. The conquering of the fear of death is part of the struggle to ensure the immortality of the Socratic soul on this earth. Thus this song of laughter is the instrument of Socrates' warfare. Simmias is eager to begin, eager to share his question. But first he confides that he thinks it either very difficult or impossible to decide upon these things during life. One must either learn the truth, he says, or take the best doctrine he can find,and,"Embarking upon it as upon a raft, sail upon it through life in the midst of dangers, unless he can sail upon some stronger vessel, some d\vine revelation, and make his voyage more safely and securely." (85 d 1) Nothing, I think, could be closer to what Socrates feels. Simmias claims that the soul is a harmony which is invisible and incorporeal and divine. The lyre and its strings are bodies and therefore mortal, but what happens when the strings are broken or too tightly strung? The soul, the harmony, must perish. The remains of the body last a long time and then finally decay, but the soul--a mixture and harmony of the elements which compose our bodies--is· the first to vanish. Socrates suggests that Cebes raise his objection before anyone tries to answer Simmias. Cebes still worries that the soul will disperse when the body dies. His fear, he says, can best be expressed by the figure of a cloak, as Simmias' was by a lyre. (See 73 d 4) Which lasts longer, he asks, a man or a cloak? A man weaves and wears out many cloaks in his life, but he dies before the last one perishes. This, however, does not mean that the cloak is stronger than the man, but merely that the man has worn out many cloaks and died with the last one still * * * * * intact. So it is with the soul and the body. The soul lasts a long time and wears out many bodies and is constantly weaving anew that which wears out, but when the soul finally has woven its last and perishes, it is still wearing its last body. The body then quickly decays, · but it has outlived the soul. We cannot know which body will be the last that the soul weaves, but like the weaver who finally weaves his last cloak, the soul eventually weaves its last body and dies. Why does Socrates ask that these two objections--the objections of the lyre and the cloak--be asked together and then refuted together? In Cebes' short account of the soul as a weaver of cloaks, he uses forms of the verb apoluo ten times. It is this word which represents his greatest fear. We cannot forget that it is the festival of Apollo (ApollC5) which gives Socrates the reprieve, Apollo to whom Socrates writes his hymn, and Apollo Socrates claims to serve. Can it be mere coincidence that the symbols of Apollo are the lyre and the bow? Apollo is the god of archery, music and prophecy. It is said of his arrows in the Iliad: At the outset of their struggle, the beast appeared to be winning. When Socrates had finished listening to Simmias and Cebes, he sat surrounded by fourteen stunned men. Even Echecrates just listening to Phaedo recount the incident says, "Now I must begin over again and find another argument to convince me that when a man dies his soul does not perish with him." (88 d 6) They all needed to begin again, to re-think things through, to see if Socrates could confront the fear of dispersal, the final threat. Now you lie in the palace, handsome and fresh with dew, in the likeness of one whom he of the silver bow, Apollo, has attacked and killed with his gentle arrows. (Book 24 - 757) His arrows, though gentle, symbolize his distance. He is, as one of his epithets calls him, "far-shooting Apollo." If there is a connection between the lyre and the cloak and the lyre and the bow, the difference they point to is the opposition between the remoteness of the Apollonian bow and the closeness and protection of the Socratic cloak. The lyre, though, is something Socrates and Apollo share. The music Socrates plays is divine, his prophecies divinely inspired. Part of him is close and present and of the earth, but part of him is with the gods. 14 his feet. He had not just one enemy but two, and even Heracles could not handle that alone. He killed the crab and called his charioteer Iolaus to come help him. It was no longer a matter of pride. All he could think of was that the beast must be killed. Iolaus immediately set fire to a neighboring forest, and with flaming brands he seared the necks of the Hydra as its heads were lopped off, ensuring that no more could grow in their stead. Heracles' task was almost complete. Eight of the nine heads lay at his feet, but the ninth, the immortal head, stared confidently at the hero in challenge. Heracles tried in vain to perform the impossible but finally came to realize his limitations. That head would live forever. - Resignedly, Heracles buried the breathing head under a rock. He would die without seeing it killed. •, Heracles, son of Zeus, wore the armor of the gods when he undertook his labors. He carried Hermes' sword and Apollo's bow, and as he stood in battle, the golden breastplate he bore belonged to Vulcan. Word of Heracles' heroism had spread throughout the land and so he was called on to slay the nine-headed Hydra which dwelled in the marsh of Lerna. The beast would emerge from its abode and wreak havoc on the land, killing cattle and ravaging the country. Defeating it was no easy task: not only was it immense, but one of its nine heads was immortal. Heracles mounted his chariot driven by Iolaus, son of Iphiclus, and they rode to the marsh where the Hydra was said to live. When they arrived, Heracles stepped down from the chariot and went in quest of the many-headed beast. As he approached the springs of Amymone, the hole in which the creature lived loomed before him. He did not move any closer, but shot fiery darts at the hole until the Hydra emerged. It was more gruesome than he could have imagined, and as he grabbed onto one of its arms, it twisted itself about the hero's legs. Heracles beat its heads with his club but to no avail, for when one was crushed, two sprang up in its place. As he stood hopelessly clubbing the heads of the monster, a huge crab began to bite at * * * * * Heracles' strength lies in his ability to seek help, in his capacity to abandon pride for the sake of worthwhile accomplishment. If Heracles had not called on Iolaus, the beast which threatened would have devoured him. The triumph belongs to Heracles, but without Iolaus it would have be.en nothing at all. II Socrates' method of attack differs from that of Heracles. Though he might have divine gifts, they are not armor. He consoled Simmias and Cebes by listening to their fears pleasantly, gently and respectfully and soothed their doubts about his future by acting toward them as he always had. Whereas - his friends met earlier than usual at the courthouse that day, Socrates' habits did not change. He stroked Phaedo's head and played with his 15 �--,-- important than maintaining his pride. hair. Could any of the fourteen men assembled there truly believe that this seventy year old man facing death within hours, listening quietly to friends and playing with the hair of a beautiful young man, was eager to leave this life? As he strokes Phaedo' s hair, Socrates asks him if he will cut it off tomorrow in mourning. When Phaedo nods Socrates gently corrects him saying "You will cut it off today, and I will cut mine, if our argument dies and we cannot bring it to life again." (89 b 8) What would they be mourning? What is an argument such that it has a life? The life of this argument is the life of Socrates' soul, that of intellectual pursuit and virtuous action. · If the argument dies with Socrates, if moral 'virtue vanishes in the face of tyranny, in the face of those who have tried to quell it in him, then Socrates' soul will die. The immortality of Socrates' soul is the immortality of the way he has lived his life and questioned other people about the way they have lived theirs. The fear of death threatens all this. The immortality for which Socrates argues is the immortality of the dunamis and phronesis of the soul--the striving toward and the moral rightness. Argument immortalizes Socrates' soul, for it is in argument that men will continue to ask what virtue and knowledge are, while those who stop questioning will fall prey to the demands of tyrants. The fears and arguments of the Phaedo concern themselves with this world, for the greatest danger that could befall Socrates' soul is being forgotten on this earth. The continuation of the argument is the immortality of his soul. If the fear of mortality ends the argument, then that fear must be conquered. Socrates asks · Phaedo to lead the battle, saying he will help him as Iolaus did Heracles. Phaedo retreats from that responsibility preferring to play Iolaus to Socrates' Heracles. It is all the same, Socrates assures him, knowing that there is no time for discussions of heroism. It does not matter anymore who does what, only that it get done. As Heracles first had to kill the crab which threatened to prevent him from facing the true danger, so must Socrates destroy misology, the hatred of argument, before addressing the real beast, the fear of the soul's dispersal, which is the final reason to fear death. Misology, like the crab at Heracles' ankles, impedes facing true dangers head-on. Confrontations with the most serious questions cannot take place outside the forum of argument, and thus misology is a threat to all serious philosophic inquiry. If Simmias and Cebes come to hate argument, they will have no means by which to address their fears of the soul's mortality. But, if Simmias and Cebes can be convinced never to abandon argument, Socrates can be more certain that his way of life will not perish. Misologyr Socrates says, resembles misanthropy. We come to hate both arguments and men when we think they are perfectly good and true but later find out otherwise. Arguments, like men, are very rarely all true or all false, but we must never revile argument totally, believing it to hold no truth whatsoever. Individual arguments are like single blows struck in a battle: neither is of much importance in itself--each matters only in the cumulative effect. So must we not look for proof in a single argument, but in the discussion as a whole. We ought never to think argument unsound, but should rather realize our own lack of preparation for understanding it. Socrates tells Simmias and Cebes to strive * * * * * Not even Heracles could take on both the Hydra and the crab, and so he called for Iolaus to come to his aid, knowing that winning the battle was more existence elsewhere prior to entering the body. Though he addresses only Simmias' objection, he asks the opinions of both Simmias and Cebes in regard to the recollection account. The bringing of that theory into this argument must have more significance than the refutation of Simmias' idea that the soul is a harmony. He is, I think, testing their affinity for one argument, making them choose between two things which individually seem right. He challenges their ability to revise old thoughts in the light of new ideas. Simmias and Cebes are united in their conviction that it is the best argument given so far, and Simmias goes on to add that he would be surprised if he ever felt differently about it. Socrates plays on Simmias' admission and immediately points out that the harmony account conflicts directly with the recollection argument~ because, in order for the soul to be a harmony, the body would have to exist before the soul so that it could come together in such a way as to create the harmonized soul. When Simmias sees this conflict, he unquestioningly gives up his theory without considering that it might be right and the recollection account wrong. Why does he give up so easily? Why is he afraid to surrender a theory that had once seemed certain but now conflicts with a new idea? Socrates will not let him abandon his account yet and submits another argument against it, hoping that Simmias will attempt to defend his thesis. Socrates objects that the soul can never be more or less of a soul, but there can be different degrees of harmonization, and thus Simmias' analogy collapses. Simm.ias again agrees with Socrates that his account fails, but his acquiescent response is not what Socrates wanted, and so he tries once more to provoke Simmias into argument. Socrates' third refutation of the harmony account is based on the idea that the soul presides over the body and thus cannot be controlled by the corporeal in the way that harmony is determined by the lyre. He chooses an example in support of the dominion of the soul from the ·for this understanding "for the sake of all your future life, and I because of my impending death." (91 a) As he prepares to £ace their objections he warns them: "But you, if you do as I ask, will give little thought to Socrates and much more to the truth." (91 c) He wants them to stop pitying him and themselves and pay close attention to what is being said. They will need these truths for the rest of their lives, and he will not be there to remind them. They have gradually been weaned from hearing only about the past and now must face something new, something they can keep with them to help· carry on the Socratic way of life. As Socrates restates the doubts of Simmias and Cebes, I am struck again "by the question: Why are these doubts expressed and refuted together? When the objections lie side by side we easily see the lyre and the cloak in opposition to the lyre and the bow, but is this comparison with Apollo all that Plato intends by this uncharacteristic structure? Perhaps a clue can be found in Socrates' own words when he suggests that Cebes gives his objection before Simmias' objection is addressed. Socrates says: "Then when we have heard them, we can either agree with them, if they seem to strike the proper note (~ ti dokosi prosaidein), or, if they do not, we can proceed to argue in defense of our reasoning." (86 e 4) The unusual ordering displays a sense of music, a desire to hear the properly struck note--the note to which Socrates must respond by saying what he wants to before he dies. He listens to these objections and searches for that impetus, for he does not want merely to speak unconnected thoughts. He wants his ideas to flow from Simmias' and Cebes' fears as the proper response in a piece of counterpoint. With. both of their objections in front of him, he will have a clearer idea of where he must take them so that they may yield the fruits he hopes they contain. Socrates asks both Simmias and Cebes how they feel about the recollection argument as a proof for the soul's 16 17 -- �dialogues, quoted out of context,. but rather its context adds poignantly to our understanding of what Socrates faces. Our knowledge of Odysseus amplifies what we know about Socrates; for Socrates, at that moment, is Odysseus. He is a man who has traveled and told the tales of his travels. He has encoun.tered men and gods and learned from both. He stands at the gates of the union he has sought for many years, but as the moment of surrender nears, both Socrates and Odysseus feel apprehension. Plato lets us know that he will no longer play games by the seriousness with which he quotes Homer. Irony needs time and there is no more time. Socrates' song, mirrored in Odysseus' agony in the fore-court, draws to its portentous climax in the awareness Socrates shares with Odysseus that the effect of much of what he says will depend on how he utilizes the little time he has left. twentieth book of the Odyssey. As Penelope lay alone in her bed weeping for her husband, Odysseus bedded down in the fore-court of his house unknown to all but Telemachos and Eurykleia. He heard the voices and laughter of the women who had shamelessly slept with the suitors and wanted to kill them all then, not to let them pass another night with the men who were devouring his property. And he thought about the suitors themselves-could he conquer so many? In this yearning to act and his uncertainty in how to act, He smote his breast, and thus he chid his heart: Endure it, heart, thou didst bear worse than this. (Book 20 - 17) Socrates gives this as an example of the soul overcoming the desires of the heart. The soul is a ruler and far more divine than a harmony; in this way the reference to Homer concludes their discussion. At that moment in the Odyssey from which Plato quotes, Odysseus faces much of what Socrates does in the Phaedo. As Socrates has sought death, so has Odysseus longed for Penelope. Each of them, though, has perhaps taken a longer route than necessary to get there out of love for what the world has brought them. For each, one task must be performed before he achieves his goal: setting his city in order. (This cannot be done entirely, but each can make a proper beginning.) Both Odysseus and Socrates realize that their efforts will be more successful if they wait for the right time. Odysseus understands that the slaying of the suitors will be more powerful and shocking if he waits a little longer, as Socrates knows that Simmias and Cebes will be affected more by his words if he waits until they are prepared to hear them. Each must make his heart endure this restraint. The citing of Homer fits in perfectly with Socrates' story. There is no irony. It is not, as is so common in the * * * * * Only one head remained, the immortal head. In this mood of approaching the end of a long odyssey, Socrates begins to address Cebes' objection, calling his friends together to "charge the foe in Homeric fashion." (95 b 9) Let us not forget that the most important step in Odysseus' battle against the suitors was revealing himself as who he was. All else followed simply from that. Before we look at Socrates' response to Cebes' objection, let us think about what it means to say that the soul is a weaver of cloaks. Cebes describes it this way: For if the body is constantly changing and being destroyed while the man still lives, and the soul is always weaving anew that which wears out, then when the soul perishes it must 18 necessarily have on its last garment, and this only will survive it, and when the soul has perished, then the body will at once show its natural weakness and will quickly disappear in decay. (87 d 10) A cloak is not unique to one person but can be shared by several. Many may wear and be protected by the same cloak, as a group of men may share in and agree with the same argument. Socrates arms himself with argument as Heracles does with Vulcan' s golden breastplate, for it is with his cloak of argument that he defends himself against the tyrants and sophists. Socrates' arguments are the weavings of his soul which he wears like a cloak. When he dies, his last cloak will outlive him, and it will be the inheritance he leaves. Simmias and Cebes and the other followers will wear it and make it theirs. They will adopt his arguments, his way of life, but· that cloak will not last forever, and when it starts to tear, they will need to know how to weave one anew. They cannot continue to live off what Socrates created. If the tradition is to be kept alive, it must have new growth, new life. Each soul must learn to weave its own cloak. Before Socrates begins his refutation of Cebes' fear that the soul will ultimately perish, he finds himself in thought. He begins by saying that he will tell them "my own experience" (96 a 2) with investigating the cause of generation and decay. His story is an uncovering, a stripping down. He reaches back. to his first intellectual pursuits and tells of a young man filled with questions about heaven and earth and bodies and why they come to be. This is what he has been· waiting to tell them. He has been waiting to give them a model of how to begin a philosophic inquiry, starting naively and working without a teacher. Socrates wants to ensure that when he leaves them they will not be without the means to continue the lives they've started. As Socrates' story unfolds we learn that his confusion with the questions of physical realities became so great that he abandoned his quest. He then began to search for the cause of the way things are and looked for someone who could teach him that the cause is rational--which Socrates interprets as meaning that things are this way because it is best for them to be this way. He thought Anaxagoras could teach him such things and explain what is the best for all things and good for the whole. He eagerly listened for someone to confirm what he hoped was the truth. He found Anaxagoras' books and read them voraciously, for he wanted to know the truth as quickly as possible• But Anaxagoras called air and ether and water the causes, not mind. Socrates wanted someone to teach the cause and not "the thing without which the cause could not be." (99 b 4) Deciding that no one could teach him such a thing, and still young and in search of the truth, he set out on his second voyage (deuteros plous) to find it for himself. Socrates' series of voyages echoes Simmias' description that man must either find the truth or set sail (diapleusai) through life upon the best doctrine he can find. (85 c, d) Socrates, unable to find the truth about the real cause of generation and decay, embarked on a safe but simple voyage. His second sailing consisted of looking for causes through conceptions and not through the senses. He determined that things are great because of greatness, and small because of smallness. No one can overthrow such an answer. It is indisputable. Socrates speaks to these young men who will soon be alone and without a teacher, looking for answers and not knowing where to look, as he once was. His words are a gift to them--a gift of assurance. He started as they are now and came to see the things he does because he pursued what tried to elude him. He clung to argument but always searched for a better way, a deuteros plous. As Socrates reveals himself, he tells Simmias and Cebes that they too can do what he has done. His words say, "You are right to have hope." 19 �Throughout most of the dialogue, Simmias and Cebes are the only men who respond to Socrates. After hearing, though, that great things are caused by greatness, one of the others--"! just don't remember who it was" (103 a 3) --objected vehemently that this was in direct contradiction with the argument that opposites come from opposites. Socrates praises this unknown man, and in doing so, praises all the unknown men for their attentiveness and interest and for their readiness to speak, even after long hours of silence. This unnamed man is every man who sat by Socrates' side on the day of his death. The safe but simple account is a good starting place, but one ought not be satisfied there. Socrates has a more ingenious account, an account that might satisfy Cebes' objections. The new account does not say that the cause of what is hot is heat, but rather fire. Instead of looking toward conceptions for causes, he looks toward the earth. In this way, snow causes cold and fever illness. But snow does not admit of heat; it must either withdraw from heat or perish. Socrates then asks Cebes to answer his questions, not "in their own words, but do as I do." (105 b 7) He must · go beyond the safe but stupid answer and look fLr the more ingenious cause. It is the soul and not life, he answers, which causes the body in which it is to be alive. And the soul, causing life, does not admit of death ... but here the account breaks down. When Socrates establishes this way of answering he says that things like snow do not admit their opposites and thus either withdraw o~ perish when the opposites approach. In his account of the soul, however, he concludes that the soul does not admit of death and so is immortal, that is, it withdraws at the approach of death. He does not consider the possibility of its perishing. The same sort of omission is made early in the dialogue when Socrates says, "For, if pure knowledge is impossible while the body is with us, one of two things must follow, either it cannot be acquired at all or only when we are dead." (66 e 4) In the ensuing discussion, though, no mention is made of the possibility that pure knowledge is unattainable, as here there is no talk about the soul's perishing at the approach of death. * * * * * Heracles, realizing his defeat, placed the breathing head under a rock. Others might come and attempt what he was unable to do.· The arguments are left open-ended. They are there for us to ponder, for us to think about how they might be concluded. They remind Simmias and Cebes that the work is unfinished, that they must try to go beyond what Socrates has said. Simmias and Cebes must recognize that argument, like purification, is an on-going process, never completed in this life. In the last sentence of the dialogue there is a hint that Socrates' followers realize that. Phaedo says, "Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend, who was, as we may say (hos hemeis phamen an) , of all those of his time whom we have-known, the best and wisest and most righteous man." (118 a 16) The "as we may say" and "whom we have known" seem to show the understanding that their experience has been limited and individual. They do not make sweeping statements about his unmatchable greatness; they simply say that in his time he was the greatest man they had known. This leaves room for Socrates to be surpassed, or at least challenged. And Socrates, I think, wants to be challenged. He wants men to try to do more and know more and question more than he has. By leaving his arguments unfinished or inconclusive, he invites Simmias and Cebes to take up his challenge. In his conclusion, Socrates says, "All I think would agree that god and the principle of life, and anything else that is immortal, can never perish." (106 d 5) 20 But can the theory of the forms ever perish? Can moral virtue disappear from men's actions? Will the ability to oppose tyrants always exist? The greatest fear expressed by Simmias and Cebes is the fear of dispersal, the fear that the soul will dissolve "like a breath." ( 70 a 7) They fear that the soul is a breath, a breath that utters words, a breath saturated with meaning; and thus the re-utterance of the same words saves the meaning, breathes the same breath. The fear of dispersal is the fear that these words will never again come together in this way, with this meaning, and that the Socratic vision will scatter in the political winds. The fear of dispersal is the fear that the cloak, the symbol of the manifestations of Socrates' soul in this world, will fall apart and not be sewn together. The fear of dispersal is the fear that these men, the inheritors of the tradition, will never again come together as brethren, as men who share. the same breath. They came together as followers of Socrates, men who shared the same questions and goals. Socrates brought them together, but who will keep them together. once he is gone? The fear of dispersal is • the fear that what has been good in this life will dissolve with the death of Socrates. The greatest fear expressed by Socrates is not what the future will bring for his soul in Hades, but what will happen to the Socratic ideas on earth. His greatest wor,ry is that the threat of death will keep men from proper action, wil 1 put power in the hands of tyrants. He must show his followers that death does not punish right action but rewards it. He must show them that the peril of death ought never to determine their actions. Simrnias and Cebes and the other heirs will decide the immortality of Socrates' legacy on ·this earth, and so it is they who must be persuaded not to fear death. Even if the arguments in this dialogue do not convince us that the soul is immortal, if we remain uncertain that good deeds will be rewarded in the after-life,· we at least know that no man has ever faced death as serenely, as nobly and as generously as Socrates. He does not cling to life but surrenders it before sunset. If at the beginning we thought that the daybreak meeting foretold an Aristotelian tragedy, a drama that encompasses a full day, we are now assured that the tragedy which might have come to pass did not. As Socrates prepares to drink the poison, he calmly asks if he may pour a libation to a deity from the cup that will bring his death. And this brave man who must die on the charge of impiety is forbidden by the state which thus accused him to pay one last tribute to the gods. He prays, nevertheless, for a fortunate departure and drinks the hemlock. His friends cannot control themselves and weep, not for him, but for themselves, and Phaedo, in his distress, wraps his face in his cloak. We cannot know the destiny of the soul of Socrates, but by following the threads of the myths, Plato invites us to speculate on Socrates' fate. In the first myth, Theseus, by slaying the minotaur, saved himself as well a• the fourteen youths. If the analogy between the two stories holds, then this dialogue which frees Socrates' friends from their fear of death must also save Socrates. How else but in preserving his tradition does conquering the fear of death save Socrates? Theseus left Athens bearing black sails and, having promised his father that if he were victorious, he would return with white sails. When he returned, though, he forgot to change the sails, and so was thought to have been slain by the minotaur. Thus Theseus, believed by all to be dead, returned home in victory. And Socrates? Immediately before Socrates speaks his last words, he uncovers his face which had been covered. In the Phaedrus Socrates covers his head when he speaks words that are not his own (237 a 4) and then uncovers it when he regains his true identity (243 b 6). In the Phaedo Socrates' face is covered while the attendant who gave him the poison 21 �pinches his feet and legs to test for numbness. The attendant tells Socrates' friends that their teacher is growing cold and rigid, yet the man who is becoming numb has his face covered, is not the real Socrates. The true Socrates is the man who replies to Crito's question about how to bury him by saying, "However you please, if you can catch me and I do not get away from you." ( 115 c 4) The true Socrates is the man whose final words are1 "Crito, we owe a cock to Aesculapius. Pay it and do not neglect it." (118 a 8) The true Socrates is not growing numb but is grateful for having been healed. Crito asks Socrates what they can do to serve him, and Socrates tells him: Horner, Iliad, trans. by R. Lattimore, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951) Problems With Kant, Problems With Faith Richard Miller Odyssey, trans. by R. Lattimore, (New York: Harper and Row, Publishers, 1965) Kirk, G.S., The Pre-Socratic Philosophers, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1957) Klein, Jacob, A Commentary on Plato's Meno, (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1965) What I always say, Crito, nothing new. If you take care of yourselves you will serve me and mine and yourselves ... if you neglect yourselves and are not willing to live following step by step, as it were, in the path marked out by our present and past discussions, you will accomplish nothing. Otto, W.F., The Homeric Gods, (Boston: Beacon Press, 1954) Plato, Apology, trans. by H. N. Fowler, (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1914) Epistles, trans. by Rev. R.G. Bury, (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1929) (115 b 3) And what will Socrates have accomplished? Theseus could not have slain the minotaur without Ariadne's thread, as Heracles could not have destroyed the Hydra without Iolaus' aid. Can the Socratic tradition continue if Phaedo does not tell his account to Echecrates? The spirits of Theseus and Heracles die when we stop . telling their stories. What will ensure the immortality of the spirit of Socrates? Meno, trans. by W.K.C. Guthrie in Plato: The Collected Dialogues-edited by E. Hamilton and H. Cairns, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961) Plato, Phaedo, trans. by H.N. Fowler, (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1914) BIBLIOGRAPHY Phaedrus, trans. by H.N. Fowler, (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1914) Anthon, C., Classical Dictionary, (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1854) Republic, trans. by A. Bloom, (New York: Basic Books, Inc., 1968) Aristotle, De Poetica, trans. by I. Bywater in The Basic Works of Aristotle edited by R. McKean, (New York: Random House, 1941) Sophist, trans. by F.M. Cornford in Plato: The Collected Dialogues 22 Kant's Foundation of the Metaphysics of Morals is "nothing rnorethan the search for and establishment of the supreme principle of morality (392) ." This search ends with the categorical imperative, which presents the reader with a rule for moral behavior and an obligation to follow this rule. Before it is possible to embrace the categorical imperative as the solution to man's moral confusion, it is necessary to understand the course of Kant's journey. Is he justified in his final assertion that "the practical use of reason with respect to freedom leads to an absolute necessity, but to the necessity only of laws of actions of a rational being as such (463)"? That is, does the concept of a free will, properly understood, inevitably lead to the supreme principle of morality? I will attempt to answer this question by focusing on Kant's argument in the final section of the Foundation. The first step in Kant's argument to estab.lish the necessity of the concept of free will is seeing the will as a cause in rational beings. The will may be described as free because "it can be effective independently of foreign causes determining it (446)." That is only to say that the will is not deterrnin'ed by the laws of natural necessity, such as gravity. For example, whereas natural necessity governs the fall of the rock from my hand, it does not govern my decision to allow the rock to fall. This decision was prompted by my will; it was caused by my will. Once the will is seen as a cause, Kant's argument continues, it must be seen as governed by some law. This follows because the concept of cause includes laws which establish an effect. This is clear if we return to our example with the rock. In order for something to fall (effect) , it must be dropped (cause); this relationship of cause to effect is governed by a universal law (gravity). Thus, to recognize the free will as a cause implies that it is "a causality according to immutable laws, but of a peculiar kind (446) ." Therefore, the will must be governed by a law. But if this law were imposed from outside the will, it would be indistinguishable from natural necessity. And, as we have seen, the will is understood to be a cause outside the realm of natural necessity. It follows then that the will must be governed by an internally imposed law. But Kant has previously shown that a will which governs itself, which is at once legislator and legislated, will act in accordance with the principle of universalizing maxims. From this we may conclude that "a free will and a will under moral laws are identical (447) ." Thus, once the will is seen as a cause, one is apparently necessarily led to the categorical imperative, i.e. the compulsion to universalize personal moral maxims. But, isn't there a problem in Kant's reasoning here? By treating the will as an appearance, by reasoning about the will as if the categories applied to it, Kant seems to have broken a rule in his own system. Kant states about man that: As regards whatever there may be in him of pure activity (whatever comes into consciousness, not through affection of the senses, but immediately) he must count himself as 23 �belonging to the intellectual world, of which, however he knows nothing further (451) • as being free. It only means that, to be so viewed, it must be looked at in a special way. Thus, Kant can only answer the question by saying that the actions of rational beings presuppose a free will. That is, a rational being regards his will as free, merely because it is his will. If a rational being did not Consider itself as being outside the laws of natural necessity, then all of its actions, i.e. all of its thoughts leading to actions, would be determined by some exterior power. Clearly, man, as rational being, does not view his thoughts as being determined by some law akin to gravity. Thus, all rational beings presuppose a free will. This is not to say that the will is free, but only that it is considered as such. We designate the will as free because we cannot think of it in any other way. So far so good, but how does the imputation of the free will as cause lead to "inunutable laws"? To answer this question, we must turn to the second section. Kant states that: Whatever comes into consciousness through the senses is an appearance of a thing. The rock falls: this effect is part of the world of sense and is governed by the law of natural necessity, the law of the world of appearances. On the other hand, reasoning comes into consciousness spontaneously, without any prompting of the senses. Man cannot speak accurately about this world, for it is the world behind the appearances, the land of the mysterious thing-in-itself. This statement about man's nature appears to disrupt Kant' s previous argument because of the relationship between reason and the will. If the will is part of the intelligible world, then man cannot speak about it and certainly cannot reason about it as if it were an appearance. Kant states that "since reason is required in order to derive actions from laws, the will is nothing but practical reason (412)." It follows from this that the will resides with reason in the intelligible world, the world of which man "knows nothing." The will is an aspect of reason; it is not an appearance. Thus, carrying the empirical implications of the word "cause" into the intelligible world, thereby allowing for the subjection of the will to an "inunutable law," seems to contradict Kant's previous statements about the intelligible world. Is this the case? Has Kant actually become overwhelmed by the very same inclinations that he set about controlling in the Critique? Upon reflection, it is clear that Kant has made no such error. He is saying that if the will may be seen as free, then morality follows. The problem with saying this lies exactly with the objection raised above; how can the will be seen as free when it is not in the sensible world and therefore cannot be described as having any properties? Clearly, in the strictest sense, it cannot. However, this does not mean that the will is not viewed Man and, in general every rational being, exists as an end in himself and not merely as a means to be arbitrarily used by this or that will (428). Man always serves as the end for his own actions. Remove the man and the desire for the ice cream is removed; however remove the desire and the man remains. The ice cream is a means for satisfying the man. Man treats all objects in this way, as a means for accomplishing his own ends. On the other hand, rational beings are designated "persons" because their nature indicates that they are ends in themselves, i.e., things which may not be used merely as means (428) . Thus man qua rational being recognizes all other men qua rational beings as ends not means. This leads to an imperative which 24 governs man' s actions toward man, are effected by the will: same order as gravity, yet it is one that you choose to submit yourself to. Once you have so chosen, the law takes on the force of natural necessity in the intelligible world; namely, you have no more choice of doing what is commanded by the categorical imperative than a rock has of falling;. Again, what makes a man choose to do this? Kant says flat out that "an explanation of how and why the universality of the maxim as law (and hence morality) interests us is completely impossible for us men (461)." In short, Kant cannot explicitly state an incentive for acting this way as opposed to any other. To do so would place an incentive in the will's path which, as Kant says in the beginni'ng of the treatise, debases any action. That is, the will is considered good when it acts without regard to the consequences of the action; the man who does the right thing without expecting a reward or in spite of the punishment that will follow is most highly praised. Nonetheless, ~t hazards a suggestion for complying to this moral system: which Act so that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in that of another always as an end, and never as a means only (429). From this point, the step to the categorical imperative is relatively easy. As we have seen, the imperative stated above falls out of considering man only as a rational being. Man, however, has, if you will, a dual nature: rational and empirical. The imperative becomes categorical when applied to the world of sense. That is, in the intelligible world, all my actions would naturally accord with the imperative; there is no reason for my actions to be otherwise, since man considered as rational acts in accordance with his reason. However, man lives in the world of sense, thus the imperative can only express how things should or ought to happen, not necessarily how they will happen. In the world of sense, natural necessity governs how things will happen. Nonetheless, the imperative is still applicable because it rules over a different domain than the law of_ natural necessity. I cannot will the rock not to fall once I have released it. I can will myself not to drop the rock on my neighbor's head. Thus, the law of the intelligible world does not conflict with the law of natural necessity. Thus, the imperative must still be in effect when man is considered in the empiric~! world, for it does not conflict with the activities of the empirical world. This is Kant's argument. He recognizes the problems with it. Namely, what on earth would compel someone to follow the categorical imperative? What, in effect, makes it binding? Granting the questionable step from the intelligible world to the sensible world, which allows for the governing of the will, as cause, by a law, one comes up with a peculiar law indeed. It is supposed to be a law of the Through the glorious ideal of a universal realm of endsin-themselves (rational beings) a lively interest in the moral law can be awakened in us. To that realm we can belong as members only when we carefully conduct ourselves according to maxims of freedom as if they were laws of nature (462-463). c Obviously, this reason merely explains why the people who do ascribe to this code of conduct do ascribe to it; it is not a compelling argument for those outside the "faith," who have no interest in acting to attain such a kingdom. In light of the fact that there can be no stated incentive for adopting the categorical imperative, one may well wonder at the advantage of adopting Kant's moral system over any other. In trying to deal sensibly with the problems of metaphysics, it seems that Kant has ended 25 �where religion begins: unfathomable -faith. Just as one is never able to state clearly why one has faith in a certain religion, the same problem afflicts Kant's system. One believes because one has chosen to do so. This is the mystery that Kant can never address, as he is well aware; he can only outline what one believes in, not why. Thus, while one may make sense of Kant' s argument, one need not be led to embrace its doctrine. Egg, Beat Her John Keith The irrelevant hen - men will die in a glove Loving like ducks from the earth above. Shooting Mr. Larry O. what self defeat, In a glad bag •.. you know, a ministry. Why! Why! What Why What Love's candied apples devoid of a hut. Black toothbrush seemingly lost, My gash hung up, upside down on a cross. 26 Ho Eni Autos En Heauto Joe DeGrazia There follows an attempt at supplementing Plato's assertion in ·Timaeus (35a-40d) that the motions of mind can be fruitfully compared to the motions of those gods who reveal themselves to us, as they will, in the planets. Both can be seen as moving one way but must be understood as a forced unity of contrary motions. This contrariness makes appearance contradict reality, as Plato asserts at 39a,· except in the period of the whole, measured by a perfect number, when the two motions come around to each other (39). Once upon a time, a casual observer at sunset (an acolyte assisting day's end rituals to Apollo) glanced up as he was lugging all those lustral bowls, and was struck by the new moon in its twilight splendor. Thereafter, he began to watch her each dusk at odd moments: crescent Artemis was at first close by her brother as he finished his daily course; but each day Apollo pulled away a bit from the· moon--call it Artemis' chariot, which set later and later while slowly waxing round. It was as if Artemis were steadily falling behind the far-darter (flagging as her horns blunted) , on some east-west hippodrome course. After what was to come to be called a "moon's" time, honoring the chaste huntress and midwife, our attendant· saw Apollo lap his sister's waning team. What is more, this watching Artemis grow and shrink was eventually to show our lackadaisical youth the whole sta~ry sky. From day to month, as he idly looked up, after sprinkling barley at altarside. twilight, this catechumen began also to notice two very special stars. At one time or another, or perhaps even together, they revealed themselves to him dropping behind the sun as the moon had, though not so quickly, yet along the same broad lane in the sun-wards southern sky. That would be luscious Aphrodite, then, next brightest after Artemis, and next most •conspicuously mutable; she came to trail Leta's son by about an eighth of a lap and then kept pace. And the other star would be mercurial winking Hermes, Zeus' deceitful messenger, slacking off the sun's pace at most only a few lengths. Our apprentice proceeded to watch, no longer bored, but in sheer amazement, as both of those gods got their second wind, then went and caught up to the sun again. Artemis would never keep pace try as she may , he knew, but · he re we re Aphrodite and Hermes actually giving Apollo a run for his money. Our hero's name was Mimas. After he began intently following these wheeling gods into the dusk, he happened also to be detailed to daybreak duty, for some liturgical exigency or- other. As a consequence, he had not much sooner seen the chariots of Hermes and Aphrodite overhaul Apollo from behind (after lagging for a while at nightfall), than he was astonished to spot them again, coming off the turn into the dawn sky, yes, outsprinting the sun's fiery steeds, and gaining on them daily--though, then again, only by just so much and for so long, after which Apollo rather slowly pulled· into the lead again. Time and again this would happen. It was a three-way dead-heat Mimas was following--wi th chaste Artemis sadly ·mismatched, steadily losing ground, and lapped by each of the leaders every thirty c 27 �Sundays, the highest deity's decade-ish Dial, and the generation-long Saturnalia. Odds were taken on exactly how long it· would take for all the gods to return to the same position they had held at any one given time; but to whose progeny could one entrust the ancestral kitty for such a mullimillenial sweepstakes? The priests of Apollo regarded the whole business as profoundly blasphemous. But Mimas was now wealthy enough to style himself a visionary. What a world it was, too, that he envisioned--where all divine entities incline the s·ame way! He had not yet been admitted to the inner-sanctum mysteries, of course; so he renounced 'his vows and meandered off to the city, intending to use his knowledge of the divinities to make book in the bigtime. This heavenly horse-racing through the night sky was something he knew he could lay safe odds on: it was a race that always would end up just as it started, you just played the percentages in between. One night at that race track Mimas chanced to fall in with golden-thighed Pythagoras, who was looking to stake or bankroll his own way to beat the house. Cagily, they began comparing notes, always out for a better tip. or so courses, bringing up the rear. Still, each of the "moons" could be used to determine a leg of the race. Between her waning horns would be the finish line. Mimas took his fellow acolytes to the cleaners, betting on the monthly lucifer. His apprenticeship and initiation seemed to take ages and ages till ordination. The skies had distracted him, however, from the sole worship of golden Apollo into the gilded edges of gambling. During what seemed eons of altar-side sacrificial meniality ("slaying and flaying" as he called it) then holding spits and wreathing wine into the feasting night's nobility, Mimas began to recognize more gods as they played at their off-Olympus track. He realized that some of them were actually faster then the sun, and not just in spurts either; over time, in fact they would lap Apollo running away. The distant bowman seemed not all that swift, then, in the long run; not as precipitous as red-g'laring Ares, who would overtake the sun once every twenty odd times that Apollo sped past Artemis; not as fleet as golden Zeus, who would pass the sun god once almost every twelve of those so-called virginal "months"; nm: as quick as cool-glowing Kronos (edging even zeusl) who would lap Apollo yet more often than that even. Then came the wonder·of wonders! The very backdrop of stars, which our aging novitiate had heretofore counted as fellow spectators at this grand chariot race, those same stars, always keeping pace with one another racing as a single body through myriad lanes of heaven, yet tilting their course to the god's hippodrome, those very stars were absolutely the fastest of all! Mimas soon began to use them to mark off legs of the race. Thus, each time all the stars passed Artemis would thereafter be called a month; they would then proceed to lap Apollo in what we would come to call the Annual Ring, Ares in about two of those, Zeus in twelve or so, and Kronos in some twenty-nine. Or we could give each separate lapping its own race's name: The. Arena, say, which took about a month of ' !. P. . .d~:·t·. ·-t.. ~ . '. '· M. P. M. P. M. P. M. P. M. 28 "There's no way the gods move all the same way! That's absurd! Each has two different motions in opposite directions." "What? you mean they go forward and backward at the same time?" "The gods can do anything they want, can't they? "But that's not even imaginable!" "Think of it this way. The stars move from east to west daily, right? The planets want to move from west to east, however; but they find it difficult to make any headway, shouldering like seagulls into a strong headwind." "That's elegant. But my way is P. M. P. so much simpler." "Nobody ever said the gods were simple, friend--though at times even I have found that notion alluring. But look at it this way. Take your view of things: You say Ares, Zeus, and Kronos all lap the sun regularly, OK? But have you ever noticed anything peculiar about their behavior?" "Well, they all seem to run the same kind of race. I mean, tactically. Whenever each one has rounded the turn into a position less than half a course away from lapping Apollo (you know, just about when you see each rising as the sun sets?) each will sprint a bit first, and then let his horses blow for a while, before easing into the stretch of this leg of the race and catching up with Apollo again." "That's not bad for a guess. At least you noticed one anomaly. What you mean, though, is that they are then stationary and regressing at opposition." "Stationary my eye! And how can you say the gods regress?" "You have to get that flighty race-track image out of your head. That's just poetic license. Your true scientist only uses such talk to make book with. The truth is quite the opposite. What you call. the fastest god is really the slowest. You've got it backwards." "It works just fine by me. You name the leg, I'll pick the winner. And also it's what I see happen." "That's a mere hayseed knack you've got worked up for yourself. But what you haven't got is the vaguest notion of divine essence. Gods wouldn't M. P. M. P. M. P. M. P. M. P. M. P. 29 be caught dead easing up on their reins to breathe their steeds. Who ever heard of divine horses wind-broke with heaves?" "Why do they slow down and afterwards speed up again, then?" "They don't--that's the point. It is just plain unthinkable that they should • "Didn't I 'think' of it?" "You can't have been, strictly-speaking, thinking when you came up with that notion. You seemed to understand that divine motion was regular--as far as concerns what you called 'lapping' at least. But you didn't delve deeply enough, much less rigorously at all. Divine motion must be intelligible, thoroughly." "Hey, wait just a minute! Didn't you just say the gods can do anything they want?" "Would the gods want to be deviants? truants? Would the gods want to be untrue to themselves even just for aft instant?" "Zeus took a shine to Ganymede, didn't he? And he's been bulls, eagles, swans, money -all sorts of things- when he's on the make. That sounds like 'being untrue' in some sense, no? to Hera anyway." "That's hokum, it's old hat, corn, a thing of the past. That's ikonizing the gods into the shapes of their appearances." "That's the way they reveal themselves!" "No! The truth is quite otherwise. Just the opposite of what you believe you think." "Now I only 'believe' I think!" "It's not knowledge you're dealing with, so it's not �thinking you're doing about it. That kind of stuff is all for the birds. You can't even begin to explain how regular lappings can have irregular stretch~s." M. "So what? At least I don't boss the gods around." P. "All you do is ascribe a rag tag irregularity to them. And it makes all the difference in the world. You're just conjecturing from the way things strike you, believing whatever makes sense, mere opinionated sensation. You can't even know what you're talking about, when you act like that. What you think about must, absolutely must, revolve around itself as your mind does. Divine motion must be uniformly circular and even, like thought. And knowledge is dimensionless revolution." M. "Yeah? Well don't bet on it: my mind wanders, and so do my gods. A fig for your circular. thinking." · At those words , Pythagoras sighed and turned away. Our prodigal acolyte was bursting with so much zeal, however, that he turned himself in no time flat into a denizen of the air, the mocking bird, and promptly fluttered off. Pythagoras chose to ignore what may_ have been construed to be an omen: after all, his were the ways of science. It was merely poetic justice, he thought, that such a transformation should take place: such is the lot· of those who take things at face value. There is nothing auspicious in their flightiness. Thus it is , however, that time out of mind Mimas has come to haunt what would come to be known as the Academy. From that night o~ he could always be heard perched among the light-mottled sycamores regularly enchanting the stars with litanies ornithological, his trove of bird call lore. There must be a moral here somewhere. One might argue that· Mimas'. opinions were true, but the figures he backed them with were not mathematical--call them statistical, perhaps, rather than geometric figures. The figure of heaven's racetrack remains moot. What we can "know" of it shows that Mimas did "indeed" put the cart before the horse, though--for if the gods are racing, as we "know" it, it's in the other direction, and all positions are reversed. Artemis, the last, will be first, moving eastwards against the onrushing µniverse, progressing about an outstreched arm's hand span a day. Hermes and Aphrodite , jockeying for second place, manage to move a handspan or so against the framing stars, in the time it takes Artemis to lap them. Ares is twice that slow, Zeus some twelve times slower, and aged Kronos the first becomes last, almost three times as slow as Zeus. Sic transit gloria coeli, and with it the notions of mind. But maybe the change did them good. You figure it out. 30 The Mirror Held Up to Nature: A Study of Imitation in Don Quixote George Iannacone Gaul can do battle with giants and wicked enchanters, although no such are now found in the world. The men of the past can appear stronger and more courageous than ourselves, for they are extraordinary as the world they inhabit. The ingenious gentleman of La Mancha, _however, did not live in the distant past, ·nor in some far away land. He is forever a contemporary of his readers, inhabiting the same ordinary wo-rld: ·· To •· Fruly understand the contemporary sense in·which Don Quixote is written, we might bear in mind an analogy between the world of chivalfY and our own romanticized "wild west". Quixote would then be analogous to an imitator of gun-slinging heroes in, perhaps, modern day Kansas, mistaking fast food hamburger stands for bawdy saloons. Unlike the books of chivalry, Don Quixote's book is not written according to the poetical system of things. All which happens in this book is possible in our world as well. As the story opens, its hero is a nameless old gentleman who has spent much of his life reading fantastical books. During these years the distinction between the poetical world of knight errantry and his own rather uneventful existence became blurred until he slipped into a world of dreams in which he too slew giants and matched wits with malicious dwarves. The old man gave himself the name, Don Quixote de la Mancha, and assumed the identity of · a noble knight. The real world of experience was transformed into the world of his poetic imaginings as Don Quixote began to live his fiction. The suggestion of a cowboy riding past hamburger stands brings to mind a comic picture. Such was the p~cture "Poets have formed what they call the poetical system of things which, though it be believed neither by themselves nor their readers, may be esteemed a sufficient foundation for any fiction." Hume: Treatise on Human Nature The poetical system of things, according to Hume, is one in which we understand by 'Venus' or 'Mercury not a living entity, whom we find in the world of our experience, but a fictional being, whose existence is granted in a realm to which we do not belong. This other realm takes its name from the Greek, poiesis, the act of making, which Aristotle describes in his Poetics as a process of imitation, mimnesis. Poetical imitation describes not what has happened but what may happen. A poet's characters must remain consistent, and his plot must unfold according to the laws of probability and necessity. Historical imitation, in contrast, relates events as they actually transpired. In a history, the criterion of truth is experience, a criterion from which poetry, by its very name, has been freed. A poet may include gods or monsters in his play beca~se his art requires us only to pretend belief. He int reduces this pretended belief, as Hume says, be separating the poetical system of things, in which his story lies, from the world of our experience. To achieve the separation of the poetical and historical worlds, poets often remove their stories in time or place from their audience. The tales of knights-errant are set in the distant past, so that the deeds of their heroes may appear possible. Thus, Don Amadis of 31 �,. '! .I presented to the first readers of Don Quixote. The book begins as pute comedy and Quixote is its clown. This comedy originates in the disconnection between the hero and his world. Don Quixote believes the poetical system of things to be literally true, but his contemporary setting makes that belief appear ridiculous. Quixote's madness consists in his attempt to imitate the heroes of chivalry. During his first and second sallies he demonstrates a thorough knowledge of the rules of knight errantry. These rules can be sUlllllled up in five general formulas: 1. A knight errant must have a lady love to whose name he dedicates the honors he wins in battle. This rule is _t~e most important, for "A kni1:11!t ·without a lady ~ove is like a body ·without a soul." Quixote _~ust remake the world of his own · experience for his actions to be real since he is his own hero and the world is his Stage. His story is presented to us by a narrator who shows that Quixote's transformation of the world is only internal; Spain remains untransformed despite him. Were Quixote his own chronicler, however, we would see Spain through his own poetic eyes. Rocinante would be a noble steed, La Mancha a rich land of gold and pageantry. Instead it is a dusty plain and on it rides a comic fool who dreams a better world. Quixote's comic appearance results from the fact that he does not relate his 1 own adventures. Thus, the comedy o:t: Don 1Quixote rests on_ a problem of authorship. -~e___ ~s portrayed as a bumbling old fool who thinks himself a noble knight. But "The cleverest character in a comedy is the clown," as Don Quixote says, "since he who mqkes hi,self out to be a simpleton cannot be one." Quixote knows that in the eyes of others he must appear comic, but his actions have a nobility which transcends this apparent comedy. This nobility he demonstrates in his penance in the Sierra Morena. Don Quixote undertakes his penance to win renown and to prove himself "the most complet§ and absolute knight errant in the world." He plans to imitate the penance of Don Amadis of Gaul, the greatest knight in chivalry. Quixote compares himself to a painter who studies the best originals to achieve perfection in his art. Sancho points out, however, that this knight had reasons to suffer, whereas Quixqte has none. In Quixote's reply to this objection can be seen the true nobility of his calling and a knightliness which transcends that of his model: "That," said Don Quixote," is the point of the thing, that is the beautiful part of it. What thanks does a knight errant deserve for going mad when he has good cause? The thing is to go out of my head without any occasion for it, thus letting my lady see,i! I do this for 1 opportunities that may and do make of us famous knigJits as well as better Christians." - 5. The adventures of a worthy knight errant are written up in books to serve as an example of virtue. 4. A knight can be assured of final success, in which he wins his lady's hand and perhaps a kingdom: "As a reward for his valor and the might of his arm, the poor fellow could already see himself crowned Emperor5 of Trebizond at the very least ••.. " He then bestows the governorship of an island on his squire, in return for his services. These formulas for knight errantry are empirical laws, derived from the only source of such knowledge, the histories of knights errant. For this reason, the fifth rule, with which this paper is chiefly concerned, is as important for a true knight errant as any of the others. When Don Quixote pronounces himself a knight errant, his actions and his world conform to these rules. Ordinary things become poetically transformed into the stuff of Don Quixote's worlg. A skinny old nag becomes Rocinante, the horse before all other horses. Everything met with by Don Quixote, he names anew, except his squire, who is content to be Sancho Panza until the day he dies. The power of naming is a poet's power, not a knight's. So too is the power to turn ordinary circumstances into knightly adventures. When Quixote remakes the world, he is acting as a poet and thus is the author of his own tale. The hero decides each of his adventures as they take place, thus actually making his own story. Quixote's imitation of knight errantry differs from that of a conventional poet in that he is the hero of his own story, a unique and original imitato.r. A writer can make the actions of his hero appear realistic by setting him in a world where they are pos~ible. 2. In a knight errant' s world live monsters, enchanters, bandits, and renegade knights. The enchanters are capable of casting spells over whole lands and aid or oppose knights as they will. In this world a knight errant can expect to find numerous adventures in which to prove himself and win renown. 3. A knight errant "would right every manner of wrong, placing himself in sifuations of the greatest peril." In addition to the qualities of courage and justice, a knight embodies all the Christian virtues: " In confronting giants, it is the sin of pride which we slay, even as we combat envy with generosity and goodness of heart; anger with equanimity and a calin bearing; gluttony and overfondness for sleep, by eating little when we do eat, and by keeping long vigils; lust and lewdness with the loyality to those whom we have made the mistress of our affections; and sloth by going everywhere in the world in search of 32 l her in t~ dry, what I would do in the wet." This is a true gem of Quixotic wisdom. Don Quixote's penance involves a greater suffering than that of any knight found in a book. Quixote's suffering for his lady is compounded with his suffering for an occasion to demonstrate his love. For his lady, Quixote endures not only a conventional penance but the comedy occasioned by his lack of an apparent cause for his actions. All Quixote's actions now appear in a new light. They are not justified by any cause that can be found in his circumstances. Quixote acts as he does · because such is the way of knight ·errantry. He who does a great act simply for the nobility of its purpose is a .greater knight than the-Dne---Who is allowed · that act by circumstance. Circumstance allows Quixote few opportunities to demonstrate his bravery; indeed, circumstances are his greatest adversary. His courage in the face of such an enemy, however, is dauntless. Don Amadis of Gaul must be brave in the face of attacking lions, but Don Quixote de la Mancha must contend with lions who refuse to come out of their cage. This is Quixotic courage, the courage of a man who retains his dignity despite the mockery made of him by the world. ' From his penance onward, : Quixote's face acquires a gravity and nobility it did not have before. His lordly mien shines above the comic spectacle of the captive brought home in a cage. We see that it is the world that has misunderstood Quixote, not Quixote the world. Henceforth, when we laugh at his comic exploits, we realize that this comedy itself is testament to Don Quixote's noble suffering and courage. As I hope I have shown, Quixotic suffering and courage are greater than those of any of his models. Quixote fights his battles with his own circumstances. He reasons that these circumstances are the work of some evil enchanter who renders the world ordinary. Since he believes in this enchanter, the 33 �capture of Quixote is not his defeat, for it leaves his faith in his own powers of poetic imitation intact. Held prisoner in his own village, Don Quixote hears the news that his exploits have been recorded and published. This news does not surprise him, for the deeds of a great knight errant are essentially imitable (rule 5). All worthy knights are written up in histories, for, by definition, their actions are spudaiai: "If it were true that such a history - existed, being about a knight errant, then it must be eloquent and lofty in tone, a splendid and distinguished piece of work a~i veracious in its details." In reality, Book I of Quixote's history has been anything but lofty in tone. For the most part the knight has been port rayed as quite ridiculous. In his own eyes, however, his adventures are very serious and he is to be admired for his quixotic courage. Although he is not surprised that he is imitable in writing, Quixote wonders how his histories have been so rapidly reported and compiled. The simultaneity of Quixote's life and his book introduces a fictional problem: If author and hero inhabit the same world, how is it that they never meet? Quixote offers the only plausible solution: the book is the work of an enchanter. If this is so, then Quixote indeed inhabits the poetical realm of knight errantry, since the second rule has been proven true. Therefore, the giants Quixote did battle with really were giants and were made into windmills by enchantment. The author has portrayed these giants as if they truly were windmills. He has thus deceived us into believing that the world is ordinary and that Quixote is a fool for thinking otherwise. Therefore, he is the same evil enchanter who renders Quixote's world ordinary: the knight's mortal enemy. Quixote is especially anxious, because his enchanter is a Moor, Cid Hamete Benengali "and from the Moors y~y could never hope for any word of truth." The purpose of his calling, according to Quixote, is "to serve as a pattern and example to future ages wherein knights errant may see what steps they should follow if they would climb to t£2 honorable summit and pinnacle of arms." Only for a Moor would Quixote's Christian calling of knight errantry be a subject for ridicule. This is the reason for Cervantes' choice of Benengali as an intermediate author for Don Quixote. Cervantes himself is an author Quixote has read (see Book I, Ch. VI) and therefore cannot be an enemy to the knight. His book, Galatea may well have contribute~ to Quixote's ideas of proper imitation. In proper imitation, according to Quixote, the author remains true to the characters of those portrayed. He should omit details which tend to discredit the hero, as did Virgil in his Aeneid, for, as Quixote tell us, "Aeneas was not so pioy~ as Virgil would have us believe." Cervantes shows us that he agrees with Quixote's ideas in his introduction to Ch. v, Book II. He considers the chapter apocryphal because it introduces Sancho speaking in ·a style untrue to his rustic character. Benengali, on the other hand, entreats the readers at the beginning of Ch. VIII: "Blessed be Allah the mighty .•. and declares that he utters these blessing on finding that he has got Don Quixote and Sancho back into the field and that the readers of his delightful history may reckon that from this point the exploits and humor of the knight and his squire begin. He begs them to forget.the past knight errantries of the Ingenious Gentleman, and fix their eyes on those which are to come and are now beginning on the road to Tobosa, just as the ot£~rs began on the plain of Montiel." He considers Quixote's discussion of proper imitation of little interest to the readers. The first seven chapters of this story are of great importance, however, for as we have seen, Quixote would reject 34 his cfiaracter is extraordinary~ he is the greatest knight errant in all the world. Further, since the author is an enchanter, the world Quixote lives in is a made world, a product of poetic art. If Quixote could defeat this Moorish enchanter, his true knightly character would shine forth. To defeat Benengali, Quixote needs ' the aid of a friendly enchanter, one who agrees with his theory of imitation. The problem of authorship,· which binds the book in comic satire, can be solved only by recourse to a higher author. Even this author, however, must 1 be left behind as Quixote descends into • :the cave of Montesinos. Quixote descends alone into this cave and ._~i~ ._ !s the sole account of what took . place there. This adventure is -of- Quixote's own authorship and so befits the noble knight. It is Quixote's own imitation of the wandering hero who descends into Hell to receive a vision of his great task. Unlike Aeneas who may be considered the model hero of this type, Quixote ascends from the underworld only to have his great vision disbelieved. Benengali considers this adventure apocryphal because it exceeds all reasonable bounds. He agrees with Sancho, however, that the knight would not lie about such things and leaves the truth of the matter to the judgement of the readers. This adventure is the great secret of Don Quixote. His own squire does not believe it took place: "For it's my opinion, begging your warship's pardon, that it was all fraud and ficti?15', or at least that you dreamt it." In his descent into the cave, Quixote leaves behind the world of our experience and goes where our eyes cannot follow. The adventure he relates is one with those of romantic chivalry, a world found only in books. All found there are poetic personages who have been imprisoned in this underworld by evil enchanters. They have been waiting for Don Quixote to come and dispel the charm which hides them from the light of the world. This great his written imitation as the spurious work of an un-Christian enemy. Quixote's discussion of imitation introduces another aspect of the fictional problem mentioned earlier. Until now, we as readers have assumed that the Quixote we see in print is the only one there is. Now, we realize that there are, in fact, two Quixotes. The first is the noble knight errant authored by Quixote himself. The second is the comic fool who mistakes inns for castles and street tarts for damsels in distress. This problem is unique to Don Quixote because Quixote is himself an imitator. He has decided who Quixote is and what his actions should be ' by the five rules of knight errantry. He has set down guidelines for his portrayal in accordance with his theories on imitation. Benengali ignores these ~µ,idelines, providing details which discredit the. hero and make him out to be a fool. This is the same problem of authorship mentioned - earlier, now in greater detail. Quixote is not only the author of his adventures,but the critic of his chronicle as well. This problem of authorship will become important in the later part of the book, when Don Quixote encounters his readers, the Duke and Duchess. He is misunderstood by these readers because he has been misrepresented to them. The news of his history has been reported to Quixote by Sanson Carrasco. Sanson defends Benengali's portrayal against Quixote's charge that it is a false imitation. To remain true to a hero's fine character, he says, is poetic imitation, but Quixote's story, is a history and an historian must remain faithful to literal truth. An historian, according to Sanson, must add or omit nothing to what has taken place, on any pretext whatsoever. This distinction between poetry and history is in complete agreement with that of Aristotle, referred to at the beginning of this essay. Since Quixote inhabits the contemporary world, there is nothing extraordinary about his circumstances. Thus his book is a history. Quixote believes, however, that. one 35 �adventure is marked for Quixote alone. His task is to raise the poetical world up to the plane of experience. This task is the resurrection of chivalry, the aim of Quixote's noble undertaking. The underworld in which these : personages are imprisoned is the realm invented by the writers of romantic books. It is like the island in Shakespeare's The Tempest in which the enchanter Prospero holds spirits imprisoned by his art. Like Prospero, and Shakespeare himself, the writers of knight errantry are artists. Imitation is their craft but it is Don Quixote's life. His task is to free poetical characters from the prison in which they have been bound by art. To do this, Quixote must change imitation from the -exclusive province. of art into the domain of honest, simple men. He must defeat art on _its own territory and make the world poetical. The second of these two objectives is realized in Don Quixote's battle with a mock image of himself: Sanson Carrasco. j Sanson Carrasco is introduced into the story as a Bachelor of ~~s. He is described as a "rare comedian" . and a man "of a malicious disposition (who) would delight in nothing more than making 1 6port for himself, by ridiculing others." His admiration for Quixote is pure artifice; Sanson plays the part of a loving admirer of Quixote's chivalry and laughs at the success of this deception. He is delighted by the spectacle of a foolish old man who thinks he can become a knight errant simply by acting the part. Duplicity is the word which best describes Sanson's imitation of admiration; he has a double soul. Quixote, in contrast, is a simple man. Sanson will never consider this simplicity noble because the ingenuous old man cannot distinguish artifice from honest action. The greatest artificer is the Devil himself, who can assume any shape he wishes. In league with this evil power is the puppet master, Don Pedro. Although his presence in this story is brief, Don Pedro is important as an example of the villainy of art. He is the pattern from which Sanson and the Duke and Duchess are pressed. Don Pedro is the same Ginesillo de Paparilla, the former galley slave, who stole Sancho's ass in the Sierra Morena. This attempt was so artfully done that it escaped even the attention of the author. Don Pedro is a master of disguises and has no peer in knavery and deception. Appearances are the stock of his trade and his skill lies in deceiving simple souls such as Don Quixote and Sancho. He is not an enchanter, but merely a trickster, capable of playing many roles, like the joker in a deck of cards. One role of Don Pedro is that of a puppet master, in which he parades images before our eyes. This. is his natural role, for the purpose - of his art is to manipulate men like puppets on a string. To Don Quixote and -Sancho he presents a story of romantic chivalry: that of Don Gayferos' rescue of his wife from the Moors.· All goes well with the performance until that moment when the Moors close in ·on the fleeing lovers. Don Quixote can no. longer control his fear for the knight; he stands up, draws his sword, and hacks the pasteboard Moors to bi ts. For Don Quixote, the puppets became the people they were meant to represent. Quixote ls the first human being ever to cross the inviolable line between the audience and the stage. He identifies so strongly with Don Gayferos that his dramatic fear is no longer pleasure, but pain. Don Quixote is deceived by this artist into taking pasteboard figures for real people. So too will he be deceived by the Duke and Duchess. Quixote may lose himself in a drama of knight errantry but he knows the value of the stage. In a discourse with Sancho, he speaks of the actors and writers of the stage holding mirrors before our eyes. "Nothing is able to give us a more just idea of nature, and what than we are or ought to 17 be, comedians and comedies." The 36 • 1_, rare comedian Sanson Carrasco believes that the ridiculous picture painted of Quixote in Book I of the knight's history gives us a just idea of Quixote's true nature. He- disguises himself as a knight errant, and stages a meeting with Don Quixote. Sanson's imitation _of knight errantry is by art, for he believes neither Quixote nor himself to be a knight. The motive for his disguise is to give Quixote a true knightly adventure, one in which he must fail. Since Quixote is actually a bµmbling old fool, the bachelor can be assured of the battle's outcome. No one will be hurt and this madman will be proved a counterfeit knight. This artificial encounter is a trial by combat for Quixote, for Sanson challenges his very identity as a knight errant. As the sun rises on their contest, Quixote beholds the Knight of the Wood wearing, for his armor, ,a coat of mirrors. The man who holds this mirror up to nature refuses to show his face or to reveal his name. He is no-man, the incarnate power of artful imitation. His claim is that of the artist: we imitate only by hiding our true identity. Quixote believes, however, that by imitation we become what we truly are. He believes that poetry is a transformation, not deception. The power of poetry to transform a man is at stake in this battle. The battle with Sanson Carrasco would never have taken place were it not for Benengali's history. Quixote's picture of a knight errant has been reproduced in print and comes to challenge him as a flesh and blood knight. Held up to Quixote is a distorted mirror, intended to reflect back the image of a comic fool. Standing before him is an imitation twice removed, reflected by both Benengali and Sanson. The conception of Quixote's book as a history, which both men share, is occasioned by their opinion that our world is not extraordinary. The world Quixote has constructed is, therefore, a fiction. A defeat of this mock knight would demonstrate a correspondence between Quixote' s poetical fiction and the world of his own experience. It would render the real world poetical. This artificial adventure becomes real as Quixote triumphs over the mock knight. Although the duel itself is real, since Quixote does battle with and defeats . a real man, the expected does not happen. The manner in which the knight vanquishes, ~is opponent is so strange and unlikely, 1t could only happen to Quixote. In a word, it is characteristically quixotic. With a thrust of his lance, Quixote has broken the spell which bound his adventures in ordinary circumstances. At last his book has become true to the character of its hero. Quixote has succeeded in making the world poetical. Quixote's success in this battle supports his view that his book is the work of a poet, not an historian. The poet is Cervantes, true author of Don Quixote. He has quietly supported Quixote's views on proper imitation and now intervenes in the chronicle on the part of his hero. He is the friendly enchanter of greater power than Benengali for that writer is his own invention. Quixote's victory is a miracle of the author's own making.. It is the most subtle Deus ex Machina ever performed on the stage. With a stroke of his sword, Don Quixote cut poetical imitation Jree from its moorings in the past and allowed it to sail the uncharted waters of his own present time. He has demonstrated that our own circumstances can truly conform to our poetical vision of ourselves. He has defeated art on its own territory, forcing Sanson Carrasco to take this knight errantr:'l seriously, if he is to defeat Quixote. Take it seriously he does; Sanson now wishes not to deceive Quixote but to truly defeat him. He plots another scheme, not as a joke, but in deadly earnest, .to defeat Quixote in a true battle. This battle, and its consequences will be the subject of the last section of this essay. Don Quixote's defeat of Sanson Carrasco makes him a successful knight errant in the world, as well as in his own imaginings. His aim to defend the poor 37 �and oppressed may now be realized. Quixote, however, is no ordinary knight,· but an imitator, who looks to poetry as the schema for his actions. In an advent~re which follows, the role of this imitative hero can be seen. To thi~ adventure I now turn, to derive the lesson of Don Quixote. In Book I of Quixote's story, he is told two tales of romantic intrigue. Within his own tales these are fictions, such as "The Story of One Too Curious for His Own Good" . In the second Book, however, Quixote and Sancho are invited not to hear such a tale, but to be present within one. This is the story of Poor Basil. The student recounting the story thus far, compares it to that of Pyramus and Thisbe, which Don Quixote has just heard recounted in a sonnet. He judged this sonnet to be the work of an absolute poet, meaning that it ends as it should, with the two lovers joined at last. The story of Basil and his love, Quiteria, is prevented from ending as it should by the rich Camancho who would have Quiteria for his own bride. At Comancho's wedding, a play is performed which reflects the story's action. The contest between weal th and love in the play ends as it should, with the forces of Cupid winning the day. Basil's story is in need of a champion of romance and poetry for the proper completion of its action. When Quixote sees the play, he recognizes that Basil's champion is his role to play. By holding a mirror up to Quixote, the writer of this play inspired the knight to noble action. Such, also, is the purpose of Don Quixote itself, for it is the work of an absolute poet. In it we find a character, Don Quixote, who has the courage and noble purpose to imitate the actions of the stage in life itself. We, the readers, can see in Don Quixote a role worthy of imitation in our own lives. This imitation of Quixote becomes explicit when he meets his own readers within the course of the book itself. As the sun is setting on the day of. their adventure with the enchanted bark, Don Quixote and Sancho emerge from a wood, cross a meadow, and are received into the\ company of their readers. The publishing of his history during Quixote's own life made such a crossing possible. When he sallied forth a third time, it became inevitable that the world of Quixote's actions and that of · his readers would finally intersect. The wood from which Quixote emerges signifies an obscurity between these two; it is a wood between worlds. On one side of this wood Quixote is seen as a man; on the other he is known only as a character from a book. I have described Quixote's crossing from the audience to the stage when he cut apart the cardboard-Moors. Now he crosses that line again, this time from the other side. This crossing is an intersection of worlds on two levels. The first is the one just described. For the Duke and Duchess, a character from a work of imitation has stepped into their midst. Having been delighted but not instructed by Don Quixote, they yearn for more Quixotic adventures. The Duke and Duchess do not wish to have these adventures themselves, however, since they consider them comic and those who laugh loudest at others wish least to be laughed at themselves. On this side of the wood, Don Quixote is known only as the fool of nature. The cause of this misunderstanding of the knight is his misrepresentation by Benengali. It was Benengali' s art which first made Don Quixote appear comic. When the knight appears before the Duke and Duchess, they do not seek the reasons for his madness nor attempto to understand his undertaking. Like Sanson Carrasco, · they only pretend to believe Quixote' s knight errantry. In their wicked minds the Duke and Duchess devise artful imitations of Quixote's own poetic imagination. They dupe him into thinking that he has at last found the world of knight errantry. The second crossing referred to earlier i.s this belief of Quixote's that he has entered the realm of chivalry. In fact, he has entered the prison of art. The contrivances of the Duke and Duchess bind Quixote with chains he cannot see. 38 . •I His hosts usurp his tale with adventures of their own design. Their ill contrived and overdone designs have all the imperfections of the storier 8 of chivalry. In the words of the canon, venting h,.is spleen on such works: own tale, in its simple poetry, has transcended the works he is imitating. When Don Quixote thinks he has finally become a true knight, he has, in fact, become the fool of art. Deception is not the lesson of Don Quixote but it is the only one the artful soul can learn. Don Quixote• s true tea~hing is learned only by his simple squire, Sancho Panza. Sancho is as free from craft as his master and his is the ·. only true imitation of Don Quixote. Sancho Panza is given the chance to author his own story in the adventure of the 'flying horse' . This adventure was devised to dupe Don Quixote and Sancho into thinking that they flew through the sky· Actually, they sat as blindfolded fools in the Duke's courtyard. When asked to recount his adventures, Sancho has a wonderful fable to tell: "Their style is uncouth, their exploits incredible, their love immodest, their civility impertinent, their battles tedious, their languages absurd, their voyages preposterous, and in short, they are altogether void of solid • • ingenuity. I ' 19 This is the world of chivalry which Don Quixote has taken for pure, unalloyed gold. Now it is seen for what it is: the artificial product of a poor imagination that substitutes spectacle for true ingenuity of plot. Spectacle is the chief element of the adventures contrived by the Duke and Duchess. According to Aristotle, it is the element in imitation least connected to poetry. Spectacle is more properly the ~ork of stage hands. The Duke and Duchess introduce this element, absent in Don Quixote's own authorship, and thus destroy the purity of his tale. Don Quixote's true genius lies in his use of ordinary objects and situations in his story, for a genius sees what others have not seen. He is the 'Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha' who cannot rely on sp~ctacle for he has no stage hands. Don Quixote is a knight not because he looks the part but because his purpose is noble his actions courageous, and his soui humble. Purity of hear:t is the ess~nce of Don Quixote's knight errantry. Th ability to see a barber's basin as : magical helmet is the beauty of his p~et ry. Quixote' s purity is stained by h~s association with the Duke and Duchess, .his poetry maligned by the success of th . . .. eir. dec~ption. Don Quixote may be ingenious in his own imitation of knight errantry, but his simple soul cannot see the contrivances of art for what they tr_uly are. Neither can he see that his "Senora, as we were flying through the region of fire, or so my ma~ter told me •... and so very, very quietly,. and without anyone seeing me, I lifted the handkerchief ever so little, close to my nose, and looked down at the earth. It seemed as if the whole earth was no bigger than a grain of mustard, and the people walking about on it were a little larger than hazelnuts .... Then as we went through the reg~B where the seven little she-goats were and seeing that as a lad I'd been ~ goatherd in my country, the minute I laid eyes on them I felt like getting down and playing with them a bit, and if I hadn't done so, I think I would have bu rs t. And so, what do I do? Without saying anthing to my master, or anbody else, I slip off Clavileno as quietly as you please, and for three quarters of an hour I have a good time with these goats which are like gilly flowers, and all the time Clavil~~o doesn't stir from the spot." Al though the Duke and Duchess laugh 39 �,r heartily at their joke, Sancho's adventure also gives Don Quixote reason to smile. QUixote does not believe this tale; he knows as well as the Duke and Duchess that Sancho never dismounted from the horse. Sancho's defense of his story is that they hav.e been travelling by enchantment, a reply to the ordinary typical of Don Quixote. The knight smiles because his squire has learned the method of his madness. Quixote can now admit the secret of his adventure in the cave of Montesinos to his squire turned disciple. In an aside to Sancho, he says: "Sancho, if you want us to believe what you saw in heaven, then you must believe me when I tell you what I saw in the cave 2 ~f Montesinos. I need say no more." What the knight need not say is that he invented his adventures in the cave as surely as Sancho invented his tale of the little sheep in the sky. Both admit that nothing happened in these adventures, but they will continue telling their stories and believing them as well. In other words, Don QUixote's madness is an act of the will. He deliberately chooses madness because a madman alone can see an extraordinary world. This choice is wonderfully Quixotic. What thanks does a madman deserve for going mad? He has just cause for his actions. To be sane and yet act mad is to act without just cause. This is true madness: QUixotic madness. Don QUixote's imitation is more truly mad than the fact of madness, just as quixotic knight errantry is more truly knightly than that of Don Amadis of Gaul. The -value of Quixote's madness lies in the fact that his book lies open before us. Sitting at home, he would have passed his last days without an adventure to his name. Now, both he and Sancho "had something to ta~~ about forever had [they] lived so long." Through his madnes.s, Don QUixote has had the chance to instruct his readers in courage, humility, and the virtue of finding inspiration in poetry. The inspiration we derive from Don Quixote is an imitation of the hero'.s own role. An imitation of Don Quixote is one of imitation itself. To be like Quixote, we must look to poetry for the best originals. We can only believe the world of poetry to be imitable if we believe our own world to be poetical. We first found reasons for this belief when Don Quixote defeated Sanson Carrasco. The poetical nature of our own world truly shines forth when Sancho is transformed from a simple squire into a governor as wise as Sol.omen. Sancho Panza could never have become the great governor he was had he not, in his imagination, first reached up and touched the stars. To become what we ought to be, we must first become poetic madmen, in imitation of Don Quixote, as Sancho has done. Don Quixote is thus a mirror held up to our own nature; in his eyes we can see a vision of what we can become. Poetry exists to intruct, as well as delight the readers, says the canon in Ch. XLVIII, Book I. This is the true lesson of Don Quixote. I am sure there is a reader of Don Quixote who would consider, as would Hume, that this lesson is just nonsense. To this reader, I extend my sympathy. He must spend his time vainly trying to prove the existence of the world of our experience and denying the imagination its wings. What thanks does a man deserve for trying to prove that the world of our experience exists? No, the thing is to attempt to prove the existence of the world beyond all possible experience. Such would be a true Quixotic enterprise in philosophy. Much earlier in this essay, I made the claim that Don Quixote is the work of an absolute poet. All imitation of the Quixotic enterprise rests on this claim for without it the proportion [readers: Quixote::QUixote:the stage] is destroyed. When Don QUixote called the sonnet of Pyramus and Thisbe the work of an absolute poet, he meant that the ending was proper to the story. For Don Quixote to inspire 40 I • J.l us to action, it must have a proper ending as well. Don Quixote does not end with the knight's final success. He does not win a kingdom, nor his lady's hand. Unlike most tales of chivalry or those of the wandering hero~s, Odysseus and Aeneas, Don Quixote ends with the knight's defeat. "-In his last adventures, Don Quixote finds an artist, Don Antonio, who loves him and is . willing to build a world of deception in which to house the knight forever. In this edifice of art, Don Quixote is to be protected from the knowledge that he is not capable of true knightly adventures. Don Antonio builds a temple to Quixote; all who enter must vow not to disturb the knight's madness. This temple is brought crash~ng down upon Quixo2~' s head by his nemesis, Sanson Carrasco. Sanson Carrasco appears before Don Quixote not as the knight of the mirrors, but as a real knight. As an artist, he was shorn of his power to defeat the cknight by deception. The mirrors he wore in the previous battle were crescents. Now, his shield is emblazoned with a full moon, symbolizing that his power has reached its full height. The time has come for Sanson Carrasco to defeat Don Quixote. The moon on Sanson's shield is also a symbol of resurrection and rebirth. To defeat Don Quixote, Sanson Carrasco had to return as a knight. His imitation of Quixote has only one purpose: the knight's defeat. When the original knight falls from his horse, this irni ta tor also ceases to be a knight, since his calling has been fulfilled. As a reincarnation of Quixote's knight errantry, Sanson Carrasco symbolizes the spurious sequel to Book I, published by "an Aragonese, who styles· himself a native of Tordesillas. 1125 When Don Quixote is defeated, the imposter in the spurious sequel ceases to be Don Quixote. How can he still have adventures when the real Don Quixote has ceased to be a knight? His defeat as a knight is Don Quixo~e's own death. Don Q\iixote made his story his life and in creating his plot must accept that it has an end. It is impossible for Don Quixote to become another character because his defeat as a knight is also his defeat as a poet. Does this defeat mean that Quixote's lesson is false? Can we imitate a hero who has failed? To find the answer to this question we must again look to the example of Sancho Panza. Only Sancho Panza would be fool enough to believe Quixote's promise of a governorship. Just before they meet the Duke and Duchess, Sancho threatens to abandon this stupid calling of knight errantry. All he sees are defeats, all he receives are blanketings and bruises. He sees no way in the world that Don Quixote's vision can succeed. The knight upbraids him: "Turn, then, the reins, or better, the halter of your ass, and go back to your home, for you are not going one step further with me ••• Oh man who has more of the beast in him than of the human! ••.. So you are leaving me just when I had firmly resolved to make you governor of the best island in the world? ..•• honey is not for the ass's mouth. An ass you are and an ass you will be to your dying day, for I think that day will come before you will ever realize 26 that you are a stupid beast." These words move Sancho to tears, and he answers: "Master, I will grant you that all I lack is a tail and I would be an ass .... Forgive me, your Grace; have mercy on my foolishness. Remember that I know little and if I talk too much, that is due to weakness, rather than to malice. But he who sins and mends 26 his way commends himself to God." Commend yourself to God and to your 41 �master, Sancho, and you will truly be transformed. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven. Blessed indeed is poor San~ho who does not see yet still believes. The defeat of Don Quixote hides his vision from our sight. To truly imitate him, however, our belief must be an act of the will, like Quixote's own. A true believer in Don Quixote's poetry is a madman and a fool in the eyes of the world. What thanks does a man deserve, I may ask, for running mad when he has just cause? Don Quixote asks us to run mad without a cause, without any reasonable hoe for success. His defeat destroys such hope and thus compels us to a truly Quixotic imitation of Don Quixote. For this reason, defeat is the proper end for the book. It completes the lesson of Don Quixote by turning our eyes from worldly success to the beauty of Don Quixote's undertaking. The true value of Don Quixote's madness is that it allows him to see a more beautiful world. Only when we look past his defeat to "the glory that, in ages to come, shall be eternal in the ethereal and celestial regions" have we understood Don Quixote's true calling. Only then will the lessons of this great and wondrous knight be ours to learn. 3. Book I, Ch. I; Putnam 4. Book II, Ch. VIII; Putnam 5. Book I, Ch. I; Putnam 6. ROCIN-hack, ANTE-before. This may also signify that he was but an ordinary hack before Quixote transformed him. Springtime Gretchen Berg for Julie On the road where picket spears the air, · limit points beyond, in a bank past the church 7. Book II, Ch. III; Putnam 8. Book I, Ch. XXIII; Putnam 9. Book I, Ch. XXV; Putnam where once I placed, thighs deep in snow, a rose for the Virgin, now tree roots grapple sky; liquid slips the tabled rock to swerve, elusive tress of wondrous weft. 10. Book II, Ch. Ill; Putnam 11. Book II, Ch. III; Putnam 12. Book I, Ch. XLVII; Cohen I remember other rivers, broad as seas, harsh gritty beaches over which the gulls t 1 l t ' silent, 13. Book II, Ch. III; Putnam cliff's edge where hemlock stalks like fern; 14. Book II, Ch. VIII; Cohen dark trees make water bright, or bright make dark. 15. Book II, Ch. XXV; Cohen On the hill a smoky echo lines the road 16. Book II, CH. XII; Ozell granite, marble, coal---what is not gathered, 18. I have used three different translations for this paper to vary the style of the quotations. The Putnam and Cohen translations are more literal, but the Ozell much more fun to read. striped and flat where rain flowed; mica 17. FOOTNOTES Book II, Ch. III; Ozell In English, there is a pun on the canon's title, since he is literally reciting a canon for proper imitation. carved and woven, in this timely stream? Above it bushes bead with bloom, later with berry, hoop in festival; the lilac crooks These are the Pleiades. from branch, receding vistas beckon 21. I am indebted to Mr. McGrath for this thought. Book I, Ch. XLVII; Ozell 20. 1. 19. Book II, Ch. XVI; Putnam through arcs of green, wreathing victor's garland in unconscious air. 2. Book I, Ch. I; Putnam 22. Book II, Ch. XVI; Putnam Every wave of fullness casts a web of imitation, yellow leaf sustained by shadowed blue. Hair and a ribbon float on my shoulder; it is cold and I go home. 42 43 �Playing With _Images SUsan Magwre of the image is the unnaturalness. It is unnatural for any mother to tend to a child of a different species, thou?h studies tell us it has been done. It is monstrous for a human to su~kle an animal--this is horrible particularly because man is held to be superior to the lower animals, not at all on the same level. This unnaturalness is the root of the third striking aspect of these images--the topsy-turviness of each. In The Bacchae passage there is a two-fold topsy-turviness, a sense of odd-juxtapositions. First, the mess~ng~r is relating a tale we didn t expect--instead of the wanton, lusting females he tells us of a pastoral scene, women of all ages asleep among fallen oak leaves. we feel the earthy calm as he describes one, "half sinking on a bed of deep pine greenery." Then, as we start to ease into the sweet-smelling sof~ness, ~e describes these same women girting their skirts with quick, hissing snakes, and suckling wild animals at their breast; we are aghast, and are shaken. out ?f the softness. The magic of the image is that horrible proceeds to 11 seem the even sweet--the women "smile in love ! he · describes them as "young mothers with a mother's breast"--we start to lapse back into the softness. It seems not so bad, actually, this peaceful suckling, till he reminds us of the "babes at home forgotten!" we are again jangled and left not just with the horrible image, but now the horror stains ourselves; we too felt the spell. In simple terms The Bacchae is a play Should Pentheus about faith and nature. Dionysus really a believe in Dionysus? Is God? Is Cadmus wrong to dress _u~ in skins The Bacchae: Messenger's speech (690-700) [Describing the Theban women under Dionysus' spell] And one a young fawn held, and one a wild wolf cub, and fed them with white milk, and smiled in love, young mothers with a mother's breast and babes at home forgotten! Antony and Cleopatra: scene (V i i 308) (to applies to her breast) Cleopatra's death an asp which she Cleo:with thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate Of life at once untie: poor venomous fool, Be angry, and despatch. O, couldst thou speak, That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass, Unpolicied! o Eastern Star! Char: Cleo:Peace, Peace! Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, That sucks the nurse asleep? These images stand out as horrible scenes. They are horrible for several reasons. First, each image inv~lv~s the reader (or viewer).. The descriptio~ . of the human body, particularly so sensitive a part of the body as the breast, causes one to feel the image personally, especially (or perhaps only?) a woman~ f~r whom the breast is a symbol of what it is to be woman--biologically, emotional~y (sensually), socially ("role" of woman in society). In each case the most striking aspect 44 .J and dance like a young man, honoring the God? Is it unbecoming to his age and· dignity; is it unnatural for him to relax. the bounds of his person, to step outside of what's expected of him as king? The image related above contains many, of the same elements. We do not see what the messenger tells us, yet we believe him. It is unnatural for the women to suckle wild animals--it seems horrible, yet is is peaceful and beautiful at the same time. Finally, we too have succumed to the enchantment which moves the whole play. Topsy-turviness is at work also in the Antony and Cleopatra passage. Cleopatra's words to the asp are moving, harsh words. They are spoken strongly--her directive, "be angry, and· despatch" resembles a leader's orders--to his men. Power underlies this speech--the asp's power to kill, and lack of power to speak; Caesar's power, which is the cause of Cleopatra's action; and her own power, now eclipsed by Caesar. We see Cleopatra as a royal queen, a leader. What follows seems oddly-juxtaposed. Cleopatra urges "peace!" She presents herself as a mother caring for her babe--such a different role for Cleopatra!, a role which heretofore was unimaginable. Although previously she has spoken of her children, no image has been presented as soft and maternal, as thoroughly womanly as this. One is struck by the difference between her two speeches, one so forceful, the other so soft. The image does not stop there, however. Here again is the horrible , unnaturalness of a woman nursing a lover creature--particularly striking as in this case it's a serpent. (This brings to mind, of course, the Genesis story of woman "causing" the fall of man.) The topsy-turviness is carried even one step further--in this case the "baby" causes the nurse to sleep, making a horrible image chilling as well. This metaphor stands out as important in the context of the whole play because of the light it sheds on Cleopatra. Earlier I said this is the image which most presents Cleopatra as "thoroughly womanly". I hesitate, and re-examine that suggestion, yet it still seems true. Earlier in the play we see Cleopatra as a beauty, a lover, an enchantress, a flirt, an emotional one who makes mistakes and changes her mind, but in all of these instances she seems not most woman, but most queen. The scene where she .is most a woman is, to be sure, not at all natural to woman. One never sees Cleopatra as thoroughly woman in a natural sense. The ·worm of Nilus kills the human; the country of the Nile, the power and lack of power kills the queen. Perhaps ~ Cleopatra can be woman? "Husband, I c·ome : Now to that name, courage prove my title!" (V ii 286) my 45 �Negation, Willing and the Places of the Soul "William O'Grady For Frances H. Stephen Morse How many men Have tried to walk Your cobbled heart, And in a quiet rain Have slipped and Washed away Amid a thousand tiny Rivers of Regret. This lecture has three parts. In the first part I shall sketch Hegel's presentation of the primacy of the subject in modern metaphysics and of negativity as the meaning of subjectivity. In the second part I shall sketch Heidegger's attempt to expose willing as the core of thinking not only in the thought of Nietzsche but already in that of Descartes and even in that of Plato. In the third part I shall try to bring out some suggestions contained in Plato's Timaeus, not indeed about the subject or the self, but about what human soul might be. I hope that the coherence of the three parts will emerge in the course of the lecture. I. Scholarship H. Stephen Morse Quiet settles in the room. The light Above the dark old desk illuminates A page of Greek, and brings light to a bright Bronze panoply of men at war. The.Ga~es Before the field stand open, and within, A father and a wife are fixed with.dread~ While far away, three grinning la~ies spin Each footfall into their great, timeless web. A ringless finger on an aged ha~d Marks place. No flicker of a lip or eye Disturbs the face --like wind upon the grass-Of he who reads. For on that wall he stands, As Homer's tale fills up both Earth and Sky Like rich red wine within a crystal glass. 46 tree and human thinking about the tree have already grown together by the time any of us appears on the scene. Moreover, this concrescence, this having grown together, belongs to the being of the tree as well as to the being of human thinking--this is one of Hegel's great thoughts, which he learned from Aristotle. Thus in reading a book about trees I am facing the tree and human thinking about the tree as having grown together; I am thinking about the tree concretely, as is not possible for me as I stand in a field facing the tree in what now appears as its nakedness. Hegel took his experience of reading books very seriously. In that experience he felt himself to be most deeply in touch with the world in the fullness of its being. The books he took most seriously--this brings us to the second preliminary consideration--were those of Aristotle. In two matters of utmost importance he simply follows Aristotle. At the end of his Encylopedia, presenting the all-encompassing circular education, Hegel says that Aristotle alone named God truly: noesis noeseos, thinking of thinking. That means for Hegel: thinking is the most active activity, the most energetic energy, both as world-building (thinking produces In the preface to the Phenomenology of Spirit Hegel writes: "According to my view, which must justify itself by the presentation of the system, everything depends on this, that we comprehend and express the true not only as substance but just as much as subject." We must try to understand this statement, which is central in Hegel's thinking. But two preliminary considerations may help us orient ourselves toward that thinking. First, one of the most important words in the language of Hegel's thinking is "concrete." By it he means almost the opposite of what we might suppose. We are in the habit of saying, for example that to experience a tree concretely we must walk into the middle of a field and stand face to face with the tree; if we read a book about trees, we are encountering the tree only abstractly. For Hegel the situation is reversed: to read a book about a tree is to experience the tree as concretely as may be. The reason for the reversal is this. To experience a tree concretely is to experience it in its concrescence, its having grown together with the other things on which it depends and with which it deeply belongs: air, water, soil, sunshine, but also human thinking. The 47 �the Roman world, thinking produces the Aeneid) and as self-contained: thinking is of all activities the one in which sheer aliveness is most concentrated. Second, Hegel.never wavers in following Aristotle's view that in the most important motions the end is effectively present in the beginning, as the oak tree is at work in the acorn. Hegel however disagrees with Aristotle in two points that are almost as decisive. He thinks Aristotle is wrong in supposing that the part of the soul that thinks is separate from the part that loves, hates and remembers. From Hegel's point of view Aristotelian nous--the capacity to receive the intelligible--is merely inhuman rather than authentically di vine. Hegel has learned from the Christian doctrine of the incarnation and passion of God Himself that the relation of human and divine can be truly understood only under the symbol of the crucifixion: thus we read on the final page of the Phenomenology that absolute knowing is accomplished through the "recollection and Golgotha of Absolute Spirit." Second, and connected with this, Hegel thinks the tragic poets were right as against Aristotle: the truth about the divine is revealed in the fate of human beings within human communities rather than in the coming to be and passing away of things without special reference to human communities. Let us return to Hegel's assertion that what is crucial is to understand the true not only as substance but just as much as subject. It is a commonplace to say that since Descartes the subject, the "I think," has been the beginning for metaphysics and that in Kant's "Copernican Revolution" human subjectivity wins its decisive victory. But the Cartesian and Kantian positions, though important for Hegel, are not sufficient. For in them the so-called subject, which has indeed been accorded primacy, is still being understood fundamentally as a substance~ Descartes speaks of a "thinking substance" and Kant of a "transcendental I," which is always one and the same, which was never young, which does not tremble in the face of I i j death. Against these insufficiently radical attempts to establish the primacy of the subject, Hegel insists that subjectivity is a movement, the movement of self~positing, of throwing itself under (sub-jacere) a world of things so as to become what it is, rather than a constant standing under or lying under (substance, hupokeimenon.) To secure the being of the subject against being construed on the model of substance, Hegel speaks of subjectivity as negativity. Being as a whole is revealed in and through the being that can think and . say "no" and, moreover, can carry th is "no" out in practice. In Hegel's discussion the work of negativity is unfolded in three stages. First, the process of lifting off "chair" from "this chair here" (which process since Aristotle--and on the basis of a misunderstanding of him-- has been called "abstraction," that is aphairesis, that is "lifting off") is understood by Hegel in a dramatic and violent way. To lift off "chair" from "this chair here" is to destroy "this hereness," to do away with "immediate existence," the being here or there of particular beings as they are given to us. It is, by the power of our thinking, to overcome mere giveness. Second, the very discursiveness of human thinking, the motion of thought from part to part, is understood by Hegel as exhibiting what he calls "the tremendous power of the negative." That we think and speak at all means, according to Hegel, not only that we transform "this chair here" into "chair" but also that we separate "chair" from all other things in the world, in general, in our thinking and speaking we separate parts from the concrete wholes to which they belong and which alone are actual. In Hegel' s language, the discursiveness of human understanding introduces "the unactual" but this introduction of the unactual is the very action which makes change possible by making room for change: change can only mean re- arrangement of parts; t o say II no II to the whole does not generate progress but rather annihilation in the form of suicide 48 or of merely theoretical nihilism. Finally, the power of human thinking to destroy immediate existence in the form of the "this-hereness" in which things are given to us, and to tear particular things out of the contexts in which we encounter them, is seen in its full prodigiousness only when we follow Hegel in supposing that the self is passionately disposed to say no to what it primarily faces -- that it is radically restless and dissatisfied -- and this because at bottom it is passionately disposed to say no to itself: it is in every respect "unhappy consciousness," the telling name given by Hegel to the hero of his greatest book. The difference, according to Hegel in the~ntroduction" to the Phenomenology, between natural things and human existence is that "consciousness destroys every form of limited satisfaction for itself" so that serious education for human beings is a "way of despair," that is, as the German word Verzweiflung suggests, a way of being torn in two as a violent conversation takes place within each of us between "natural conciousness" and "real knowledge. " Or, as we may say, the ultimate meaning of Hegel's claim that the subject belongs within the true just as deeply as do the beings which the subject faces, and that the core of subjectivity is negativity, is that thinking is willing and that willing properly issues, not in praise and love -- "I love you: I will that you be" as the Franciscan thinker Duns Scotus has it -- but rather in revolution. Here, However, Hegel's thinking takes a somewhat unexpected turn. For, in his understanding, revolution is for the sake of the fullness of being. What , I have called the fullness of being, Hegel designates as "living substance" in contrast to substance thought of as constituted by the beings in the world · opposed to subject. From the point of view of "living substance," Hegel says: "What seems to happen outside it, as an activity directed against it, is its own doing; and thus the substance shows that it is essentially subject. When it has shown this completely, the spirit has made its existence equal to its essence" and, we may 49 add, history has come to i:ts proper end. Or, as Hegel said earlier, in and through the discursiveness of human thinking, understood as "the tremendous power of the negative," "the concrete separates itself and makes itself unactual," so that it can move itself. There is no more fundamental thought. in Hegel than that the oak tree is effectively present in the acorn. In this final point, of course, Hegel is by no means a representative modern thinker. For our purposes let us return to the assertion that the deepest posture of human beings toward the world in which they primarily find themselves is negative, that thinking is willing and that willing issues not in affirmation or praise, but in destruction. Heidegger can help us with this. II. I shall draw primarily on a long essay called "Nietzsche's Word ' God is dead'" in which Heidegger in a set of wide-ranging reflections interprets section 125 of Nietzsche's Gay Science. In that section, entitled "The Madman," a madman carrying a lantern in the bright morning hours runs into the market place to announce that God is dead and, just as astounding, that we are his murderers, you and I. It is this second assertion which Heidegger is especially concerned to understand. As his interpretation develops, the murdering of God is understood as the murdering of the meaningfulness of all that is. In other words, guided by Nietzsche but going beyond his analysis, Heidegger tries to understand nihilism, "that uncanniest of guests that stands at our door." According to Nietzsche, nihilism means that "the highest values hitherto are devaluing themselves," so that what is required is a "revaluation of all values," as the subtitle of Nietzsche's unfinished masterwork, The Will to Power, has it. But Heidegger isled to ';Qnder about the very language of "value" which abounds· in Nietzsche's writings: valuing, devaluing, creating new values. Perhaps nihilism means not that the highest values devalue �,---! i themselves but rather that what is, what offers itself to us by appearing to ·us, should be evaluated at all, should be driven into some sort of order by reference to one extrinsic standard or other. The central attempt of Heidegger's essay is to explore whether nihilism can be understood in this second sense and, if so, where its origins are to be found. We cannot follow Heidegger's discussion in all its richness and complexity. Its decisive steps are: first, to show the dependence of Nietzsche's understanding of value on his understanding of will, and second, to point to the presence of a willful element in thinking as understood by Descartes and even by Plato. As he writes sweepingly in another place: "Thinking, understood in the traditional way, is a kind of willing." According to Heidegger, the most important thought in the final phase of Nietzsche's philosophizing is "will to pewer." Will to power is said by Nietzsche to be "the innermost essence of Being." But the phrase "will to power" is likely to mislead us, as Heidegger points out, since according to Nietzsche's understanding willing as such generates power: the will to humility is just as powerful, just as powergenerating, as the will to domination over others. Therefore he proposes that we understand will to power as will to will; that is, the "innermost essence of Being" is to be understood as the will willing itself, the willing of willing. Heidegger goes on to claim that "Modern metaphysics, as the metaphysics of subjectness, thinks the Being of what is in the sense of will." He understands Nietzsche's great thought as the culmination of modern metaphysics, completing the elevation of willing to unchallenged supremacy within the relation of human being to being as a whole, so that in our time "the earth itself can show itself only as the object of assault, an assault that, in human willing, establishes itself as total objectification." Heidegger identifies the grounding principle of Nietzsche's metaphysics, the metaphysics of ,)the will to power, and notices that it is a v~J-_\le-:9rinctple: . ~'Art is worth more than truth. " He wonders about evaluative thinking altogether, and this leads him back to a consideration of Descartes, Plato and the pre-Socratic thinkers. I shall present a sketch of the sketch he gives. In Descartes' thought, that which constantly underlies everything that is, (the hypokeimenon in Aristotle's language) is the cogito, the "I think" of the fundamental proposition "I think, therefore I am." But the Cartesian cogito means co-agito; to cogitate means to co-agitate; "I think" means "I drive together into· the unity of a system." Cartesian thinking, according to Heidegger, is fundamentally willful, doing violence to beings rather than letting them be what they are. Nothing is more characteristic of Heidegger's own late writings than the passionate insistence on the will-not-to-will, which is meant to prepare the way for the tranquillity of "letting-be," that is, of thinking that lets things be what they are. Heidegger perceives the same element of willfulness, which refuses to let beings be what they are, in the thought of Plato, though in a less blatant form. For there the eide, the non-appearing beings of thought-;- are ultimately understood as measures, in relation to which everyth.ing that offers itself to us by appearing to us must inevitably fail to measure up, and hence is said to be only in a certain measure. The positing of the-idea of the Good is murderous of Being, that is, destroys the meaning- fulness of what appears. Meaningfulness is now conferred only by the willfully established frame within which what appears is allowed to appear. Heidegger writes in another place: "From the standpoint of space, the difference is this: appearing in the first and authentic sense of bringing-itself-tostand in togetherness involves space, which it first conquers; as it stands there, it creates space for itself; it produces space and everything pertaining to it; it is not something copied. Appearing in the second sense (i.e. , Platonically 50 essence of this willing." understood) emerges from an already finished space; it is situated in the rigid measures of this space, and we see it by looking toward it. The vision makes the thing. Now the vision becomes decisive, instead of the thing itself. Appearing in the first sense opens up space. Appearing in the (Platonic) sense merely circumscribes and measures the space that has already been opened. Thus in order to encounter a kind of thinking that does not represent to itself what it thinks about but rather allows it .!£. be present in its own way, that places nothing before itself (Kant's characteristic word vorstellen, usually translated "represent" means literally "to place before") but rather heeds what comes before it, we must turn to the pre-Socratic thinkers. And this Heidegger has done repeatedly, with the greatest seriousness and with the greatest and most imaginative sympathy. But even in Heracleitus and Parmenides, Heidegger concludes·, "Being is not thought as Being." In these thinkers there is indeed no distortion through willfulness, but there is a kind of obliviousness of the mystery of Being. What is lacking even in Heracleitus and Parmenides is insight into the tragic character of the thinker's relation to Being, the insight that Being must be thought historically with a vision to its withholding itself from man, withdrawing from man variously in various epochs, thereby engendering a variety of tragedies of thought. Heidegger, who seems never to have given thought to tragedies of action such as Sophocles and Shakespeare present, regards the history of metaphysiqs not skeptically or negatively but tragically, as a sequence of shatterings against fatefully appointed limits of which the configuration changes from epoch to epoch, but never the immensity. Thus his final word on the "willfulness" that characterizes the traditional understanding of thinking is this: "The false opinion easily arises that the human will is the origin of the will to will. In fact, on the contrary, man is being willed by the will to will without even experiencing the III. we began by considering a little the meaning of Hegel's claim that to comprehend the true we must begin with subjectivity of the subject and above all must understand subjec~ivity as negativity. With the help of Heidegger's reflections on the role of willing within metaphysical speculation since Descartes, we tried to see Hegel's view.not merely as one of several important alternatives but rather as a radicalization and unsurpassably acute expression of a t!=!ndency that has been powerful for centuries. We have also been stirred--I at least have been stirred--by two further claims of Heidegger: first, that the traditional understanding of thinking, according to which thinking is a kind of willing, is so murderously destructive of meaningfulnes~ in our experience of the world that the only hope for us is to attempt to renounce willing, to will not to will, and then wait to see if we can learn to let things be as they are; second,· that this tradition in which thinking is at bottom a kind of willing originates with Plato. Although these matters are difficult to judge, I believe Heidegger may be right in his first claim. I doubt that his second claim is true. But I think it might be worthwhile for us now to pay some attention to Plato's way of speaking about the human soul. With this in view, I propose that we look at the Timaeus. There are several reasons for this choice. One is that while.· we are reading and talking about the Timaeus, it is almost impossible for us to forget that playfulness has a proper place in discussions of the most important matters. ·I fear that our consideration of Hegel and Heidegger may have induced us to forget this. The Timaeus seems to me to be, in the guise of presentation of the genesis of the visible and touchable world, above all an invitation to think about the human soul in· certain ways. This hypothesis is at least plausible: after all, the "feast of words" 51 �offered to Socrates as recompense for his own gift of tpe day before --something like the conversation recounted in the Republic--is meant to delight Socrates; and Socrates seems to take delight most of all in words about the human soul. I shall consider certain statements about the soul contained in Timaeus' mythical account of how soul was fashioned ·and apportioned, as well as what seems to be implied .about the soul in Timaeus' account of "the receptacle." But first we must notice a remarkable feature of this dialogue altogether, namely its undercutting of oppositions that seem. familiar and well-established in other dialogues. Two examples seem especially important. The most famous phrase from the Timaeus is eikos muthos, likely story. But 27 lines after the first occurrence of this phrase, the very same set of words is referred to as eikos logos. The difference between muthos and logos, so emphatically insisted upon in other dialogues, seems far from clear-cut in the Timaeus. We shall have to try to understand why this is. not possible to place intellect directly into body. Rather, it was necessary to place intellect in soul and soul in body. Soul appears first within this account as a bonding thing, necessary for the. holding together of intellect and body. Even more: Timaeus' account seems to imply that only mortal soul can serve this function. For soon we encounter this powerful . conjunction: "in order that the.re might be mortal th~ngs and the whole might be truly a whole." The wholeness, the oneness of the world is an acute problem in the Timaeus as it is not in the great central images of the Republic. The divided ~ine, though it has sections, has no gaps;· it is one continuous line. Similarly the path leading out of the cave into the sunlight is one path. But in the Timaeus we are presented emphatically with the image of a demiurge who looks up there to see the changeless originals in the image of which he fashions the material down here. We imagine him, as we imagine any craftsman, looking repeatedly back and forth between the model and the copy which i$ gradually taking shape. As his gaze moves between model and copy, it encounters vacancy. Are there two widely separated worlds, one unchanging and invisible, the .other changing and visible, or are they somehow one? They are somehow one, Timaeus' account implies; only because there are mortals, beings who live but do not live forever, ·who, themselves perishable, long for the imperishable, so that their very longing holds the two worlds together, bonds them into one world. We shall return to this theme. Various remarkable things are said by Timaeus about the fashioning and distribution of soul. Let us consider three which seem at first sight very strange and even outrageous: the world is an animal, the courses of the planets are made of soul, and the soul itself is made of music. I think that these propositions appear outrageous only on the basis of essentially Hegelian premisses, namely that human beings have in the beginning a radically negative relation to the world, that there is no primary experience of Again, the opposition at the he?rt of the ~, the opposition between memory-understood as merely idiosyncratic and closely associated with Meno' s incapacity to learn--and recollection as the soul's· descent into itself beyond memory, seems in the Timaeus to be somehow undercut as we hear of Cri tias' attempt to reach back at once into himself and beyond himself in order to recover an account he heard when young from his old grandfather who heard it from his father who heard it from Solon who heard it from an Egyptian priest who relied upon written records extending back 8000 years that is, to within a thousand years of the time of the event to be recovered. Let us turn now to the introduction of soul within Timaeus' account of the framing of the world in which we find ourselves. The non-envious demiurge, we are told, discovered upon consideration that among visible things none lacking intellect is more beautiful than wi:iat has intellect, comparing wholes with wholes. But it was 52 feeling at home in the world, but rather one experiences the urgent need to make oneself at home, by violent deeds of mind and hand, in a world that is primarily alien. For, apart from these premisses, what is more natural than to regard the world around us as composed above all of what is alive and what sustains life, so that the cosmos would most like to be called to ~, the living being? And can it really be that what is alive is alien to us? Descartes could suppose that dogs and horses, unlike human beings, are mere machines. But no one, I think, who has looked into the eyes of an injured dog he was trying to help, could take this supposition seriously: in such a gaze soul knows that it is indeed encountering soul. Again, the soul does not seem to find the motion of the heavenly lights alien: we wish upon stars, wonder at times at their special brilliance, which we delight in pointing out to each other; and investigating their complex regularities involves deep satisfaction. So little do we find the motion of those lights alien that it makes sense, to me at least, to say that their courses are made of soul. I have always imagined that such men as Ptolemy, Copernicus, Brahe and Kepler must have had deeply healthy souls and that Ptolemy was speaking from authentic experience when he said that the benefit of his astro- nomical studies was to train the imagination how "not to forget in whatever things. we happen upon the consideration of their beautiful and well-ordered disposition." I think that there are elements of our experience which Hegel explains bett~~ than anyone else; but I do not think that subjectivity understood as negativity and Abraham understood as the archetypal unhappy consciousness which refuses to be at home in the world are models that illuminate our experience of living under the starry skies and alongside all manner of living things. Finally, if Timaeus' account makes any sense at all, that is, if soul is what holds together intellect and body, and thereby holds together that which is 53 unchangeable and that which is forever changing, then it makes sense to say that if soul is made of anything, it is made of music. For in music we face the mystery of the inseparable unity of number ratio (logos) , than which nothing pleases intellect more, and sensibility of such depth that it seems that without music we could .hardly know who we are as. feeling beings existing in time. In the beginning of Timaeus' account of the demiurge's introduction of intellect-in-soul into body, we hear not that the motions of the visible world had been disorderly in general., but rather that they had been "out of tune" (plemmelos). That the soul is made of music seems to imply that our relation to logoi, accounts of all kinds, is inseparable from such things as Critias' memory of his grandfather's eagerness in telling and his own delight in hearing the account ··of Athens of old, the telling itself having taken place during a religious festival in honor of Dionysus in which children born duririg the year were admitted into the companionship of the city. The question is whether there is anything in our experience more trustworthy than such tales, tales inseparable from the circumstances of the telling of them. I think the dialogue suggests that there may be nothing more trustworthy. We remember how the Timaeus begins: "One, two, three--but where is the fourth?" It is hard not to think, among other things, of the fourth--that is the uppermost--section of the divided line. But if the fourth section is missing, the section in which the soul exhibits its power of making its way "without images by the forms (eide) themselves through themselves," then the remaining three powers of the soul must somehow comprehend the living whole which in the Timaeus the soul faces. But that means that pistis, trust, has become the in-between power, the power of the soul that sustains the movement from consideration of image to consideration of original and back again. The most beautiful example I know of the high dignity of the action of trusting �1 , ' . i ! within what seems a purely theoretical consideration occurs near the end of the Sophist. The stranger asks Theatetus whether he like almost everyone else supposes that the world around us was thrown up by chance, or whether he supposes that some sort of provident care was involved. Theatetus, who is about 18 years old, says that he thinks about that question all. the time -- what a wonderful young. man! I cannot help interjecting -but that, probably because he is young, he at one time holds the one view, at another time the other. · But now, Theatetus continues, as I look upon your face and know that you· think there has been provident care involved, I think that too. The stranger replies that he suspects that, being the young man he is, Theatetus will always somehow incline to that view. There is no hint of apology or embarrassment in this exchange. I think that the main purpose of the Timaeus is to speak of soul in such a way that we can see why there should be no apology or embarrassment. In the following Tima~us' account of the fashioning and distribution of soul, we have perhaps learned something about the place -- or better, the places -- of soul in the world that surrounds us. Could it make sense also to speak of the places within the soul, of shallower or deeper places within the soul from which our words variously come, of places in our hearts into which we receive certain persons and certain things? I think that Timaeus' discussion of the "receptacle" (hypodoche) is an attempt to address this question. That discussion is after all an attempt to speak of_ a "within which," a "place," having "depth," prior to the existence of body, namely at a (mythically conceived) time prior to the introduction of regular plane surfaces arranged in three ·dimensions. At this time we encounter nothing of body except certain "powers" and "traces" (dunameis and ichn~) . Thus the being of the receptacle is said by Timaeus to be reachable only with difficulty by a kind of "bastard reasoning" with the help of "nonsensing" ·(the word i I I l anaisth~sia used strangely). I do not know exactly what these strange phrases mean, but it seems clear that Timaeus does not wish his speaking about the receptacle to · be understood as merely metaphorical, that is, as involving the mere transfer to another domain of words belonging primarily and most properly to the domain of body. Again, there are moments during Timaeus' account when it is difficult not to understand the receptacle as "intellectual soul" pure and simple. This is especially true if one has read the third book of Aristotle'e treatise on the soul. That which is to receive all incoming forms without deforming them must itself be perfectly formless -- this language is used by Timaeus of the receptacle and by Aristotle of the soul's power of knowing. The use by both of the uncommon word para-phainein, to appear alongside, makes the coincidence all the more striking. Finally, Timaeus passes almost insensibly from speaking of the receptacle as chora,place or room, which receives all bodies (somata), to speaking of it as the genes of place -- roughly, the class of place which receives not things but classes of things. It looks very much as if an attempt, perhaps bound not to succeed entirely, is being made to speak of a way of being that underlies the being of body and the being of soul. We must try to see how far we can discern the results of this attempt. First, however, we must backtrack and notice two things about the introduction of the receptacle into Timaeus' account. The first is rather obvious. The first part of Timaeus' account had dealt chiefly with the things fashioned through intellect, through nous. Now the role of necessity must be taken into account, since the visible whole has come into being through the persuasion of necessity by intellect, so that "for the most part" the things coming into being might be led toward what is best. Necessity, anank~, is said to have the form of the "errant cause," and as Timaeus' thinking and ours descends into its realm, the realm of mere "powers" and 54 "traces," we must invoke, not merely the gods in general as at the beginning of the first account, but--the words are said solemnly, I think--God the Savior (thees soter). It is in connection with the ~ontation of the possibility of chaos that the receptacle is introduced as a third thing in addition to the model and its copy. But there is also a second point to be noticed about Timaeus' second beginning. We now distinguish in our thinking among that which comes to be, that within which it comes to be, and the source from which what comes to be is born, springs forth. "Is born, springs forth" is my translation of phuetai. The verb phuein, from which is formed the noun phusis, usually translated "nature," means "to beget" or "to send forth shoots." In the passive it means "to be born" and "to grow. " With the use of this word we are emphatically in the realm of what is alive as, we now realize, was not quite the case in the first account. For then the two words repeatedly used to characterize the activity of the demiurge were plattein, to fashion by molding (the source of our word "plastic"), and sunhist~mi, to bring to stand together. We were at bottom still in the realm of statue-making. And surely we do not forget that the whole "feast of words" to be presented to Socrates was animated by Socrates' dissatisfaction with mere statues -- he had wanted to see something alive. The dialogue seems to suggest that if we are to see something truly alive, the form of the errant cause must somehow be taken into account and God the Savior invoked. 55 Let us return to the receptacle itself. How are we to understand its receiving function? It is said to be a place (topos) to provide room (chora). These are rather indefinite and neutral words. But the receptacle is also said to provide hedra for all things that have birth. Hedra can be understood neutrally as "place," but its richest as well as its quite .frequent meaning is "shrine" or "temple." The place provided by the receptacle seems to be a very special ~::me. Above all, "receptacle" does not seem to be an adequate translation for hypodoche, a noun formed from the verb hypodechomai. The primary meaning of this verb is "to welcome." It is the word that is used, for example, in book 14 of the Odyssey when the disguised Odysseus is said to delight in his heart because the swineherd Eumaeus "knew how to give welcome." Could this strangest of dialogues be suggesting that our world is the sort of "within which" that gives welcome to what is born into it; and that there are, as well, souls in the world which are able to give still more intimate welcome to what springs forth? We do after all say such things as: "she has a place in her heart for him." The muthos or logos presented by Timaeus seems to me to come closer than anything else in the Platonic dialogues to suggesting that the place we have in our hearts for persons and things is the very best place to be, better even than the hyperouranios topos, the super-heavenly place, spoken of in the Phaedras as the abode of the changeless originals which truly are. One wonders what the listening Socrates thinks about this suggestion. �. 1 . ' I ! l Making Much Ado About "Nothing" Jim Bailey 'l'he play Much Ado About Nothing (pronounced "noting")* is all about noting or nothing. The word nothing has three common uses in the play. Primarily, it refers to the noting of appearances which happens whenever people interact and is responsible for reputation and etiquette. In short, since we interact as we see one another, "noting" is responsible for what we call society. Secondly, the word noting is used to refer to the playing of notes. The interaction of notes in a symphony or dancers in a dance is used to symbolize the way we interact. Finally, the play discusses whether fashion and etiquette are nothing or merely show. If so, Shakespeare makes a great deal ~ut ~f this "nothing". Much Ado About Nothing is all about the masks, rules of etiquette and formalities that often happen when people come together. Society provides a framework whereby conflicts can be resolved (i.e. whereby lndividuals can triumph or yield as they ~ill or must) in which each party can maintain his integrity. At the very beginning of the play, Leonato, who must give welcome to the prince Don Pedro, gains esteem and favor rather than lo~e face by giving much more than he is required to. Politeness enables him to maintain his esteem in his own eyes and those of others by giving of his own free will and thus avoiding the appearance of necessity. Similarly, masks enable the characters to be truthful without threatening one another's integrity and self-esteem. In this way, Bea.trice is * Onions, C.T. A Shakespeare Glossary. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press, 1978 . . able to tell Benedick what she thinks of his jesting and his being everyman' s man without having him reject her criticism, even though her criticism does hurt him. Behind a mask she can tell him what she · never could tell him face to face. Similarly, Benedick's and Beatrice's acquaintances stage conversations within the play to be overheard by Benedick and. Beatrice respect!vely, to cbnvince them to love one another. The staged conversations enable the conversants to speak openly and whoever is noting the conversation to take to heart what is said without losing face. As Hero says when on stage before Beatrice: "As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable. But who dare tell her so? If I should speak she would mock me into air." (Act III, scene i, lines 73-75) Masks and stages are for the benefit of the one noting and they enable him to see what he would not see without them. The characters of the play use such appearances to smooth over and resolve real conflicts harmoniously. Moreover, the characters in Much Ado About Nothing value masks because they care about how others note and esteem them. People value reputation and they often act in consideration of it. Perhaps because of this, out of town blind dates are the most exciting since they are not concerned with reputation but will be true to their desires. Being in another town, like being unknown or behind a mask, allows a person to act as he would not ordinarily act for fear of disapproval. But among neighbors most men seek to be known or noted as they would like to be. The honest person wears true apparel. He appears as he is. So Hero says, "Seemed I ever otherwise to you?"'1V,i,53) to mean 56 was I ever otherwise? However, just as most men strive to present their best side to the world and to hide that side of themselves of which they are ashamed, so the villain only utters the truth about himself in secret, while he presents falsity and deception to the world. Don John's lack of concern for reputation (i.e. how he is seen) reflects his lack of self-esteem or care to be worthy of the esteem of others. The villain only uses appearances to deceive and to hide his true nature. Nonetheless, men who deceive by appearances, if carefully noted, will be seen to be deformed or not quite true. In this way the Devil is named "Deformed". Deformed is the one who "borrows money in God's name, the which he hath used so long and neve·r paid that now men grow hard·. hearted and will lend nothing for God's sake." (V,i,310-314) Those who use appearances and etiquette in order to deceive, destroy harmony, and cause men not to trust one another. Just as Don John leads Claudio to falsely imagine what he cannot see clearly, all villains use words and masks to cause men to imagine things to be otherwise than they are. But because deception depends upon the deceived one's vision being obscured it can always be revealed. Because all deceptions deform the truth they_ can neither bear close scrutiny nor long acquaintance. Deceptions must be maintained, but the truth establishes itself. Hence, by carefully noting Hero, whom he has known for years, the Friar knows that she is innocent when she denies the deceived Claudio's accusations. , The task of the court (as represented by Dogberry and Verges) is to reveal villainy by means of such careful noting. Dogberry and Verges always say exactly the opposite of what they mean, but their meaning and intent are nonetheless unmistakable. Dogberry, flouting appearances by speaking words of nonsense, forces men to observe his true appearance, attitude and intent. Villains, on the other hand, distract the eye from inward rottenness with gaudy outward show. Shakespeare also uses "noting" in a musical sense to refer to people's banter and flattery of one another. Because Benedick's wit notes or plays on everything he sees, Claudio says of him: "his jesting spirit is now crept into a lutestring and now governed by stops." (III,ii, 56-57) A true wit can give pleasure and can flatter with notes as do minstrels. Thus, when Benedick loses his mirth he is like a minstrel without his lyre. So Don Pedro says of him, "What a pretty thing a man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit." (V,i, 98-99) Men flatter to pleasure others and to be in turn well noted by · them.A "man of note" is one who is well noted, or rather one who is well thought of and whose praises are sung. Shakespeare continues this metaphor to describe characters who are disconcerted or sick as being out of tune. Certainly when someone is out of tune he is not well noted. The theme of the play is strikingly revealed through the interaction of Benedick and Beatrice. They both think of themselves as self sufficient and each continually strives to maintain his own personal integrity. Neither of them will admit to himself or to others his want of the other. Only when each is convinced of the other's love does he declare his love, and then he declares it as being for the sake of the other. We all have had the experience of gaining confidence to show our affection for someone because that person has made some initial show of affection. In the case of Benedick and Beatrice there appear to be two reasons that they hesitate to show their admiration of one another. First, each is afraid of being shunned by the other as undesirable and thus losing esteem in both his own and the other's eyes. Secondly, they don't want to endanger their high ideas of themselves by admitting affection for someone who 1s less than perfect. Benedick and Beatrice perform a delicate dance in which they slowly unmask their love for one another. First they have a battle of wits, being afraid to 57 �I I I . i (with good intention) . Benedick says that he only for pity and Beatrice says only take Benedick to save iv, 90-96) admit affection openly, in order for each to protect his fragile self esteem and pride. Then, because each hears that the other is madly in love with him, each admits his love as being for the sake of the other, each feeling triumphant and confident in his own integrity. Both Benedick and Beatrice feel as if they can give their love magnanimously in response to the other's need whereas pride prevents them from first admitting their own love. Nonetheless, others have to praise Benedick to Beatrice and vice versa so that each of them can requite the other's love without losing self esteem. Benedick even seeks to gain face by not pridefully rejecting Beatrice. Benedick and Beatrice see themselves as others see them, or rather they esteem themselves as they are esteemed by the world. To the end, even after the deceptive staging of the others is revealed, · takes Beatrice that she will his life. (V, Shakespeare sums up his comments on noting and what it entails in a brief interchange between Borachio and Conrade: Borachio: ... thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to man. Conrade: Yes, it is apparel. Borachio: I mean the fashion. Conrade: Yes, the fashion is the fashion. (III, iii, 117-122) Perhaps this says best of all why Shakespeare made much ado about nothing. 58 �l I St. John's College Annapolis, MD 21404 i l I I .i 1 I � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. 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For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bergren, Kathleen Burlein, Ann Cooper, Barbara Holland, Christian Maguire, Susan Marklin, Martin Miller, Richard Mullen, Alexander Sokolik Merle Sachs, Joe, 1946- Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Fall 1982 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1982 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Fall 1982. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Fall 1982 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/1da4e0ffd3ccc6a2095dbeed71cfc01c.pdf febe3aefec5007982aa7c84185da8cd8 PDF Text Text ~~---"2Siic--·-,-,..T-..i~..---i'in-iro~~-r-~-...;::17r'--..,..~~-r--.~~-lr---.i~--,~ --1& q"t---........ SPRING, 1983 �CONTENTS PLATO'S FRIENDSHIP 1 ON SHAKESPEARE'S SONNET LXXI Laurence Berns 11 THE GENESIS OF MODERN SCIENCE IN GALILEO'S CONCEPT OF MATHEMATIZABLE NATURE Pierre H. Gragnier 13 - ON THE NATURE OF CONES AND CONIC SECTIONS Michael Landry -20 SUBSTANCE IN BOOK VII OF THE METAPHYSICS Cover: POINT OF TRA NQUILITY by M o rris Lo uis (1 912-1962). 1958, A cry lic. Photo courtesy of Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden , Smithsonian Institution , Washington , 0 . C. Llffey Thorpe Lisa Tomasi 26 A TRANSLATION OF VALERY'S ''PALME" John Tracy 30 THE BREATH OF KINGS: ON THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD THE SECOND Jonathan Antonio Edelman 33 A NOTE ON THE MATTHEW PASSION Elliott Zuckerman 43 NO EXIT A TRANSLATION OF SARTRE'S HUIS CLOS Wendell Finner 47 IN THE WAKE Andrew J. Krivak 24 THE TRESTLE - Andrew J. Krivak 25 CITY BLOCKS Richard E. Miller 29 SHORT STORY Liz Waldner 42 POEM John S. Carnes 46 Printed by the St. John 's College Press St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland ; WILLING BUT WEAK Poetry �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. STAFF Kathleen Bergren Ann Burlein Barbara Cooper Christian Holland Susan Maguire Martin Marklin Richard Miller Alexandra Mullen Joe Sachs Merle Sokolik Plato's Friendship Liffey Thorpe that I went to a college that required all its freshmen to study one year of Greek. But my choice to continue with the language, after the external compulsions to do so were removed, stemmed from my conviction that I could not befriend Plato, which I very much wanted to do, unless I could enter and inhabit his world, as I believed I could only do by learning his language. That was twelve years ago, and on good days I can almost believe that I have entered, and do inhabit Plato's world, if only as a resident alien. I should say, I think, that while I have come to believe that a deep acquaintance with Plato cannot be achieved without Greek, knowledge of Greek by no means guarantees understanding, much less friendship. And I am also aware that there are many people who read the dialogues in translation only, who deal better with the philosophical issues in them than many who read the dialogues in Greek --and I include myself. Still, it's one of those academic oddities, that while very few people would ever think of devoting themselves to Dante, or to Lady Murasaki, or to Homer or Aeschylus, without knowledge of the author's languages, not a few people who have, .at best, a passing-fair familiarity with the Greek alphabet, write books and articles on Plato, and on Aristotle, every day. And in light of this, I shouldn't be surprised, though I often am, at how often Plato's dialogues are discussed with little or no reference to their dramatic There are two kinds of things that I want to talk about this afternoon. First, I want to describe for you some of the reasons I have had for befriending--and being befriended by--Plato. This may make the afternoon somewhat more personal than those who asked me to speak intended. But I will try to compensate for this in the other thing I am planning, that is, to demonstrate some of the particular ways in which reading Plato's dialogues in Greek, rather than ·in translation, can make a difference, a difference not only in how one apprehends Plato's thought, but even sometimes, in what one apprehends. But I assume-that most of you already believe at least some of this, that whenever possible, it is preferable to read an author's works in that author's language, rather than in translation. It is one of those widely circulated opinions that translation means sacrifice, if not . complete sacrifice of meaning, then sacrifice of a good deal of an author's sense. Still, I know that I am usually curious about just what this sacrifice entails in the case of a particular author. I would like, for instance, to have a sense of the sense of Dante's Inferno, or of Lady Murasaki's Tales. And so it is on my mind today to try to convey to you some of that "sense of the sense" of Plato, what the experience of approaching Plato's thought through his language may be like. Let me first explain how it was I began to read Plato in Greek. It is true Liffey Thorpe is a former student on the Annapolis campus. She is now teaching at Earlham; this talk was first delivered before that community November 3, 1982. 1 �and linguistic features, as if Plato's meaning could be apprehended quite apart from the particular dramatic contexts with which he chose to give form and shape to that meaning. And yet, people who do not experience Plato in his language rarely, if ever, feel that a distinction between a dialogue's logos- -what is said--and its erga- -what is done, between the matter and the manner of matter, is a useful, or even possible distinction to make. Let me begin, then, by explaining something of the provenance of my relationship with Plato. I th ink you know that last month our freshmen class read the Lys is in Humanities. The Lysis was, for many, their first encounter with Plato. And I got to thinking, as we were reading it, and as thoughts of this lecture began to loom, that it had been almost exactly twelve year s since I had read a dialogue for the first time. I was then a freshman at St. John's College, and the dialogue was not the Lysis, but an even shorter work, the Ion. But St. John's made up for the brevity of that first encounter by requ1r1ng us, in subsequent weeks, to read as wel 1: the Apology, the Cri to, the Euthyphron, the Phaedo, Theaetetus, Sophist, Parmenides, Timaeus, Meno, Gorgias, Phaedrus, Symposium, and the Republic. You could say that St. John's tried harder to Platonise its freshmen than Boswell did to Johsonise his land. And you might also expect that, given this immersion-theory of platonisation, it would have been surprising had my affection for Plato failed to take root. But my first impressions of the dialogues were pretty inauspicious, as I ·rememher them. And the marginalia that litte r ~y first volume of Plato's dia logues c nf irm that I was, on the whole, unenchanted by Sokrates, nonplussed by the bizarre conversations he habitually struck up with anyone he happened to run into, and annoyed--as people who don't under stand what they are reading. I wanted to believe that Sokrates was no fool, because people whose opinions I trusted seemed to think he was not. But secretly, I was convinced that Sokrates suffered from having been born before most people had had time to figure most things out. After a while, we moved en classe to some of the headier dialogues: the Parmenides and the Theaetetus. I didn't know what epistemology was, but I did begin to think that Sokrates was getting a lot smarter. I enjoyed the third-man argument, what I understood of it . And al though I thought it odd that crates of pigeons and wax tablets should occur to anyone as useful models of cognitiveretrieval systems, I wasn't sure I could come up with anything better. It struck me that human error was not so easy to explain, that how most people know things; and how they manage to make mistakes about the things they suppos~dly know, were questions worth thinking about. So I was partialiy converted, though not yet what I could call a friend. I mentioned that by design of the St. John 's curriculum I was, at the same time, taking a year of Greek . And this is where you will see how I finally capitulated and became a friend and admirer of Plato's. Learning Greek at St. John's might best be described as the "hit-or-miss" theory of language learning. It is college policy that every teacher at St. John's should, at one time.or another, teach all the courses of the curriculum. As it happened, my Greek teacher was still trying to achieve detante with the first declension on the day classes began. (I might add that, despite this, Bob Anderson was the most important teacher of my life.) I didn't learn much Greek that year, but for some reason I liked it, and that winter I decided to · apply my very rudimentary skills to Plato's Cri to--the choice was merely fortuitous, as the Crito was the only Greek text I then owned . If I have anything true to say to you today, it is that nothing on earth more effectively slows down one 's ability to read a complete sentence than Greek. If you want to experience deliberate, painstaking, incremental comprehension, the sort where, midway through a sentence you've forgotten what was said at the beginning, and could almost believe that, 1 ike one of Zeno's paradoxes, no matter 2 how much you cover, you will never reach an end-~try reading something in Greek. I spent a month reading the first page of the Crito. And I was more acutely aware of what I was reading than I had ever before been. I became aware of how deliberately Plato had chosen words, words whose connotations were often highly apposite to the visible situation of Sokrates' incarceration and imminent execution. In particular, I came to one exchange between Sok rates and Cri to that gave me special trouble. (You may remember that the Crito is the dialogue in which Crito comes to Sokrates in his prison, on behalf of Sokrates' friends, to persuade him to escape; Sokrates declines the offer.) At a certain point, Sokrates explains to Cri to how he knows that he will not be executed on the following day, but on · the day after that. He says that he had had a dream, in which a woman appeared to him and announced: "Oh Sokrates, nµaTL XEV TPLTaTw ~~Lnv EPL8w~ov ~XOLO~ ~ - The six words I have just read slowed down my reading even more, because they are written, not in Plato's attic Greek, but in the more ancient, epic dialect. The six words form a single line of epic hexameter, so it took me longer to . figure out what Sokrates' dream-lady was saying: "Oh Sokrates, on the third day you will reach lovely Phthia." Now once I had this, I became curious to know what poem Sokrates' dream was making reference to. The line is from Iliad Book IX, and it is Akhilles who speaks these words: "On the third day I will reach lovely Phthia." --Akh~lles, when he refuses to be persuaded by his friends, who have come to persuade him to return to battle against Troy. His friends off er several face-saving proposals, but Akhilles, whom Homer calls by his epithet µLvuw.5'a6Lo~ "minute-lived," because he is young and doomed and he will, in fact, return to battle and die, and will never see his homeland again--Akhilles says he will leave Troy and start home: "And on the third day I will reach lovely Phthia." I was struck by two things as I considered this. First, that the word naming Akhilles' homeland, Phthia, ~~Ln , is very nearly another word, ~~Lw , [phthio], meaning, "to perish1 to waste away and vanish." The pun, if it was intended, is in Homer, reflecting, perhaps, Akhilles' unique dilemma, that, stay or leave, either way he is doomed to perish, either by quick death ~n the battlefield, or through living out an obscure, invisible life in Phthia that would earn him namelessness forever. And I was struck, too, by what seemed to be the unavoidable suggestion of a compari•on between those two critical moments in the lives of Akhilles and Sokrates, where the refusal to be persuaded by friends would have profound mortal consequences for each. But the comparison is not an exact fit. In something of a similar situation, Sokrates, unlike Akhilles, never wavers in his conviction that what he is doing is right, while Akhilles will finally change his mind, and will choose heroic immortality. It made me aware, this passage, of Plato urging me to reflect on the heroic dimensions of his Sokrates, who, in his stark jail cell, faces a choice .that even the most splendid pattern of Greek heroes faced. And in · a way , the dream transformed that visible cell and placed Sokrates right there on the plains of Troy. I read the next line, Crito' s response to Sokrates' dream: five words, utterly clear: "AToltov To €vunv1..ov ili rwxpaTE~ • "Your dream, Sokratea, is aTOltOV {atopon]." That word aTOltO\) means, literally, "without a place," "placeless." "Your dream, Sokrates," says Cri to, "has no place here." If you read a translation of ~Crito, you will most likely find - Cri to' s reply translated something like, "Strange dream, that, Sokratesl" This isn't really inaccurate, for aTonov comes to mean "strange." But in this translation we lose a good deal of the irony of Crito's obtuseness, his failure to see how perfectly in place and appos.ite Sokrates' Homeric dream is. It was here, then, that I saw the place, the Teno~, {toposl, that Plato had 3 �He does not know what . a getting into. He cannot say what a sophist sophist is. And he only dimly "thinks he teaches. what he might learn from knows" Protagoras. At this point, Sokrates delivers one of his rare lectures. .I can't quote the whole of it, but according to Sokrates, sophists are like people who sell foods, but with these differences: one, in what they sell, for food vendors sell nourishment for the body, while sophists sell nourishment for the soul. The second difference is in how they sell their wares: for food vendoTs sell foods in containers that can be carried home and examined, to avoj d the risk of cofl sumi. ng poisonous or harmful foods; whereas sophists sell what is necessarily, as it were, consumed on the premises. For there exists no container to carry away what these men sell . Hippokrates asks what it is that sophists sell, and it is Sokrates' answer that I want to quote you from two current English translations, the ones you would be most likely to read . The first is taken from the by Bobbs- Merrill edition, translated Martin Ostwald. Hippokrates asks what created for me, the reader of his Cri to. Sokrates does not explain his dream, or the allusion to Akhilles; and yet the allusion is unmistakably there. And at that moment, I no longer tried to identify my point of view with the person Sokrates is speaking to, with Crito. I became a third person in the dialogue, a person for whom Plato was taking special pains to point out what Crito himself seems not · to notice. This passage from the Cri to illustrates, then, what is always evident to me in Plato's dialogues, the deliberateness with which Plato invites, and sets a place, a 1onos, for his audience, so that we become, not merely listeners , but shareholders in the dialogue -- as when Sokrates' Homeric dream invites me to envision what is not actually visible, that scene in Iliad IX . I will try to go a 1 i ttle further now, and discuss why I think Plato's attempt to involve his audience so directly in the dialogues can be crucial to his ulterior, philosophical aims . The passage I want next to consider comes from the Protagoras. And I will need to give some contextual background first. Early in the Protagoras, Sokrates engages in a conversation with a young Athenian, Hippokrates. Hippokrates is older than, say, Lysis and Menexenus. He has finished his education in the gymnasi um, and now wants to do graduate work with the sophist Protagoras . Hippokrates is so eager to study with Protagoras that he tells Sokrates, with all the innocent candor of someone who has never had to earn a living, that he is prepared to pay Protagoras not only all of his own mon ey- -b ; wh i ch I suppose he means his parents ' money--but is prepared to pay the sophist all his friends' money as well. Sok rates, of course, hasn't got ar.y money, but Hippokrates knows that Sokrates does have a gift for getting people's attention, and hopes that he will agree to introduce him to Protagoras. But in the course of their interview--you can probably anticipate this--it transpires that Hippokrates has little idea what he's sophists sell, and Sokrates replies,· "Surely," I said, "knowledge is the food of the soul; and we must take care, my friend, that the Sophist does not deceive us when he praises what he sells, ..... For there is far greater risk in buying knowledge, than in buying food and drink . The one you purch~se of the wholesale or retail dealer and carry them away in other vessels ..... But you cannot buy knowledge and carry it away in other vessels; when you have paid for it, you must receive it into the soul and go on your way, either greatly harmed or greatly benefited." This is also, in essence, the translation found in the Modern Library series. In the Bollingen collected dialogues, this passage, translated by Mr. Guthrie, reads: "Indeed, the risk you run in purchasing knowledge is much greater than in buying provisions. When you 4 What Sokrates is really talking about here, then, is the problem of received opinions and learning. The problem looks something 1 ike this: Knowledge, the apprehension of truth, is never fallible, never in error. And knowledge, whatever it may be, must be grasped from out of those things that we have in mind; for it seems impossible that we could ever know something that we don't have in mind. But we can have lots of things in mind: false opinions as wel 1 as true opinions. But the certainty that what we have in mind is true, not false, opinion--the certainty that we have apprehended the truth, knowledge -- can only be gotten through examination, o~E~L..Sr [skepsis]. And the difficulty is, that to merely learn things--that is, simply to take them in, whatever you are told--provides no container, no ayyECov [aggeion], to use Sokrates' word: something by which it becomes possible to hold learning at a distance while it is examined for possible truth. It is here that recollection, as Sokrates speaks of it in the Meno and elsewhere, becomes important: since truth can never be grasped in what is immediately seen, or simply learned, it must be buy food and drink, you can carry it away from the shop or warehouse in a receptacle, .••.• But knowledge cannot be taken away in a parcel. When you have paid for it, you must receive it directly into your soul, benefitted or harmed accordingly." Now I want to consider, first, what Sokrates seems to be saying about the matter, ~ Protagot:"as sells, which in these translations is "knowledge." If you had to reason out Sokrates' epistemology on the basis of these passages, you might conclude that Sokrates, like the often misquoted Pope, thinks that knowledge can be a· dangerous thing, that the knowledge sophists sell has, at least, the potential for doing harm to Hippokrates' soul. We might wonder, does Sokrates--does Plato? - -believe that knowledge can be dangerous because there are some things we ought not know about? Or that too 1 ittle--or too much--knowledge might injure the soul? A reader more familiar with Plato's works might figure that something is suspicious here, since elsewhere, and always, Sokrates is immovable on at least this point, that knowledge, E:noTnJ.lil , is virtue, strength, and a good thing for the soul. And how could what is good for the soul harm the soul? But the word Sokrates uses here to describe the commodity that sophists sell is not the word commonly translated as "knowledge", ETIL..onh1n ,nor even its near synonym, "wisdom" oo<pLa • The word is µa.er)µa Ta' [mathemata] , that is, "learnable th in gs." A mathemata is anything that a person can learn: doxa, opinions, both true ones and false ones. Pope never said that knowledge is a dangerous thing, and neither did Sokrates. But learning could be, because learning--but not knowledge in the very precise sense in which Plato and Sokrates always use that word--learning could be fallible, untrue, deceptive. Sophists like Protagoras sold learning, µa~nµaTa~ and so, for instance, one could, for perhaps three drachmas, purchase a proof for squaring circles, or an argument to demonstrate the existence of not-being. apprehended through a process of skepsis, examination, and will always amount to a kind of second, reflective, sight, a recovery of truth that escaped notice when it wa~ first "seen." · This notion 0£ the danger of received opinion is prevalent, of course, in most dialogues. And it arises, not only in connection with the sophists, but, perhaps more insidiously, in the matter of poetry. I say "insidiously," because poetry was the first and most important leg in a young Athenian's education--as we see, for instance, in the Lysis. Athenian education, to µa~EC'V Ta µa~nµaTa to learn learning, consisted chiefly of memorizing -- taking in mind -- the words of the poets: Homer, Hesiod, Solon, Simonides. Protagoras himself recognizes what is clearly a common opinion among Greeks, that "The mark of a truly educated person is being well-versed in poetry." In the Lysis we see two young boys, Lysis and Menexenus, who are undergoing just such a .5 �skepsis . I will return to this point, because I want to su9gest that in the form of the dialogue, in the particular ways that Plato invites the reader · to take an active part, not mere 1 y as audience, he has attempted to solve that problem of received learning, by designing a contain er, a yy ECov I that forces skepsis. Now I want to look at another passage, also from Protagoras, where again the Greek 1 anguage prov ides a sense that translations often do not . The Protagoras, I should say, is like the Lysis, and at least half of all socratic dialogues, in being a "recollected" dialogue: that is, it is a dialogue that Sokrates Rlready has in mind and is recollecting . In this sense, then, the Protagoras -- and the Lysis -- are not, in the first place, imitations of dialogue , they ar e imitations of monologue recollecting the dialogue . The Protagoras is fairly long . About midway through, in the middle of a dis cussion about human virtue and wisdom and justice, Protagoras answers one of Sokrates' questions by introducing a quite different point on the useful and the good. It's pretty clear that Protagoras is deliberately sabotaging the argument, because he's had enough of Sokrates' questions, and suspects that he is beginning to appear a lau9hingstock, 11 cna y~>-a0 T o <; in front of his colleagues and prosepcti ve students. So Protagoras changes the subject by introducing a short speech on the useful and the good. It really is brief, too: both in comparison with other answers that he has given, and compar·ed with answers that Sok rates h imse 1 f has made. Protagoras' speech earns him plenty of audience applause. But this is what Sokrates says (and here I again quote from two current English translations) : "Protagoras," (he says ) , 11 I have a wre t ched memo r y, and when any one makes a long speech to me, I never remember what he is talking about . . . so now, having such a bad memory, I will ask you to cut your answers shorter." A second translation reads: "Protagoras, I happen to be a "traditional" education, "traditional" in the exact sense of its Greek synonym n:apa61., 6 ova1., [paradidonai] , "to hand over to." Lysis and Menexenus are not empty wax tablets onto which Sokrates introduces new ideas, only later to scratch out. Sokrates is working, as he so often does, with the stuff, the µaBriµarn, , that Ly sis and Menexnus already have in mind: these words of Solon's, the 1 ine of friendship by Homer, and again by Hesiod, the opinions of Empedocles, and Euripides, the ideas of more contemporary th inkers, the anti-logicians, and the sophists. Their heads are full of "received wisdom" by the time Sokrates talks to them. And even in the dialogue's name, Lysis,/\.uoL s , as any Greek speaker would have heard, we can hear the sense_ of "breaking down," or "destroying," (as wel 1 as the more favor able sense of "solution , " as to some enigma) . And against those who have maintained that in this dialogue Plato has attempted to vindicate Sokrates of charg~s of co r rupting the young, I can't imagine that Anytus and Meletus could have done better _than this dialogue to find evidence of Sokrates' almost systematic calling into question of the traditional tenets of received wisdom. Let me back up a bit here and just review what point I wanted to make about that passage from the Protagoras. Sokrates objects, not simply to the matter that sophists sell,--and now I mean to include poetry, too--but, more important, his objection is made about the manner in which all µa.BnµaTa, learning, is received: uncritically, without a container that would make skepsis possible . I have talked about one passage from · the Cri to and one from the Protagoras. In both instances, translation has tended to obscure, or to distract from, Plato's meaning. I have also brough t up, in connection with the Protagoras, a particular way in which Plato, through Sokrates, articulates the "problem of learning," and of received opinions and ideas. For learning is received in the mind, or the soul, uncritically, that is, without a container, ayyE COV , that WOU 1 d encourage 6 forgetful sort of person, and if someone speaks to me at length, I forget what he is talking about ... So since you are dealing with someone with a bad memory, cut your answers short and make them briefer." Even in these translations, you're not likely to miss the irony. In fact, if Sokrates is claiming to "have a bad memory, 11 --that he cannot remember what Protagoras has just been saying--it wouldn't amount to a very interesting irony, since it would be merely and blatantly false. For it is obvious by the very conditions of the Protagoras-remember I said it was a recollected dialogue--that Sokrates has no trouble recalling verbatim entire conversations, including, here, Protagoras' disquisition on the useful and the good, as well as his own claim of having a bad memory. Only o ne translation of the two I read conveys in part better the sense of Sokrates' words, £n:LA.noµwv TL,~ wv [epilesmon tis on tungkano], "I happen to be a forgetful sort of person. 11 'Ei(1.,/..,noµwv, [epilesmon], the wo rd often translated as "having a bad memory," is an adjective from the verb epilanthanomai meaning "to escape o ne's own notice," "to forget." Now it is merely false for Sokrates to claim to have a bad memory. His capacity to recall what is said is never, in any dialogue, a matter of dispute, (although Ei(LATlalJWV could convey the sense of "bad memory," describing, that is, a constitutional incapacity for remembering.) But when Sok rates says he is £n: 1., A.noµwv, and in view of the evidence that he does not suffer from an inability to recall what is said, we may avail ourselves of that other sense of E:n:1.,A.noµwv that is, "forgetful." In this sense, E: j( 1., A. naµwv describes one who is 1 iable to fail to notice something, but without connoting that forgetfulness is any permanent condition. Thus, for instance, when Sokrates says in the Apology that he almost "forgot same verb himself" (using that epilanthanomai) because his accusers spoke so persuasively, we need not think he means that he was ever in serious jeopardy of permanent amnesia of his identity; only that, confronting those false appearances promoted by Anytus and Meletus, Sokrates momentarily lost sight of his true self. When, then, Sokrates claims to be EnLAnoµwv in the Protagoras, he is not merely telling a great lie about his ability to recall--! grant that level of irony--he is as well telling a great truth about himself: that he is a profoundly forgetful person, a person, that is, who is ever intent on recovering, in the face of conflicting or false appearances, something that is true, but that has somehow escaped his notice. Sokrates is (n: 1., )..r)oµwv in that sense of being always self-conscious of a concern for the forgotten, the unnoticed. Indeed, . this sense of forgetfulness is at the very heart of Sokrates' habitual self- recognition: that he knows that he does not know: he is self-conscious of his ignorance, his failure to notice, truth that is concealed by appearances. I want to point out, too, that in the example I have been talking about, in the Protagoras, it is not, I think,Protagoras' speech that Sokrates really means he is liable to forget. It is, he says~ n:E:p 1., o ~ 6 A.oy os ~ v "what the argument was about. 11 And this, I take it, is not the sophist's disquisition on the useful and the good, but those more remote arguments about human virtue and justice and courage. But what difference does it make, how we understand EltL ATfoµw v--not as "having a bad memory," but as "forgetful"? I have mentioned the Greek names for a number of words I have talked about. And now I want to introduce one more, the word for "truth, 11 &)..nBE1.,a, [aletheia]. The etymology of this word has been disputed, but many Greeks, and certainly Plato, regarded a/.., rl~E \., CI. 1 S etymon as derived from A.avBavw, [ lanthano]: )..n{Jn , [lethe], meaning "forgotten. II Thus aAr)BE LCI., truth --the "a" negates lethe--means something like "unforgotten" or "un-concealed." In fact, th~s same word A.n~n is contained in that very word for forgetful,En:L)..noµwv. 7 �only what Plato says, but how Plato says: my sense that Plato alway~attempted to create a room, a place, for his reader. To conclude I want to turn to the dialogue that is explicitly concerned with friendship, the Lysis . Here, Sokrates attempts to elicit from two young boys, Lysis and Menexenus, a definition of what a friend is . We have only to look at the conclusion to see that the attempt fails: "But what a friend is, we have been unable to dis cover . 11 The immediate reason for the failure is the intrusion of the two pedagogues who have come to take Lysis and Menexenus away; had they not _app~ared, Sokrates intended to turn the conversation ov~r t0 those standing on the periphery, oL TIEPlEOT W TES [hoi periestotes] , the observers of conversation. The failure of the Lysis makes it one of those dialogues sometimes described as "aporetic," which is to say, inconclusive, unsuccessful. That word, "aporetic," like two other words I have mentioned today--aletheia and atopon- -is compounded of the negative prefix a - and a noun: nopos. ITopos is a lovely word . It is cognate with our words "port" and "ford"-- TIOpo s means "a way" or "a passageway from here to there," a road that gets somewhere. Thus "a- poretic" dialogues are so- called because they fail to complete a passage, fail to get from here to there. Sok.r ates speaks the word TIO po s in describing at the end of the Lysis the two pedagogues: they were, he says, anopo1., lAporoi], that is, impossible to get past, impossible to get through. And so, he continues, we had to break up the discussion, 6 1.,EA. uoa -µ Ev: you can hear Lysis' - Auo1.,s - name in that word, dielusamen. So the discussion breaks up. And yet, we cannot be satisfied, I think, that the afternoon was merely u~successful. For we must keep in mind that th e whole Lysis is a performance of Socratic recollection, which at least implies that, al though the actual conversation achieved no llG ~os , somehow i n the reco] lection of it, and the OHE(j;l S of it- - the distanced examination of it--maybe there exists some Tiopo s; some way of getting to the truth, (It is also the name of the mythological river of forgetfulness, the Lethe . I guess I'm lucky my parentE didn't know Greek when they thought to name me after a river.) Some of you may recogniz.e what I am saying from Martin Heidegger's Introduc tion to Metaphysics, where he discusses aA.n~ElO., as being, for the Greeks a matter of unconcealment, the apprehension of what is there but has escaped notice, has been forgotten. At any rate, for Plato, it was in the nature of truth, aA. nBE 1.,a, to make its appearance as something unforgotten, disclosed. It is this performance of recollection that Sokrates speaks of in the Meno, the process, through skepsis, of apprehending what has momentarily escaped notice. In the Lysis, for instance, Sokrates describes philosophy as that desire for what one properly possesses but does not grasp, namely, wisdom. For Sok rates, philosophy is that desire for wisdom in the face of ignorance, which makes him the perfectly f orgetful man, attending always to the attempt to discover, through skepsis I the truth I l~A nB E \., 0., and to recognize it as truth, to remember what he has forgotten, to notice what has escaped notice. Socratic forgetfulness has less --if anything--to do with "having a bad memory" as with Sokr.ates' habitual self-consciousness that he is failing to notice something, failing to notice the truth. I said I was going to try to convey something of the experience of reading Plato in Greek. In some instances, it is the experience of apprehending connotations that are difficult to convey in translation: the sense of ctTOITOV as "out of place" as well as, more idiomatically, "strange," or £:TI 1., A. rfoµw v as "forgetful" rather than "having a bad memory;" and the sound of A.nBn in ETILAno µuJV and aA.r)Baa And it is also the experience of apprehending with perhaps more accuracy what Plato means, as for example uctBnµa1u ,learning, but not knowledge. I said, too, that I wanted to explain something of what endears me to Plato's words, and makes me regard Plato as something of a friend--that I enjoy not a 8 aA.nBELO'.. Yet it is characteristic of aporetic and recollected dialogues that Sokrates never adverts to direct speech to tell us the result of his OHE(j;LS. The Lysis gives us only that imitation of Sokrates' "second-look;" the results of it must finally be ou r own . I began by talking about the conclusion of the Lys is. Now perhaps when I tell you what the first word of that dialogue is, you will hear something in it that you would not have heard before: the first word is EnopEBoµnv, [eporeuomen]. ' ETiopEuoµn \. is a verb, and in .m ost English translations you will find that this word has been translated, "I was walking" or "I was going ." There are at 1 east a dozen verbs in the Greek vocabulary that mean something like going or walking or traveling on foot. ~Plato chose the verb poreuomai, which means travel, but particularly, literally in the sense of making ~ opos a passage for oneself . Thus when Sok rates begins ,ETiopn1oµnv, he is saying, "I was attempting to make a way for myself" --I've translated that "attempting," because the form is in the imperfect tense, and this imperfect--uncompleted--aspect does not imply · that the activity was completed. "I was attempting to make a way for myself," says Sokrates, "from the Academy to the Lyceum." In fact, for all we know, Sokrates never did get to the Lyceum; at least his attempt was frustrated by those people who persuafied him to enter the gymnasium instead . But cnopc1c5µnv I tells us something else, not about Sokrates' literal travel between two places, but about his travel in speech, what he later describes as "a difficult road," the conversation about friendship with Lysis and Menexenus, where he attempted to find his way. So we hear in ETiopEuo11nv the literal nopo~ that Sokrates attempts and fails, to cross the distance between Academy and Lyceum; and the hint, too, of that figurative travel, in speech, to get from the appea ra nce of friendship to a knowledge of what a friend is, and this too fails. But I want to suggest that in ETiopEuoµ nv we h~ar the p~ssibility of a third rropos 9 attempted, that is, the recollection of truth. For we have, in the Ly sis, not direct conversation, but conve rsat ion at a remove, a distance, contained in the imitation of socratic OXE~LS. And so for us, the reader, the Lysis becomes a road that we, too, may travel. Let me give you one example of the sort of thing that we, as readers, are able to notice in the Lysis, something that suggests that although the Tiopos was not found in speech, something at least was accomplished in the course of the dialogue, something encouraging. Throughout the Lysis, Lysis and Mene xe nus ~re conspicuously close friends. I say "conspicuous1y" because, in describing them, Plato has chosen to use a rather rare inflection of Greek nouns and verbs, the so-called dual. The dual, which was common enough in epic language consists of a particular set of wordendings that designate pairs of things: hands, eyes, feet, oxen . But as I have said, by Plato's time this form had become obsolete, and twos of things were no longer differentiated from threes or fours or hundreds of things. But Plato makes the friendship between Lysis and Menexenus conspicuous to the Greek reader by always designating these two friends in the dual: E'yEAaochnv aµcpw, "they both-together-as-a-pair laughed"; < LA. w yap E: a T o v , p "for the two of you are friends"; Ecpa1nv, "they spoke together"; 01>vE:cpchnv, "the two agreed in unison ." The boy's unaimity, their absorption in each other, is signified, too, in the early conversation in which Sokrates attempts to distinguish them from each other: Which of you is older? Which nobler? Which wiser? Juster? Wealthier? These are things, says Menexenus, that "we spend a lot of time arguing about." And you cound say that Sokrates' remark, that friends share all things,xoLva Ta TWV cp(A.wv [koina ta ton philon) , applies, at least trivially, to these boys: each shares the other's characteristics; at least, they are unable to distinguish themselves. But by the end of the Ly sis, something has changed. The communality of a �friendship is no longer mone~, looks, age, pedigree , but a shared pursuit of knowl edge in the face of self- conscious ignorance. They are, says Sokrates , t.pLAOL , (philoi 1 , but the object of their love, their desire, is no longer merely one another, but, in the recognition that they are equals in ignorance, a desire for what is truly c.pL.\o v , dear, namely, wisdom. In the final words of the dialogue, Sokrates describes this circle of friends, a circle that is now wider by one, and distinguishes itself as a group of those who stand on the periphe r y, observers but not participants: "Well, now, Lysis and Menexenus, we have become laughing s tocks -- I, an old man, and you . Fo r those people will say as they leave that though we believe ou rs elves frie nds --f o r I place even myself in you r midst --what a friend is, we have been unable to discove r." To the people standing around as observers, O TIEPLEOTWTE~ , the sight of L other people 's ignorance appears as an object o f r idicule : Sokrates and the boys have become laughable in the eyes of others . But am0ng themselves, as friends, friends whose cornmuna 1 i ty is the pursuit of what is truly dear, wisdom, the recognition of ignorance will never appear ridiculous. Before their conversation with Sokrates , Lysis and Menexenus had only themselves as objects of philia . But the dialogue has created a new place, a new T O ll O~ , and a new starting place from which to make a journey, a llopo~. The enlargement of the circle of friends is shown in Sokrates ' words, ~aL Eµ l yap i) µ Cv TL Br µL., [kai eme gar en hurnin titherni), "for I place even myself in your midst . " I began some time ago by saying that on a good day I can be 1 ieve that I have entered, and am inhabiting, Plato's world . For me, the invitation to enter came through the language, Gr eek . It i s 1 an gu age that always for ces r eflection , language that, in its own way, becomes a way, ll opos; • And on good days when I am reading Plato , I can believe that I am standing, not on the periphery of the dialogue among oC llEP LOT W T C~ , but that I, too, "place myself in the midst" of that ci r cle of friends who have all things in common . cv 1 On Shakespeare's Sonnet LXXI laurence Berns No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell. Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe. o, if, I say, you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much a·s my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone. The first quatrain of this poem is bleak as bleak can be. The poet addresses his love with his own death either :i'..n prospect or accomplished. The funeral ringing of the church bells is sad, bemoaning the loss, but also comforting, raising the hope of passage, perhaps, to a better place. The poet will have none of this comfort: the bell, surly and sullen, warns, even threatens. There is a reminder of the usual expectations, for he does not say " the " or " our " vile world, but "this" vile world, suggesting that there is another. Fleeing from this vile world, supposedly to a more peaceful place~ again rouses religious expectations. This world is styled vile in comparison to that more perfect heavenly one. If the poet wants to remind us of the usual hopes, it is only to dash them to the ground more strongly. This world is vile, but death is a dwelling with greater vileness, with vilest worms. If life is vile, and its ending vilest, the advice of the first line is plausible. Yet, despite - the meaning of the words, the ringing assonance and alliteration of the first four lines is not unpleasant. The steadi--. ness and regularity of the bell's ringing somehow suggests the natural regularity of c9ming into being and passing away. The first clause of the second quatrain repeats the advice of the first lines of the poem. At the same time, howeyer, it draws our attention to the poem itself and "the hand that ~rit it". But the way the advice is offered seems to make it impossible to follow. The sudden change of tone in the sweetly simple declaration, "for I love you so", deepens the paradox. Is this the kind of language lovers are likely to forget? The central word in the first of the central lines of the whol.e poem is "sweet". For lovers Mr . Berns is a tutor at the Annpolis campus. 10 11 �whose love has been mutual the world cannot have been al together vi le. Sweet times breed sweet thoughts. The poet seems to have contrived this poem so as to be remembered, not forgotten by his beloved, but only in the beloved' s sweet · thoughts. Theirs is a proud love. The poet would rather be forgotten, if thinking on him would only bring on woe. By exhorting the reader to do what is impossible, the third quatrain elaborates the conceit of the first line and a half of the second quatrain. The final sestet as a whole is designed to relieve and to sweeten the sadness of the beloved. The poet plays with his beloved even after he is dead. By the ninth line of the poem, "O, if, I say, you look upon this verse", there is no longer any question about whether these lines will be read. Surely, the poet doth protest too much. The advice, however, is backed up by a threat: if the beloved does not forget the poet, the wise world will mock. Along with the sentiments of the first quatrain, the wise world, or the worldly wise, think that all hopes for immortality are ridiculous and vulgar . In this sonnet, taken by itself, the poet seems to agree with the worldly wise. Established religion's consolation, belief in an after-life, seems to be rejected. The words soul and spirit never occur. But the wise world may not be as wise as it thinks: the poet may have found a way of preserving something of himself even after he is gone. He preserves only that ~art of himsel~ whi~h he regards worthy of survival, thi::· sv•eet and playful thought-provoking part. 1 The word "with" in the final line of the poem abounds in fruitful ambiguity. It could mean that the poet will join the wise world in mocking his love if the beloved persists in bemoaning the poet's loss. It could also mean that the wise world would use him, the poet, as the instrument of its mockery. It could even mean that the poet "and" his love "together" will be mocked, if the beloved should openly bemoan their loss. The poet knows that nothing can obliterate the sorrow from the death of those we love. Yet by mixing a spirit of sweet loving playfulness with that sorrow he has contriv2d to transform lover's moans to smiles. . 1. In the third foot of the twelfth line the only major break in metrical regulari ty, substituting anapaest for iamb, suggests that the love is stretched out rather than cut short . 2 . Sonnets LXXI to LXXIV may form some kind of unity. I have tried to interpret Sonnet LXXI by itself. The central lines of Sonnet LXXIV, however, seem to express the central thought of this sonnet as well: The earth can have but earth, which is his due; My spirit is thine, the better part of me. The Genesis of Modern Science In Galileo's Concept of Mathematizable .Nature Pierre H. Gagnier The general aim of !h~ Crisis of th~ Eur opean Scie nces and Transcendental Phenomenology involves the critical exploration of the history of modern philosophy, considered according to its radical meaning as apodeictic science. The task of modern science, and its failure to fulfil that task, contain hidden sources which point to the necessity of a transcendental science . of phenomenology. This science is then developed in light of the examination of the pregiven "life-world", and of the problem of transcendentally ungrounded psychology. In the examination of philosophy, phenomenology is presented as the hidden telos of modern apodeictic science . Husserl opens the whole work with an explication of the crisis of this science. Thus presented, it constitutes a most important motivation for the whole work. In order, however, to understand the crisis and its importance, the nature of science must first be understood. The . beginning of this task lies in the uncovering of the hidden roots of modern science through the examination of its radical f ormation in Galileo ' s thinking. My beginning then will follow closely Husserl's setting out of this genesis, and I will confine my efforts to a more or less pedestrian tracing of his footsteps. Why must analysis of the meaning of modern science begin with a look at Galileo? The task of modern science could not .b e t a ken up until its range was delimited and made specific, and this determination arises out of the re- alization v~rsally of Galileo's idea of a uni - mathematizable world whose nature ' is disclosed through mathematical physics. The motives for this idea will lead us to .the motives~ behind moder~ philosophy whi~h constitute its hidden telos. This first motive arises from a two-fold source, or two_interrelated givens. The first is the array of special sciences inherited from the ancients . Each of these sciences presides over an ~ priori region which is finite; although they yield neceisary truths, these sciences draw their objects from a finite realm. For instance, Euclidian ,geometry is not the science of all of the infinite number of possible, geometric configurations, but rather the science of all the geometrical objects that fall under its exhaustible purveyance. The other given is a new idea about science, a new attitude toward universal and apodeictic reasoning, through which the old sciences are taken up and given infinite tasks. Thus Euclidean geometry leads to the method by which an infinite yet delimited region of possible ! priori- geometrical knowledge is systematically ·disclosed, or in another manner of speaking, it leads to the· method by which the infinite realm of geometrical ~ priori knowledge is systematically constructible in advance according to universal principles. These two givens motivate an unexamined. presentiment in Galileo: that the realm of objective being is a rational tota lity tha t c an be constructed in advance ! priori by its own universal science. This presentiment Pierre H. Gagnier, a junior, wrote this paper for Mr. Lenkowski's prece~torial on Husserl's, The Crisis of the European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology. 12 13 �leads to the mathematization of nature in Galileo's physics. The meaning of the mathematization of nature can be discovered in the train of thought which led Galileo to it . This train of thought involves presuppositions the problematic nature of which Galileo does not see. First, if we examine what is given for Galileo in this respect, we find 1) that the world presents itself as objective in everyday experience, and 2) that pure mathematics is a science of absolute, self-evident validity. The presupposition that remains unexamined for Galileo is this: it is to be taken for granted that the content of objective experience is the very thing which makes it objective, and is thus its true nature; and this "true nature" consists in ideal mathematical properties . The apodeictic science of these properties is mathemat ics, and specifically, geometry. In orde r to explicate the meaning of this presupposition, the "meaning" of geometry which guided Galileo must be examined . The "meaning" of geometry contains notions of which Galileo may or may not be explicitly aware. Nevertheless our investigation attempts to formulate these notions. In Husserl's analysis of geometry, pure rational geometrical space never means the abstracted transformations which the imagination derives from sense, · for these will always be sensible, however abstract or arbitrary, and they will always be "thinkable only in gradations: the more or less straight, flat, circular, etc. " Sensible things, considered as shapes, whether empirically intuited or abstractly conceived, are only approximately self-identical, that is, approxi ~ately the same things at different times, app r o x . ately the same as themselves, and approx i ma tely the same in other things. They are not exactly identifiable in terms of shape . On the othe r hand , they have shape determinations which are capable of ever more accurate measurement. As the technology of measurement improves, the accuracy of determination improves. As improvement proceeds, it comes to be seen as improvement toward something, and this something comes to mean the ideal lifil= it-shapes of pure geometry. These limit-shapes are unattainable poles of perfection and constitute the realm of "pure thinking", which uses a systematic method of idealization and construction to gain knowledge of this realm. Rut this root meaning of geometry need not be formulated, nor even become a matter of interest in oraer to be employed as ideal method . In fact, as such, it is a cultural accomplishment which does not give evidence of that which gave it its original meaning. The original meaning is obscured, or "sedimented" over by consequent cultural accretions. of meaning. Nevertheless, geometry arises out of the idealization of objectively standardized shapes. In time the discovery is made that all conceivable ideal shapes may be constructed by . the~ priori, universal and systematic method of pure geometry, so that it becomes, in and of itself, the science of an infinite ~ priori. Geometry was a given for Galileo, and though he did not know it, its meaning arose out of the art of measur ement. The art of measurement was itself a tradition given to him which guided him in his relation of empirical matters to the pure mathematical ideals of limit. The idea of mathematical limits set a task to the art of measurement, according to which a method is developed of progressive approximation to geometrical ideals. Pure geometry, remaining autonomous, provides a means and guidance for this task. Since the meaning of geometry was "sedimented" for Galileo, he did not know that it arose from the art of measurement, but he did know that geometry was applied to the art of measurement. For Husserl, "sedimentation" is the process through which original and originary meanings are lost or forgotten. The question which was hidden for Galileo becomes urgent in the unfolding of the late r misdirection of European science: how does the self - evidence "work", by which pure geometry arises out of the art of measure as an origin itself of knowledge? In any case, Galileo sees that geometry, through the art of measurement, achieves obj ecti ve, identical, non-relative demon- 14 strations of truth by its progressive approximations from empirical givens to geometrical idealities. For him, this is a way to see what truly is, with respect to phenomena. At this point Galileo's application of geometry to appearances presents us with a great difficulty. Pure geometry can only be applied to intuited and conceived bodies as abstract spatiotemporal entities. But bodies present themselves to us as concrete. In order to clarify this problem, we must first investigate what we mean by concrete int.ui tions . There are two aspects to this meaning of bodies .as concrete in actual and possible experience: 1) shape is foxm · "filled in" with the "matter" of specific sense qualities, and 2) concrete qualities are concrete because they hang together. But they do not ·just hang together, rather, qualitative changes are related interdependently in a meaningful way. For example, if I move a brown cup from .one location to another, the qualities of location and color will be interrelated. This manner of interdependence · conforms to types of relatedness which give to sensible bodies which exist together the character of the belonging together. In other words, the ways in which bodies present themselves in everyday experience are typical, and the typicality is one by which they present themselves as being essentially causally related to one another. In fact, this typicality is part of the essential structure of the life world. (With respect to this discussion, the "life-world" is merely the world of everyday experience, pregiven before the adoption of any scientific attitude. Thus the life-world can be characterized as prescientific experience.) We are now i~ a position to disclose something more of this essential structure of the life world. The things of the world of everyday life can be characterized as behaving according to an over-all empirical "style·." They have . "habits" of typical behavior which are made possible by this one habit of the _flowing present of intuition, by which it is always for us a world, and not only a world, but one which continues as it has up .to now. By freely varying in imagination the possibilities of this world, the horizon within which they are found is explicated, and the invariant general style which persists throughout can be seen as the essential meaning of the life world. Much . more remains to be said regarding this method of free variation and its present application, but Husserl only assures us ~hat if one were to t~ke up this investigation, one would see that this over-all style is universal- . .!x invariant, and that everything intuited in everyday life is bound by this a priori. This is not a Kantian sense of priori, according to which the ! priori would be a principle prerequisite to any experience, or which stands before experience and dictates its form. The meaning of all intuitions is to be worldly. That is, they belong together in a whole totality of one world, and this world is one because everything in it has the style of belonging together according to causal regulation. Why a priori? No argument is given; perhaps the implication may be drawn that since the . world . of possible intuition is whole only through this style, it cannot be derived ! posteriori ·, and so must be ! priori. That is to say, I can only have a worldly object in relation to a whole world which is prior to it. This causal style discovered in life makes possible the systematic knowledge of the everyday world. Explanations of how and why events occur, as well as predictions of future events from knowledge of present situations are made possible. But if we are to build exact, scientific knowledge from this, .we need more than the general insight that the experiencible is causally related in a single, whole world- horizon. This is the task of an infinite apodeictic science. As such, this science must be the means of constructing the world according to ! priori causal principles, from a meagre base of contingent data. Just as in the realm of pure geometry, any shape is theoretically constructible, so in the realm of the 15 a �intuitable world, any event should be collocation ot all c:ualitative properties . predictable, and capable of being "con Any method that achieves this must include all concrete qualjties as mathematizable, vincingly" verified back in experience . To state this problem is to express the insomuch as they all participate in the Thus natur~ would be task of philosophy: knowing the world in • causal world style . a serious scien~if ic way can have meaning the subject mat te r of this epi s temic and be possible only if there can be science of the world . In order to devised a method by which we can systemat accomplish this, however, the specific ically 1 ) construct, in advance, the world sense qualiti e s, or plenum qualities must of infinite causalities, starting from be found to be indirectly mathematizable . In order tu continue, we must look at direct experience, and 2) verify this construction, accomplishing both in spite specific sense qualities in order to see what it is about them that r equires that of the infinitude of causality and the they be mathemati z able only indirectly, if meagre and r elative nature of direct at all . The whol e notion here is contrary experience . Mathematics itself points to to modern pre s uppositions , used as we are the possibility of accomplishing this task to assuming that measurement r elates through two of its own accomplishments . The first is actually its hidden genesis, always to idealiti e s . We only assume , for insta nce , that a plenum quality such as the idealizing of the world in-respect to spatiotempor al shape, whe r eby shape is sound is d e term i ned by transverse sine waves because of ou r s cientific attitude . abstracted f r om relat~ve, subjective , and vaguely rep r esented object s of sense and It is just this attitude which is ul ti imaqin a tion, and an infinj te uni vers P 0f ~at e l v und e r inves t j0ot i o n he r e, and which we must endeavor to get behind . We must perfectly determined ideal objec ~ s is abst r act ·f r om our e v e ry day wo r ld of bodies apodeictical ly gene r ated a prior i and the ir s p e cific se n se qu a lities (which is absolu t ely . The second accG;plishment was diffe r ent fr om t h e abst r ac t. io n of thei r not hidden fr om Galileo . Through it , spati otempo r al s hape s ) , and con side r t hem g e omet r y retu rns t o the s ens i ble wo r ld to in this aspect . F irst, we find that there f i nd pract i cal application in the art of .is· no immediate ex act measur e for them, meas uring, and guides the method in o r der although we do sense , and have concepts to att a i n obj e ctive knowledge of sensible of , their essential gradations--e . g . more matte r s in respect to their approximate or less hot , cold, light, dark, loud, spatiotempor ality, and in order to predict soft, etc . Exact measurement requires through induction previously unknown, empirical approximation to ideal struc unobservable events . This accomplishment tures which have been constructed objec within the art of measurement is not to be tively in a dvance , s uch as the objective confused with universal mathematical world of pur e geomet r y . The only ~ priori physics, the origin of which is not yet structure of the world we have is explicated. What I refer to here are spatiotempora:; shapes are abstractable finite inductions such as the special from all possible bodies, and their s cience of a s t r onomy which Galileo inher ultimate abst r action encompassing all i ted f r om t he ancient s . fo r ms is the infinite extension of the B ~t a lthough these t wo accomplishunive r se . Idealized, this gives us one ment s po i n t to the possib i lity of a pure science of the world form: pure universal apodeictic constructive science, geometr y. The specific sense qualities we are still f aced with our original are not idealizable analogously, are not difficulty: how can the art of idealizing part of some qua li tati ve world form, and abstractive features of concrete bodies have no measure approximating ideal exact yield a method for the apodeictic science objective constructions given in advance. of all qualities of sensible plena? So, the plena can only be Experience can be characterized as having mathematized, if at all, indirectly . If two aspects: a spatiotemporal aspect, and we turn again to a prescientific attitude a plenum aspect. The plenum aspect is the 16 toward the world of everyday life, and perform the same method of free variation as before, we find that the over-all style of the world includes three predetermined meanings. These are undetermined anticipations of essential regulated ways that shapes relate to specifically sensible qualities. 1) It is predetermined that all things of the world present themselves in the form of space-time. 2) The style of general causality is of this sort: that actual shapes require actual plena. 3) The style of general causality is universal concrete causality. That is, cause relations constitute the infinite world horizon, and every cause and effect is necessary for concrete bodies, for shape aspect as well as plenum aspect. But this may not be so helpful.· These predetermined meanings of concrete bodies hold only with respect to bodies insofar as they are actual and concrete. ·When the plenum aspect is abstracted, we still have not shown that that aspect is dependent in a consistent causal way on · the shape aspect. Our investigation of the realm of possible experience has not shown us that every possible change in a plenum must somehow have a causal counterpart in the shape aspect. This seems strange to us because science gives us assurances about the mathematical nature of plena qualities, while the prescientific world does not. But it is even more strange to note that for Galileo, this assurance is not available. Such being the case, hoW-Could he arrive at his conception of an infinite mathematizable causally integrated nature, in which all plena events can be systematically, though indirectly, determinable through mathematical idealities? The answer to this question is the explanation of the hidden source of Galileo's conception of nature as mathematizable in its c o ncrete actuality. As was indicated earlier, this motive does not arise from prescientific experience. All such experience basically consists in vague and indeterminate dependencies between plenum characteristics and shape c.haracteristics. Even where these dependencies are more determinate, for example the functional dependency of tone on string length, such cases are comparatively rare and not obviously connected with one another in terms of their inductive clarity. · In other words, the basic indeterminate habit of causality of the world of everyday life can provide no source for 'the kind of attitude that Galileo's concept of nature entails-- an attitude of analytical inquiry aimed at the nexus of shape/plenum causal dependencies. In addition to this difficulty, there are two other difficulties behind Galileo's conception of nature: 1) we still have no method for measuring the plena, and 2) with regard to the measuring of space, the prescient if ic era did not yet have methods of space-time measurement adequate to · some visible shape events. Finally, the hypothesis that would suggest this universal causality is foreign to the prescientific world experience. The source of Galileo's view does, however, arise from at least two causes. First, there was a general attitude prevalent which is part of the vague attitude often referred to today as the Renaissance. This attitude involved an inclination to intellectual boldness a nd exuberant hypc>theses. Sec. nd, there was a o very powerful tool available to these men--the infinite,. universal and ideal realm of pure mathematics, with its apodeictic, constructive science. When these two factors are combined, a strong and constructive belief in mathematics is able to lay o ut a completely new task for science, as the source (through technology and the art of measurement) of objective knowledge about the world. This depends upon four prerequisites: 1) the discovery of methods for measuring everything encompassed in geometry, 2) the determination that the whole world is mathematizable with respect to these methods, 3) the possibility of successful induction from particulars, and 4) the determination that the plenum aspect is indirectly mathematizable. All of these gave rise to a universal idea for Galileo, the true meaning of its hypothetical nature being unknown to him: an essential "inductibility" or universal inductivity characterizes the world of possible 17 �intuition, and announces itself in everyday experience, while possessing a hidden infinity. What does it mean to say that this universal inductivity announces itself in everyday life, and that it has a hidden infinity? It was already shown that mathematical shape idealities are the poles of infinite approximations. This is manifested in their extensive and . intensive infinities, whereby mathematical space is infinite in extension and infinitely divisible. When mathematical shapes are applied to concrete, intuitively given experience, they give up their character of being independent from the plenum aspect. In this application they cause actual bodies to become idealized to the extent that they are charged with the same infinities, i.e. these infinities become part of the actual bodies. This "substruction" implies that the plenum qualitie~ become charged with the same infinities since the n 1 Pnnm qualities are inseparable from spatiotemporal qualities. So, in prescientific experience (the attitude from which this hypothesis arises) we find universal causality to be an obvious general and invariable style of possible experience, but only as a vague indeterminate interdependence of events. The application of mathematics to the space aspect of the prescient if ic world causes it to be charged with ideal infinities, and since it is essentially concrete, there is also a hidden infinity substructed for the particular sense qualities, or the plenum aspect. Galileo makes this infinity explicit in his universal idea of the mathematizability of pature. 'I'hough we have come some way in the clarification of the source of Galileo's conception of physics, we still have need of a methodical approach to the determining of the ways in which factual shapes and their plena stand in causal relation to one another. This methodical approach can arise from certain presuppositions involved in the idea of a universal inductivity. These presuppositions present themselves as "how's" pointing to the methodical exposition of the causal relations in question. Each presuppo sition must be clarified; that is, in order to realize the idea of a universal inductivity, each presupposition about the ways shape and plenum are causally related will arise in the consideratio n of method, as a question of "how?", which must be answered in order to bring the presupposition to determinateness. Each "how" leads to its succeeding "how": 1) How do I methodically regulate this inductive task? 2) How are we to determine causality in both aspects ( shape and plenum) of bodily data? 3) How is methodical measurement to disclose pro~ gressively the hidden infinities within this data? 4) How are the resultant shape approximations to make apparent progressivelY. perfect indirect measurements of plena qualities? 5) And lastly, how are these approximations according to all their ideally possible occurrences, to make concrete bodies scientifically determinable? These questions are answered not by any systematic deduction of what possibilities are derived in principle from all the presuppositions essential to this universal idea. Rather, the questions are formulated and answered through what Husserl calls a "passionate praxis of inquiry" which yields discoveries. Because of this approach, the method must be built on unclarified grounds--upon a hypothesis which is not recognized as such. In this light, Galileo is a discoverer; his task is to realize his idea of general inductivity through a twofold process: 1) of inquiring into actual experiences, and 2) of achieving discoveries therefrom. He develops methods according to the anticipations of his hypothesis, and applies them to the intuitable world. These anticipations may be no more than hunches, or matters of instinct, but when he finds them demonstrated by experience, his idea is realized. Discoveries enable more developments in method and set the stage for more discoveries, and Galileo finds that some of these causal relations can be expressed mathematically as formulae, or laws of 18 physics. There is another way of describing the realization of Galileo's hypothesis, by proceeding from the consideration of the twofold nature of the measuring praxis which was discussed earlier. On the one hand, this art yields only inexact quantities. But it also yields the capability of more exact measurement through its own self-improvement. This steady improvement gives the inexactitude of the measurements a new sense--they become approximations. It then only becomes necessary that the end to which the approximations advance be made explicit. Here the unclarif ied relatedness of the world to pure mathematics comes into play; the approximations acquire meaning as being approximations toward ideal, self-identical, perfectly exact mathematical quantities; that is, unattainable poles of accuracy approachable only through progressive improvement of measurement in infinitum. Galileo's method, considered first in regard to the unfolding of inductive discovery, and secondly in regard to the explication of hidden infinities through the art of measurement, can now be considered in regard to the general sense which it possesses as a whole, and which is carried over from the prescientif ic world's invariant over-all style. This over-all style involves a totality of types by which particulars present themselves to us as being related according to the over-all style. For instance, the pencil I hold is an instance of the type, "combustible solid bodies," and as such will burn if I let it fall into a fire. This typical nature of experience is carried over into the Galilean idealization of the world. As formulae are derived from experience, they can be referred to experience in order to ideally · objectify particular events. In the case of my pencil, the rate of its free fall, and its rate of combustion are determinable for any given instance according to mathematical laws of nature. And so these systematically acquired formulae are expressions of general, causal, concrete interdependencies in the form of numerical functional dependencies, and their meaning as such lies in the Galilean idea of a universal physics explicated above. Most important for the considerations Husserl is engaged in, Galileo's physics and its motivation in the idea of universal inductivity, are radically hypothetical. Their necessity is not grounded according to ~ priori principles in the life-world. Therefore the inductive verification of Galileo's physics will never make universal inductivity anything other than a hypothesis. It is throughout the undeniable progress of Galileo's science nothing more than an unendingly verified hypothesis. Like _ the approximations by which the art of measurement approaches true objective determinations in infinitum, the approximations of successive theories to "true nature" proceed in infinitum as toward ideal poles. But this is only an analogy. The ideal poles of theorv are not a region of idealities like the pure shapes are. Pure shapes are realizable mathematically, but the poles of theory are not attainable through my finite progress. They are historically open-ended. This is a consequence of the explication of Galileo's idea of physics which is not properly part of the matter at hand. The hypothesis that Galileo took to be granted--the universal inductivity of nature with its science of mathematical physics--is, in all its complicated motivations from given concepts and presuppositions, the original source of the modern conception of science. 19 �H ILLUSTRATION On the Nature of Cones and Conic Sections Michael Landry A 0 This paper deals with the geometry of J Third, for the hyperbola and ellipse cones and conic sections. In one sense it is concerned with the principle properties of conic sections as revealed by Appollonius of Perga in Book I of his Conics. In quite another sense it is concerned with those properties of cones that Apollonius does not reveal. Given three cones (See Illustration) , let pl a nes be passed through the axes cutting off axial triangles, ABC. Let a nother plane be passed through the cones cutting the base in the line GF so that GF is perpendicular to BC. Let this plane, called the plane of reference, be posi tioned in three separate ways with respect to one side of the axial triangle (we will use AC ) . First, let DE (the intersection of the plane of reference and the axial triangle) be parallel to AC. Second, let DE intersect AC extended past the vertex, outside of the cone at H. Third, let DE intersect AC extended past the b ase (but within the cone extended) at H. We now have th.ree types of conic sections, FOG, named parabola, hyperbola and ellipse respectively. In Book I, propositions 11, 12 and 13 of his Conics, Apollonius sets out the basic properties of the p arabola, ·hyperbola and ellipse. First, in all thre ~ c on e s he c on structs p line, DJ, perpendicular to DE at D. Second, for the parabola he determines the length of DJ by the following contrivance: J he first d r aws a line through the point A parallel to DE and intersecting BC (exten ded) at M. He then determines the length of DJ in this way: DA :DJ : : rect. BA,AC :BC 2 2 HD:DJ :: AM : rect. BM,MC Using these contrivances, then proves that in the : Parabola, Hyperbol a, El 1 ipse, GE 2 GE GE 2 2 Apollonius B = DE,DJ F F DE,DJ + DE,JO where JO is determined by the rati o HD : DJ .. DE : JO HYPERBOLA PARABOLA A DE,DJ - DE , JO by the same rati o. Now, a moment's thought, should reveal that the contrivances which determine DJ stand on no geometrical foundations. They are not logically obvious for the purpose they serve, nor is their derivation indicated in the slightest. Because the contrivances are right fo r their pu r pose, Apollonius is able to prove his propositions, but he does this without revealing anything about the sense of the contrivances. However, since they work so wel i · in the proofs, the overwhelming tendency is to ignore this problem and to pass to other, more profound mysteries. Th e first real difficulty that confronts a student of the Conics is the possibl~ difference between the parabola Michael Landry is a graduate of the Santa Fe campus. He wrote this paper while at St. John' Si it has since become a spark of insight passed from class to class. 20 C(M,N) M H ELLIPSE and the other two sections. This problem is extremely subtle. One intuitively sens e s no difference . Yet, the two separate contrivances suggest a difference, and Apollonius' techniqµe of sepa- 21 rate proofs tends to confirm it. If one tries to demonstrate a kind of sameness, the contrivances actually impede a rigorous proof. I have to report that if the ttue �nature of the contrivances is k nown a n d understood, the pro blem vanis he s. Th ere is no difference between the parabo la a nd the other two secti o ns. If, c o nsidering the differences bet ween them, t he hyperbola and the ellipse are said t o be the same because the same c on triva n ce serves them both, then, necessari 1 y, t he parabola must be said t o be the same as the hyperbola and the ellipse since, in fact, one and the same contrivan c e serves all three. This may be easily demonstrated: If, through the point D on the axial triangle, the. line DK be drawn parallel to the base, with a little manipulation we find that: t he r e f o re, DA:DJ .. AB,AC:BC 2 therefore, DA:DJ comp. AB:BC, AC:BC and since, AB:BC .. DA:DK and, AC:BC .. DE:BE therefore, DA: DJ c omp. DA: DK, DE:BE and compounding both sides with DK:DA, comp. DK: DA, DA: DJ . . comp. DK: DA, DA:DK, DE:BE therefore, :: DE:BE. Th e c on trivances are ide n tical. We mu s t n o l o nger think of them as two, but as o ne. Thu s we c o nfro n t a n unsuspected my stery at the very heart of the ge ometry o f con es an d c o nic secti o ns. In o rder t o give a full explanation o f this mystery. I p r o p o se t o set o ut a new proo f b eginning with the passing of planes through a cone. Fo r c on venience I will use three cones and · suggest that all constructions and c ontrivances be applied to all three cones at the same time. ( 1 ) Let the cones be set out and cut by planes as described above. (2 ) Through the point D on the axial triangle, let the line DK be drawn parallel to the base BC. ( 3) Through the p o ints A and K on the axial triangle, let the lines ALM and KN be drawn parallel to DE, the dia meter of the section. (Observe that in the parabola the points K and L coincide as do the points C, M and N. Th is proof will remain one proof if these p o ints are distinguished though they coincide. Point K is the intersection of DK and AC; point L is the intersection of DK and a 1 ine drawn through the point A parallel to DE: etc. )_ 2 (4 ) Now in each cone GE = BE,EC, f o r BC is the diameter of a circl e , and GE is p erpendicular to it (Eucl. III.31; VI. 8, Po rism ) . But, in the: (A) In the parabola, DK: DJ DK:DJ :: DE:BE. 2 Earabo la, GE == BE, EC a nd s ince , EC = EN (B ) And in the hyperbol a 2 and ellipse, HD:DJ .. AM :BM,MC = DK t h erefo re, and since, BE, DK. hyperbo la, there f1..,re, BE,EC HD:DJ c omp. AM:MC, AM:BM AM :MC .. HD : DK but, therefo re, GE = EC therefo re, and , (Eu cl. I. 3 4 ) AM:BM .. DE : BE 2 EN + NC = BE,EN and compoundin g both sides with DK:HD , c omp . DK: HD , HD: DJ :: comp . DK:HD , HD: DK, DE:BE + BE,NC ( Euc l. II. 1) HD:DJ comp . HD : DK, DE:BE and si n ce, th eref o re, 22 = DK EN GE 2 = (Eu cl. I. 34 ) BE ,DK + BE ,NC ellipse, GE 2 (5) Let DJ be drawn perpendicular to DE, and let it be contrived that: = BE,EC c:ind adding the r2ct. BE,NC to both sides, GE + BE,NC = BE,EC + BE,NC but, EC + NC = EN therefore, GE BE,DK = DE,DJ 2 2 + BE,NC therefore, GE and since, EN = DK therefore, GE 2 This, then, is the heart of our mystery, for the contrivance may be rewritten: BE,EN (Eucl .II.I) DK:DJ : : DE :BE since the product of the means is equal to the product of the extremes. The route from this contrivance to that of Apollonius' is simply a matter of manipulation. The new contrivances, at least the contrivance for the hyperbola and the ellipse, become necessary because of a difficulty inherent in the next step. (6) Let JO be drawn, and let it be con trived that: . = BE,EN - BE,NC (Eucl. I. 34) = BE,DK - BE,NC We have therefore, Parabola: GE Hyperbola: GE ElliEse: GE 2 2 2 BE,DK BE,NC = DE,JO BE,DK + BE,NC BE,DK - BE,NC. or, Now, two important things may be said about these three equalities. The first is that they all may be expressed by the 2 general equation: GE = BE, DK ~ BE, NC. DE:BE :: NC:JO (7) The transposition is complete, for now we have: Parabola: GE 2 Since in the parabola the points N and C coincide, the rect . BE,NC is simply equal to zero. Thus, the factor vanishes from the equation. Yet, it may be said to exist, for the generality holds. Second, it is essential to recognize that the line DK is a natural geometric "parameter" generated by the passing of planes through a cone . DK is a constant and va~ies not a whit as GE increases from zero to infinity . To proceed with the proof, we must reason as follows: since GE lies in the plane of reference as well as in the base of the cone, and since DE varies directly as BE, it ~ possible to transpose the value o f GE f r om the base of the cone to the plane of reference while maintaining equality. The problem is essentially that of altering the parameter DK to accommodate DE instead of BE. Since 2 GE is a function of two rectangles, BE,DK and BE,NC, the transposition is most easily accomplished in two steps. 23 HyEerbola: GE ElliEse: GE = DE,DJ 2 2 (5) DE,DJ + DE,JO (5 & 6) DE,DJ - DE,JO (5 & 6) A difficulty exists, however. How will the rectangle DE,JO be accounted for as GE increases? The difficulty is solved because of the interesting relationship between DE and JO. (8) Since, DK:DJ .. DE:BE (5) and, DE: BE . . NC : JO (6) therefore, ex aequali, DK: DJ : : NC : JO and alternately, DK:NC : : DJ :JO but since, DK:NC .. HD:KN therefore, HD:KN .. DJ : JO �= DE and since, KN theref o re, nec e ss i ty for it exp lai ned , t here r emains the problem of expl a i n i ng the new contrivance for the parabo la: HD:DE .. DJ:JO and alternately, (Eu c l . I. 34 ) DA:DJ :: BA,AC:BC HD:DJ :: DE:JO. Thus we find that DE:JO is always given rati o . The procedure cont r ivance : is obvious . If the DK : DJ . . DE : BE be corrected to 2 HD : DJ .. AM :BM,MC i n one step it becomes possible to find the new paramet e r DJ and to set out the ratio HD:DJ of t he sides of the rectangle DE, JO wh~h is constantly the diff e rence between GE and the rectangle DE,DJ . With the new contrivance f o r the hyperbola and ellipse set ou t, and the In the Wake Andrew J. Krivak And t here he lay beneath one hundred sad bouquets. They b e nt t o kiss hi s fa c e-a t i r ed wh i t e , his powe rfu l hands with faded spots of ag e now holding what we can' t, a r osary entwi ned in finge rs clutching the bead of the r esur rect i on--then knelt to p r ay for themse lves . Dr y your tear s, Ste lla . W a re the dead. e Andrew It was simply a matter of time. Each lacked the foolish balance of a boy, It was a way over the river that the ease of a familiar road, demanded time from other ways. and the concentration that fear dissolves. The other ways she knew; Again she saw the river -- through but the trestle was as straight and fast the ties her foot was caught in. as the train that ran over it. She looked at her baby. The train ridde.n only by old engineers In desperation growing with the and brakemen easing it over the rails sound of the train, she wrapped on time; the trestle walked upon only by his blanket tightly around him. village boys flirting in time with Her tears streaked his face as she kissed him, then threw him off, the train on time, feet with animal his blanket fluttering as he fell grace that touch the ties down, down into the river below. the rails are riding on, the flash of river between each one as they She l ooked up at the boy standing in front of her, watching, dumb. streak, head down, back to the shore they came from; just in time. Through the tears her eyes asked why? Why he did not run? She set out across thinking He looked at the track ahead, only of the other side, th'e -water b~low, and.the woman next to him. and her son, blanketed in her arms as he stirred in his sleep. She laid her head on the rails, sobbing. As he reached to touch her Her thoughts carried her halfway across the trestle, to the boy the train screamed by, helpless. yelling as he ran towards her, his voice slowly being overtaken by the roar of the train. The mome nt of dumb realization ... "That was so long a go," s he sa i d , stood still. Her eyes absorbed the trestle , and I could see the tear that told the boy, the train, the river t he sto ry fi l l her eye a nd rust the trestles that crossed rivers and below that flowed to her side. In fear's attempt to gather up all the memories that each time b r ough t another tear, falling what has foolishly been laid down, she turned to run, not from the train, and shattering like crystal in the past. He was seven years old when she but back -- back to where there was t o ld him about Mother, the train, more than one way to go . a nd t he fisherme n who had saved him. But step takes step a nd never gives up the steps it has taken . A. J . Krivak is a fres hman. h istor y . 24 J. Krivak 2 Since there is no line HD in the parabo la, t he line DA is an obvi ou s c hoice. However, t here is no real necessity for t he new contrivance since both the old and new perform the same function. They merely find the parameter DJ . The argument that the new contrivance can be stated in terms of given lines in the axial triangle, whereas in the old contrivance the line DK must be constructed, can be countered by arguing the i mportance of DK . Without DK the way back is lost! We will never know how long Apollonius thought about that fascinating fact before he decided to pull his little joke. We can only accept it and stand in awe of this master of al 1 geometricians, Apollonius of Perga. in a The Trestle His narrative poems arise from sto ries o f his family's 25 �Substance in Book VIII of the Metaphysics Lisa Tomasi ov ) Being (To has two senses: the individuality or " thisness " (To6E n ) , and the "what" (TL ~OTG) of the thing. By the opening of Book VII Aristotle has equated the what with substance (ouoLa as the primary meaning of being and is ready to explain what he thinks substance is. After explaining what substance is, he will be able to answer other questions which he lists in the second chapter; What things are substances? Are there any substances besides sensible ones (e.g. forms of sensible substances)? How do sensible substances exist? Is there any nonsensible substance capable of separate existence (i . e. any pure unsubstantial forms)? But first, what is substance? The four most immediate possibilities are substrate, essence, universal, and genus. Aristotle devotes chapter 3 to a discussion of substrate, chapters 4, 5, 6 to essence, and chapters 13-16 to universal and genus. But what about the chapters not mentioned? Chapters 7, 8, 9 discuss generation; 10, 11, 12 discuss parts of definition, matter, and form again; and 17 concludes by saying that substance is the cause (i.e. the form) by virtue of which the matter is a definite thing. Although these latter chapters do not inunediately appear to fall under any ~f the headings essence, substrate, universa l, or genus, they · bear on the discussion of substance. The word that repeatedly crops up in, and unites these chapters as well as the first one, is form. Form is continually the subject of Book VII. It is not surprising that by the final chapter substance- is form. But let's start at the beginning to see how form is introduced. The first possible meaning of substance that Aristotle discusses is substrate. (uno~ELµEvov) - that which underlies all the predicates of anything. There are three senses of substrate: mattf'r ( uA.n ) , form ( µopqin ) , and their combination. Matter might be thought to be substance since like substance it is -always predicated, but never predicates . But since substance has separability and individuality - thisness - which matter lacks, the two cannot be one. Neither could the combination of form and matter qualify as substance at least until form has been discussed . And so begins the discussion of form - under the heading of essence. Essence, roughly speaking, is that which a thing is said to be by its own nature. It does not include the whiteness of a surface, nor its smoothness; neither of these attributes is part of the definition of surface. The essence of a thing includes only what is necessary to define it without actually using its name. The close relation between essence and definition implies what things can be said to have essence: all things whose account is a definition. Definitions are those accounts which do not involve the predication of one thing of another. Therefore only species of a genus can have definition and essence in the primary sense. That is, only substances have unqualified essence. Lisa Tomasi, an Annapolis senior, wrote this paper for Miss Brann's preceptorial on Aristotle's Metaphysics. 26 parts: form and matter. Neither part is With this conclusion, Aristotle itself generated1 generation is their excludes such things as snubness from the combination. That form is not generated category of substance. Snub means snub but is the same in the generator and the nose. The word involves the name of its . generated are Aristotle's first points subject (nose) _ and cannot be explained about form with regard to generation. He apart from it. For this reason it cannot also speaks as if form and essence are the be included in those things whose account same thing in several places: "The thing is a definition. It is not a substance, in the sense of form or essence is not and has no essence, unless qualifiedly. generated." (1032bl). Thus far the arguments about essence But perhaps there remains a differhave not shown whether essence is subence between essence and subst ance , sinc e : stance. But at least we conclude from them that substances alone, in the primary ·"By substance without matter I mean the essence." (1032b15) .. Aristotle's first sense, have essence. In chapter 6 inquiry into substance was form or matter Aristotle approaches the identification of or both. Now he seems to be claiming that a thing's essence and its substance by way it is both matter and form or essence of their identification with the particuunless he thinks at least some substance lar thing itself. If it could be shown actually is without matter. But that that a particular thing is its own eswould imply that forms exist of themselves sence, and that substance is the same as independently of matter. He clearly the particular thing, the rest would argues against that being the case. It is follow. Is the particular thing the same impossible, since then an individual as its essence? Terms denoting the uni?n composed of form and mat-t:-er must itself of a subject with an accident cannot be contain another individual, the form. the- ·same as their essence since a def ini ':"" Generation of individual composites would tion does not include accidents. But be ·impossible if each form was its own terms denoting unpredicated subjects are individual. "Form means 'of such a kind:' the same as their essence, according to 1 it is not a definite individual, but we the following arguments. produce or generate from the individual First, if a thing is separate from something 'of such a kind;' and when it is its essence that thing will be unknowable, generated it is an individual 'of such a since we know things by knowing their kind.'" (1033b23) Thus form or essence essence. Also, if we could separate a seems to be more and more identified with thing from its essence, we could next the "whatness" - substance. It describes separate that essence (as a thing) from the nature of each thing, but not its its own essence, and so on to infinity. individuality, for many things share a Therefore in the case of primary and Form cannot by itself be common form. self- subsistent terms, the individual substance, however, since substance is thing is the same as its essence. that which exists independently1 form does Aristotle does not conclude from this not. that substance and essence are one, since Next Aristotle takes up a discussion he has not argued that the individual of definition. It is an enlargement upon thing is the same as its substance. his earlier explanation of definition in Rather he seems to leave this train of its relation to essence. Definition is of thought behind in order to discuss form the form: it is divided into parts which from a different viewpoint that of correspond to the parts of the form of the generation. subject. Matter can compose parts of the Generation, whether by nature, art, concrete subject, but not of the form. or accident, is always by something, out These material parts are posterior to the of something, and into something. By the whole1 the parts that compose the ·definiform of sphere, bronze is generated into a tion, and the essence which it describes, bronze sphere. Therefore, that which is are prior to the whole. These latter generated is always divisible into two 27 �one rather than many indi~iduals. Secondparts refer to ' the universal since only ly the universal is always the predicate the universal can be defined. The conof a subject, while the substance is never crete subject, with its material parts, a predicate of a subject. cannot be defined. Thus essence is the Neither can the universal be sub"what" of substance - the definable part. stance in the sense of being part of a The .material which makes the individual is sub~. ect' s essence. 'Animal' might be not included in the definition. considered a substance which is part of a The importance of matter in the man's essence. But then the substance man discussion of substance as essence comes contains the "substance" animal . But forward in the 11th chapter: "to dispose since animal is a universal it cannot be of the matter is going too far; for some prior to substance. Thus substances things are presumably a particular form in cannot be composed of other substances. a particular matte r." (1036b23) The Especially since each substance is itself material parts are in the concrete an individual, there is no way to unite substance, even though they are excluded from the formula of the substance . Things · one substance to another or to include one in another. which do not have any material (for These conclusions lead Aristotle into example, crookedness) therefore are the a difficulty which he admits at the close same as their essence; but material of the chapter. That is, since substance things cannot be. cannot be composed of universals, and only There remains to be discussed yet universals can be defined, it would seem another aspect of definition - its unity. that :;ubst.ance:; <n>=> undefinable . But Aristotle asks: what constitutes the substance must be definable since it is unity of a thir.g of which we say that the the "whatness" of every being . f ormu la is a definition? First of all a Aristotle does not need to argue defin it ion of a species ·consists of the against the fou rth alternative meaning of name of t he genus a nd at least one substance, the genus. This argument is dif ferentia. These parts form a whole included in that of the universal, since because they have no existence apart from the genus is a universal. The unive rsal one another. Each differentia specifies argument applies as well to Plato's Forms. what form the genus has taken in the case For either the Form of animal must be of the species being defined . The genus different in man than in horse, or man and is as matter to the dif ferentia which give horse will have the same substance. If it it form. Neither part can exist except as is different in each case of animal, it a part of the whole object; the names for cannot exist outside o f the individuals as each part can make sense only as pa rts of a separate unity. And certainly, man and the whole definition. horse cannot have the same substance if Each dif ferentia presupposes the one they are to be different individuals. before it. "Two-footedness" presupposes Thus of the four possible substances, "footed". It is the last differentia that genus and universal have been denied, is most simply the definition of the thing substrate in so far as it is matter has s ince it includes all the rest. This last also been denied, while form and essence · is the ultimate specification of the form remain. Aristotle's last chapter takes of the subject being defined. Aristotle yet another tack at explaining how form calls this form the substance . and essence are substance. In chapter .13, Aristotle take·s up the Substance is a principle and a cause. question of wh~ther or not the universal We ask: why does this bronze sphere exist is substance. He concludes that it is not, for the following reasons. Substance - what is the cause of this bronze sphere? its substance is the cause. is that which . gives each inaividual its We answer: uniqueness; the universal is that which is But we still do not know what is meant by common to many things. If individual s substance because we have not asked the We must ask instead: shared a common substance, they would be question properly. 28 why is this bronze spherical - what is the cause of the sphericalness in the bronze? And answer: the form of the sphere in the material bronze is the cause. Then the substan.ce is 'the- forl'D1n the material. It is that which causes the material to be an .individual thing. Cicy Blocks Richard E. Miller Drunk Father has hurled poor Ganymede from his quarters, carel~ssly sweeping long bolts of lightening from h~s unmade ~ed. 1 These hissing threads unravel, kink and explode against the night s canvas, while you and I, huddled around the embers of our past,. reach across the invading blackness with words and stories to warm, to reassure. wrap myself in heaven's cloak, trailing clouds and stars behind my cape of silver night. Flying above the reaching fingers of our fence, I enter your world; we spoke of travel, the--jewel you found on sleeping Italy's breast, street violence that drove you into the gardens to hide, children sailing boats on the pond. Encouraged, I chop further into this jungle, through fields, thickets of memories, seeking the colored, alphabetized blocks that found you. I walk into this city I which crumbles, recoiling in fear as the drunkard relinquishes his hold; household lights up, refrigerator hums to life: power back on. Behind the security of carefully replaced masks we grope in empty wells for something to say. Peeking through the clearing storm, stars shine down on silent houses, losing the struggle with buzzing street lamps for night's domain. Richard Miller a senior; this poem is part of a set entitled "Offering", for which he received the Baird Award this year . 29 �A Translation of Valery's ''Palme" John Tracy Barely veiling the brilliance of his awesome grace, an angel sets before me soft bread and smooth milk. His eye forms a sign, the hint of a prayer that calls to my vision: --Calm, calm, rest calm! Recall the burden of a palm bearing the ponderance of its gifts. De sa gr~ce redoutable Voilant peine l'~clat, Un ange met sur ma table Le pain tendre, le lait plat; Il me fait de la paupiere Le signe d'une priere Qui parle ma vision: -Calme, calme, reste calme! Connais le poids d'une palme Portant sa profusion! For its form is fulfilled as it bows in accord with the abundance of its wealth. Its weighty fruit becomes its bonds . See how it sways, and how this pliant thread, dividing the present from the past, separates without ceremony the allure of the earth from the weight of the firmament. Pour autant qu'elle se plie A l'abondance des biens, Sa figure est accomplie, Ses fruits lourds sont ses liens. Admire comme elle vibre, Et comme une lente fibre Qui divise le moment, / ' Departage sans mystere L'attirance de la terre Et le poids du firmament! This fair mediatrix, rocking between shade and sun, recalls the sibyl in her wisdom and her slumber. The ample pa lm r ocks r ound place; never to be wearied with hellos or goodbyes. How noble, how tender, how worthy is it to await the hand of the gods. Ce bel arbitre mobile Entre l'ombre et le soleil, Simule d'une sibylle La sagesse et le sommeil. Auteur d'une m~me place L'ample palme ne se lasse Des appels ni des adieux ... Qu'elle est noble, qu'elle est tendre! Qu'elle est digne de s'attendre A la seule main des dieux! about a a one L'or l~ger qu'elle murmure Sonne au simple doigt de l'air, Et d'une soyeuse armure. Charge 1 1 fune du desert. The delicate gold it whispers rings through the purity of the air, and fills the desert's soul with its silken weave. John Tracy, currently a senior in Annapolis, wrote this translation for his Junior Language tutorial. 30 It sends forth to the desert winds which spray it with grains of sand an everlasting voice serving it as oracle, and imagining to announce the miracle its burden is to sing. Une voix imperissable, Qu'elle rend au vent de sable Qui l'arrose de ses grains, A soi-~me sert d'oracle, Et se flatte du miracle, Que se chantent les chagrins. Yet between sand and sky it stands unaware that each day dawns to make its honey of a sweetness measured by a divine time, a time not keeping count of days, but concealing them well in an essence where it acquires all the _ fragrances of love. Cependant qu'elle s'ignore Entre le sable et le ciel, Chaque jour qui luit encore Lui compose un peu de miel. Sa douceur est mesuree Par la.divine duree Qui ne compte pas les jours, Mais bien qui les dissimule Dans un sue ou s'accumule Tout l'arome des amours. If sometime you despair, or if, despite your tears, revered rigor labors under a shade of languor, do not accuse a sage of being miserly who prepares such gold and influence. For through this solemn sap eternal hope climbs to its maturity! Parfois si l'on d~sespere, Si l'adorable rigueur Malgre tes larmes n'opere Que sous ombre de langueur, A N'accuse pas d'etre avare . . , Une Sage qui prepare Tant d'or et d'autorit~: Par la s~ve solennelle Une esp~rance ~ter~elle Monte la maturit'! These days which seem to you empty and lost to the universe have thirsty roots which work the deserts with select and hairy substance and through the darkness delve never resting til they've reached the very bowels of the earth in search of the deep waters the summits do require. Ces jours qui te semblent vides Et perdus pour l'univers Ont des racines avides Qui travaillent les d~serts. La substance chevelue Par les tenebres elue Ne peut s'arr~ter jamais, Jusqu'aux entrailles du monde, De poursuivre l'eau profonde Que demandent les sonunets. Patience, patience, patience amid the blue! Within each seed of silence lies the hope of ripened fruit! The gladsome prize shall come! A dove, a breeze, a gentle rustling, a woman seeking rest, shall let loose this rain at which you fall to your knees! Patience, patience, Patience dans l'azur! Chaque atome de silence Est la chance d'un fruit m~r! . Viendra l'heureuse surprise: Une colombe, la brise, L'~branlement le plus doux, Une fenune qui s'appuie, Feront tomber cette pluie ' . Ou l'on se Jette "a genoux l Let a nation now fall, Palm, . . . They may not withstand! ,,, / Qu'un peuple 'a present s'ecroule, Palme! ..• irr~sistiblement! a 31 �Dans la poudre qu'il se roule Sur les fruits du firmament! Tu n'as pas perdu ces heures, Si l~g~re tu demeures Apres ces beaux abandons; Pareille celui qui pense Et dont l'ame se depense A s'accro1tre de ses dons! In .the dust let them roll among the fruits of the firmament! You have not lost these hours If you do linger awhile amid the remains of these abandonings like he who reflects, and whose soul's sole concern lies in his gifts' in c rease! Jonathan Antonio Edelman a Notes to the translation: The initial difficulty of the translation of ·the poem was purely of my own invention. I struggled to provide a smooth beginning to the poem, but upon closer examination of the French, I realized that this was uncalled for. The angel interrupts, or rather bursts into the poet's thoughts; there is no smooth introduction in · the poem. "De ~ grace redoutable. . " begins in mid-sentence, and eminates to its beginning "Un ange met sur ma table" much like a pebble cast in a pool fo r ms ripples eminating from the focus of the stone's splash. The bril liance of the angel is immediately contrasted to the simplicity of its offe rings, and the exhortation of its eyes. Its appearance is a disturbance, but its eyes bid the poet "reste calme". Its annunciation recalls images -oft.he poet whose work becomes a burden like the burden of ,. a palm laden with ripe fruit; his work nearly completed is most heavy on his mind, most burdensome, most tiresome. The image of the palm is designed to comfort the poet by showing him the necessity of this burdensome time. The second and third stanzas invoke the time and timeless image of the palm as it stands as mediatrix between the earth and heaven. The palm becomes a pendulum whose fruits form the bob, and whose stalk forms the thread. Its incessant swayings recall images of sibyls; just as the sibyl sits fixed within her temple, the palm is set upon the sands never to move from the focus of its rocking. They await the hand of the gods, each anchored by ito . ardor. The Breath of Kings: On the Tragedy of King Richard the Second The fourth stanza compares the gentle murmuring of the palm to the oracles of the sibyl, and may be compared to the song of the poet whose gentle force can enchant the burdensome from man. The fifth stanza returns us to the palm fruits and the seeming timelessness of their maturation. Their sweetness is measured not by time, but by that which conceals time within itself. This compul sion of time, in the sixth stanza, seems to be the catalyst for the angel's opening exhortation, "Calme, calme, rest e calrne ! " . Fruition must ~measured ~this~low (saplike) progression of divine tim~. The poet despairs and his days seem slow and empty. In the seventh stanza, these empty days seem so because of the depths that t~eir roots must delve to provide food for their summits, just as the palm must delve its roots to provide food for its fruits; time falls second to the concerns of ripening fruit. In the eighth stanza, the angel soo t he s t h e p o et with 't s wh i spers of "patience". This echoes the "calme" of the first stanza . The silences, the "jours vides", become seminal, possessing the "chance d' un fruit m~r". They shall fall naturally, or from some other occur~nce: "une colombe, la brise, une femme" or perhaps the angel-of the f i.rst stanza shall cause the shower of ripened fruit. The angel c omforts the p o et with the hope that the seeming empty times are not in vain if we recall the necessity of slow time for ripe fruit. The Tragedy of King Richard the Second speaks of a second fall of man, caused by an anointed king who breaks his bond with his kinsman. Though pointing to a resolution, Richard II itself offers no solution. It is a study of a breakdown between language itself, and what language addresses. This breakdown is concurrent with the decay of a theological-political order which binds men not only to each other but to God. At the center of the conflict lies the succession of Kingship, from Richard to Bolingbroke, men who are in many ways incommensurate in speech and action. Shakespeare juxtaposes Richard's use of language with Bolingbroke's by showing how each uses titles, oaths and bonds, and by showing how each regards the significance of the pardons he bestows. Although allusions to the Fall occur throughout the play, the two major discussions of the Fall occur in Gaunt's speech (II, i, 31ff) and the garden scene (III, iv). These sections are particularly important in understanding the movement of the play, for they are not historical; that is, not subject to any limitations other than those which Shakespeare de termined. These scenes act as a commentary on the play, indicating perspectives from which to consider the events ~ Gaunt's speech in part deals with the fall of England from its sacred position in the world. Just before he dies, Gaunt considers himself "a prophet new inspi r ed" . (II , i , 31) He speaks of England as "this other Eden, demi-paradise... This blessed plot ... John Edelman is Sophomore essay. 32 currently a senior teeming womb of royal kings... Renowned for their deeds as far from home for Christian service and true chivalry as •. . blessed Mary's Son ... " (II, i, 42ff). However, this "other Eden" verges on a Fall. For rather t,han · conquer other nations in the name of Chri.st, England has set upon itself. The garden scene further links the succession of kings to the story of Adam. The gardener compares the garden he tends to the "garden" of England. Unlike Adam or the gardener, the king has not tended his garden. Instead Bolingbroke performs this task: "The weeds [Bushy, Green, and Wiltshire] which his [Richard's) broad spreading leaves did shelter, That seem'd in eating him to hold him up, Are plucked up root and all by ~olingbroke--" (III, iv, 50ff) The King ought to be an Adam to England, yet Richard is unable to tend his garden. The Queen rebukes the gardener and refers t o the fall of Richard as " a second f all of cursed man." (III, iv, 76 ) The fall of Eng land results from Richard's breach of faith with his subjects. In seizing the properties of Lancaster, Richard undermines an order which links the nation to God. Allusions to Christ and the Passion are numerous in the play , R ·char d• s comparing himself to Christ being the most . frequent. That so dishonest a king can in Annapolis. 33 "The Breath of Kings" is his �ref er to himself as a Christ can be understood in light of his seeing himself as blameless and martyred. Richard's lack of awareness concerning the implications of his action exemplifies this . Though Richard clearly sees others' transgressions and the implications of these acts, he does not realize that he acts dishonestly . "Revolt our subjects? That we cannot mend; They breach their faith to God as well as me." (III, i i lOlff) Bolingbroke, on the other hand, is quite conscious of the implications of his actions, both against men and the crown. This awareness is what allows Bolingbroke, unlike Richard, to be essentially poli tically mined, a quality necessary for good kingship. The comparison of Richard to Christ further suggests the position of king Richard in relation to God, as God's anointed, tending his people. However, the corrupt Richard is incapable of the concerns for his flock that a Christ must have . Bolingbroke is like Christ in some of those aspects in which Richard is deficient. He comes to right wrongs, and whether he knows it or not, takes the sin which must be committed, that is, the demise of Richard, unto himself. He dies in the Jerusalem room, rather than in Jerusalem. The juxtaposition of some of the characteristics of Adam, Christ, and good kingship in the two men is part of a conflict · in which neither Richard nor Bolingbroke is the solution, for each is incomplete. The resolution of the conflict must occur in a man who is the synthesis of the best elements of the two. A story concerning the second fall, because it occurs after Christ, must be a political drama. Neither God, His first creation, nor His Son is directly present in the world. Instead, the king who is both divine and political is present. The concern of Richard II lies in the welfare of the State, for the proper governing of God's kingdom on earth is at stake. . A second fall has to do with the identity of the king as man, and his relation to God and the State. Eventually it becomes the story of how a legitimate king is re-established and what kind of man he must be. Richard's kingship is discussed mainly by Richard himself, though also by the Bishop of Carlisle, Gaunt and York. In I, ii the Duchess of Gloucester confronts Gaunt with his failure to speak out against the King's involvement in the death of Gloucester. Gaunt replies that it is not his place to correct the misdeeds of the king: "God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute, His deputy anointed in His sight, Hath causes his death; the which if wrongfully Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift an angry arm against his minister." (I, ii, 37ff) The problem of correcting Richard, culminating in his deposition, is more complicated than merely acting against him because of his position in relation to God. Action against the king is sacrilege, and the effects of such a move would be devastating. Carlisle speaks to this problem in IV: "What subject can give sentence on his King? And who sits here that is not Richard's subject? •.. And shall the figure of God's majesty, His captain, steward, deputy-elect, Anointed, crowned, planted many years, Be judged by subject and inferior breath, And he himself not present?" If this were to occur, Carlisle continues, England would be called Golgotha. Thus the deposition of Richard, is a "heinous, black and obscene" deed. (IV, i, 121ff) Richard must be deposed "legitimately", that is, in such a way that no one 34 takes the crown from him. The problem of <leposi tion is developed in Richard's speech in III, ii: "Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm off an anointed King; The breath of worldly men cannot depose The deputy elected by the Lord" (III, ii, 54-57ff ) The course that Bolingbroke takes is to orchestrate events so as to put Richard in a position where Richard himself must abdicate. Although this technically frees Bolingbroke from responsibility for the deposition itself, it is questionable· whether the king can abdicate legitimately. For, it is not clear whether Richard is a "worldly" man. The Abbott of Westminster, Carlisle and Aumerle in IV, i, refuse to acknowledge the validity of the succession of Bolingbroke and plot against him. Concurrent with the breakdown of a social order, words change in relation to that which they address. Because he is something of a poet, Richard's interest lies in how the moment can be made into words. this. (I, i, 152-159ff) Bolingbroke's use of metaphor is much more straightforward. His diction is muscular and rough in comparison with Richard's fine diction. Prior to the entrance of the King, (III, iii, 54ff) the Duke utters one of his few lengthy metaphors in the play. However, he carefully roots the imagery in the matter which he describes: "Be he the fire, I'll be the yielding water: The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain My waters; on the earth and not on him." (III, iii, 55-60ff) In Act III, iii, 176ff Northumberland asks Richard to meet Bolingbroke: "My lord, in the base court he doth attend To speak with you; may it please you to come down?" Richard's response exploits the idea of corning down into the "base court", where he will surrender himself to Bolingbroke: "Down, down I come, like glist'ring Phaeton, Wanting the manage of unruly jades. In the base court? The greater his despair, the more Base court where kings grow base, poetic he becomes, and the more detached To come at traitors' calls, and do his words are from the world. In I, i, them grace! Richard calls Bolingbroke and Mowbray into In the base court? Come down? Down his presence: court! Down King!" " ... face to face, When Bolingbroke kneels before Richard, And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear the king still clings to the pun: The accuser and accused freely speak. Fair cousin, you debase your High-stomach'd are they both, and princely knee full of ,ire, To make the base earth proud with In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as kissing it ... " fire." Richard is interested in the stories (I, i, 15-19ff) that will be told of his experience as The opposition in his speech describes the · tragic rather then in the experience moment eloquently. It is almost too itself. In III, ii, line 150ff and v, i, poetic. The emphasis is on the opposition line 40f f, Richard speaks of telling sad stories about the deposing of kings. He of words and metaphors rather than the is concerned with how the event is mani confrontation itself. The seiffested in words and with the effect of the containedness of the metaphor is curious; words on an audience rather than with the it is as if the metaphor takes over in nature of the event itself. relation to itself rather than the words The modes of speaking of Richard and in relation to that of which they speak. Bolingbroke are manifest in the manner in The "physician" metaphor is an example of 3.5 ,, �which they name and .t he importance they attach to a name. The act of naming speaks to both an object's movement in the physical world by virtue of its name, and the name's movement in language. When these two aspects are severed, the name no longer corresponds to the complete nature of a named object. Bolingbroke's use of names is characterized by his manipulation of different titles in order to justify what he must accomplish. However, Bolingbroke recognizes that an object has to have its own character without a name. Richard takes more seriously what the name itself signifies in the physical world. When he abdicates he is not simply disturbed because he is no longer king, but also because he no longer has a name. Without his title, Richard has little sense' of himself apart from "untitled." A striking example of Bolingbroke' s use of names occurs in II, 111 when Berkeley must deliver a message to the Duke. Bolingbroke refuses to accept the message unless Berkeley addresses Bolingbroke as "Lancaster". Berk: "My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you. Bal: My Lord, my answer is to Lancaster; And I am come to seek that name in England; And I must find that title in your tongue, Before I make reply to aught you say." (II, iii, 69-73ff) Bolingbroke is concerned with being addressed as Lancaster because it is that name which lends legitimacy to his return to England. In the subsequent encounter with York, Bolingbroke responds to York's chastising by calling attention to his title: "As I was banished, I was banish'd Hereford; But as I come, I come for Lancaster. (II, iii, 112-113ff) In Bolingbroke's message to Richard, in III, iii, Bolingbroke refers to himself as "Henry Bolingbroke" rather than the preferred "Lancaster". In order to 36 acquire an audience with the King, he uses a title that Richard will accept. The Duke's usage is conventional, in that he will call himself by a given name according to how the name facilitates his movement. Richard's concern with names and usage is less conventional than Bolingbroke's because his identity, his sense of self, is bound in a name. In III, ii, Richard is shocked by news which Salisbury bears, that twenty thousand of the king's men have fled. The King despairs and Aumerle tells him to remember who he is. Richard composes himself by remembering not only that he is King but that his name is King: "I have forgot myself: am I not King? Awake thou coward majesty! Thou sleepest. Is not the King's name twenty thousand names? Arm, arm, my name! (III, ii, 83 -86ff ) Richard is quite conscious of the meaning of his title. As long as he remembers what he is call~d, he is secure. Richard's concern for his name becomes more pronounced as he nears his demise. He refers to himself in the third person, not as "King Richard" but simply as "the King". His actions are subject to his title: "What must the King do now? - - must he loose The name of King? O God's name, let it go." (III , iii, 143-146ff) At th.e conclusion of this speech, he refers to Bolingbroke as "King Bolingbroke" and himself as '!Richard". In a sense, self-indulgent Richard has already imagined himself as deposed, unnamed himself from kingship and acts according to his lack of title. In IV, i, Richard abdicates. His speech essentially consists in un-naming himself. Anything more than un-naming and disavowing his decrees (such as naming his crimes and thereby himself as a criminal) , is out of the question for Richard. At the conclusion of the speech, rather than refer to himself with a title, he prefaces his name with a negation to title: "God save King Har ry, unking'd Richard says." (IV , i, 220ff) The problem of re-naming himself without a title to define him becomes central to Richard's speech. Northumberland petitions Richard to name his crimes: North: "My LordRich: No Lord of thine, thou haught insulting man, Nor no man's Lord; I have no name, no title, No, not that name was given me at the font But tis usurp'd; ... And know not now what name to call myself! ( IV, i, 253-259ff) It is in part due to Richard's self-indulqence that he is insulted by Northumberland's naming him "My Lord," for Richard enjoys the role of nameless, deposed King. No doubt this is linked to his interest in language and the manipulations he can effect with the words. However, in part, it reflects Richard's true d is orientation and sorrow in his loss, which for Richard is a loss of identity. Without his title, he is "no man's Lord" . Without his kingship, Richard feels that he is nothing. The abdiction speech is typical of Richard's tendency to negate rather than affirm. A good king must not only negate, but affirm in order to command. He must be able to give as well as take back . Unable to make amends between the quarrelling Bolingbroke and Mowbray, Richard comments: "We were not born to sue, but to command; Which since we cannot do to make you friends, Be ready, as your lives shall answer it .... " (I, i, 196ff) Richard is both an ineffective and incomplete king, for he cannot unite Bolingbroke and Mowbray by means of his word. In Act IV, when Richard abdicates the throne, he must do it with his own words. Again, he is the only person who can remove himself from his position. However, it is not clear who can legitimately name Henry as King. It is through Richard's characteristic negation that he gives up the title. When Bolingbroke asks Richard if he is "contented to resign the crown", Richard begins his abdication . His language marks a departure from the connections of words to things, to a connection of words to words. This occurs when Richard is about. to give up his title, a word which is his most significant connection to the world and to himself . Curiously, his speech begins with a pun: "I no; no I; for nothing I must be; Therefore no no, for I resign to thee. (IV, i, 201-202ff) Full of obvious negation, the first words are ambiguous. Because the written word is a symbol for a sound and the play is meant to be spoken, many meanings can be derived from these lines. "I" can by "ay" or "eye". The word "no" can be negation o r "know". Thus, the first line can mean "Yes, no; no, yes" indicating that Richard is ambivalent about resigning. The fourth word "yes" is the answer to the question Bolingbroke asks: he must resign. Another meaning might be: "I know no I", that . he must be nothing; without his name, he cannot know who he is. Another meaning could be : I know no 'yes'". That is to say, Richard, because he is nothing, can affirm nothing . The next line is also ambiguous . It can be understood to be a simple repetition of "no" . Because Richard must resign there can be no "no" to Bolingbroke's question. Anothe r meaning could be: "therefore know 'no' for T resign to thee"; Richard tells Bolingbroke to "know negation" and "Now mark me, how I will undo myself." Richard proceeds to negate his kingship. Richard gives his crown "from off my head", his sceptre "from my hand" and his kingly pride "from out of . my heart". He then washes "away" his balm and gives "away" his crown with his own tears and hands. His tongue denies his "sacred state" and his breath releases himself 37 �from "all duty's rites". He forswears, foregoes, and denies. Richard's conception of language, in which the name of an object has more bearing on the object than the object on the name, makes words which refer to· appearance rather than essence affect him. Flattery is the use of words in order to please, rather than to speak truly. In II, Gaunt tells Richard that he has been wounded by flatterers: "And though too careless a patient as thou art Commits't thy anointed body to the cure Of those physicians that first wounded thee. A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown .•. " (II, i, 97-lOOff) Flattery has caused an illness which overtakes Richard. Richard's "illness" is manifested in his inability to hear good counsel. For instead of hearing good counsel, his ears are "stopp'd with other flattering sounds, as praises, of whose taste the wise are fond". .< II, i 17ff) That is, the wise are made "fond" by the "lascivious meters" of flattery. The flatterers of the King - Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire - are sentenced by Bolingbroke in III, i. They have "misled a Prince, a royal King •.. made a divorce betwixt his Queen and him." They have made the King "misinterpret" Bolingbroke. Misinterpretation is a breakdown in communication, in which the hearing of the words is correct but the intention is misconstrued. These f la~terers cause Bolingbroke to "sigh" his "English breath in foreign clouds". That is in banishment, which Mowbray refers to as "speechless death which robs my tongue of breathing native breath." In other words, the real punishment in banishment has to do with speech. To be divorced from one's native tongue and unable to understand and be understood is banishment. In II, Northumberland states that the King is "basely led by flatterers", and that he is no longer himself. Flattery not only causes Richard to dissociate himself from his subjects but from his kingship. Pardoning and the use of pardons indicate the relation of language to God, for pardons must be made in relation to God in order to be meaningful. In the breakdown of society's relation to God through its relationship to the King, the meaning of the pardon loses its clarity. Before York's discovery of Aumerle' s involvement in the plot against King Henry, Aumerle asks his father to pardon him from showing his father the letter he carries. York does not pardon him. Upon reading the letter, he goes to the King to seek condemnation of his son. Aumerle arrives before York and asks the King to pardon him before the nature of his crime is disclosed. The king consents on the condition that the crime was merely intended rather than committed. Bat because · plotting against. the crown is treason , the pardon is not val id. The Duchess of York enters and refuses to rise from her knees until the King pardons "Rutland." Pity must move the King to pardon Rutland. The Duchess impresses the importance of pardoning on the King: "No word like 'pardon' for a King's mouths so meet." (V, iii, 118) . York continues to protest and finally urges Henry to speak the words in French: "Speak it in French, King, say "pardonne moy'" (V, III, 119). Even though the words are practically the same, the meaning is different. The Duchess comments that·this sort of usage: "Sets't the word itself against the word!" (V ,iii, 122), for word is set against word when the intended meaning and the accepted meaning differ. Henry does pardon Rutland. But the worth of the pardon is not clear. Henry is not a king by proper succession, therefore pardons do not have their original import because the King's relationship to God is precarious. His position is "King" rather than "rightful King." Henry's accession to the throne introduces into politics the question of the nature of "treason" if one's king is not anointed. Henry's pardon of Rutland is conditional: "I shall pardon him as God shall pardon me." (V, iii, 131) Henry's 38 pardon of Rutland is contingent on his own relation to God, that is, whether he has been pardoned for his own usurpation and treason against Richard. The Duchess asks Henry to repeat his pardon for : "Twice saying "pardon" doth not pardon twain, But makes one pardon strong." (V, iii, 132-133) Speaking a pardon twice does not negate a pardon, but strengthens it. This stand in contrast to Richard's speech of negation . The giving of pardons is necessary for a king. After Henry repeats his pardon, the Duchess calls him "a god on earth" (V, 111, 134). For the Duchess, to pardon, a king must be a divine giver of grace. The problem with all the pardons in Richard II lies in their undetermined relationship to God. When Richard pardons Mowbray it is unclear to Mowbray if, in fact, he has been pardoned. When Bolingbroke pardons, it is unclear what that means. Oaths and bonds are perhaps the most significant element of language which loses meaning when the social order breaks down. When oaths are made but not kept, the importance of language and one's word is diminished in its relation to that which it speaks. Oaths are made not only in relation to physical things but also in relation to God, for they are bound in God . Breaking oaths, therefore, is breaking a bond with God . Oaths and bonds are essential to holding society together, particularly a Christian society. In Act I, scene i, the truth of what Bolingbroke says rests on its relation to heaven: "Heaven be the record of my speech". This is characteristic of the oaths in Richard II. Their verity rests in a bond with heaven. In Act II, scene i Gaunt sees the decay of England in the decay of its bonds, for it was once: "bound with the triumphant sea," but "Is now bound in with shame, With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds." (II, i, 61-64) Its bond is not with God or the sea, it is with shame and on "rotten parchment bonds". York tells the king that if he seizes the Duke of Hereford's rights, he is no longer himself, for he breaks the bonds that insure his office: "Be not thyself~ for now art thou a King But by fair sequence and succession?" (II, i, 198-199) In breaking his bond with his subjects, the king breaks his bond with God, and thus the crown. The King's theft of Hereford's rights also indicates Richard's lack of concern for succession which stands in contrast to Henry's interest in Hal. In concert with Bolingbroke's mode of speaking, his treatment of oaths is quite literal. He is able to avoid breaking the "letter" of the oath because the meaning of the letter is ambiguous. In act II, scene iv, Northumberland claims: "The noble Duke hath sworn his coming is but for his own." What exactly is "his own" is unclear. However, it becomes England. The beginning of Act IV is analogous to Act I, scene i, in that Bolingbroke, rather than Richard, presides over a conflict between nobles. In contrast to Richard's inability to deal with the conflict in Act. I, even though the scene is characterized by verbal chaos, Bolingbroke effectively controls the quarrelling lords. There is no indication which lords are speaking the truth, because oaths are meaningless in England's fallen state. When Richard abdicates he asks God to pardon all oaths made to himself and to keep all vows unbroken which are sworn to God. This separation of oaths made to Richard from those made to God accentuates the separation of Richard from his past and from God. Oaths to a King are meaningful only when the King has a relation to God. The most startling example of the change in the relation of language . to what it speaks in respect to oaths and bonds occurs when Aumerle must carry his bond in 39 �his doublet. This contrasts with York's reference to his pledge to be loyal to Henry earlier in that scene. Significantly, Aumerle's action occurs after Richard has abdicated. The value of a verbal oath is lost with the loss of an anointed King. In order for Aumerle's bond to be valid, he must carry it. Words are not significant unless written. Even more striking is the necessity for Aumerle' s taking of the Sacrament (IV, i, 328ff) in order for him to maintain secrecy. One must not merely swear, but partake in Holy Communion in order to be bound. The only link to God and true speech is theological. The secular coDUDunity under God is lost. The culmination of Richard's separation from the world occurs in Act V. Because he is alone, Richard is unable to "compare this prison ..• unto the world". He is unable to see how his isolation is analogous to his isolation in the world. Richard constructs a world from thought and word. In order to do this, he must split himself into two parts: brain as mother and soul as father to thoughts and consequently words. The naming of these divisions is curious because the brain or intellect is traditionally male and soul female. This kind of reversal is characteristic of Richard in that"he is turning the relationship of words and the world inside-out. The marriage of brain and soul begets "a generation of still breeding thoughts". In being a poet, Richard is a begetter of words rather than flesh , and his lack of concern for succession is a manifestation of this. The world Richard creates mocks the outside world, and is distinct from it. It is a world of words and their relationships are of words to words. Richard names three orders of thoughts: "the better sort .•• intermix't with scruples", those "tending to ambition", and "those tending to content". The first sort are described as setting "the word itself against the word". Considering the Biblical citations he makes one would expect that "the Word" would be set against "the flesh". However, for Richard there is no t~ue flesh in his world nor true Word, but merely words. The setting of word against word indicates Richard's inability to see the complexity of his position as King or ex-King, that is, the culmination of Word and flesh in his having been anointed King. There is no Word in Richard's flesh. He is merely named King. Richard as "unking'd Richard" no longer has the name King and is merely flesh. Yet, oddly, Richard's existence to himself is an existence in words. Rather than being the "Word made flesh " , that is, God's anointed and agent by seeing justice done in the flesh, Richard turns flesh into words, and resides in a world where words have more substance than flesh. The "thoughts tending to ambition .•. plot unlikely wonders". Unable to break through the prison to the outside, his thoughts are unable to break out and make real contact with the world. They are contained within him and "die in their own pride". "Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves". They are content because they do not differ from others who bear a similar burden. Flattery contents them. Thus, thoughts which have only incidental connection to the outside world are buoyed up by words which please and incur illness rather than address the essence of the situation. Richard can be a King and wish he were a beggar; from beggar he returns to King. When he thinks of being banished by Bolingbroke, he becomes nothing. When confronted by the man who causes his .un-naming, instead of the Richard under the mask of King, unking' d Richard appears. When stripped of the words and the name of King, Richard finds himself little more than words. In Act II, scene i, line llff, Gaunt speaks of the setting sun and the music at the end of men's lives. None of Gaunt's music comes through Richard's ears. For his ears have been stopp 'd by flattering sounds. For Gaunt, the "music at the close, as the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last ... " For Richard, however, when the sun is about to set for the last time, the sun hears music as "sour-sweet" because the time is not kept. Richard 40 takes the music inside himself and once again, creates a world in which his interest is in the relation of words to words, a relation more important than the music itself. However, it is from this music that he finally calls into question his acts and inability to hear. "I wasted time, and now doth time waste me." (V, v, 49ff) Richard has become Bolingbroke's "Jack o' the Clock". A mannikin, not flesh nor word, but merely the mock of a man which marks time. It is not surprising that music maddens Richard. For he has become so corrupt that he is unable to take the cure which David administered to Saul: Music. In his inside-out world, Richard's madness is wisdom to Richard, and the first king's cure is maddening to him. Al though Richard I I has an ending, the conflicts of the play remain unresolved. Bolingbroke's succession and Richard• s death mark change rather than resolution. Both the problems of his own kingship and the repercussions of Richard's deposition and death plague 41 Bolingbroke throughout his reign. In the subsequent episodes of the Richarc,-Henry cycle, the events of which the Bishop of Carlisle foretells (IV, i, 114ff ) actually occur. As the society gets thrown into greater disorder, so too, language suffers a greater separation from that which it speaks. The Tragedy of King Richard the Second not only speaks of an end, but points to a beginning. Like Adam banished from Eden, Richard cannot be reinstated, nor can England be restored to its previ ous state. As in the completion of the Fall of Man by the coming of Christ, there must come a man who in both word and deed completes the fall of Richard by changing the effect of the past and the meaning of kingship. This will occur three plays later, when Hal makes the convoluted speech of Falstaff his own, thereby transforming it into a new speech. With it, Hal can make his faults into virtues. For him, even wooing a French Queen in a language not quite French brings a new Queen for England. �Willing but Weak A Note on the Matthew Passion Short Story Liz Waldner Elliott Zuckerman Posole soaks in a bowl and makes little kissing noises. This morning cats on the compost pile cried musically--at, to, for? Is a preposition appropriate here? I am always so content in the mornings. I lay listening before I What fol lows is a spelling - out of the obvious. It is presented as a shapes in air r eminder or review for students who have analyzed moments in the recitatives of threading through ear, discerning whether not cats but babies of our kind cried, at which I should have to go out into the morning in bathrobe to be afraid at the world uncontained by the ideal, to find babies crying the waving strands of our singing on the compost pile. Last night in the evening, in that high and uninhabited place of empty house and dark window, above the din of busyness, beneath the mountain with storm at its head, headdress of cloud purple and blue, a black- headed girl cried loudly over a low adobe wall into the evening--at, to, for? I came walking beneath her on the road below the wall and was stood before her crying out over the wall into the evening not at, not to, not for; neither to inquire nor to console, although these rose in the throat: only crying might go through air. She cried and cried. Only crying could go through air. All the empty houses with doors ajar admitting wind and spil 1 ing darkness: inside the moment stillness and around it the crunching of foot on gravel, juniper and cedar threshing air; around it the balloon-like journey of child- voice upward into first dark. Far below and far behind it noise of car- going and of dog. A woman appeared and she walked into the yard of the house of the crying girl in silence and she put fist to door or to drawing of door on wall with no window: no sound. She caught there bringing fist to door, door to fist, wind going through crying girl hair, and dirt, in the darkening wind. Cloud, drawn over all of our heads to the darker mountain, stayed. The moment I rose to see cats a noise from the kitchen. Posole soaking in a bowl fell over the edge in the kitchen where nobody was, in the white kitchen full of light. I lay back down as if told, not knowing . the Matthew Passion, and as an example for those who want to do so now. Closely following the harmony where the music closely imitates the text -- or comments on it -- can impress on the memory the motions of the progressions themselves. The diction is technical, and the musical examples by themselves can tell the story. Behind them lies the brief passage of Bach's music. And behind what Bach does lies tonal music itself, the power of which, alluded to here, ought, I think, to be an occasion of recurrent wonder. The text is from the 4lst ve r se of the 26th chapter of Matthew, and it is set by Bach in section 30 of the Passion, measures 7- 9 (page 49 of the Peters vocal score) . It is sung by Jesus himself, with his unique accompaniment of strings: Liz Waldner has contr ibuted awoke , several 42 pieces to Energeia. E~ - I In the vocal part there is one tone for each syllable. If we elide the second syllable of 'spirit', the standard English translati on can repla ce the German word for word -- with the important exception of 'aber' ('but ' ) . The music depicts the three aspects o f Jesus 's observation about his disciples: the willingness of the spirit, the weakness of the fles h , and, between them, the 'but'. At the start o f measure 7 , G minor has been established in a c a dence. The vocal line has dropped to a low B-f lat, the mino r third of the triad, and (approp riate ly for the word 'fallet') the lowest tone sung in this recitative. The Mr. Zuckerman, a tutor in Annapolis, contributed this piece as the first of several comments on the Matthew Passion; further installments will appear in later issues of Energeia. 43 �willingness of the spirit is shown in the vocal line by the brightening of the minor into the parallel major: Again, harmonically one would expect the following resolution if there were no 'but': wil-liJ The . B- natural on 'willig ' is especially strong because it is approached in the ascent Cs) 1 2 i· But the instrumental bass adds another dimension. The willingness is not only bright but expansive, because the F- natural below turns the B-natural into the upper tone of the tritone of C major: The notation of the c hords in closed score r eveals what has happened to all the voices . The F has descended · ' correctly' to E . The B and the D are common tones to both chords. The surprise alteration is the chromatic lifting of G to G- sharp -tone § of C is sharpened to become the leading tone of A (minor) . In Bach's scoring the significant changes occur in the outer voices, an 'expansion' of f. urther willingness : In the surprise resolution that follows the contradiction, the low F does indeed go the half - ~tep downward to E: /\ 7 ~~.3 ~ The new dominant - seventh will t ually r esolve normally: It is, of course, a dimin ished- seventh chord, the 'headless' . tetrad, the most ambiguous . It can be accounted f or as pointing to E -- qr ,• in A minor, dim vn 7 of v . But. here it (weakly) follows the chord it 'ought' to p r ecede -- o r , to put it ano ther way in the light of the subsequent return to the v 7 , it interpolates itself as a st r iking r eve r sal in the otherwise no r mal cadence in A minor . The 'weakness' , as we hea r it, is strongly asserted . The r e is anothe r way of viewing the 'wea k ' progression . The (first) domi nan t - se ven t h of A mino r res olves ' co rrec tly' : even- ~ But the E is not 3 of C major. Instead it is made the root of a major triad. Moreover, since we have just heard the D's of ' aber' , we hear the new chord as a dominant- seventh: And one expects the resolution outward to the tonic of C : but the diminished fifth below each of the resolution tones are slipped in unde r neath : --9- ~ -:).-&- ~ ~ [ +J But the r e i s still ·the ' weakness' to be accounted f o r. The oute r vo i ce s e xpand a half - step further : Harmonically, the tones on 'willig' constitute the last inversion (V 2 ) of the dominant- seventh in C: Up to 'abe r ' , the voc al l i ne ascended . 'das Duri.ng Fle is c h schwach' i t now descends twice , in minor thirds : ~-1 ~ h as ist . two The D's of 'aber' thus belong to two different dominant- seventh chords, one . pointing· to C and the other td its relative minor: l;z'·lO The O's of 'aber' belong to that chord and seem to complete it: 44 The chord on 'schwach', outlined by the A, and is fifth D- sharp diminished completed with another diminished fifth, F- sharp and C: The ascent between them is the interval of the dimished fourth . There will be more to say about this interval in late r inst~llments of these comments. 45 �A harmonic summary shows that the willingness sets out to be a cadence in c : major. At the 'but' it becomes instead a cadence, with a 'weak' the relative minor: interpolation, in No Exit A Translation of Sartre's Huis Clos Wendell Finner C Ma..jor vo1. v1 • Wi I{ i~j Poem John S. Carnes Awkward are the silences, slow stutters time - when I would tell you of the love of mine. And yet, I would not wish to be too smooth and glib. _The freshet in its thicket runs both fast and pure, and our love too has merrily been borne along. Yet, did it not slow and stutter some we would not find ourselves with the needs to think upon. Thus I am glad to find no easy speech and think it not wrong being without a ready word for it will come when it is called I've heard. (The stage depicts a Second Empire drawing-room, with a bronze on the mantlepiece. Enter Valet, Garcin . ) GARCIN(looking around): So here we are. VALET: Here. GARCIN: This is it . . . VALET: This is it. GARCIN: I . . . I suppose one gets used to the furniture eventually. VALET: That depends on the individual. GARCIN: Are all the rooms like this? VALET: Think. Chinese, Hindus come here. What would you have them do with a Second Empire armchair? GARCIN: And me? What would you have me do with one? Do you know who I was? Bah. . . it doesn't matter. After all, I always lived with furniture I didn't like, in artificial situations; I loved it. An artificial situation in a Louis-Phillippe dining-room--does that tell you anything? VALET: You'll see; a Second Empire drawing-room is no worse. GARCIN: Ah, good . Good, good, good. Still, I didn't expect. .y ou do know what they say down there? VALET: About what? GARCIN: Uh. . (La rge, vague gesture) About all this. VALET: How could you be 1 iev~ such foolishness? From people who have never set foot here? After all, if they had come here . . . GARCIN: Of course. (They laugh together, then Garcin becomes suddenly serious again): Where are the spikes? VALET: What? GARCIN: The spikes, the grilles, the leather funnels. VALET: You're joking. GARCIN : Oh? Oh, good . No, I wasn't joking. (Silence. He paces.) No mirrors, no windows. Of course, nothing breakable. (With sudden violence) : And why have they taken my toothbrush? VALET: Ah, yes. Now your human dignity returns. It's amazing. GARCIN: Please spare me your intimacies. I am well aware of my position, but I will not allow you to . . . VALET: There, there. Forgive me. What can you expect--all ou r clients ask the same question. 'Where are the spikes,' they say. At that moment, I swear to you that they don't dream of personal hygiene. Only then, when they are reassured, then the toothbrush. But can't you think about it, for the love of God? After all, I ask you, why would you brush your teeth? GARCIN: Yes, indeed, why? (Looks around.) And why look in a mirror? But the bronze, after a while. • I imagine there will be moments when I' 11 look at that with open eyes, eh? Come on, come on, there's nothing to hide. I ' m well aware of my position, I tell you. Do you want me to tell you how it goes? A fellow suffocates, he sinks, he drowns, only he sees beyond the water. And what does he see? A bronze by Barbidienne. What a nightmare! All right, you're probably forbidden to answer; I won't insist. But remember: one doesn' t take me by surprise. You won't be able to boast that you've caught me unawares; I look the Wendell 1 Finner is a senior in Annapolis. He translated Sartre's Huis Clos for a s · pr1ng 983 production by the King William Players, produced by Copyright 1983 by Wendell Finner. Craig Bradshaw. John Carnes is a senior fn Annapolis. 46 47 �situation in the face. (Begins to pace again.) So, no toothbrush.· No bed either. Since we never sleep, right? VALET: You seel GA RC IN: I could have bet on it. Why would one sleep? Sleep takes you from behind. You feel your eyes closing, but why sleep? You stretch out on the sofa, and poof. • sleep flies away. Then you get up, rub your eyes, and it starts all over again. VALET: What a romantic you arel GARCIN: Be quiet. I won't cry, I won't tremble, but I want to look the situation in the face. I don't want it to jump me from behind, without my seeing it. Romantic? Nonetheless, there is no need for sleep. Why sleep if you're not sleepy? Perfect. Wait. Wait--why is it painful? I've got it; it's a life without interruption. VALET: What interruption? GARCIN(imitating him): What interruption? (Suspiciously) : Look at me. I thought so. That explains your intolerably tactless stare. My word, they're shriveled up. VALET: What are you talking about? GARCIN: Your eyelids. We, we close our eyelids. A blink, it's called. A little flash of black, a curtain that falls and rises again; the break is complete. The eye is moistened; the world annihilated. You . couldn't know how refreshing it is. Four thousand rests an hour. Four thousand little escapes. And when I say four thousand. .so, I'm to live without eyelids? Don't be an. idiot. No eyelids, no sleep, it's all the same. I shall sleep no· more. .But how am I going to stand it? Try to understand; make an effort. I'm a teasing type, you see, and I • • • I like to tease myself. But I . . . I can't tease myself endlessly: down there there were nights. I slept. I slept softly. To compensate. I made myself simple dreams. There was a meadow. .A meadow, that's all. I dreamed I was walking there. Is it daytime? VALET: You can see for yourself, the lights are on. GARCIN: Right. I meant your daytime. Outside. VALET(bewildered): Outside? GARCIN: Outside l On the other side of these walls. VALET: There's a hallway. GARCIN: And at the end of the hall? There are other rooms, and other VALET: halls, and stairways. GARCIN: And then? That's all. VALET: GARCIN: You must have a day off. Where do you go? VALET: To my uncle's, on the third floor. He's the head valet. GARCIN: I should have guessed. Where's the light switch? VALET: There is none. GARCIN: What? Can't you turn it off? VALET: The management can cut the current. But I don't remember their having done so on this floor. We've got all the power we want. GARCIN: All right. So, one must live with open eyes . . . VALET(ironically): Live?. GARCIN: Don't quibble over a question of vocabulary. The eyes open. Forever. There will be broad daylight in my eyes. And in my head. (Pause . ) And i f I swung the bronze at the light bulb, would it go out? VALET: It's too heavy. GARCIN (grasping the bronze and trying to lift it): You're right. It's too heavy. VALET (after a moment of silence) : Very well; if you have no further need of me, I' 1 leave you . GARCIN(startled): You're leaving? Goodbye. (The valet reaches the door) Wait. (valet returns) This is a bel 1, here? (valet nods) I can ring it if I want you and you must come? VALET: In principle, yes . But it's unreliable. There's something jammed in the mechanism. (Ga re in goes to the bel 1 and pushes the button . Ringing sound ) GARCIN: It works! VALET(astonished): It works. (Ring s it himself) But don't get carried away~ it won't last. Well, at your service. GARCIN (making a gesture to retain him): I. . • VALET : 48 CAPCIN: c=i nd r I C'K s Nothing. 1:p t he (Go~s to th e raper-knjf c ) mantle What's this.' VALET : You can s e P for yourself; a paper-kDifo. GA RLlN: The re are books here ? VALET: No. GARCIN: 'l'hcn what good if' it ? (Vakt shrugs ) All rig h t. Go ahead. (Val e t exits. Garcin go e s t o the bronze and pats it with his hand. He sits down; stands up again. He go e s t o the bell and presses the button. The bell does not ring. I-le tries two or three times, in vain. He goes to the door and t ric·s to open it, without any Juck. He calls:) Garcon! Garcon! (No answer. He rains a s hower of blows on the do o r with his fists while calling the valet. Then he c alrns aown sudden 1 y and goes to sit down. At this moment, the door opens and I nez e nters, followed by the valet. ) VALET: You called? GARCIN (starts to answer, then notices Inez) : No. VALET ( turning to Inez): This is your room, Madame. (Silence from Inez) If you have ar>y questions. . (Inez remains silent. The valet is disappointed): Usually our clients lik e to acquaint themselves . I won't insist. Anyway, as for the toothbrush, the bell, and the Barbidienne bronze, this gentleman is informed and can answer as well as I can. (Exits . ) (S ilence. Gare in does not look at Inez. Inez looks around, then speaks gruffly to Garcin . ) INEZ: Where's Florence? (S ilence from Garcin. ) I said, where's Florence? GARCIN: I don't know. INEZ: Is this the best you can do? Torture by absence? Well, it's no good. Florence was a little fool and I don't miss her. GA RC IN: I beg your pardon; who do you take me for? INEZ: You? You're the torturer. GARCIN(Starts, then laughs): What an amusing mistake. Really, the torturer! You came in, you looked at me, and you thought, 'This is the torturer.' What foolishness! The valet is ridiculous; he should have introduced us . The torturer! I am Joseph Gare in, publicist and man of letters. Really, we're in this together, madame . . . INEZ (dryly): Inez Serrano. Mademoiselle. GARCJN: Very good. Perfect. The ice is broken. So you see the look of a torturer in me? And how does one recognize them, the torturers? INEZ: They have a frightened look. GARCIN: Frightened? How curious. Of whom? Their victims? INEZ: Go on! I know what I'm talking abo~t. I've seen myself in the mirror. GARCIN: In the mirror'! (Looks around.) It's annoying; they've taken everything that resembles a mirror. (Pause . ) In any case, I can assure you that I'm not afraid. I don't take the situation lightly; I'm quite aware of its gravity. But I'm not afraid. INEZ(Shrugs): That's ycur business. (Paus e. ) Do you take a walk outside, now and then? GARCIN: The door is bolted. INEZ: Too bad. GARCIN: I can see quite well that my presence annoys you. And personally, I'd rather be alone. I need to put my life in order and collect myself. But I'm sure we cc..n come to terms with each other. I don't talk, I seldom stir, and I make little noise. Only, if I might 'suggest something, we must maintain an extreme politeness between us. It will be our best defense. INEZ: I'm not polite. GA RC IN: I' 11 be polite enough for two. (Sil ence. Garcin sits on the sofa. Inez paces back and forth.) INEZ(looking at him): Your mouth. GARCIN (to rn from his trance ) : Excuse me? INEZ: Can 't you stop your mouth? It twists under your nose like a top . GARCIN: I beg your pardon. I didn't realize. INEZ: It annoys me. (Tic from Garcin.) You pretend to be polite and you let your face run wild. You're not alone and you have no right to impose the spectacle of your fear on me. Yes? 49 �~ - GARCIN (gets up and crosses toward her) : And you, you're not afraid? INEZ: Why should I be? Fear; that was fine before, when we had hope. GARCIN: There's no longer any hope, but we're always before . We have not begun to suffer, mademoiselle. INEZ: I know. (Pause.) So? What's going to happen? GARCIN: I don't know. I'm waiting. (Long pause. Garcin sits . down again. Inez resumes her pacing. Garcin' s mouth twitches and, after a glance at Inez, he hides his face in his hands. Enter Estelle and Valet. Estelle looks at Garcin, who has not raised his head. ) ESTELLE: No I No, no, don't raise your head. I know why you're hiding it in your . hands; I know you don't have a face anymore. (Garcin removes his hands . ) Oh! (Pause.) I don't know you. GARCIN: I'm not the torturer, madame. ESTELLE: I didn't take you for the torturer. I. • I thought someone was playing a trick on me . (To valet) : Who are you waiting for? VALET: No one else is coming. ESTELLE(relieved): Then we'll be all alone; monsieur, madame, and I? (Starts to laugh.) GARCIN(dryly): There' s nothing to laugh about. ESTELLE (still laughing ) : · But these sofas are so ugly! And look how t~ey're arranged. It's like New Year's at Aunt Marie's. To each his own, I suppose. This one ' s mine ? (To v a let) : But I c a n' t sit there, it's a catastrophe; I'm wearing light blue and it's spinach green. INEZ: Would you like mine? ESTELLE: The red sofa? You're t oo kind, but that's hardly an improvement. No, it's the luck of the draw. I go t the green one; I' 11 keep it. (Pause. ) The only one which would do, barely, is monsieur's. INEZ: Did you hear her, Garcin? GARCIN ( starting ) : The. .sofa. Ohl Excuse me. (Gets up. ) It's your's, madame. ESTELLE: Thank you. (Takes off her coat and lays it on the sofa. Pause.) Since we've got to live together, we should get acquainted. I'm Estelle Rigault. (Garcin bows and starts to give his name, but Inez crosses in front of him.) INEZ: Inez Serrano. The pleasure is mine. GARCIN (bows again ) : Joseph Garcin. VALET: Have you any further need of me? I'll ring fo~ ESTELLE: No, go ahead. you. (Valet bows and exits. ) INEZ: You' re very pretty. I wish I had flowers to welcome you with. ESTELLE: Flowers? Yes, I loved flowers. But they'd wilt here; it's too hot. Bah ... the important thing is to keep our good humor. Are you . . . ? INEZ: Yes, last week. And you? ESTELLE: Me? Yesterday . The funeral isn ' t over yet. (She speaks quite naturally, as if she sees what she is describing.) The wind's mussing my sister's veil. She's doing what she can to cry. Come on, come on, make an effort. There! Two tears, two tiny tears sparkling under her veil. Olga Jardet is quite unattrac tive this morning. She's supporting my sister by the arm. She's not crying because of her mascara, and if I were her. . . She was my best friend . INEZ: You suffered? ESTELLE: No, I was mostly unconscious. INEZ: What . . . ? ESTELLE: Pneumonia. (Same manner as before ) : Well, that's it; they' re le~v­ ing. Goodbye! Goodbye I Such handshaking. My husband is sick with grief; he stayed home. (To Inez ) : And you? INEZ: Gas. ESTELLE: And you, monsieur? GARCIN: Twelve bullets in my hide. (Gestures to Estelle. ) Excuse me; I'm no t a very respectable dead man. ESTELLE: Oh! Please, monsieur, if only you wouldn't use such crude terms. It's . . . it's shocking. And, after all, what does it mean? Maybe we ' ve never been so alive. If we abso lutely have t o name this ... state of things, I suggest we call it absence; that will be more c orrect. Have you been absent long? GARCIN: About a month. ESTELLE: Where are you from? 50 ESTELLE (dryly ) : Well, we don't have the GARCIN : Rio . same tastes . That's all that proves. (To ESTELLE: I'm from Paris. Do you have anyone left, down there? Inez ) : Do you like them, men in s hirtsleeves? GARCIN : My wife . (Same manner as INEZ : Shirtsleeves or no, I don't like Estelle) : She's come to the bar r acks, men much . like she does eve r y day . They won't let ESTELLE ( looking at the others in her in. She ' s staring through the bars. She doesn't know that I'm absent yet, but amazement ) : But why, why have they put us together? she suspects it . She's leaving now . She's all in black . So much the bet INEZ (stifling an outburst ) : What are you saying? te r-- she won't have to change . She's not crying; she never cried . It ' s a nice ESTELLE : I look at the two of you and I sunny day, and she's al 1 in black in the think that we must room together . .I expected to find friends, family . deserted street, with the wide eyes of a victim . Ah, she irritates me . (Long INEZ : One excellent friend with a hole in the middle of his face . pause . Garcin sits on the middle sofa and puts his head in his hands . ) ESTELLE : Him, too . He danced the tango Estelle! INEZ : like a professional . But us, us; why have they put us together? ESTELLE : Monsieur, Monsieur Garcin! GARCIN : Ex cuse me? GARCIN : It's just chance . They put ESTELLE : You're sitting on my sofa . people where they can, in the order of their a r rival . (To Inez ) : Why are you GARCIN : Oh, excuse me. (Gets up . ) laughing? ESTELLE : You seem so absorbed . GARCIN: I ' m putting my life in order . INEZ: Because you amuse me with your (Inez laughs. ) Those ·who laugh would de 'chance' . Do you have such a need to well to imitate me . reassure yourself? They leave nothing to chance . INEZ : It is in orde r , my life . Totally in order . It's put itself in ESTELLE(timidly ) : But perhaps we've met bef o re? order, down there, and I don ' t need to t r ouble myself with it . INEZ : Never. I would not have forgot ten you . GARCIN: Really? You think it's that ESTELLE: Or maybe we have acquaintances simple! (Wipes his forehead . ) What heat! in common . Do you know the Dubois You'll allow me? (Starts to take off his Seymours? jacket. ' ESTELLE : No! (More softly ) : No . I INEZ: I'd be surprised. detest men in shi r tsleeves. ESTELLE: But they entertain everybody. GARCIN (putting his jacket back on ) : Fine . INEZ: What do they do? (Pause . ) Myself, I spent my nights in the ESTELLE (surprised ) : They don't do editorial rooms . It was always anything . They have a chateau in Careze, oppressively hot . (Pause . Same manner as and . . . before ) : It is oppressively hot . It's INEZ : We l l, I worked in the Post night- time . Office. ESTELLE: Let's see; yes, it's night ESTELLE (backing away slightly ) : Oh! You already. Olga is undressing . How quickly · mean. .? (Pause . ) And you, monsieur time passes, on earth . Garcin? INEZ : It's night . They' v e put t he GARCIN: I never left Rio. seals on the door to my room . The room is ESTELLE : Then you're quite right. Chance da r k and empty . has brought us together. GARCIN : They've put their jackets on the INEZ: Chance. Then the furniture is back of their chairs and rolled their by chance. It's by chance that the sofa sleeves up above the elbow. It smells of on the right is spinach green and the one men and cigars. I liked living among men on the left is burgundy. Chance, is it? in shirtsleeves . 51 �All right, try to move them and then tell me what you think. And the bronze, that's just chance also? And the heat? This heat? (Long pause.) I tell you everything is regulated. Even the smallest details are chosen with love. This room was waiting for us. ESTELLE: But how could that be? It's all so hideous, so hard and angular. I always detested angles. INEZ (shrugs): Do you think I lived in a Second Empire drawing-room? (Pause.) ESTELLE: Then everything was foreseen? INEZ: Everything. And we were matched up. ESTELLE: Then it's not by chance that you, you are facing me? (Pause.) But what do they expect? INEZ : I don ' t know. But they expect something. ESTELLE: I can't tolerate anyone expecting something from me. It gives me a sudden desire to do the contrary. INEZ: Well, do it. Do it, then. But you don't know what it is they want. ESTELLE: (stamping her foot): It's insufferable. I should be subjected to something by you two? (Examines them.) You two. There are faces which I can read at first glance. But yours tell me nothing. GARCIN(suddenly, to Inez): All right, why are we together? You've said enough -about it1 now finish it. INEZ (astonished) : But I know absolutely nothing about it. GARCIN: We must know. (~eflects for a moment) INEZ: If only each of us had the courage to say . . . GARCIN: What? Estelle! INEZ: ESTELLE: Yes? What did you do? Why did they INEZ: send you here? ESTELLE(excited): But I don't know1 I don't know at all. I even wonder if it isn't a mistake. (To Inez): Don't smile. Think of the number of people who. . .who become ~sent every day. They come here by the thousands and they're only the responsibility of subordinates, uneducated employees. How could you imagine that there'd be no mistakes? But don't smile at me. (To Garcin): And you, tell me something. If they're mistaken in my case, they could be mistaken in yours. (To Inez): And yours, too. Isn't it just as good to think we're here by mistake? INEZ: Is that all you have to tell us? ESTELLE: What more do you want to know? I have nothing to hide. I was an orphan; poor. I raised my younger brother. An old friend of my father's asked for my hand. He was rich and kind; I accepted. What would you have done in my place? My brother was sickly and his health required a lot of attention. I lived with my husband for six years without a cloud. Then two years ago I met the man I was destined to love. We recognized it at first sight. He wanted me to run off with him, but I refused. After that, I caught pneumonia. That's all. One could, perhaps, charge me with sacrificing my youth to an old man. (To Garcin): Do you think that would be a fault? GARCIN: Certainly not. And you, do you think it would be a fault to live according to one's own principles? ESTELLE: Who could reproach you for that? GARCIN: I edited a pacifist · journal. The war broke out. What to do? All eyes were fixed on me: 'does he dare?' Well, I dared. I crossed my arms and they shot me. Where's the fault? Where is the fault? ESTELLE(placing her hand on his arm): There is no fault. You are . . . INEZ (perfect irony) : A Hero. And your_, wife, Garcin? GARCIN: All right, what? I pulled her from the gutter. ESTELLE(to Inez): You see! You see! INEZ: I see. (Pause. ) Who are you acting this comedy for? We're alone. ESTELLE(saucily): Alone? INEZ : Among thieves. .We are in hell, my dear; there is never· a mistake and people are never damned for nothing. ESTELLE: Be quiet. INEZ: In hell! Damned! Damned! ESTELLE: Quiet . Will you be quiet? I forbid you to use such vulgar words. INEZ: The little saint, damned. The 52 spotless hero, damned . We had our moment of pleasure, didn't we? There were people who suffered on our account until we died and this amused us greatly. Now we must pay. GARCIN (threatening gesture ) : Will you keep quiet? INEZ ( looking at him without fear, though with great surprise ) : Ha! (Pause. ) Wait! I've got it; I know why they've put us together ! GARCIN: Be careful what you say . INEZ: Yo u'll see how stupid it is. Incredibly stupid! There's no physical torture, right? Yet we are in hell. And no one else will come . No one. We will remain here alone with one another until the end. Right? In short, there's someone missing: the torturer. GARCIN(softly) · I know it well. INEZ: So, they've perfected an economy of personnel. It's the clients who provide the service themselves, like a cafeteria. ESTELLE: What are you trying to say? INEZ: The torturer is each of us, for the other two. ( A pause while they digest this news.) GARCIN ( softly ) : I will not be your torturer. I wish you no harm and I've got nothing to do with you. Nothing. It's quite simple. Here, each of us in our own corner; here's our weapon. You here; you here; myself here. And silence. Not a word--that's no t too difficult, is it? Each of us has plenty to do by ourselves. I think I could go ten thousand years without speaking. ESTELLE: I've got to keep quiet? GARCIN: Yes. And we. .we will be saved. Just keep quiet. Look to yourself, don't raise your head. Agreed? INEZ: Agreed. ESTELLE (hesitates ) : Agreed. GARCIN: Well, then, goodbye. (He goes to his sofa and puts his head in his hands. ) Inez begins to sing (A long pause. to herself. ) INEZ: On Whitemantle Street they built a platform, And spread the bran below, And it was a pretty scaffold On Whitemantle Street, you know. The headsman he was up at dawn, He'd quite a job to do, To chop off the heads of generals, The bishops' and the admirals' On Whitemantle Street, it's true. To Whitemantle Street the ladies came, With all their pretty frills, But their heads they had to go, Heads along with hats would roll, In the gutter of Whitemantle Street. (During this time, Estelle restores her makeup. She powders herself and restlessly looks around for a mirror. She searches her bag, then turns to Garcin.) ESTELLE: Have you got a mirror , monsieur? (Garcin does not respond. ) A mirror, a pocket- glass, whatever? (No response.) If you're going to leave me all alone, at least get me a mirror. (Garcin buries his face in his hands. ) INEZ (eagerly ) : I've got a mirror in my bag. (Searches her bag and says resentfully ) : They must have taken it from me in the office. ESTELLE: How annoying. (Pause. She clo ses her eyes and sways unsteadily. Inez rushes to steady her. ) INEZ: What's the matter? ESTELLE (opens her eyes and smiles): I feel so strange. (Touches herself.) It doesn't have this ef feet on you. When I can't see myself, I can touch myself as much as I like; I wonder if I really exist. INEZ: You're lucky. Me, I feel myself constantly, from inside. ESTELLE: Oh, yes, from inside. .Everything that happens in people's heads is so vague. It wearies me. (Pause.) There 53 �\ are six huge mirrors in my bedroom. I see t h em. I see them. They reflect the lov e-seat, the rug, the window. . How empty it is, a mirror without me. Whenever I spoke, I'd place myself so there'd be o n e I could look at .myself in. I talked; and I saw myself talking. I saw myself as others saw me; it kept me on my toes. (With despair ) : My lipstick! I'm sure I put it on crooked. I simply can't spend all of eternity without a mirror. INEZ: Couldn't I be your mirror? Come, come pay me a visit. Here, sit on my sofa. ESTELLE (indicating Garcin ) : But ... INEZ: Let's not worry about him. ESTELLE: We're not going to hurt one another1 you said so yourself. INEZ: Do I look like I want to hurt you? ESTELLE: One never knows INEZ: It's you who' 11 hurt me. But what difference can it make? If I've got to suffer, it might as well be on your account. Sit down. A little closer. There. Look into my eyes. Do you see yourself there? ESTELLE: But I 'm so tiny. I can barely see myself. INEZ: But I see you. All of you. Ask me questions. No mirror could be more faithful. (Estelle, embarrassed, turns toward Garcin as if to call for help.) ESTELLE: Monsieur! Monsieur! We're not boring you with our chatter, are we? (Garcin does not respond.) INEZ: Leave him be , he doesn't count; we're alone. Interrogate me. ESTELLE: Did I put my lipstick on right? INEZ: Let me see. Not too well. ESTELLE : I wondered. Good thing (glance at Gare ~ , ) no one saw me. I'll try again. INEZ: ·r hat' s better. No. Follow the line of your lips; I'll guide you. There, there. Good. ESTELLE: As good as when I came in? INEZ: Better. It's heavier, crueler. A diabolical mouth. ESTELLE: Hnmun. And that's good? How irritating, when I can't decide for myself. You swear that it's all right? INEZ: You're beautiful. ESTELLE: But do you have any taste? Do you have !!!Y taste? How irritating; how simply irritating. INEZ: I've got your taste, since I like you. Look at me. Smile. I'm not so ugly any more. Aren't I better than a mirror? ESTELLE: I don't know. You intimidate me. My reflection in the mirrors was tame. I knew i t so well . If I smile--my smile will fall into your pupils and God only knows what will become of it. INEZ: And what's to stop you from taming me? (They look at each other. Estelle smiles, a little bit fascinated } Wouldn't you like to be my friend? · ESTELLE: I have trouble making friends with women. INEZ: Especially with postal clerks, I suppose? What's that there, at the bottom of your cheek? A pimple? ESTELLE (startled): A pimple, that's horrible! Where? INEZ: There, there! I'm just a bird-trap, and I've got you, my little dove! There's no need to blush. Not the slightest. And if the mirror should lie? Or if I shut my eyes, if I refused to look at you-- what would you do with all that beauty? Don't be frightened, I must look at you; my eyes will stay wide open. And I'll be gentle, very gentle. But it's up to you. (Pause.) ESTELLE: You like me? INEZ: Very much! (Pause.) ESTELLE (nodding in Garcin' s direction): I want him to notice me too . INEZ: Ha! Because he's a man. (To ~arcin); You win. (Garcin does not respond.) But look over here! (Still no response.) Don't play this game; you haven't missed a word we've said. GARCIN (Abruptly raising his head ) : You can say that again; I haven't missed a word. It was no good to stick my fingers in my ears; you just kept on chattering inside my head. · Will you leave me alone now? I've got no business with you. INEZ: And the child; have you got some business with her? I've seen your tricks-- it's for her sake that you put on such airs. .54 GARCI N: Le ave me alone , I te11· you . Someone's talk i ng about me at the jour nal an d I want to listen . And I couldn ' t ca r e less about the ch i ld , i f t hat ' ll make you happ y. ESTELLE: Thank you . I d i dn 't mean t o be r ude . GARCIN : ESTELLE : Pig! (A pause . The y s t and, fa c i ng each othe r. ) GARCI N: Th e re ! (Pau se ) I b e gg e d you to be qui e t . ES'l,ELLE: She s t a r ted i t . She came to o f fer me he r mi rro r, and I didn ' t ask he r f o r anything . INEZ: Nothing . You ju s t r ubbed aga i nst h i m a nd conto rted you r s e lf so he ' d l ook at you . ESTELLE : And so? GARCIN : Are you bot h i diots? Don 't you see whe re we are ? Ju st keep qu iet! (Pau se. ) W onl y have t o s it back down , e pe a ce f ully , clo s e our ey e s and try t o fo rget th e presenc e o f the othe r s . (A pau s e . He sits. The women r e turn t o the ir p laces wi th he si t an t s t e p s. Ine z s udd enly turns back. ) INEZ: Ha! Fo r get. How chi l dish . I fe el you i n my bones . Your s i l e nce sc re ams in my ear s. You could nail your mouth shut , cut out you r tongue , but can you k eep you r s elf fr om exist ing? St op you r thoughts? I hea r i t , it goes tick, tick, like an a lar m clock , and I know you hea r mine . It's no use cur ling up on your sofa ; you 're everywhere . The sounds a r e soiled when they r each me becaus e you've hea r d them on the way . You've even stolen my face -- you can see it and I can ' t . And he r ? He r ? You ' ve r obbed me of he r. If we were alonP . do v o u think she ' cl dnre treat me the way she does? No, no : take your hands f r om your face . I won't leave you alone , i t would be too convenient . You would stay the r e, unconscious, sunk in you r self like a buddha . I'd have my eyes s hut, but I'd hear h er o ff e r you a l l t he little no i ses of her life, even the rustle of her dre ss, and she'd send you smiles that you wouldn't even see . . . None of that . I want to choose my hell; I want to look at you with open eyes and struggle face to face . GARCIN : Good enough . I suppose it had to come to thi s-- they ' ve manipulat e d u s l ike child r en . If only they'd put me i n with men . . . men know how to keep quiet . I t wouldn ' t be too much to ask . (C r osses to Estelle and places his hand unde r he r chin . ) So 1 please you , my p r etty? You ' ve been giving me the eye ? ESTELLE : Don ' t touch me . GARCIN : Bah! Le t' s put ou r selve s at ease. I loved women a lot, you k now. And they loved me a lot . So r el a x, we 've go t Poli teness-- what for? nothing t o lo s e . Ce r emonie s-- what ' s the use? Among u s? Soon we'll be as naked as worms. ESTELLE : Leave me alone . GARCIN : As wo r ms . Oh , I e xpecte d th is. I demanded nothing f r om you , no t h i ng but p eace and a l it tle quiet . I put my f inge r s in my ear s . Gome z wa s spe aki ng , sta nd i ng between t h e t ab l e s, a nd a l l the c omrades at t he jour nal were lis te n i ng . In s hi rts le eve s. I wanted t o unde r stand what he was s aying -- it wasn't e as y ; t h i ng s on earth h a ppen so qu i ck ly . Couldn It you k eep quiet? Now i t I s all ove r, he ' s not talking any mo r e ; a l l that he think s about me is back inside h is head . Good enough ; we ' ll just have to see . it through to the end . Naked as wo r ms : I want to know who I'm dealing with . INEZ : You know . You al r eady know. GARCIN: Until each of us has admitted why we were condemned, we know noth i ng . You, the blonde, you sta r t . Why? Tell us . why; you r honesty can p r event disasters. ·when we know our monste rs . . Come on , why? ESTELLE: I te ll you I d on 't k now . They didn't want to tell me . GARCIN : I know , it was the same with me ; they didn ' t want to answe r. But I know. You ' re afraid to go first? All right, I'll begin . (long pause . ) I am not ve r y nice . We know you we r e a Go ahead . INEZ : des e rter . GARCIN : Leave that be . Don't even mention it . I'm he r e because I to r tu red my wife . That's all . For five-years . Of course, she's still suffering . There : when I speak of her I see he r. It's Gome z I'm interested in and it's her I see . Whe r e's Gomez? Five years . Say, they've 55 �given her my things . She's sitting by the window, with my jacket on her knees . The jacket with twelve holes. The blood, you'd think it was rust . The edges of the holes are burnt . Ha! It's a museum piece, a historic jacket . And I wore it. Won't you cry? Won't you end it with tea r s? I'd come home d r unk as a pig, smelling of wine and women . She'd have waited up all night for me; she never cried . Not one word of reproach; naturally. Just her eyes. Those .huge eyes. I don't regret a thing. I' 11 pay for it, but I don't reg r et a thing . It's snowing outside. But won't you cry? She's a women with a flai r for martyrdom . INEZ (almost softly) : Why did you make her suffer? GARCIN : Because it was easy . One word was enough to make her change color ; she was a sensitive thing. Ha! Not a single reproach . I was quite a tease . I waited . But no , not a single I wait ed foreve r . reproach . I pulled her · from the gutter, you und er stand . She's r unning her hand ove r t he jacke t, wi t hout looking at it , her fi nge r s g r oping blindly for the holes . What are you waiting for? What are you hoping for? I tell you I don't regret a thing. There you have it. She admired me too much . Understand? INEZ: No. No one admired me. GARCIN: So much the better. So much the better for you. All this must seem quite abstract to you. Well, here's a story. I brought a mulatto woman home with me . What nights! My wife went to bed first, but she must have heard us. She got up first, and since we'd slept late, she brought us breakfast in bed. INEZ: Cad! GARCIN : Yes, yes, a well loved cad. (Seems d i s t r acted.) No, nothing . It's Gomez, but he's not talking about me. Damn! Anyway, that's what I'm doing here. And you? INEZ: Well, I'm what they call down there a fallen woman. Already damned, of course. So it came as no great surprise. GARCIN: That's it? INEZ: No, there was also that affair with Florence. But that's a tale of corpses . Three corpses. First him, then she and I. No one's left, below . I am at peace. The room, only. I see the room, from time to time. Empty, with the shutters closed. Oh . Oh! They've taken the seals off . For Rent It's for rent. There's a sign on the door. It's . . . mocking. GARCIN: Three. You did say three? INEZ: Yes. GARCIN: One man and two women? INEZ : Yes. GARCIN: Wait . (Pause . ) He killed himself? INEZ: Him? He was incapable of it. But not for lack of suffering. He was crushed by a trolley . It was comical! I lived with them-- he was my cousin. GARCIN: Florence was blonde? INEZ: Blonde? (Glance at Estelle.) You know, I don ' t reg r et a thing, but I don't enjoy telling you this story much. GARCIN : Go on! Go on ! You were disgusted with him? INEZ : Little by little . For example, he made t his noise when he drank; he snuffled i n his glass . Little things . Oh! He was a sor r y sort, vulnerable. What are you smiling at? GARCING: Because I'm not vulnerable. INEZ: We'll see. I slipped into her; she saw him through my eyes . After a while, she was in my grasp. we took a room on the other side of town. GARCIN: And then? INEZ: And then there was the trolley. I told her every day, 'Well, my darling, we had him killed . ' (Pause . ) I am wicked. GARCIN: Yes. Sc aIT T. INEZ: No. You're not wicked. It's something different. GARCIN: What? INEZ: I'll tell you later. Me, I'm wicked . That is to say I need the suffering of others in order to exist. A torch. A to r ch in thei r hea r ts. When I'm alone, I flicker out. For six months I blazed in her heart. I burned it out. She got up one night; went and turned on the gas without my knowing it; then she lay down beside me. There you have it. GARCIN: Hmmm! INEZ: What? 56 GARCIN: Nothing. That's not right. INEZ: No, it's not right. So? GARCIN: Oh. You've got a point. (To Estelle. ) And you, what did you do? ESTELLE: I told you, I know nothing about it. I tried to ask myself . GARCIN: Good. We'll help. This fellow with the shattered face, who's he? ESTELLE: What fellow? INEZ: You know quite well. The one you were afraid of when you came in. ESTELLE: He's a friend. GARCIN: Why were you afraid of him? ESTELLE: You have no right to interrogate me. INEZ: He killed himself because of you? ESTELLE: No. Don't be foolish. GARCIN: So why did he frighten you? He put a shot into his face, eh? Is that what carried off his head? ESTELLE: Quiet! Be quiet! GARCIN: Because of you! Because of you! INEZ: Shot because of you! ESTELLE: Leave me alone! You frighten me! I want to leave! I want to leave! (She rushes to'the door and shakes it. ) GARCIN: Go ahead. Myself, I couldn't ask for more. But the door is locked from the outside. (Estelle rings, but the bell does not sound. Inez and Garcin laugh. Estelle turns around to face them, with her back to the door.) ESTELLE (her voice slow and harsh) : You are beastly. INEZ: Perfectly beastly. So? And this fellow who killed himself on your account; he was your )over? GARCIN: Of course he was her lover. And he wanted to have her for himself alone. Isn't that true? INEZ: And he danced the tango like a professional, but he was poor, I imagine. (Long pause. ) GARCIN: You were asked if he was poor. ESTELLE: Yes, he was poor. GARCIN: And then again, you had your reputation to preserve. One day he came and begged you, and you laughed. INEZ? Well? Well? You laughed? Was it for that he killed himself? ESTELLE: Was it with those same eyes that you looked at Florence? INEZ: Yes. (A pause. Estelle begins to laugh.) ESTELLE: You haven't got it at all. (She straightens up and looks at them, keeping her back to the door. Dry and provocative tone:) He wanted to give me his child. There, are you happy? GARCIN: And you, you didn't want it. ESTELLE: No. The child came anyway. I left to spend five months in Switzerland. No one knew anything about it. It was a girl. Roger was at my side when she was born. He was delighted to have a girl. But not me. GARCIN: And then? ESTELLE: There was a balcony, above a lake. I took a large stone. He cried, "Estelle, I beg you, I beseech you." I hated him. He saw everything. He bent over the railing and watched the rings in the lake. GARCIN: Then? ESTELLE: That was all. I returned to Paris. He, he did what he wanted. GARCIN: He blew his head off? ESTELLE: Yes, quite. It wasn't worth the trouble. My husband never suspected a thing. (Pause) I hate you. (Dry sobs.) GA RC IN: Useless. The tears don't flow here. ESTELLE: I am horrible! I am horrible! (Pause . ) If only you knew how I hate you! INEZ (taking her in her arms) : My poor darling! (To Garcin): The inquest is over. No point in keeping that torturer's scowl. GARCIN: A torturer's (Looks around) I'd give anythino to see myself in a mirror. (Pause . ) How hot it isl (Mechanically removes his jacket.) Oh! Excuse me. (Starts to put it back on.) ESTELLE: You can stay in shirtsleeves. For now . GARCIN: Don't be angry with me, Estelle. ESTELLE: I'm not angry with you. INEZ: And me? Are you angry with me? ESTELLE: Yes. INEZ: Well, Garcin, we're as naked as worms. Do you see it more clearly? GA RC IN: I don't know. Perhaps it's - a little clearer. (Timidly) : Can't we try to help one another? INEZ: I don't need any help. 57 �GARCIN: They've tangled all the strings, Inez. If you make the slightest movement, if you raise your hand to fan yourself, Estelle and I feel the tug. None of us can save ourselves alone; we've got to pull together in this, or sink together. Choose. (Pause . ) What is it? INEZ: They've rented it! The windows are wide open. A man's sitting on my bed. They've rented it! They've rented it! Come in, come in, don't be embarrassed. It's a woman. She goes to him and puts her hands on his shoulders Why don't they turn on the light-- one can hardly see. Are they going to embrace? This room is mine. Mine! And why don't they light it? I can't see any more. What are they whispering? Is he going to fondle her on my bed? She says it's noon and sunny. So I'm going blind. (Pause.) Finished. No more. I no longer see; I no longer hear. Well, I suppose I'm finished with the earth. No more alibis. (Shudders.) I feel empty. Now I'm completely dead. Totally here. You were saying? Something about helping me, I think? GARCIN: Yes. INEZ: Help me do what? GARCIN: Frustrate th~ir tricks. INEZ: And in return? GARCIN: You'll help me. It wouldn't take much, Inez, just a bit of good will. INEZ: Good will And where do you want me to get it? I am rotten. GARCIN: And me? (Pause . ) But if we tried? INEZ: I' m dried up. I can neither give nor receive; how can I help you? (Pause. She looks at Estelle, who has ·her head in her hands.) Florence was blonde. GARCIN: This little one will be your torturer, you know. INEZ: That could be just what I fear. GARCIN: It's through her that they'll get to you. As for me, I . • . I I pay no attention to her. If you were to What? INEZ: GARCIN: It's a trap. They' re watching to see if you'll let yourself be caught. INEZ: I know. And you, you're a trap. Do you think they haven't foreseen your very words? And that they don't have hidden pitfalls that we can't see? .Everything's a trap. But what does that make me? A trap for her. Maybe I' 11 be the one to catch her. GARCIN: You won't catch anything. We run after each other like the horses on a merry-go-round, without ever catching up; you can be sure they've arranged everything. Let it go, Inez. Open your hands, let go. Or else you'll make us all miserable. INEZ: Do I look like someone who lets go? I know what awaits me: I'm going to burn; I am burning, and I know that it's endless. I know it all-- do you think I'll let go? I will have her; she'll see you through my eyes, like Florence saw the other one. How can you tell me about your misery? I tell you I know it all and yet I don't feel sorry for myself. A trap, ha! A trap. Of course I'm caught in a trap. And what then?. So much the better, if it makes them happy. GARCIN (taking her by the shoulders): Me, I can feel sorry for you. Look at me; we're naked. Naked to the bone; I know your inner heart. We are bound together-do you think I should want to hurt you? I don't regret a thing, I'm not complaining, I am dried up too. But for you, I can feel sorry. INEZ (having left his hands there while he spoke, recoils ) : Don't touch me. I hate being touched. And keep your pity. Come now, Garcin; there are plenty of traps for you in this room. For you. Set just for you. You'd do better to mind your own business. (Pause . ) If you leave us alone, the child and I, I' 11 be · in no position to harm you. GARCIN (looks at her for a moment, then shrugs): All right. ESTELLE: (rai sing her head) : Help, Garcin. GARCIN : What do you want from me? ESTELLE (rising and approaching him): Me, you can• help me. GARCIN: Talk to her. (Inez has approached Estelle, and is standing behind her, without touching her. During the following exchange she speaks practically into Estelle's ear. Estelle,_ facing 58 Garcin, responds uniquely to him, as if he . were the one questioning her, though he looks at her without speaking.) ESTELLE: I beg you; you promised, Garcin, you promised! Quickly, quickly; I don't want to be alone. Olga has taken him dancing. INEZ: Who? ESTELLE: Pierre. They' re dancing together. INEZ: Who's Pierre? ESTELLE: A little fool. He called me his live ly brook .' He loved roe . She's taken him dancing. INEZ: Do you love him? ESTELLE: They're sitting down. She's all out of breath. Why is she dancing? At least it'll make her lose some weight. Of course not. Of course I didn't love him . He's eighteen years old , and I'm no cradle robber. INEZ: Then let them be. What can they do to you? ESTELLE: He was mine. INEZ: Nothing on earth is yours any more. ESTELLE: He was mine. INEZ: Yes, he was . Try to take him, try to touchhiro. Olga, she can touch him. Can't she? She can hold his hands, stroke his knees. ESTELLE: She's pressing her enormous breasts against him; she's breathing in his face. Tom Thumb, poor Tom Thumb, what keeps you from laughing in her face? Ah, one · glance from roe would have been enough, she never would have dared Am I truly no more? INEZ: No more. And there is nothing left of you on earth. All that belongs to you is here . Would you like the paper-knife? The bronze by Barbidienne? The blue sofa is yours. And I, darling, I am yours forever. ESTELLE: Oh? Mine forever? Well then, which of you dared to call roe their · lively brook? You are not deceived, you others, you know that I am filth. Think of me, Pierre; don't think, but of me; defend me. As long as you are thinking, 'My lively brook, my dearest lively brook,' I'm only half here; only half guilty. Below, I am a lively brook, at your side. She's as red as a tomato. See, it's impossible; we've laughed at her toget her a hundred times. What is that song? I loved it so much . Oh, the St. Louis Blues . Go ahead; dance, dance . You'd laugh if you could see it, Garcin. She can't do a thing without my seeing it. I see you, I see you, with your tired hair - do, looking so overcome. I see how you step on his feet. It's enough to die laughing. Come on! Faster, faster! How he pulls and pushes her. It's indecent . Faster! 'You're so light,' he always told me. Come on! Come on! (Dances as she speaks.) She's laughing, she dances across my view. Our dear Estelle! What, our dear Estelle? Oh , be quiet! You didn't even shed a tear at the funeral. And she says, 'our dear Estelle.' She's got the nerve to speak of him of me . Come on! In time. She's not one who can talk and dance at the same time. What? No! No! Don 't tell him! I give up; take him, keep him, do with him what you will, but don't tell him (She has stopped dancing . ) Good . You can keep him for now. She told him everything, Garcin: Roger, the trip to Switzerland; she told him the whole story. 'Our dear Estelle was not No, no, after all, I wasn't . He shook his head with a sad look , but you couldn't say the news upset him. Keep him for now. I don't grudge you his long eyelashes or his girlish manners. But he called me his lively brook, his crystal. Well, the crystal is in pieces. 'Our dear Estelle. ' Dance! Dance! Come on! In time. One, two. (Dances.) I'd give the whole world to return to earth for a moment, a single moment, to dance with him. (Dance s. Long pause.) I don't hear so well any more. They've turned down the lights, like for a tango. Why are they playing so softly? Louder! How far away it seems. I I don't hear anything at all now. (Stops dancing.) Nothing. The earth has . le.ft me. Garcin, look at me. Take me in your arms. (Inez, behind Estelle, motions to Garcin to move aside.) INEZ (impe riously ) : Garcin! 59 �GARCIN (retreats a step and indicates Inez): Talk to her. ESTELLE: (gripping him): Don't go! Are you a man? Look at me, though, don't turn your eyes away. Is it so painful? I 've got golden hair, and after all, someone killed himself for me. I beg you; you've got to look at something. If it's not me, it'll be the bronze, or the table, or the sofas. I'm still more pleasant to look at. Listen; I tumbled into their hearts like a little bird fallen from its nest. Pick me up, take me into your heart, you'll see how nice I can be. GA RC IN (pushing her away, with dif f iculty): Talk to her, I tell you. ESTELLE: Her? She doesn't count; she's a woman. INEZ: I don't count? But, my little bird, my little dove, you've been in the shelter of my heart for some time now. · Don't be afraid; I'll look at you without a break, without even a blink. You will live in my eyes like a speck of gold in a ray of sunshine. ESTELLE: A ray of sunshine? Hal Get lost! You've tried to catch me already, and you've seen well enough that it failed. INEZ: Estelle I My lively brook, my crystal. ESTELLE: Your crystal? What a joke. Who do you think you' re fooling? Everyone knows that I flung my child out the window. The crystal is in pieces on the ground, and 1 don't care. I'm nothing but an empty skin-- and my skin is not for you. INEZ: Come! You' 11 be whatever you like; a lively brook, a briny brook. In the depths of my eyes you'll have whatever you desire . ESTELLE: Let me go! You have no eyes I But what do I have to do to make you let me go? Here! (She spits in her face. Inez quickly releases her.) INEZ: Garcin I You' 11 pay for this! (Pause. Garcin shrugs and goes to Estelle.) GARCIN: So you want a man. ESTELLE: A man? No. You. GARCIN: Don't bother. Any man would do. I 'm to be found here, so it' s me . Good enough. (Takes her shoulders.) I've got nothing to please you, you 'know~- I'm not a little fool and I don't dance the tango. ESTELLE : I ' 11 take you as you ar~ . Perhaps I'll change you. GARCIN: I doubt it. I'll be distracted. I 've got other things on my mind. ESTELLE: What things? GARCIN: It wouldn't interest you. ESTELLE: I'll sit on your sofa. I'll wait for you to bother with me. (Inez laughs.) INEZ: Ha! Bitch! On your belly! On your belly! And he's not even handsome. ESTELLE (to Garcin): Don't listen to her. She has no eyes, she has no ears. She doesn't count. GARCIN: I'll give you what I can. It's not much. I won't love you; I know you too well. ESTELLE: But you desire me? GARCIN: Yes. ESTELLE: That's all I want. GARCIN: Then . . . (Leans toward her.) INEZ: Estelle! Garcin! You're losing your senses! I'm here, me! GARCIN: I see. So? INEZ: In front of me? You you can't! ESTELLE.: Why not? I used to undress in front of my chambermaid. INEZ (grabbing Garcin): Let go! Let go! Don't touch her with your filthy male hands. GARCIN (pushes her away violently) : There: I 'm no gentleman, and I won' t be afraid to hit a woman. lNEZ: You promised me, Garcin, you promised! Please; you promised me! GARCIN: It' s you who broke our agreement. INEZ (Lets go and moves back to the edge of the set) : Do what you like; you' re stronger than me. But remember that I'm here and I'm watching. My eyes won't leave you, Garcin; you'll have to embrace under my stare. How I hate the both of you! Go on, love! Love! We are in hell and I'll have my turn. (During the following scene she stares silently at them.) 60 GARCIN (returning to Estelle and taking her by the shoulders): Kiss me. (Pause.) He leans over, then abruptly straightens up again.) ESTELLE (annoyed gesture:) Ha! (Pause.) I told you to pay no attention to her. GARCIN: She matters. (Pause.) Gomez is at the journal. They've closed the windows; it must be winter. For six months they've I told you I'd be distracted. They ' re shivering; they've kept their coats on. It's curious-- they're so cold, down there, and I'm so hot. This time they're talking about me. ESTELLE: Will this last long? (Pause.) Tell me what he's saying, anyway. GARCIN: Nothing. He's not saying a thing. He's scum, that's all. Just scum. Ha! (Returns to Estelle.) Back to us! Will you love me? ESTELLE (smile) : Who knows? GARCIN: Will you have faith in me? ESTELLE: What a silly question! You' 11 be constantly in my sight and there's only Inez for you to cheat on me with . GARCIN: True. (Pause. He releases her shoulders.) I meant a different kind of faith. (Listens.) Go on, go on! Say what you like; I'm not there to defend myself. (To Estelle.) You've got to have faith in me, Estelle. ESTELLE: What a fuss! But you've got my mouth, my arms, my entire body, and everything could be so simple My faith? But I've got no faith to give. You're annoying me terribly. You must have done something pretty awful to beg for my faith so. GARCIN: They shot me. ESTELLE: I know; you refused to go . So? GARCIN: I . . . I didn't exactly refuse. (To the invisible ones.) He speaks well, he accuses me as well as the can, but he hasn't said what I should have done. Should I have gone to the general's office and said, 'I won't go, general?' What foolishness! They'd just have locked me up. I wanted to testify, to testify, myself. I didn't want them to suppress my side of things. (To Estelle.) I . . I took the train. They pinched me at the border. ESTELLE: Where would you have gone? GA RC IN: Mexico City. I figured on starting a pacifist journal there. (Long pause.) Well, say something. ESTELLE: What do you want me to say? You did what you could since you didn't want to fight. (Garcin makes an annoyed gesture.) Oh, darling, I've no idea how to answer you. INEZ: You should tell him, my treasure, that he ran away like a lion. For he did run away, your great darling. That's what's torturing him. GARCIN: Ran away, left, call it what you will. ESTELLE: But you had to run away. If YOU Id Stayed they WOUld have put YOU in handcuffs. GARCIN: True. (Pause.) Estelle, am I a coward ? ESTELLE: But I know nothing about it, my love. I'm not in your skin. It's for you to decide. GARCIN (weary gesture): I can't decide. ESTELLE: Well, after all, you should remember; you have must have had reasons for doing what you did. GARCIN: Yes. ESTELLE : We 11? GARCIN: Are they the real reasons? ESTELLE: How tangled you are. GARCIN: I wanted to testify . . . I . . . I had thought about it for so long . Are they the real reasons? INEZ: Ha! That's the question. Are they the real reasons? You deliberated; you didn't want to enter it lightly. But fear, hate, and all the filth hidden inside; these are also reasons. Go on, look, interrogate yourself. GARCIN: Shut up! Do you think I need your advice? I paced in my cell, all night, all day. The window to the door, the door to the window. I lay in wait for myself. I followed my tracks. It seemed as if I'd spent an entire lifetime questioning myself. But the deed was still there. I . . . I'd taken the train that much was certain. But why_ ? Why? Eventually I came to think that my death would decide: if I died properly, it would prove that I'm not a coward. INEZ: And how did you die, Garcin? 61 �GARCIN: Badly. (Inez bursts into But I'm out of the game; they'll keep the laughter.) Oh I It was simply a bodily records and not worry about me, and· weakness. I'm not ashamed. It's just they're right, since I'm dead. Finished like a rat. {Laughs.) I've fall en into that everything remains in suspense, for the public domain. (Long pause) eternity. (To Estelle): Come here, you. ESTELLE {softly ) : Garcin. Look at me. I need to have someone GARCIN: You're there? Good, listen, you looking at me when they talk about me on earth. I love green eyes. can do me a favor. No, don't flinch. I know, it seems funny for someo ne to ask INEZ: Green eyes? Well, look at that. you for help, you're not used to it. But And you, Estelle, do you love cowards? if you wanted to, it you tried, couldn't ESTELLE: What's it to me? Coward or not, as long as he kisses well. we perhaps love one another for good? Look, there are a thousand people who' 11 GARCIN: They' re shaking their heads and repeat that I'm a coward. But what's puffing on their cigars; they' re bored. that, a thousand? If there were one soul, They're thinking, 'Garcin's a coward'; just one, who' 11 swear against all ·their tiredly, weakly. Still, history's got to forces that I didn't run away, that I think something. Garcin is a coward. couldn't have run away, that I had That's what they've decided; them, my courage, that I am straight, I . • • I'm comrades. In six months they'll be positive that I' 11 be saved! Will you saying, "yellow as Garcin." You two are believe me? You'll be dearer to me than lucky; no one on earth thinks about you any I myself. more. Me, my life doesn't end so easily. INEZ: And your wife, Garcin? ESTELLE (laughing): Idiot! Dear idiot? Do you think I could love a coward? GARCIN: What about my wife? She's dead. INEZ: De?d? GARCIN: But you said . . . ESTELLE: I was teasing you. I loved men, GARCIN: I must have forgotten to tell Garcin, real men, with rough skin, strong you. She died not long ago. It's been about two months now. hands. You haven't got the chin of a INEZ: Of grief? coward, you haven't got a coward's mouth, or a coward's voice, or the hair of a GARCIN: Of course, of grief. What do you coward. And it's for you mouth, your think she'd die of? So, all is well. The voice, your hair that I love you. war is over, my wife is dead, and I have a GARCIN: Is it true? Is it really true? place in history. (He emits a dry sob and ESTELLE: Do you want me to swear it to covers his face with his hands. Estelle you? holds him.) GARCIN: So, I defy them all; the ones ESTELLE: Darling, darling. Look at me, down .there and the ones here. Estelle, my darling. · Touch me, touch me. (Takes we' 11 stroll out o f hell. (Inez bursts his hand and places it on her throat.) out laughing. He stops and looks a her.) Put your hand on my throat. (Garcin What is it? attempts to pull away.) Leave your hand, INEZ {laughing): But she doesn't believe leave it here, don't stir. They will die, a word she says. How could you be so all of themr what does it matter what they naive? 'Estelle, am I coward?' If only think. Forget them. There's no one but you knew how much s}1e cares! me. ESTELLE: Inez I (To Gare in.) Don't GARCIN- (withdraws his hand) : They won't listen to her. If you want my faith forget me. They'll die, but others will you've got to give me yours. come who'll pass it on. I've left my life INEZ: Of course, of course! Trust her. in their hands. She needs a man, that you can believe, she ESTELLE: Ahl You think too much. needs a man' s arms around · her waist, a GARCIN: What else is there to do? man's smell, a man's desire in the eyes of Before, I acted . Oh I To go back a man. As for the rest . . . Hal She'd with them for one day • . What a lie I suffering, which tickles and caresses and tell you that you're God the Father, if it is never bad enough. (Grabs for the would make you happy . button and presses it. ) Will you open? GARCIN : Estelle! Is this true? Answer (The door opens suddenly, and he just me : is it true? avoids falling. ) Ah! (A long silence.) ESTELLE: What do you want me to say? I INEZ: Well, Garcin? Go ahead. don't understand a word of all these GARCIN (slowly): I wonder why that door stories. (Stamps her foot) How annoying opened. this all is! Even if you were a coward, I INEZ: What are you waiting for? Go, go, would love you . There! Is that enough quickly . for you? (Pause . ) GARCIN: I'm not going out there. GARCIN (to both women ) : You disgust me! INEZ: And you, Estelle? (Estell e does (Walks to the doo r. ) not move. Inez laughs . ) So? Which? ESTELLE: What are you doing? GARCIN: Leaving . Which of the three? The way is free -- so what's keeping us? Ha! It's enough to INEZ (quickly) : You won't get far; the die laughing . We're inseparable. door's locked . (Estelle pounces on her from behind) GARCIN : They'll open it, I tell you. ESTELLE: Inseparable? Garcin! Help me, (Pounds on the door.) I can't tolerate help me, quick . We' 11 drag her out and you any more. I can't. (Este lle runs to shut the door behind he r; she'll see. him . He thrusts her away.) Go away! You INEZ (str uggling): Estelle! Estelle! I disqust me even more than she does. I beg you, keep me. Not in the hall; don't don't want to be swallowed by your eyes. throw me in the hall! You 're clammy; you' re soft! You are an GARCIN : Let her go. octopus, a swamp . (Beats on the door.) ESTELLE : You're a fool, she hates you. Will you open? GARCIN: It's because of her tha t I ESTELLE: Garcin , I beg you, please don't stayed. (Estelle releases Inez, and looks go . I won't talk to you, I'll leave you at Garcin in amazement.) all alone, but don't go. Inez has shown INEZ: Because of me? (Pause . ) Well, her claws; I don't want to stay alone with her. good enough; close the door. It's ten times hotter since it opened . (Garcin GARCIN: Look after yourself. I never crosses to the door and closes it.) asked you to come. Because of me? It Is so ESTELLE: Coward! Coward! Oh! true;you are a coward. GARCIN: Yes. You, you know what a coward INEZ (appr oaching Estelle) : Well, my ' is . INEZ: Yes, I know that . dove, aren't you happy? You spat in my GARCIN: You know what evil is, and shame, face to please him, and we quarrelled and fear. There were days when you saw because of him. But he ' s leaving, the through youself, right to the heart. And kill- joy; he's going to leave us girls it shattered you. And the next day you alone could do nothing but think, but you could ESTELLE: It won't do you any good . If no longer understand the revelation of the that door opens, I'm gone . day before. Yes, you know the cost of INEZ: Where? evil. And if you say that I'm a coward, ESTELLE: It doesn 't matter where. As far it's because you've lived with it , right? from you as possible . (Gare in has not INEZ: Yes . stopped beating on the door.) It's you I've got to convince, GARCIN: Open! Open it! I'll accept GARCIN: you are of my breed. Did you imagine that everything: the boot, the pincers, the I was going to leave? I couldn't leave molten lead, the tongs, the garrotte; everything that burns and tears . I want you here, triumphant, with all those to suffer for the good. Better a hundred thoughts in your head, all those thoughts stings, better the whip, the acid, than about me. this suffering in the head, this phantom INEZ: You truly want tp convince me? 62 63 �GARCIN: I want nothing more. I don't hear them any more, you know. No doubt they' re finished with me. Finished; the case is closed, I 'm no longer on earth, not even as a coward. We ' re alone here , Inez; there's nobody but you two to think of me. She doesn't count. But you, you who hate me; if you believe me, you' 11 save me. INEZ: This won't be easy. Look at · me. I've .got a thick skull. GARCIN: I'll give it all the time it takes. INEZ: Well, you've got all of time. All of time. GARCIN (takes her by the shoulders): Look, everyone's got their own tastes, right? Me, I didn't give a damn about money , or love. I wanted to be a man. A real man. I put everything on one horse. Is it possible to be a coward when one takes the most dangerous routes? Can you judge an entire life by one act? INEZ: Why not? For thirty years you dreamed that you had courage, and you allowed yourself a thousand petty weaknesses because for heres everything is permitted. How convenient! And then, at the hour of danger, you were up against the wall and. • . you took the train for Mexico. GARCIN: I did not dream of that heroism. I chose it. A man is what he wants to be. INEZ: Prove it. Prove it wasn't a dream. Only acts determine what it is one wants. GARCIN: I died ·too soon. I didn't have the time to finish my acts. INEZ: One always dies too soon-- or too late. But the life is there, finished; the line is drawn; you've got to take the total. Besides your life, you've got nothing. GARCIN: Viper! You've got an answer for everything. INEZ: Come on, come onl Don't give up. It should be easy to persuade me. Look for arguments, make an effort. (Garcin shrugs.) Well, well? I told you you were vulnerable. Ha! How you' 11 pay for it now. You are a coward, Garcin; a coward because I will it. I will it, you hear? I will it. And yet see how weak I am, a 64 breath of air. I'm nothing but the eye that sees you, the colorless thought that thinks you. (He walks toward her with open hands • ) Ha! They are open, these great manly hands. But what are you hoping for? You can't catch a thought in your hands. Come on, you haven' t got a choice: you'll have to convince me. I've got you. ESTELLE: Garcin! What? GARCIN: ESTELLE: Avenge yourself. How? GARCIN: ESTELLE: Embrace me; you'll hear her sing. That's true, Inez. You have got GARCIN: too. (Holds me, but I've got you, Estelle. Inez lets out a cry.) Hal Coward! Coward! Go ahead. INEZ: Go ahead and console yourself with women. ESTELLE: Sing, Inez, sing! INEZ: The handsome couple! If only you could see his great hand on the flat of y·o ur back, pawing at the flesh and the cloth. He has wet hands. He sweats. It's leaving a blue stain on your dress. ESTELLE: Sing I Sing! Squeeze me tighter, Garcin; she'll burst. INEZ: Yes, squeeze her tightly, Garcin, squeeze her. Mingle your heats. It's good, love 1 eh, Gare in? It' s deep and mild, like sleep. But I won't let you sleep. (Gesture from Garcin.) ESTELLE: Don't listen to her. Take my lips; I am totally yours. INEZ: Well, what are you waiting for? Do as you're told. Garcin the coward holds in his arms Estelle the infanticide. Betting is opened. Will Garcin the coward embrace her? I see you, I see you 1 by myself I am . a crowd. The crowd, Garcin, the crowd; do you hear them? (Muttering.) Coward l Coward! Coward! Coward! You flee in vain; I won't let you go. What are you seeking in her lips? Forgetfulness? But I won't forget you . It's me you must convince. Me. Go on! Go onl I'm waiting. · You see, Estelle, he's losing his grip, he's as tame as a puppy • . • You can't have himl GARCIN: So it will never.be night. Never. INEZ: You'll see me always. GARCIN: INEZ: Always. (Ga re in releases Estelle and takes several steps upstage. He approaches the bronze.) GARCIN: The bronze . . . (Caresses it.) So here we are now. The bronze is here; I contemplate it and I realize I'm in hell. I tell you everything was foreseen. They p~edicted that I'd stand before this mantle, with my hand on the bronze, and all eyes upon me. All those eyes, devouring me. (Suddenly turns around.) Ha! 'l'here ' s only two of you? I thought there would be a lot more. (Laughs.) So, it's hell, here . I never would have thought You remember-- the brimstone, the spikes, the grilles . . Ah! What a joke . No need of the grille. Hell? It's The Othe rs. ESTELLE: Darling! GARCIN (pushing her away): Leave me alone. She stands between us. I can't love you while she's watching. ESTELLE: Ha! Well, she won't see you any more. (Takes the paper-knife from the table, rushes to Tn c'!z and stabs her several times.) INEZ: (struggles with her, laughing): What are you doing, what are you doing, are you mad? You know quite well I 1 m dead. ESTELLE: Dead? (She drops the knife. Inez picks it up and stabs herself with rage. ) Dead! Dead! Dead! Not a knife INEZ: It's already been or poison, or hanging. done, understand? And we are together forever. (Laugh s.) ESTELLE (burst of laughter) : Forever? My god, how comical! Forever! GARCIN (laughs , looking at the others): Forever! (They sit, each on his own sofa. A long silence. They stop laughing and regard one another. Garcin gets up.) Well, let's get on with it. CURTAIN 65 �- - - - ·- - -- - - - - -- - - Non-Prof it Org. BULK RATE U. S. POSTAGE PAID . St. John's Collegf2 Annapolis, Marylanu 21404 I I 'l ·1 PERMIT No. 120 ANNAP OL,IS, MD. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. ii, 65 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bergren, Kathleen Burlein, Ann Cooper, Barbara Holland, Christian Maguire, Susan Marklin, Martin Miller, Richard Mullen, Alexander Sokolik Merle Sachs, Joe, 1946- Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Spring 1983 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1983 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Spring 1983. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Spring 1983 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/e99f2c1b94d4c1095ad6da9152ede97c.pdf dd0ebf3a878557aba2fe0578b02f3c22 PDF Text Text ST. JOHNS COLLEGE LIBRARY 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 11mr11~r 1 i~1~1m1 1 11 1 1 1 1 1 1 3 1696 01171 862 2 DATE DUE I �Winter 2016 Editors Dorothea Bowerfind Jakub Piven Abigail Purnell Editorial Staff Calida Howell Bonnie Scott Patrick Turley Web* Editor Dahye Kim Layout Design J akub Piven Cover Photograph *energeiasjc.rnm Stefan Vasic �Note from the editors The goal of Energeia, we tell people when they ask, is to collect art from the community. The point of this project, we insist, the point and the entire purpose-the assumption we make in so doing-is that there is very much good art in this place, very many good artists. Our labor is the collecting, the gathering into one place, and the collection is the entire end. It is hard for us to make connections, sometimes, hard to remember that in this world everything is analogue to everything else, and that we find symbols and metaphors profound and illuminating because they bring out this repetition and entanglement of all things. It is important, we believe, to remember this, and the creation of art is the manifestation of this awareness in us, and its outward manifestation an urgent cry to others to remember these connections likewise. For better or worse, men find themselves in communities. These are rarely the communities we envision for ourselves, that we hope for and plan-but then we do not ever have much say over the circumstances in which we land, about these inevitable, immediate boundaries of space and time. Our response to these circumstances, this is our good action, this is our overcoming, and it is art that is content for the overcoming, art our offering and duty to the community of thought in which we have found ourselves. Art is our speaking up, our speaking out, and in this utterance we are artists as well as philosophers. In the study of Great Ideas and the development of our minds, it is too often passed over that we are bodily, that these transcendental idealities are not the stuff of real knowledge, but rather that our experiences in flesh and sound are. Being able to acknowledge ourselves and our experiences constitutes some part of our humanity-this acknowledgement, this utterance of things taken into us and transfigured into images of our own creation-this process is most human of all. This process and this drawing-of-connections are art, and thus when we say that the purpose of Energeia is to collect and draw notice to these connections, what I am saying is that in this community we are all great thinkers and therefore also artists and lovers of art, and the task of collecting-and circulating, and celebrating-art is one that we find most noble, and one nicely eponymous: we are all at work being united here. Here is some art that we have created while in community. We hope you are glad to encounter it. Abby Purnell and Jakub Piven �W ritten Stories, Poems, and Others Image Photography, Painting, and Others 1 Bonnie Naradzay, Sunday Afternoon at Don Polio's 2 Jim Beall, Onyx Moon 4 7 8 Camille Gagnier, La Carta (Translation} Barnabas Holleran, Sonnet 6 Casey Collier, 1he Marshlands 9 Katelin Safford, Mourning in June 10 Felipe Rego, Untitled 12 Danielle Brown, Three Ways to Solve an Integral 16 Hal_y Ford, Recognition e 19 Patrick Turley, Pleasure Shrimp 20 21 23 24 27 30 34 Victoria Lockamy, Untitled #1 Victoria Lockamy, Untitled #2 R.M Goad, 1he Altercation R.M. Goad, Reach Arthur Kohn, 1he Story ofa Sane King Abigail Purnell, Eurydice Returning 3 Z.A., Untitled 6 James Connors, Build 3 (Atoll} 11 15 Sarah Irving,Johnnie Homes 17 Kit Rees, Hunt and No Trussel Louis Petrich (Tutor), Sabbatical Island, Bonaire 18 22 Rachael Langston, Untitled# 1 25 Rachael Langston, Untitled #2 Calida Howell, Untitled 26 Anton Kalmysh, Untitled 29 Annie Brong, Untitled 31 Will van Engen, Vulgur Monster in Polite Society Bonnie Scott, Untitled 32 36 Rose Pelham, Portrait ofIt 40 Sophie Colt, Watercolor of Charlie 42 Elaina Bowman, Rehearsal Timon Luo, Cosmic Egg 37 Olivia Frawley,A Promenade 38 Jonathan Llovet, Stufen (Translation} 41 Wesley Sonheim, Notices Untitled by Calida Howell �Sunday Afternoon at Don Polio's by Bonnie Naradzay Four women of a certain age, we gather at Don Polio's to critique our latest poems, with Pam suggesting that hers, in case we missed it, is on sexual awakening. Digging into spit-roasted chicken, we talk of ex-husbands. Norma says she'll like hers more after he dies, and this reminds me to outlive mine so he doesn't get my pension. A Moroccan soccer player on the wall-mounted tv whips off his shirt after scoring, and I stare, transfixed, at his rippling chest and abdomen. I fumble for words to explain how seeing his bared body affects me. Linda, having already mentioned her new decisiveness in the garden, now that she's sixty, her freedom to uproot plants if they don't fit in, says it's what women want, it's on all the talk shows, and I wonder about the antecedent and about that guy at Squaw Valley who talked of tantric bliss. When I was younger, I say, eating bread pudding from a paper plate, it was the high-minded renaissance man who caught my attention. What a disaster! I glance up at the soccer game. Did I behold Apollo's torso-the smiling hips and thighsor the nameless oarsmen who rowed Ulysses to Ithaca's shore? Sunday Afternoon at Don Polio's I1 �Onyx Moon by Jim Beall He died "East of here under an Onyx Moon'' in an older time. We have not seen his like since. This is a letter from the Dark Ages, of a place and time it is better not to know. What is the wind coming to? Or from? Which is the orb that rises North of a convergence of tracks, dark rails shining, seeming to have their own light. We know in our minds these thin strings, barely luminous, do not meet. But what does the mind know, really? It is the heart that teaches us dread. There is a mist in the sky in place of stars. What compass can tell us, we do not believe: the false convergence of tracks, the true convergence of meridians, the pale skin of a girl we knew once, becoming flame. NB.: An Onyx Moon (or Black Moon) is the second new Moon in a month. 2 I Jim Beall Eurydice Returning by Abigail Purnell I 3 �La Carta by Blanca Garnica (translation right) The Letter translated by Camille Gagnier Y me llegaste como llega la brisa a desplegar los brazos del naranjo. And you came to me like the breeze comes to spread wide the arms of the orange tree. Como se agacha el viento hasta la hierba. Like the wind stoops down to the grass. Como la tarde al campo fatigado. Like the evening to the weary field. Asi. Dulce y amargamente. That way. Sweet and bitterly. Asi me llegaste, peregrino, por la olvidada huella de los pajaros. You came that way, pilgrim, by the forgotten track of the birds. Dulce y amargamente. Sweet and bitterly. 4 I Camille Gagnier La Carta (Translation) I 5 �Sonnet 6 by Barnabas Holleran I saw a name engraved in dust like stone. The date beside it caught me by surprise; For even though it looked so newly drawn, For nine whole years it hid from dust's disguise. The lines were crisp which made this little note, And all the fingerprints could still be seen. No puff of wind had ever moved a mote; That breathless lunar flag looks less pristine. But as I passed, my passing brought a gust Which brushed the dust into a slight decay. The unswept pipe the name is on will rust, And every written word will fade away. And someday I will have to do the same. And yet, beside the first, I put my name. 6 I Untitled by Z.A. Sonnet 6 I 7 �The Marshlands Mourning in June by Katelin Safford by Casey Collier There was death here, tonight. And here, still. Screeching wheels and squelchy radios and fog, from before until now, and for me refined, but not Her. Her heart is broken and her body, is mumbling and trembling for confused forgiveness . When we were at the Falls, last winter, we saw a whirlpool that was a "killer." So, I posed, and she posed, and the photo is· somewhere in a stack of digital. But, we were smiling before the "killer." And now, I don't want to talk about it. But we must. To heal. From death. And I wish it had a throat I could squeeze, or get at. I 1 - J Ii These are the Marshlands. The reconciled march from there to here. I was a private chest, where her head would squirm, and for her eyes to swamp. There came that noiseless ship into the harbor. I did not recognize it. And it wasn't for me. But, my love is the wreck dashed before her. On such a clear night, with such low trim. it is june and I am running my grown-out fingernails through your blonde hair as the loud music and the screaming fans fail to drown out your sorrow. a moment ago you were making a joke but then I turned around and you were sobbing over a picture of your mother, the one where your sister is making a funny face. your grief is wet in my arms and I am thinking of how you wanted to plan this moment, to set aside a day, to make the right lighting, the right sound, the right time for the big cry. this moment is wholly opposite of that, and opposite of that in its wholeness-the invading sunlight broken on the floor by the shadow of the fan, children screaming outside. but i guess this is how these things always happen, i think to myself, my fingers firm on your trembling back. this grief, these tender moments, wait for no one. There is nothing here but for her and I. And we have to go to bed, in the gutless, in the blur. Because, we won't let light between us. / 8 I Casey Collier Mourning in June I9 �Untitled by Felipe Rego We tell kids playing house not to use the word love because like any four letter word we don't wanna hear it on tv But sometimes I think an unfettered mind might pronounce that word a little better Kinda like "happy," right? Like if you've ever been to the beach you know it's shit Sand in your hair, sunburn forming, eyes burning But I think those were my favorite things about the beach growing up I think I was happy In kindergarten no one could explain to me why fuck was a bad word I think words meant more back then, and I think I knew that one was made up But there was something about love I didn't love power rangers, but I liked it for sure I didn't really love much I think I loved my brother And probably the N 64 But not much. Someone told me you can't love someone. before you love yourself I think that's the same someone who told me you can run fast enough to dodge rain Maybe I couldn't fall if my life depended on it But I think ifl get caught in the rain I'll be in it regardless I don't usually forget my umbrella. I think we tell kids not to say love because it scares us to think that word could mean less than we think it does And we tell anyone who might listen that love at first sight is a fantasy Summer loving ends at the credits Maybe that's only because love can't be measured and we're afraid to build a unit Because I don't think any heart is too big or small to break Because I don't think my heartbeat can measure the movements of the heavens Because one winter night I felt a swelling in my chest that I'm certain would strike awe into the Leviathan Strike fear into seismologists everywhere Mama told me I make mountains out of mole hills But mama also told me not to get up on the furniture Thank god for you telling me to stand on tables And thank god for sitting on the sink. 10 I Felipe Rego [If T I KONTA 6x6 cm 1 nnc111 ·J1.1n1,mu' \ufn.1l11n ·n Build 3 (Atoll) by James Connors I 11 �- :;: 12 ~~ rx0sz J.'S Jnj-x+ z -f (__, ::: J )(~.z5-:tx ! I Danielle Brown Three Ways to Solve an Integral I 13 �14 I Danielle Brown Johnnie Homes by Sarah Irving I 15 �Recognition by Haley Ford I realized I would live and die here. Maybe not here, at the intersection of 25th and L, but somewhere near here-at least on this earth. Hospitals turn into apartment buildings and people don't stay in one place long enough to know it. The recognition of everything had gone stale. People only cared where they were walking long enough to get them where they were going. More business women passed us from behind on the tight sidewalks than we passed crossing the street. Maybe we never passed each other, I can't remember. I laughed loudly a few times and was greeted with faces of stern surprise. Well-dressed, effortless people morphed together in the masses, going home to children or bars. It started to pour and they huddled under the awnings of places they had never eaten in and will never enter, pretending to read the menu and glancing anxiously at the sky. The street steamed with summer heat, evaporating rain. I felt sticky all over. Were we like them? Briskly jaywalking to our meeting place, ignoring the signs and architecture above. We looked more at our feet than the sky, escaping the multitude of strangers looking into our faces. Locals never look to the tops of the skyscrapers. It's seen as unacceptable to stop and take a picture of some man-made icon of capitalism towering in the sky. Conformist after conformist brushing our shoulders and making peace with the race of time. I caught my reflection more than once in the shop fronts . Once I turned to look at my own reflection in an office window and saw a man at a desk staring back at me. We are not faceless. We are not unrecognizable in this place with no soil and obstructed sky. We are all the more lovely in the concrete playground we've made. But there is no one dancing in the streets, letting their silk ties be soiled by the rain. There were money and politics and unfinished projects to be discussed. Silence seem savored by those who walked alone. One could walk several blocks next to a person you've never seen and will never see again, never saying a word or looking up at them. Yet, there she was again-before, we had walked in opposing directions and now, two hours later, she was three seconds ahead, crossing the street before the light changed. I watched her, the emblem of recognition, with the intent to follow only as far as my destination would take me. And I remember her now, knowing her only in this place, when she is most certainly focused on another, more distant destination. 16 I Haley Ford Hunt and No Trussel by Kit Rees I 17 �Pleasure Shrimp by Patrick Turley In an effort to increase the pleasure in the world Monsanto designs a bioengineered shrimp variant, whose head is always itching but whose tail is able to constantly scratch the itch. This "pleasure shrimp" obviously generates an obscene amount of pleasure for itself, and it was theorized by Monsanto's in-house bioethics board that massive amounts of pleasure in an organism had the potential to "spill out" and affect those in its surroundings. Initial tests proved dangerous, especially the first instance of human submersion in a pleasure shrimp tank which led to the subject's body being wracked by wave after wave of climaxes for nearly an hour. With modified protocol for human exposure following that event, great finds were made with only the occasional freak accident endangering test subjects. Activities in the breeding room were found to simply be "more fun." This effect was observed not only in experiments, but also in anyone who happened to be in the room while the tanks were uncovered. Feelings of anxiety, boredom, irritability, self-hatred, and negative thinking were replaced by a relaxed sense of simply being in the moment and enjoying it. The initially open lab had to be restricted to essential personnel, as the breeding room became the unofficial break room for the entire company very shortly after its properties were discovered. The crowding agitated the shrimp causing the projected positive mindset to accelerate into racing thoughts, paranoid thinking, delusions of persecution and/or grandeur, and feelings of invincibility. This brief period was later called "the feeding frenzy," when nearly the entire company gathered at every opportunity they could find, leading to so many incredibly bizarre interactions that retellings of those events still make up the majority of in-house gossip at Monsanto today. Rumors of orgies in the shadows of breeding tanks, no holds barred fist fights without any animosity, and worst of all for a white collar workplace, the inability to express anything other than what one truly and sincerely feels, especially towards one's superiors. The event itself lasted a single workday, though with the natural warping of an individual's perception of time and markedly accelerated reaction times, the feeding frenzy stands in the minds of employees who were induced as a bacchanal that lasted days without sleep or eating (besides the occasional furtively consumed pleasure shrimp, the poaching of which by some present would produce its own cascade of events in the coming months). 18 I Sabbatical Island, Bonaire by Louis Petrich (Tutor) Pleasure Shrimp I 19 �Untitled #! Untitled#2 by Victoria Lockamy by Victoria Lockamy i've been trying to make art, but i need to ask god what kind of paint he used because i've worked for months on the sky in april the pools in your eyes the gravity of the moon it only took him six days when God abandoned Man He left them with Nothing which consumed 1 l their souls until they were but reflections in still water perfect mirrors of Glory unless shaken or stirred but even the stillest days afford themselves gentle breezes 20 J Victoria Lockamy Untitled #2 J 21 �The Altercation byR.M. Goad We speak in steel beams, cables and concreteour words fling like space debris. Chests puffed, we are huffing at brickless walls, we would have had left to bequeath if we'd never started building bridges. Or would we ever have been? And however would these muscles ache? And however would this skin? watching chalky rubble settle 'round. But we are humans! But we are engineers! Tired of mendless commotion, our mouths lose motion but the metals croak, pining for communion. And we are weary so we sate the pleaWhy don't we build a bridge? Why don't we build a bridge? Chest-deep in provisions, we begin with one word: consider The overpass ripens as our sweat pools beneath, and we wonder what 22 I Untitled #1 by Rachael Langston The Altercation I 23 �Reach byR.M Goad Pattering fingertips at the topmost shelf, posture bulkened with the strain: perpendicular feet. This is the closest I'll be to instability, but for the ones with bigger universes, their ballet. O!iivering kneecaps call me homethe question must be further backdusty hands retreat. 24 I R.M. Goad Untitled #2 by Rachael Langston I 25 �The Story of the Sane King .by Arthur Kohn Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a loving and beloved King. He ruled his subjects kindly and thought of each of them as a child. Likewise, his people fondly regarded their King as another father. Every subject within the King's domain knew that they could approach their leader with any concern and he would listen to them with open ears and judge them fairly. Everything was peaceful and perfect. However; one day, the King received word that the tyrannical empire across the mountains wished to conquer his kingdom and enslave his people. Terrified by this news and thinking only of his people the King decided to traverse the mountains and reason with the unreasonable emperor that threatened the lives of his subjects-his children. He left that afternoon. Yet soon after the King left, spies from the empire across the mountains infiltrated the peaceful kingdom and poisoned the water supply. Not with deadly toxins but with potent potions of madness. Not long after, the entire kingdom was frantic and corrupted with lunacy. People poured over each other and brawls ended as sporadically as they had begun. No one cared anymore for the sanctity of their realm, they only worried about themselves and their own private delusions. Once the King returned triumphant, having successfully bargained peace for his people, he was horrified to see the chaos and corruption that madness devolved his kingdom to. But when he reclaimed his throne, his subjects-his children no longer trusted him. No one felt like their once mighty king was fit to rule. He no longer seemed to understand their problems like he once had. They all thought him mad. For the sane, in the city of madness, is truly the insane. Until the King had found every medic, he searched across the globe for a cure for the plague of madness brought upon his land. He offered all the wealth of the kingdom to anyone who could cure his people. No one could. For madness, as you know, is incurable. Devastated, the King returned to his chamber and looked out his window at his once majestic dominion. He saw the people scurry about frantic and carefree. But in that moment he realized that although they were mad, his people were content. This thought comforted him and brought him peace for the night. In the morning when the King woke he noticed a bottle on his desk. The bottle contained a liquid as black and thick as death itself Beside the bottle lay a note scratched onto an old and worn out piece of parchment which read: Run, be free, and let your people die; drink and join your people in madness and in death; cross the mountains, be a slave, and your people will live. The King thought long and hard, weighing each option fully. He knew that if he ran 26 J Untitled by Calida Howell The Story of the Sane King J 27 �I . he w~uld live but his people would suffer the wrath of the tyrant across the mountains; he hoped that if he drank the liquid he would once again regain the love and trust of his people- even if they were all to die; and he prayed that if he sold himself to slavery that the tyrant would keep his word. The King realized he could not win, and so he chose. He chose to be a slave and live his life serving the man who condemned his subjectshis children. Every day he wondered if they were still alive. Every day he wondered if they were still happy. And every day he wondered if he made the right decision. Secretly, he knew he didn't. 28 I Arthur Kohn Untitled by Anton Kalmysh I 29 �Rehearsal by Elaina Bowman I lick the skin peeling from my fingers. I imagine licking correctly, I rehearse it. I'm very thoughtful. Then I pour a cup of warm milk on my navel. Anyway She's fortunate to get to know the people she's about to hurt. So[,] Sing a cheap ad to me, I could change my relationship with myself I have this odd gift of noticing the hot beauty and ugliness of everyone I glance at. I can see someone's overbearing nose, I can appreciate the veins in their hands, below their jawline. I can love the sickness, I can hate it. I see goblins and I see angels in white and plaid. I believe I'm not controlling this action, I believe I am not a literal being. I see her drawing lines and moving her glasses back into a more punctuate position. But We're just Kids ripping the wings off an outcasted dove. 30 I Elaina Bowman Untitled by Annie Brong I 31 �/ .. \ r, · - J \ ~· I~ J \ ) . . Vulgar Monster m Polite Society by Will van Engen I33 �Cosmic Egg by Timon Luo Standing on silenced, smoking battlefields, A remorseful God viewed the emptied Earth And vowed to raise up a worthier race. We all know the Cosmic Egg came first, Cracked in two crowns, heaven and earth The winged God from his broken shell began To shape the mountains and the rivers and Mold sacred life with His holy feathers So then God made us, winged and feathered folk Made in His image: wings, blue bars, and all For now the Pigeon rules Earth and heaven After the humans' folly sealed their fall! The Winged One made the first creatures from dirt Meek little beings with no legs nor wings Things which swam in water and crawled in earth Then He crafted the worthier creaturesGreat beasts, and foremost among them-Humans These monstrous tree-like, thick-legged bodies Towered over E arth and rivaled mountains Instead of wings or feathers He gave them Strength beyond measure, and claws they called hands To work, and build, at the Winged One's pleasure "I trust you with my creation," said H~ "Keep pure the waters, guard their sanctity This abode is yours to own forever, Stewards of the Earth, if you can keep her." But with monstrous power came monstrous pride Strong bodies gave way to greed and weak minds Men disobeyed the winged God's commandments, Calling themselves gods, master and sovereign As they held the power of destruction To rip trees like limbs from Earth's blessed flesh, Divert rivers, raise mountains in fl.at fields, And scar the visage of God's creation. Lust unbound, humans tore apart the Earth Then, insatiable, turned on each other The Human, the beast, forgot all kinship Ripped limbs like trees from their bloody soil Waged war to massacre and to destroy Killed in cruelty what they held dear before Till no human walked the Earth anymore. 34 I Timon Luo NB.: This poem is a creation myth told from the perspective of a fantastical pigeon civilization; there are intentional parallels to Genesis as well as to "world egg" -type myths. Ultimately the story is not about pigeons, who are now the dominant species in this version of Earth, at all, but rather the semimythical beast that precedes them, humans. Cosmic Egg I 35 �A Promenade by Olivia Frawley Meandering and whistling, down the lane And in the sun, among the trees, full bright, With jaunty tunes in handsome throats, alight With cheer and drunk with Spring in their domain, They come to dance and sing out of the night. The gentlemen parade their costumes fair And catch the ladies' eyes with well-coiffed hair; In turn, the ladies tease them with their flight. If one does chance to see this gay affair, The feminine apparel may surprise For though their songs be brilliant at sunrise, Somber and dusky are the clothes they wear. Thus do the Cardinals and Swallows all, Take to themselves dark wives before the Fall. - - - -· ·.··.·... 1 l/ 36 I Untitled by Bonnie Scott ... A Promenade I 37 �Stufen by Hermann Hesse (translation right) Stages . translated by Jonathan Llovet Wie jede Blute welkt und jede Jugend Dem Alter weicht, bliiht jede Lebensstufe, Bliiht jede Weisheit auch und jede Tugend Zu ihrer Zeit und darf nicht ewig dauern. Es mui?, das Herz bei jedem Lebensrufe Bereit zum Abschied sein und Neubeginne, Um sich in Tapferkeit und ohne Trauern In andre, neue Bindungen zu geben. Und jedem Anfang wohnt ein Zauber inne, Der uns beschiitzt und der uns hilft, zu leben. As each blossom wilts and every youth gives way To old age, so blossoms each of life's stages, So blooms each wisdom too and every virtue In its time, and forever it cannot stay. The heart, it must, at each of life's callings be Ready for parting and for new beginnings, So that with bravery and without mourning It can give itself to new, other bindings. And in each beginning there dwells a magic That protects us and that helps us in living. Wir sollen heiter Raum um Raum durchschreiten, An keinem wie an einer Heimat hangen, Der Weltgeist will nicht fesseln uns und engen, Er will uns Stuf' um Stufe heben, weiten. Kaum sind wir heimisch einem Lebenskreise Und traulich eingewohnt, so droht Erschlaffen, Nur wer bereit zu Aufbruch ist und Reise, Mag lahmender Gewohnung sich entraffen. We should take our strides with cheer from place to place, On none of them should we hang as on a home. The World Spirit wants not to bind us down fast; It wants to raise us from stage to stage - widen. Scarce are we by nature set one scope of life, Nor so snugly set - that would bring withering; Only who is ready to break and travel May bring feebler habits to their fulfilling. Es wird vielleicht auch noch die Todesstunde U ns neuen Raumen jung entgegen senden, Des Lebens Ruf an uns wird niemals enden ... Wohlan denn, Herz, nimm Abschied und gesunde! On top of all this, it may be that death's hours Send us young and unwilling to new places: Life's call to us will never come to an end ... Come then, my Heart, take your leave and recover! 38 I Jonathan Llovet Stufen (Translation) I 39 �NOTICES 1 From a Wearied Wary Traveller Concerning the Infamous and Obscure . Valley of Noise One must speak and step particularly softly in the Valley of Noise, for such disturbances are generally held to be forbidden there. Conversations held at a whisper are permitted, but talk above that level is carried out at peril. The Valley of Noise is not a somber place, but it is a quiet and solitudinal one. It behooves one to be earnest there. By earnest is meant seriously considerate and thoughtful adherence to onesel£ The skies are full of grey, and the land is dewy grassy cliffs. The Valley of Noise is not a terrifically social place. Interactions will and ought to be simple and short, not to exceed more than three or four moments. This is not to say that there is no LOVE in the Valley of Noise-on the contrary it is perhaps the most precious container of LOVE-but there is most definitely a lack of hatred and scorn. Arriving at the Valley of Noise is no great ordeal, once one actually sets out. It is a journey somewhat'less that thirty-five moments, depending on the course chosen. The Valley itself is some seventy or eighty moments long, and about fifty three moments wide at its widest point. These distances are misleading, however, as there are a great number of trails and alcoves which extend one's moments to, in some cases, hundreds more than would be expected. So far as has been seen, the only animal life in the whole of the Valley of Noise is domestic, excluding of course the INCOMPREHENSIBLE being who resides there. The LAIR of that being is hidden from all eyes, but the presence of its silent ROAR is felt at every place. Agriculture of all kinds is unheard of by the inhabitants, although they are by unknown means supplied with berries and some nuts. Bread is a curiosity in the Valley of Noise, but largely unadored. The LABYRINTH, or EFKALI, of histories and legends being connected to the Valley, is not known by the inhabitants, nor is there any evidence of its existence in any other form. It is most likely that it did never exist. Surmises that EFKALI is one and the same with the LAIR are absurd. This can be gathered merely from reading the various accounts of each. 1 First published anonymously c.1432 Falliad, in The Gazetteer ofThoughtfulness, Vol. 345, P.12. It is widely believed to be published by Lord Thiolli immediately following his third expedition. 40 I Portrait oflt by Rose Pelham Notices by "/iflesley Sonheim I 41 �42 I Watercolor of Charlie by Sophie Colt �Winter 2016 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 42 page Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bowerfind, Dorathea (editor) Piven, Jakub (editor) Purnell, Abigail (editor) Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Winter 2016 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2016 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Winter 2016. 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Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/4d718669fc609bae5a980d719fff8189.pdf 1d59e200d284d88b68015cccc37bef99 PDF Text Text Energeia I St. John's College Writing and Art Publication 131 1 1 169611 il ~~l1il 1~il1~~i1i1i1172i 1 1 ~ 01170 1111 11 11111 Spring 2016 1 - I ,~ ,/ I / I I I I . , 1 : I /V I 1 1 I \ \ ' .·• . I DATE DUE �1 -· Spring 2016 Co-Editors Jakub Piven Abigail Purnell Assistant Editors Dahye Kim Dorothea Bowerfind Website* Design Dahye Kim Cover Illustrations Layout Design Calida Howell Jakub Piven *www.energeiasjc.com \ \ :· �Visual Art Photography, Painting, and Others Writing Essays, Translations, and Poetry Montgomery Alcott 1 New yr. in New York Eva Brann 3 Why Read? RM.Goad 11 Blooming Life Camille Gagnier 12 Holocausto (Translation) Felipe Rego 14 [A.n Engineer's Guilt} Julia Shiller 16 To Tania Emily Grazier 17 InLimine Arthur Kohn 31 Antigone (Translation) Victoria Lockamy 38 Smokey the Bear suffered from a lack offoresight Montgomery Alcott 40 ForOfra Abigail Purnell 42 It's Raining Cats and Dogmatism Stan Lavery 44 A Decrepit Tutor Judy Seeger 47 Notes from the Other Side Louis Petrich, Tutor 53 At Home in the World: A Toast to the Graduates Stefan Vasic 2 Building On Indian Spring Road Sophie Colt 9 Gothics Stuart Lombard 10 Untitled Stefan Vasic 13 Barn On Backroad Sarah Benson 18 Middlemarch Paper Theater Scott Chevallier 37 Untitled Xiuyuan Zhang 39 Texture-03 Calida Howell 41 What's in my purse? Charlie Denton 45 Untitled Works R.M. Goad 52 Louis Petrich, Tutor 55 Window Bonaire, Netherlands Antilles �r ! 1 Newy1·.inNewYork by Montgomery Alcott After the numbers, Patrick hiccuped again. His pink tiara fell in the attack And I saw twenty-sixteen on the tavern floor. 1 �Building On Indian Spring Road I Stefan Vasic Why Read? Delivered by Erua Brann, March 2016, to the Great Books Honors Course ofthe Torrey Institute, Bio/a University, La Mirada, California. Y ou've all probably heard the expression "preaching to the choir," which means trying to persuade the faithful of what they already believe. The opposite of preaching to the faithful choir is propagandizing the disengaged crowd. This latter preaching needs to be a little lurid, just to raise attention, and somewhat gross, so as to trump the competition. I know that I'm addressing an audience of the already convinced who are not in need of a pep talk but could perhaps do with a visitor's more subdued reflection on their commitment. I understand that commitment to have two aspects: You are willing to read books from a large yet selective list and you submit to a way of teaching which Professor Wright described to me as "the Socratic method." Now it seems true to me that there is some method in Socrates' divine madness, but though he has his very own way, it is not a method strictly speaking, that is to say a codified procedure applicable universally, willy-nilly. You will recall that in his Apology, that is, the "Defense" of his way of life, Socrates famously says: "The unexamined life is not worth living." I get a wicked pleasure from pointing out on every suitable occasion that he says something much more rousing. He actually says: "The unexamined life is not livable." In other words, you haven't lived if you haven't reflected on your living. You've been carried along on the stream of your life until one day you went under - and that was that. To make your merely lived life come alive you have to recall and review it. To rephrase Socrates: The once-lived life has hardly happened. Live twice! Let me take account here of your age as undergraduates. Most of you will be in your late teens or early twenties. So if all goes well, less than a quarter of your life has gone by. Is Socrates asking you to wax prematurely autobiographical? No, the reflection in which he has faith is not age-related. According to students of child development, you discerned objects before you'd been in this world more than three weeks, so you've had zillions of things to think about. When you were two years old you began - the terrible two's - to be intensely aware of yourself as a willful 2 \ \ being, a self-assertive little imp. Recall that Socrates is a great believer in Apollo's saying, posted in his temple: "Know thyself." By "thyself" Socrates does not mean your unique, private, personal, idiosyncratic self, of which he wants us to take notice mostly so as to manage its waywardness. He means: Discover and know your human nature. One superlatively mystifying feature of that nature is our ability - we do not know whether any other animal possesses it - to talk to ourselves. This ability for self-communion is evident even earlier than is the feature of self-assertion. Those of you who have baby-sat pre-linguistic infants might have experienced what the experts call jargoning - an infinitely charming jabbering, a kind of sweet proto-language that goes on in the crib especially early in the morning when no one's up, self to sel£ To me it seems like the beginning of selfknowledge and an indication that not much life experience is required to engage in it. We are, specifically homo sapiens, "the discerning human" from birth, and we can, nearly from birth, reflect on objects in the world outside and on ourselves within. The word "reflect" means "bend back," return to, double down on what comes into, appears before, our human awareness, our consciousness. While I'm at it: The very word "consciousness" means "knowing jointly [with oneself]." I'll just stop to point out that some of what I've said so far I thought out on my own, but I got its shaping and phrasing from reading books. The "but" is important here. Thinking is not in a straight and easy relation to reading. Reading presents thoughts as gifts; thinking produces thoughts as accomplishments. That is a tension I shall keep in mind as I now go on to tell you why you should be doing what you are in fact doing: read books. One way to put the quandary is: How can I summon Socrates' invitation to reflect in support of reading books, when studying books is not necessarily thinking things out? Of course, he himself read a lot: Homer, whom he knew by heart, the tragedians, the writers of speeches, and most wonderfully, the philosophers who preceded him and who would one day be called "the pre-Socratics." 3 �Eva Brann Why Read? So now to reasons for reading. But one more thing: There's reading and then there's reading. There's the kind called texting, done on a minuscule tablet with a limit to the cyphers used, which has in effect given up the ghost of significance. Then there's the kind of easy feed, the bestseller, which we scarf up in a state of pleasant relaxation. Then there's the instruction booklet, infinitely annoying, because widget A never does fit into aperture B. I won't attempt to list all the types of reading we do, but instead I'll leap to the list of books to which your program of learning is in fact devoted. These books all share one characteristic: They are demanding. They're not taken up lightly, nor do they go down easily, nor are they irritatingly inscrutable. They are, instead, difficult. Some, like Hume's great Treatise, are lucid on the surface and more and more complex as you penetrate it; others, like Kant's Critiques, are obscure when you first open them but become quite intelligible as you go. All require your undivided attention and repay it with insights that are at once new to you and also welcome to your intellect. They deliver adventitious, that is, novel, matter which nevertheless immediately sits well in your intellect - or rouses energizing opposition. The fictions among these works also require alert being-there. You can't scan or abstract a great novel: The plot is an extrusion of the characters' being, not their prop, as in a routine romance. These works have depth, which means that they open up successively, are in effect inexhaustible, so that a reading program like yours is an assignment for life, for re-reading. By the way, "depth" in books is, of course, a metaphor, and one element in reading "deep" books ought to be to think out the literal meaning of the figure of speech: What exactly does it mean to get deep into a deep book? That's not for tonight. Such books have a collective name, one I've already introduced: They're great, "great books." (I hasten to say that while all great books are ipso facto demanding, because they're rich, the converse is false. There are plenty of very difficult works, usually perpetrated at universities, that are pretty meager. The usual reason is that while plain language expresses the author's thought, difficult jargon displaces it. 4 By and large, undergraduates should not be reading such derivative works.) I really believe that greatness designates a class of books, a class by itself, the so-called classics. The notion of incomparable excellence is now, in the face of a certain dogmatic egalitarianism, somewhat in disrepute. It's another interesting issue I'll set aside tonight.- We'll see who comes out ahead in the long run. Now I'll get down to my job and give you my answer to the question of my title: "Why read?" Of course, I mean: Why read books and, moreover, why read great books? As for the "book'' part, I don't care what so-called delivery system you use. If you like, bring your text on stone tablets, like those Moses inscribed on Mount Sinai, or on an electronic tablet, as long as you can readily flip to the page we're all on. As for the "great" part, come with some faith in the faculty's ·reading list. And that brings me to a first reason. One. Great books held in common and conversation about them is the cause of the warmest, most long-lasting, least problem-fraught friendships life has. The friends you room with, work with, play with come and go as the occasion arises and falls apart; reading friendships survive the decades. I'm speaking from experience here. There used to be a name for this club: the Republic of Letters, whose citizens are cosmopolitan in reach of interest and global in human sympathy. A faculty that has the preparation and the courage to choose and require a reading list like yours is a small sub-community of this commonwealth. Belonging requires preparation, because to compose such a list you have to read extensively and critically, and it requires courage because you have to be willing to judge decisively and articulately. The same demands go for you students in reverse order: You have to have the guts to commit yourself to real, substantial study, and then you have to prepare your assignments with concentration. It's way different from the flabbily social relations of casual friends focused on fun, or that pretended cosmopolitanism of, say, eating falafel or wearing a sari - all good fun, but not quite for real. To see and hear another human being expres- hard times shut down most alternative programs, some such courses existed. Let me tell you: It wasn't as joyful as it sounds. Why not? Because the sightseers' life isn't all that real, and self-concentrated talk misses the real self. What then is the substance and depth I am attributing to great books, and why are they a gift to us? Substance is persistent thereness; these books are not in the canine and apish Now that Browning's Grammarian scorns. Adolescent preferences fade away; these books gain glow as you age. I'm again speaking from experience here- my own and my friends! Substantial is what great books are in themselves - depth is what they offer us. This is a very personal way of talking, so I'll explain it. I think that we have laminated, that is to say layered, souls. If you like, our souls are stratified, as were the deposTwo. Here's my second reason for reading great books. its we found and numbered when I was an archaeologist Such books have substance and, as I said, depth. You might in Athens, some sixty years ago. So also is the world stratisay: That's underwhelming in its hazy generality. There's fied. It has a surface layer: the phenomena, the way things life itself, which is realer, more here and now, more inex- in general look on their outside, their surface appearance. Both our souls and our world challenge us to dig into them, haustible than a page with little squiggles on it. A favorite line of mine is from Robert Browning's ''A to penetrate the surface. The same things, for example, have very variable looks, depending on the light that shines on Grammarian's Funeral": them and the perspective we have on them. For instance, Other's mistrust and say, "But time escapes: Live on the surface we are our idiosyncratic sel·ves, below that now or never!" we carry each our shaping ethnic background, yet deeper He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and we have our common humanity. So with the world. On the apes! Man has Forever." The scholar's advisors have a point. Since the purpose surface each body varies from all others in infinite detail; of reading is to appropriate life, why not just live it, now? beneath that, all are tangibly shaped material, still deeper After all, Socrates said that to gain our life we must think all lose their shaped materiality and become the numerable about it. He didn't say "study books" (although, as I've said, mass-points called "m" in physics. Here is what books do: They delineate these levels for he had actually read everything available. And though he himself dictated no scroll to any slave as far as we know, us and take us into them. They help us penetrate into ourwhen he was in his sixties, Plato came into his life, and then selves and into the world. I think this penetration is what Socrates means by the examination, which, if we leave he must have known that his ways and thoughts would be undone, we aren't all there; we don't exist on all the levels written up.) beneath the surface. Of course, the writers of great books Well then, why read books rather than live reality? Or know that "depth" is a spatial metaphor, a visualizing figure if you feel you need formal preparation, why not find, more of speech. So as we work our way into the depths we must likely in California than, say, in Maryland, a School of Life? also ask: What is the literal, the concrete, meaning of shalIts curriculum might be "World 1.00: You travel all over" low or deep living - but not tonight. and "Myself 2.00: You talk about yourself" In fact before sive in the light of greatness is a pleasure of a higher order. So the first reward is simply invaluable: there is no price you can put on it. It's that communion of friends, that commonwealth of readers, I've just described. I should soberly qualify the extent of such friendships here. You've read Aristotle on friendship and might recall that he inquires into the number of friends it is possible to have: at the most as many as live nearby. He would have been simply disgusted at the inhuman greed for quantity that is now called "friending." It follows that the global friendship of readers is potential. You will gain a world of people who could well, who might be, your friends, real friends, soulmates. Some, a few of these, will be actual, face-to-face or voice-to-voice friends. 5 �Why Read? Eva Brann Three. Great books help us do what we can't do for ourselves; they are our supporters in a life-enhancing activity. But once again: Why turn to books rather than directly to life itself? In the end we have to do it all by ourselves, for ourselves. Why not face ourselves and our world in that direct way? Here's the answer, straight and harsh: We're not up to it. Most of us, you and I and your professors, faced with all that is within and without us, simply shut down or take to babbling. So we need the boot-strappers, the socalled original thinkers who, though they too have teachers, are able to go beyond them on their own. You will have seen, you must have felt, the danger. We need teachers. Then how do we avoid becoming mere disciples? How do readers of great books escape becoming their captives, escape from their constricting embrace? It's alright for a while, especially in youth, to indenture yourself to a master. A year of devotion, of surrender to Socrates, or Nietzsche or Hegel, is the mark of an ardent soul. It's the beginning of expertise, but it's also the end of the examined life. (Oddly enough it's the writers who seem least to want such followers who most attract them.) But here's the saving grace. Your own great books list contains little short of ten dozen authors. Just because they're great, these books differ from each other in nontrivial ways. Even if one author captivates you, there are about one hundred and nineteen others to liberate you. Non-judgmentalism is nice in social situations, but in matters of intellect, judgments are what we have to make. The reading of quite a few great books will return you to the edgy vitality that is part of being all there. I'll put it this way: such various reading will make you critical, not in the sense of carping denial but in the spirit of affirming interest. And when you finally actively and steadfastly embrace a belief - embrace it rather than being captured by it - you, the student, may, as I see it, lay claim to it as your own. For if Plato, for example, hatched an idea when he was, say thirty-eight, and you receivea, understood, and adopted it at eighteen, then you are i s legitimate claimant, having come to it first in your own biographical time. 6 \ \ Four. Great books are affirmative. There seem to me to be two camps with respect to liberal higher education. I'll call one, for short, the problem-solving party and the other the life-shaping camp. The first, the problematic party, wants education to be, as they say, "relevant,'' to concern itself with the understanding and cure of current ills. I'm not on that side, because I think that finding those solutions to present evils that don't mire us in unintended consequences requires much common sense and practical experience, such as even the most promising eighteenyear-olds shouldn't and can't have - that's not what it is to be promisingly young. The camp in which I live thinks that the central purpose of a liberal education is to give students a chance at working out a picture of happiness. Administrators, some of whom believe that schools should be held statistically accountable for outcomes, want alumni to fill out questionnaires asking them, for example, to rate their post-BA happiness. What, I ask myself, if a lot of the graduates of my college thought that they'd never again been as happy, as alive, as they were reading books with us? Would that count for or against us? I think it would prove that we'd given them a chance at a truly useful education. For to live well with yourself and act effectively in the world, one knowledge matters above all others, the knowledge of what constitutes, what makes for happiness, happiness as distinct from pleasure, fun, or excitement. If your learning life at the university was a dreary routine of socializing fun and reluctant hitting the books or scanning the screen, you'll not be much good to the world, since you won't know what "good" is - know it not as a formula but as an experience. What is the relation of great works to the experience of happiness? It is a very close one. Think of Augustine's Confessions, which is on your list. The author experiences and meticulously describes his sins and agonies - but the reading of it is grippingly exhilarating. Think of Shakespeare's Macbeth, whose hero descends into all the horrors and miseries of a tyrannical soul - but the watching of it is grandly awesome. Great books can depict a world that is hostile, souls that are stricken, fates that are terrible. But they are not just depressing, repulsive or frightening. They are, by their very greatness, affirmative. It's a characteristic I'm sure of but endlessly puzzled by. Let me give a particularly poignant example from a great work, a book of the audible sort: Bach's St. Matthew Passion. It sings and tells of a horrible death by torture, the Crucifixion - but it is altogether beautiful. How can that be? How is it done? Another enigma not for tonight. Five. So I'll just move on to my next to last reason for reading: the toning of the soul, which follows from the affirmative nature of greatness. If you get to be ninety, as many of you may, you will have lived through roughly fiftyfive million heart beats. Life is wearying and the flesh is weak; the spirit cannot possibly maintain a pulsing excitement for every moment of our lifetimes. We are often low and deflated - at least those of us lucky enough not to live in constant fear, want, or pain. The blues or blahs are the null mode of civilized humanity; whoever called it "quiet desperation" was being too dramatic. Books of depth and substance can help here, better than light reading, say a Harlequin Romance, that acts more like those ChineseAmerican meals, which fill you but don't satisfy you. In making demands on us and then really repaying our efforts, great books tone our souls. They impart to them a vitalizing tension. People who have the mandate and the leisure to think, to study, to foster the spirit, are especially prone to what medieval monks called acedia, a kind of spiritual moping, a revulsion from accepting the very blessings for which they really long. All students who don't study like automata know it. Its mild form is the inability to pull yourself together, to get down to it; its more serious form is being stalled, distracted, sleepy, mildly - not clinically - depressed. If you can only collect yourself enough to "pick up [the book] and read" (I'm quoting from a crucial event in Augustine's Confessions) a great book will pull you out of this languor. For such reading requires a dual mind, a kind of sound schizophrenia. You have to entertain within yourself both a critical and a reverent spirit. What I mean is that your critique is not rejection but engagement, that your doubts are honor done a text by close attention. And your reverence, far from being passive submission, is an active faith in the author's greatness. I'll give an example. While I'm writing this talk, my seniors and I are reading Karl Marx's Capital. In my personal opinion, this book has, more than any other, wreaked havoc in the world, largely because of an ingeniously false theory that demonizes working for a wage. Yet all - well most - of our intellects are on full alert, engaged by Marx's vivid and lucid prose and his acute, complex and original theorizing. So you may smile at my notion that reading Marx is therapy for feeling low, but I'm serious about this: If only you can bring yourself to sit down to it, reading great books arouses your vital spirits. Six. So now to my last point, which also concerns reading as a therapy, a therapy highly specific to an element of our current condition. That condition is most evident in cyberspace, where many of you probably live a large part of your life. There you find verbal texts, to be sure, but also a veritable flood of imagery, pictures made by others for their own purposes and poured out before or over you. This mud slide threatens to swamp and suffocate what seems to me our second most wonderful and very mysterious ability. (The most wonderful of all is, of course, our ability to think and to say what we think.) This mysterious ability - brain science has come nowhere near explaining it - is our power to form mental images, to see internally, to re-view within, what we remember having seen, or even to produce pictures of what we've never seen. It is this capacity, absolutely necessary to a livable inner life, that is threatened by the electronic image tsunami. Now think of books. Children's books have lots of pictures and few words. G reat novels have hundreds of pages of bare words - sometimes over seven hundred. But if some bold spirit has contributed a few figure plates, I, for one, 7 �Why Read? Gothics I Sophie Colt usually say to myself: "That's not how she" - say Natasha Rostov in war and Peace - "looks at all; I've seen her." Now imagine that some idiot undertook to illustrate what Hegel calls the "gallery of figures," in which the world-spirit appears in his Phenomenology of the Spirit. That would take the cake in ludicrousness. And yet I've walked down that gallery, too - illustrated, so to speak, my own apprehension of Hegel's intellect. Seen Natasha, viewed the incarnate world-spirit! Where? In my imagination, of course, in my mind's eye. Verbal texts incite, demand internal visualization. Logical and mathematical texts often require inscribing diagrams in your internal visual medium. Poetry (epic and lyric) or fictions (short stories and novels) can be thought of as potential pictures - instructions for forming mental images. Often you don't know what's going on until you actualize those directions. I can give examples in the question period. This is a good place to end, though of course there are more good reasons for reading. It's, in fact, the best place to stop, because if texts of words are indeed exercises in visu alization, in actively generating our own images from wellwrought words, if they are in fact exercises that prevent us from passively succumbing to other people's pictures and their self-serving agendas, then we might conclusively say of reading the best of books: They cooperate in saving our souls. 8 9 �Untitled I Stuart Lombard Blooming Life byR.M. Goad as your thumb primes my lips they make a fuss for truththe rest of you, reduced: fingertips and torso while too much of me tingles, you knead the sorest knot my heart, how you have wrought me: to tantrum only tempered going throughmy heart, this distance I can't weather: I must be among youas we together envy blooming life. 10 11 \ \ �Holocausto by Yolanda Bedregal (translation right) Holocaust translated by Camille Gagnier Oh Cristo, yo quisiera de tu augusta cabeza desclavar los espinos; endulzar tu martirio; darte mi adolescencia como incienso en delirio; alabandote en salmos, restafiar tu tristeza. Te volcaria en mi alma con la dulce certeza de corporal expolio a cabezal de lirio. Me inmolaria entera como ala sobre cirio votivo que, al quemarse, con su llama te besa. El humo, en holocausto, de mi cuerpo ofrendado empapara en perfume la esponja de la hiel y, hundida entre la llaga, mi vida en tu costado, -la culpa redimida y el mundo sin pecadoa la Ultima palabra de Dias crucificado, ungiria con rosa de amor tu humana piel. Oh Christ, I would like from your augustan head to disengage the thorns; to make sweet your martyrdom; to give you my youth like delirious incense; and praising you in psalms, to staunch your sadness. I would spill you out in my soul with the sweet assurance Of body pillaged at lily's bloom. I would sacrifice myself like a wing on a pascal candle that, as it burns, with its call kisses you. The fumes, in holocaust, from my offered body would soak the bitter sponge in perfume and, buried in the wound, my life on your side, -the guilt redeemed and the world without sinat the final word of Crucified God, would anoint with loving rose your human flesh. 12 Barn On Backroad I Stefan Vasic 13 \ \ �[An Engineer's Guilt] by Felipe Rego Felipe Rego (Something spoken, I think) When I was little I did a science project on supernovas I ask you to consider the notion of collision. A topic I requested. I wonder if that's our fault. Of collapse. I thought they were spectacular- but learning about them made me sad. Because I guess the universe thinks it's all simple, right? Of sacrifice. Of death. I will passionately support the pursuit of knowledge any time any day any place- as if my life depends on it And I suppose it does. But alchemy isn't all crazy The universe seems to ask for exchange Knowledge is rarely bestowed divinely upon us mere mortals. Education, like life, is suffering. Suffering into truth, I'm assured. Few things can be learned without sacrifice of some sort. Perhaps no things. Consider the lobotomyShock therapyThe point at which your femurs can no longer support weightWe only know of certain human limits because the Nazis were the most relentless philosophers. Nothing was more valuable than knowing, No sacrifice was too great Yet their greatest military failures could've been avoided by looking just over their shoulders. I don't believe in torture but I definitely believe we should've gone to the moon. 14 Doing science is like trying to make the perfect omeletteimagine what you're gonna have to do to those eggs. read between the lines. "I wish I could, but java isn't so simple" "It's all waves, homie. No other presentation in the class featured the word "death". In the past two years I've compared the theory of gravita- So much energy- so much life and time and history packed into these beautiful glowing balls of science- Boy, don't I feel stupid. tion to Lavoisier's caloric theory in three different papers. Ceasing to be. Just knock stuff together and listen real hard." Isn't it funnyIsn't it crazyIsn't it a little fucked how all these vibrations can just be made into music? Like an animation to a delete function. And math? And we have pictures. The death of a star is truly tragic. Isn't it messed up that everything is eventually just waves? And circles if you feel like it? Hawking says black holes "remember" what they absorb. Beautiful- absolutely, yes- but these things are not mutually exclusive. Isn't it wild that, for example, any wave can be made into music? Think of all the times we say things "aren't so simple" Consider: There is, conceptually, a song of the universe. I wonder how much of our sun would be remembered. I wonder if they remember what it feels like to collide. I say it every day to people asking about Wi-Fi- A collection of waves that make up our everything. I wonder what memory brought us this beautiful sound of the silent vacuum. Or data transfer- I wonder if it hurts. Or how to turn one file type into another. And you can put them together in order and listen to it, if you can make the time. I wonder if we deserve to hear it. I wonder if maybe trees just want to fall alone and unheard. We talk about things like they're completely different kinds of files and we're tryna figure out how they run on the same OS, I am made to wonder if modern medicine was worth it. But it looks like they're more like zip files. "I'm sorry for your loss, but if it means anything his heart was really weird so I'll get to publish a paper about it" We can move them around freely and put them side by side and into each other and unpack and repack and everything will stay exactly as it was, just differently. "It seems she died in pain, but now we have a video of a brain suffering to death. In color." I wonder how many doctors cry while they change the world. Science is beautiful. Science is sad. I guess it's easier to love learning if you pretend you can't I wonder what kind of song it would be. I'm sure it'd be fire. Maybe just in a different place. A different context. Things aren't so simple. Language isn't so simple. Temperature isn't so simple. 15 �To Tania by Julia Shiller InLimine by Eugenio Montale (translation right) She was pretty and young, She was fast on her tongue; He wasn't. She noticed him first, When she came unrehearsed; He was late to her concert. But his hands - in the air Conducting from his wheelchair. Music went to the end, He could not understand. Whose are those two hands? Exhausted, He won a few minutes of life He didn't just lose it. She could be his muse, But nothing amused him; Only cello and music. She touched a magic of strings, Cello's awaking spring , Preached to find his way To Titan Mnemosyne. Second chair from the right, He conducted with pride Recollecting his past While music was last. She dreamed to perform, But she had simply learned That he found her destiny. Teaching ... Her music is reaching to the mind that stole its own past, She is back to his lesson, Her music will last. lnLimine translated by Emily Grazier Godi se il vento ch' entra nel pomario vi rimena l'ondata della vita: qui dove affonda un morto viluppo di memorie, orto non era, ma reliquario. Delight, if the wind that enters into the orchard there stirs up the surge of life: here where sinks a dead tangle of memories, was not a garden, but a reliquary. Il frullo che tu senti non e un volo, ma il commuoversi dell'eterno grembo; vedi che si trasforma questo lembo di terra solitario in un crogiuolo. The flutter that you sense is not a flight but the exciting of the eternal womb; see how it is transformed - this strip of earth, isolated, in a crucible. Un rovello e di qua dall'erto muro. Se procedi t' imbatti tu forse nel fantasma che ti salva: si compongono qui le storie, gli atti scancellati pel giuoco del futuro. Cerca una maglia rotta nella rete che ci stringe, tu balza fuori, fuggi! Va, per te l'ho pregato, - ora la sete mi sara lieve, meno acre la ruggine... A vexation is here from the precipitous wall. If you proceed you bump into, perhaps, the spectre that saves you: composed here are the histories, the deeds blotted out for the game of the future. Search for a mesh broken in the net that clasps us, leap out, flee! Go, for you I have begged for it, - now my thirst will be light, less acrid the rust .... May be teaching Could help him with reaching His past; Her cello was preaching, Her music was reaching His heart. His eyes were bright, He was winning his fight. (She returned him to life) He remembered his wife, Who pronounced one word That cuts like a sword: Alzheimer. 16 He might not comprehend, He might not understand Her teaching, 17 \I �Sarah Benson youv cc.1t ovi t /...: s o vV!ti ./11A. o/. ~Wl c),__ PAFfR 1· -1fATEr< 1 s ;i tl-a ~7 ~ F 11 s (> ' reef - -- anj1e foJ a vitw ;"'/o y•uir ~r~ -+neV\ J~ rhtsf"e .,,.,,t /.o 1""-'t) "1 fro,,, f. . ! I r . J. (~ l ~ 18 19 �Sarah Benson Cut out other side. 20 21 \ \ . J I �Sarah Benson Cut out other side. 22 23 �' ' I Cut out other side. Sarah Benson I , , ... - REENAGT Dorothea's unhappy honeymoon, now with two missing scenes: f ~I :_ , 6 "" \ ~: l Our heroine the Thernsa-type never visited Bernini's ECSTASY OJ!' SAllW THERESA. Why not? Gi!~anelli I. I t- ..c.. I~ I~ ... 1 ..t I~ -l \ Daisy Miller ancl Mr. took a waJk in.the moonlit COLOSSEUM. So clid Grace Ansley ancl Delphin Slade. I What happened to Dorothea and Will there? ~ I ' I '. I ' I I \ ~ -0 I }-.. ~ ;- \ \I) I'\ ( t- "!-( I \j. (j\] '-U r, I .....,j ~ ~ I I 24 t< - ~ \ ~ 1k l.+ \ '-i ::> I -;_, \ 25 �Sarah Benson Cut out other side. ~ > () ;J\ MIDDLEMARCD t7 + \ () · I:._ + .!>a P APIERTHEATER ~~~ . ,~ ~ _..., 0) assemble a:nd be amazed ~ ,;.\~ .. ' \I\ ~ "'\ "' 26 27 \ " �Sarah Benson Cut out other side. I ~ ' I \J \ ~ f ..!. 1 ~ -S> I 1----.....,. - -·- - - I s-\ ~ - - - -- - - - -+ '------1 I I \ I ' l ' I I ' ' I ' I J I I 'I~ '' '~,~ ~ 'I I~~ I I I I l I t ... - '' I , ' '' . ____ ,__ - . - I ..,_ I ...,, - - - - ._ - - ... - - - - - - ., I t . \:r ' I ~ ~ :::. \~ a-, ~ .. d) I ' 28 29 \\ �Antigone by Sophocles - translated in verse by Arthur Kohn Cut out other side. ANTIGONE 0 head, Ismene, of our common womb, Know you some curse of our Oedipus Zeus Does not yet bring to end o'er us still living? For there is nothing not yet full of pain, Nor without ruin, nor dishonored, nor shamed. I have not seen an evil that does not Belong to us two, you and I. Now What do they say in the city public About the law the General has set down? Hark, do you know or care? Or does it 'scape you When hateful evils march 'gainst those you love? ISMENE To me no word nor rumor, cruel nor kind Regarding friends, Antigone, has come. Since Our dual and dueling brothers died In just one day by doubled hands in death. And since the Argive army fell away This night just past, I've seen nothing beyond, No more of my prosperity or ruin. ANTIGONE I've seen it well, and on account of this I've sent for you outside the outmost gate, So you alone might hear this 5 10 wKo1vov al.rrU8£A.cpov'foµ~vric; Kapa, ap, o1a0, 0 Tl Zeuc; TWV cm, Oioinou KaKWV 6rro1ov ouxl v(j>v en ~WO'ULV Tt:Aci; oMev yap OUT' aA.ymov OUT' UTT]c; a-rep Soih, alaxpov OUT, anµ6v foe,' 6rro1ov OU TWV O'WV Te Kaµwv OUK orrwrr' eyw KaKWV. Kal vuv Ti TOUT' au cpaO'l rravo~µ<.p rr6A.e1 K~puyµa Beivm TOV O'TPUTTJYOV apTiwc;; exw; Tl KELO'~Kouaac;; ~ ae A.av8avet rrpoc; wuc; cplA.ouc; O'Teixovrn TWV exepwv KaKa; 15 eµol µev oMelc; µu0oc;, A.vny6vri cpiA.wv oU0 ' ~Mc; ou-r' cl.Aymoc; LKeT' e~ OTOU ouoiv 6.0eA.cpoiv eaTep~0riµev ofo, µ1g 8aVOVTOlV ~µep\t 0L7tAft xepi: EITEL OE cppouOOc; EaTlV Apyelwv O'Tpa-roc; ev VUKTL Tft vuv, ouoev olO, urrepTepov, ouT ' eurnxouaa µO.Hov ouT' aTwµevri. 20 fl6ri KaA.wc;, Kai a' EKToc; auA.elwv TTUAWV TOUO , ouveK , e~erreµrrov, we; µ6v11 KAUOlc;. ISMENE Ti 0' fon; OT)AOic; yap Tl KUAXUiVOUO' ' erroc;. What is it? Clearly you ponder some dark, purple word. ANTIGONE Has not for death rights of our brothers both Creon dishonored one and praised the other? Eteocles they say with Justice and The righteous use of custom has been hidden Beneath the Earth with honor and the dead, While Polyneices' corpse which died in mis'ry They say has been proclaimed to citizens To stay uncovered, out of death rights, I· 30 25 30 ou yap Tacpou v(j>v Tw KaO'lyv~Tw Kpewv TOV µev rrpo-riaac;, TOV 6 , aT1µaaac; exeL; 'ETeoKAEa µev, we; HyouO'L, O'UV OiKT]c; XP~O'El OtKai\t Kal v6µou KaTa xeovoc; EKPU\l'E wic; £vep8ev evnµov veKpoic;: TOV 0' a8A.iwc; 0av6v-ra IIoA.uveiKouc; VEKUV aawiai <paO"LV EKKEKT)puxem TO µ~ -racp<.p KaA.inJ!m µ11oe KwKuaai nva, 31 �Antigone Arthur Kohn Nor wailed over, by anyone at all, But suffer unlamented, unburied, A sweet treat for the birds to find and feast on. Things such as this they say, the good Creon To you and me-e'en me-and has proclaimed, And hither comes so that these things, to those Who do not know, will be proclaimed, made clear, The deed, not weighed against nothing, but who So ever does these things will be set forth Before the city to be murdered by stone. Things are this way, and swiftly will you light Upon yourself as either well born or Corrupt though raised from good. 35 40 ISMENE 0 wretched one! If this is so, how might I add further Either by loosening or tightening? 45 ANTIGONE Consider, then if you will work with me By taking part in labour and in work. e<iv 0' UKAUU'toV, &:ta<pov, oiwvoTc; YAUKUV 811aa.upov ELOOpWOL npoc; xapLV ~oplic;. toLa.frrO. <petal TOY aya.Sov KpfovTa. aol Kaµol, Hyw yap Kaµ£, KTJpu~a.vT ' exeLv, Kal Oeupo veTa8m Taf>Ta total µ~ eiMa1v aa<p~ npOKTJPU~OVTa., KUL TO np<iyµ' ayelV oux we; nap' ouf>Ev, an, oc; av toUTWV Tl Op~, cpovov 7tp0Ke1a8m OTjµoA.euaTOV ev noAEl. oihwc; EXEL OOL rnurn, Ka.l oel~elc; Taxa eh ' euyev~c; 7tE<pUKa.c; eh' fo8AWV KUK~. Ti 0') wrnA.a.T<ppov, el TUO' ev toUtolc;, eyw Moua' av~ 'cpamouaa. npocr8eiµ11v 7TAEOV; el ~uµnov~cretc; Kal ~uvepyacret aK07tEl ISMENE What kind of hazard is that? Where's your mind now? 50 ANTIGONE Together will you lend your hand to raise The fallen corpse? noTov Tl KtvMveuµa.; nou yvwµ11c; noT' el; el TOV VEKpOV ~UV TfiOe KOU<pLetc; xepl. Has spoke against this. ANTIGONE But it's not with him To shut me out from that which is my own. ISMENE 0 woe is me! Remember, sister, how The hated, inglorious father of us Was decimated. And for his error Did double strike his eyes with his own hand. Thereafter, wife and mother, double named, With twisted cords did violate dear life. And third, the brothers, two in one short day In mutual murder, miserably their fate Did seal together with each others hand. And now we two left alone alive Consider how detestably destroyed We will be if we violate, with custom The laws made by the absolute sovereign Oe e'en to overstep any power. But it behooves us to remember this, That we as women by nature cannot 'Gainst men put up a fight, it's not in us And thus by this we're ruled by strength And must obey things more painful than this And I in truth do beg those 'neath the earth To hold pardon as I'm constrained in this For I'm suaded by those who stand fulfilled And acting 'gainst them is nonsense to none. an' ouoev atm9 TWV eµwv µ, e'lpyeLV µha. 60 65 70 75 80 o'lµo1. <ppov11aov, wKaa1yv~T'l, na.-r~p we; vq>v anex0~c; OuaKAE~c; T' anwAe-ro, npoc; auto<pwpwv aµnAaKT]µCtTWV 0L7tACic; O'l!ELc; 6.p6.~a.c; a.uToc; autoupyq> xepl. foma. µ~T'lP Ka.l yuv~, 0L7tAOUV enoc;, 7tAeK1'alatV apTCtVatat AWPUTUL piov: Tplrnv 8, aoeA.cpw Mo µlav Ka.0' ~µipav aurnKrnvouvw Tw TaA.a.mwpw µ6pov KOlVOV KaTElpyaaa.vT' enan~AOlV xepoTv. vuv {j, au µova {j~ vw AEAE1µµ£va OK07tEl Oa4J KUKlaT' 6A.ouµe0', et v6µou Pi9'. \jf~cpov Tupavvwv ~ Kp6.TTJ nape~tµev. an' evvoe1v XP~ TOUTO µE:v yuvaTx' OTL e<puµev, we; npoc; av6pac; OU µaxouµiva. bretrn {j' OUVEK , apx6µw0 ' eK Kpelaaovwv, Kal TaUT , UKOUElV KUTI TWV6' aA.yiova. 65eyw µE:v ouv airnt>aa wuc; uno x0ovoc; ~uyyvoLaV '(axe1v, we; ~la(oµm Ta6e, Tole; ev TEAEL pe~wat 7telaoµm: TO yap nepiaaa npaaae1v ouK exe1 vouv oMiva. ISMENE You think to honor him? Though surely forbidden in all the city? ANTIGONE Surely he's mine, and yours-though you deny Your brother. I will not be conquered here. ISM ENE 0 you, indefatigable, Creon 32 \ \ ~ 55 yap voeTc; 0cmmv a<p', anoppTJTOV no:\e1; TOY youv eµov Kal TOY crov ~v au µ~ 8£.X.nc; aOeA<pov: OU yap o~ npoOoua' aA.waoµm. ANTIGONE Then neither shall I urge you further on, Not even if you were willing to act With me, such things would not be sweet to do. But know what sort of person that you are For I myself will honor him in death And dying doing so will be gorgeous. Beloved and loving I will lie open, Playing a pious villain, since more time 85 90 oih ' 8.v KEAeucrmµ' OUT' av, et 0£A.01c; ETL 7tpUOOElV, eµou y' UV ~Oewc; 6p<!>T]c; µ£Ta. aAA' fo0 ' onola 001 6oKEL, KELVOV {)' eyw ea."'w: KaAOV µ01 TOUTO no1oucrn 8aveTv. cpiAT] µn ' auTou Keicroµm, cpiA.ou µ£Ta, oata navoupy~aacr' . end nA.elwv X povoc; ov 6eT µ, apfoKetv Tole; KUTW TWV ev8Me. EKET yap aid Kelaoµm: crol 6 ', et OoKeT, 33 �Arthur Kohn Antigone Must I spend standing with those down below Than must be spent with those above the ground. I'll lie open forever in that place But if to you it seems best, hold the honored Things of the Gods in dishonor and shame. ANTIGONE Then whenever I am run out of strength Entirely I will have ceased myself -ra -rwv St:wv ev-rLµ' cmµaaaa' ext:. ISMENE But firstly it is not suited to hunt For things without the means- Pl<;t 7t0ALTWV opav ecpuv aµ~xavoc;. ANTIGONE Don't fear for me, set straight your deadly dest'ny. If you will say These things you will be hated by me, more so You'll justly lie forever loathed by the dead. But ill-counseled allow me to suffer These terrible things, for no suffering Of mine will make me die unhonorably au µEv -rao' &.v 7tpouxoL': eyw OE o~ -racpov xwaoua' 0.0t:A<p4> <pLALa-rq> 11opt:liaoµm. µ~ 105 ANTIGONE Oh woe is me! You must speak out, for many Will find you far more hateful if you speak not To this. 'µou 11po-rappeL: -rov aov £~6p0ou 116-rµov. an, ouv 11poµ11vuanc; ye -rou-ro µrioevl -roupyov, Kpu<pft OE Kt:U0e, CJUV 0, au-rwc; eyw. o'lµm, Ka-rauoa: nonov exSlwv fot:L mywa', £avµ~ 7tclO'l Kflpu~nc; TCtOE. ISMENE Sepµ~v Your hot heart beats for frozen things. 34 115 ANTIGONE ISMENE Alas, oh wretched , how I fear for you! ISMENE And even if you could at any rate However without means now is your love. aetvw, 7terrafooµm. eyw µEv OUK chLµa 7toLoUµm, -ro OE ANTIGONE You may push these things forth but I'll proceed 100 With pushing forth the earth over our dear'st brother. ANTIGONE For I know I please those I'm fated to most µ~ 95 ISMENE I will not make myself dishonored for I can;t, by nature act 'gainst the city. ISMENE But do not speak before you do this deed In secret hide this thing, and so will I OUKOUV, o-rav o~ 110 e7tl \jluxpotO'l Kapolav exeLc;. an' oIO' apfoKoua' otc; µaALa0 ' aoetv µe el Kal OUV~O'El y': an' aµ11xavwv epq.c;. XP~· ISMENE But if to you it seems the best, you must go. Still know this that it's thoughtless to do so, But still your friends have every right to love you. el -rauTa AE~Elc;, exSapt:T µEv e~ eµou, 120 txepa OE Ttj) eav6vTL npoaKelaeL olKn. 950.n' ea µe Kal T~V £~ eµou OuapouAlav 11a8e1v To OeLvov -rou-ro: 11elaoµm yap ou TO<JOUTOV ouo£v W<JTE µ~OU KaAwc; Savt:Tv. an' Ei OoKEL O'Ol, aTetxe: TOUTO 0, '(a0, OTL avouc; µEv epxeL, -rote; <plAoLc; o' 6p0wc; <plATJ. 125 [Antigone exits, Ismene re-enters the Palace.] CHORUS 0 many are the terrible wonders But nothing is more great than those of man. And this does find its way and make its place Across the stoney grey and sultry sea With wildly storming swelling southern winds Surrounded by the depths of the dark waves He pushed further, under, and beyond. The highest of the Gods, un-waning Earth, Indefatigable, is worn away As plows move to and fro as year by year The horses bastards wear and churn the land. And a light minded race of birds is caught In nets, just as the savage swarms of beasts And creatures of the sea, he leads them all. With serpentine spun coils does brilliant man 1 5 10 7tOAAa Ta oe1va KOUOEV av8pw11ou Oe1v6-repov 7tEAEL. TOUlO Kal 7tOALOU nepav 7tOVTOU XELµeplq> VOTq> XWPEL, 7tt:plppuxlotO'LV 11epwv u11 ' o'(oµamv. Sewv Te Tav u11epTa-rav, !av acp81-rov, a.KaµaTav, cmoTpueTm iHoµevwv O.p6Tpwv hoc; elc; ewe; l1111elq> ytve1 110Aeuwv. KOu<pov6wv TE <pUAOV 6pvi0wv aµcp1paAwv ayt:L Kat 011pwv ayplwv e8v11 rr6v-rou T' eivaAlav <j>UO'LV arrelpmm OLKTUOKAwa-roLc;, rrept<ppao~c; av~p: 15 Kpa-ret OE µ11xavatc; aypauAou 011poc; 6pwa1pa-ra, Aaa1auxt:va 0' 35 �Antigone Untitled I Scott Chevallier Subdue with his machine the field dwelling, And mountain roaming beasts, and tightly grips The shaggy horse's mane, and yokes and breaks The back of an unwearied mountain bull. And speech with airy thought and city customs And impulses he has now taught himself and To flee the savage frozen clear cold air. And the wild stormy bolts, all contriving Held back in nothing, towards destiny He starts himself. He only stops for death. Against all other maladies he's found A way to slither through and keep moving. Possessing subtle and resourceful skill Beyond expectation he comes around And traces back from evil now to good. And when he honors the laws of the land, And justice of the gods, to which he's bounded By oath, his city dwells in great prosperity, But banned from this city is he, who's rash And coupled with disgrace. Never May I share land or home with man as he. And never may he think my thoughts, this man. 'lmtoV oxµa(eTCH etµ<pl AO<pOV (uywv oupelOV T' 20 CtKµ~-ra -raupov. KUL cp0£yµa KUL UVeµOeV <ppOVTjµa KUL QO'TUVOµouc; 6pyac; EOL<Sa~a-ro Kal ouaauA.wv naywv unal0pelU Kal ofooµ~pa <peuyeLV ~EAT] nav-ron6poc;: anopoc; en, ouoev epxe-rm 25 TO µ£AA.ov: 'A.Loa µ6vov <peU~Lv OUK £na~£Tal: VOO'WV 0, aµrixavwv cpuyac; ~uµn£cppaO'Tal. aocp6v Tl TO µrixav6ev Texvac; unep EA.nio, exwv TOTE µev KUKOV, aAAoT ' £71' fo0A.ov ep7tel, 30 voµouc; yepaipwv x0ovoc; 0eWV T' EVOpKOV OLKUV, U'JIL7tOAL<;: anoA.tc; OT<.p TO µ~ KUAOV ~UVEO'Tl ToA.µac; YEVOLTO xapLV. µ~T' eµol napfoTtoc; <ppovwv oc; TUO, epoel. µ~T , '(aov 35 [Enter Antigone] Is this a dark warning now sent by God? But how can I deny this having seen This daughter here to be Antigone 0 you disastrous and of disaster Brought of your father Oedipus. What's this? Do you not fail to follow royal rules And due to utter senselessness will fall. .,, I 40 ec; fotµoVLOV TEpac; aµ<pLVOW -r6oe: nwc; eiowc; avTLA.oy~aw T~vo' ouK e1vm nato ' AvTLyovriv. w OUO"tTjVO<; Kal oua-r~vou naTpoc; Olom68a, TL 7tOT,; OU o~ 7tOU O'E y, ama-rouaav -role; ~aO'LAELOLO'LV ayouO'l v6µ01c; Kal EV acppoauvn Ka0eAOVTec;; I I 36 37 \ \ �Smokey the Bear suffered from a lack of foresight by Victoria Lockamy Smokey the Bear suffered from a lack of foresight. Recently environmentalists have noticed an upward trend in the destruction caused by forest fires. They also noticed this upward trend correlated suspiciously well with a different upward trend, The use of the phrase: "Only You Can Protect Forest Fires" Humans, they say, are too effective at preventing forest fires, allowing litter and debris to build up And because humans are not yet perfect at preventing forest fires, All this does is provide more kindling. Turns out a little fire is good. But knowing that doesn't make the burning in my head hurt any less, So still I Try to put it out in an ashtray, Douse it with water. But I'm not any better at preventing forest fires than most people, So it's only a matter of time before it's all ablaze I blame the liberal media, That expansive, indistinct entity which is practically infallible Because even though we're supposed to hate it for its bias and corruption and sensationalism I can't help but like them because they make my political stances look good As it turns out, I'm a pack animal Just like the donkey (Though maybe here, ass is more appropriate) I Texture-03 I Xiuyuan Zhang And I suppose to an extent that may be true, But isn't it wrong that I feel no responsibility for the mental stress I'm under? Or for the pain I cause others out of selfishness because I need to "put myself first" Or for the poor traits I exhibit because "if you can't handle me at my worst, you don't deserve me at my best" They say we're the "me" generation Mindless, irreverent, narcissists But I think that's inaccurate, Because although I'm self-obsessed, the DSM-V classifies narcissists as holding the belief that they are better than others WebMD has been terrible for my hypochondria (Self-diagnosed I'll admit.) WebMD is successful for the same reason horoscopes are: Give anyone vague enough specifications, and they will identify with it But isn't everyone fatigued anyways? And isn't everyone suffering from headaches? And that constant crawling in my skin is just the physical sensation of my Manifest Destiny pulling me into everyday of the rest of my life The Prime Mover An ethereal whisper in my ear: "Don't look back. Don't look back" We all know Orpheus's struggle, running blindly ahead, everything we've ever wanted Dissipating before our eyes with every wavering doubt. After the liberal media told me Only [I] Could Prevent Forest Fires, They started to explain to me That everyone is a result of their environment. Nurture is key, they say. We are unfortunate victims of the circumstances of our birth. I 38 39 �1 What's in my purse.~I Calida Howell ForOfra by Montgomery Alcott al waters we m oved like ghosts, Over the coast f mud and dust, . h his house o Abandoning eac d d perfect frame h . h b the prou an Carried ig Y . , bane _ the plane. O f every modern nat10ns . nei hbor shared her breath with me: Just twice my g al hen the air At th' horizontal port 'wd fi d f gen an ear . blackened landing stnp. Was purifie o oxy nlight' and on the For su . Reagan or D ulles sends you, friend, Baltimore, lit cobblestones, O'er evening Annapo an mong the fixed, . . Ii ht who moves a d A wmking gone w ho lifts his eyes may fin In order that . . oumyour homelessness, . The offer to .JOm y . h eavy arms outspread. . h his To join you wit 41 40 \ �It's Raining Cats and Dogmatism by Abigail Purnell 1. There should be some different word, other than "grey," for those luminous blue-white skies that come with the rain here. It rains here. 2. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. 3. In math we talked about infinity; About how we don't take it to mean eternity, not really-Eternity is a concept we couldn't use, not really (it's empty for us, meager finite things)-To say a thing is infinite is only to say That as far as I know And as far as I can see, As far as I can imagine Its extension is endless; And so I use the indeterminate Like the infinite For my own purposes. Abigail Purnell Will speak loudly and formally To themselves. Lately the expression "divine mystery" Has been on my mind and in my heart and Sheepishly off my lips; I have given up. This is to say, A divine mystery Is recognition Of my own defeat. A divine mystery Is my own willingness To admit That I do not know, And I cannot see Those things That I can barely imagine. 6. He who has ears, let him hear. 7. 4. You are bone of my bones And flesh of my flesh. These bones, This flesh, These moments. Those eyes. These skies. 5. Science has assured me There are colors I cannot see And sounds that I cannot hear And that electrons behave differently When they are watched, In the way children, conscious of an audience, 42 I look As far into this indeterminate space As I can get my head around, My eyes around, My arms around, And still I do not see. I do not touch I do not know. Those things we call divine mysteries Are those places Those ideas Those elusive, illusive noumena That stretch on and on Beyond Anything I could imagine. We call them mysteries Because we believe, Despite this, They can be known. And we call them divine Because the human mind Will live and decay Before we can understand. Or not once you leave it the first time. A friend who is always so literal Said to me once: If home is where the heart is, Are you not always at homeYour heart being, as it is, Necessary for your ongoing existence as a human organism? 8. I used to write stories. I used to read books. I never used to cry. And I said, a little astonished, A while later, Yes, exactly. 9. The white of the sky And the yellow leaves Still i~ trees Press against each other. We carry our homes in our selves. They stay in fragments inside of us, Necessary, absolutely fundamental, To our human existence. 10.Inertia: 13. After a while, everything ends. We are all doing Everything we can To exist endlessly Until we end. (14. As far as I know, As far as I can feel sure of.) 11. I can forgive anyone anything Anything done to me, Anything left out, And I do it with my whole self. Because I admire that they are still going on. Because I really truly don't understand anymore · What it might mean To keep going. 12. I am convinced now That home does not exist, 43 �A Decrepit Tutor Untitled Works / Charlie Denton by Stan Lavery Clene and kempt he wore his hoary hair His clere eyes two no wars the were. Yholde his heed in on hand often tenden, As to the sclate myshappy clarkes wenden. He knew by rote Greek wordes everychone, And many a songe of "Country" fashione Which told of povre men, and of prisoun; Of Trewe Love, and fornication; Ofbresten herts and breste biheste also, Of houndes dede, and muchel care and wo! Hevynesse of hert, swich tradgedye Songs suchel to the tavern al may gye! On early morwe colde, in reyn or sonne, Pass sokyngly* on foote, (ycleped "run") Far doun his nose ywered his perspectives, Misshappy clerks all dreden his directives. He grucche often of his surgeryes, And sorwe siketh of his somtel wyves. When siker clerks expounde far amiss, Hangynge his head, he sowrly mad, "Tis, tis." "I trowe", quod he, "this day I tak me lif, ''Alas ne t'overbyde myn eldest wif!" But him anon dispos'd him otherwyse; Clerks in an heep he deem'd nat worth two fl.yse! But face to face in conversatione, No longer was he that curmudgeone, But in swete chere and manere gav his say Avys and conceil, resoun each clerk's Essay Alas this Tutor's care and wo of age, Seemth al in playe - the studie was his stage! *adv. gradually, step by step 44 45 \ \ �Shipwreck I Sophie Colt . Notes from the Other Side by Judy Seeger (In the early 1970's my husband Tony and I spent about a year living with a group of Indians near the headwaters of the Xingu River in Central Brazil while he did research for his PhD dissertation in social anthropology. In subsequent years we made other visits, most recently in May of 2015. These pieces were written after that last visit.) The Cuban Doctor people, plaza, forest, river, sky, sun, moon, stars ... So why can't you say what you mean? dancing, singing, stamping, swirling, smiling, laughing, crying ... No! In the flickering firelight the touch of Puking my guts out in central Brazil I was delivered to the Cuban doctor. a feather ... He was young (unlike me) and brown (unlike me). He was on a mission to help those in need. Dark Sky in May 2015, 11° South·Latitude Or To the north the Big Dipper pours out all its contents, until toward dawn, drained dry, it dips below the trees. He was on a mission to demonstrate the superiority of his island's economic and social system. He gave me some soro, salty and sweet. Muchas gracias, Alejandro, por haberme bien tratado. Me estoy sintiendo me.Jar. The Bathroom in the Jungle How come when you build a bathroom in the jungle Suddenly there's a line ? No Words? (After Hegel?) I The Evening Star pierces the twilight's deep blue. To the south the Southern Cross proceeds across the heavens. Some must have seen it as a sign. From east to west the smaller stars are strewn across the sky, the glowing embers of a burning tree they say. Celestial animals tread that starry trail. You see them as patches of darkness silently making their way. From time to time, with blinking lights, a jet cuts through the dark. "Did you see?" I ask my friend, as we sit on a blanket outside the long house, "The sky canoe! That's the way I came and that's the way I'll leave." 1 How can you speak when you have no words? 46 But that can't be right! There are plenty of words: 47 �Judy Seeger Notes from the Other Side Watercolor: Going Up the Xingu River in the Rainy Season in an Aluminum Motorboat The Rainy Season Begins: 1 You can see the dark clouds trailing ribbons of rain. That one will miss us but that one will strike us for sure! G.!iick! Grab your dress from the line! Stinging clouds of dust raised from the plaza are whipped by the wind. The thatch on the roofs rises and rustles. In the old village the houses leaked badly. We would move our hammocks to avoid the worst drips. We would dig troughs in the dirt floor with tablespoons to drain the water. In this new village the houses are tighter. We're safe inside. The Rainy Season Begins: 2 Billowing curtains of rain smudge the forest. Pillars of mist rise like smoke from the river. Falling and rising the boundaries are blurred. The world is a study in gray. What could be more fragile than our little boat beating its way upriver against the fierce torrent draining the high plateau? When the motor falls silent we drift in a moment much farther downstream than we've come. A black tattered tarp keeps out some of the rain, while the cold silver hull makes a hard drizzly bed, as lulled by the deep throb of the laboring motor I dream the long hours away. At first the earth drinks in the rain. After all, it hasn't rained for months. The water simply disappears as if it had never been. And then we're back to dust again. There will be time enough for puddles; Time enough for shining sandy beaches to be submerged beneath the flood; Time enough for fish to flee and game to gather, trapped on islands nonexistent now; Time enough for the river to rise, and time enough for mud. Night and Day: Going up the Suia-Missu in the Dry Season in a Dugout Canoe By night: You find yourself afloat in a field of stars. Do you want one? Just reach down and pluck it from the river. But watch out for the curious caimans! They swim alongside and they bite. The stars drip through your fingers. How to hold them? By day: The Rainy Season I I It seems that nothing ever really dries. Things range from soaked to (on a good day) damp. We roll up our hammocks and set off by moonlight, while leaves still shine silver and jaguars still hoot in the forest, so when the sun is high and hot we've paddled a long way. The river at its source is crystal clear and nearly still. Sun-speckled bass glide gracefully through river grass beneath our boat. Under blazing sun cool water beckons. But watch out, for the depths are deceptive! Stepping out of the canoe you may find yourself in over your head. The Bad and the Good The bad: loneliness anger greed sickness sorrow death disorder The good: dancing singing eating laughing being strong being beautiful knowing your place in an orderly world The Umbrella Fish (0 candiru*) Piranhas? They're easy enough to avoid. They school in sharp bends where the river runs deep, beneath steep sandy banks where some food might fall in. You know not to swim in those pools. Stingrays? Also avoidable. You roil the river bottom with a stick before you step. They lurk in the mud but they flee. Electric eels? Sure, they'll give you a shock, but I got one only once. About a dozen of us were pushing a large net across a pond left by the receding river. The water before us teemed with flapping fish. An old man accidently struck an eel with a machete that had no handle: pure metal! He hollered and leapt from the water. The rest of us got a good shock and a good laugh. But the umbrella fish? That's a different story. It's a slender creature that swims into bodily orifices and, once there, opens itself up like an umbrella. Then you're in for it! The only way to remove it is surgically. Piranhas, stingrays, electric eels: I've seen - and eaten them all. An umbrella fish? Never! But I think every Brazilian in the Interior knows its story. *"Common designation for various species of bony fish ... There is a popular belief, not scientifically proven, that the candiru penetrates the urethra of people who are bathing in rivers." Translated from the Novo Dicionario Aurelio, Fourteenth Edition. Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The Mystery of the Tapir's Anus One day someone killed a tapir - enough meat for the whole village in those days! And they gave us the anal sphincter - well boiled, to be sure, but still - the anus! The body part we always laughed about! Why did they give us the tapir's anus? Was it a delicacy? Was it a joke? Was it acknowledgement that we were the only ones in the village whose teeth might be strong enough to chew it? (They weren't; we tried.) What do you do with a tapir's anus? Cut it up somehow and eat it? Wait until dark and heave it into the woods or the river? In the end, we gave it back: "This is not sweet to us." Why did they give us that tapir's anus? 49 48 \ \ �Notes from the Other Side Judy Seeger I didn't ask them then and I didn't ask them later. so was I. I guess I decided that some things don't need to be known. People poured out of the houses and onto the plaza in the reddening light. Snatches of Speech "You've come!" "Yes, I've come." "Where are you going?" "I'm going to the water." "Go ahead!" ''Are you awake?" "Yes, I'm awake." In the commotion a dog lunged and bit me. "Who's that?" "Me." "Where are you going?" "I'm going to the garden." "Go ahead!" ''Are you leaving?" "Yes, I'm leaving." "Let's go together!" "Let's!" I was hurt and mad as hell but looking back I guess he feared I meant to do his people harm. At last of course the moon came back to life. Even then they knew my people had walked on it. Sleeping in a Hammock "Until tomorrow." "Until tomorrow." Reminiscing with the Chief's Wife /Total Eclipse of the Moon We agree that as pets we prefer parrots to dogs or cats. We remember songs we've sung together:Javari and Yamuricuma learned from the Upriver Indians, Juruna songs danced while drinking spit-started manioc brew bubbling and working in its dugout trough, songs of the Txukarramae sung and danced by women and men in facing rows ... 50 Some sang to bring the moon back; some shot flaming arrows. Mothers covered the heads of their children with tree cotton: protection from wandering spirits who meant to do them harm. Sleeping in a hammock is the best! You make yourself a comfortable nest. Make sure your ropes are strong and tightly bound: There's nothing underneath you but the ground. A rolled-up blanket makes a handy sheath To warm you from above and from beneath. Once in, you're cradled in a pocket deep And perfectly disposed for restful sleep, As long as you don't dwell on the precar- Sleeping in a Hammock with a Malarial Fever while Everyone Else is Dancing If you can call it sleep ... Phantasmagoric shadows cast by fires dip and soar on the towering thatch. Passing beneath the rope of my hammock painted dancers set the hammock swinging ... Drifting in . . . Drifting out .. . I hear fragments of song ... Fever dreams take on the rhythm of the dance. They say that sickness means your spirit has been stolen. Perhaps it hides among the fish, among the bees, among the trees ... Haven't you heard? The whole world sings! But you must listen carefully ... And then perhaps when you return you'll bring a song back too. . My body is aching ... where is my spirit? My body is burning . . . where is my song? iousness of sleeping hanging in the air. We remember the night the moon died, or so the old people say. That was in the old village when she was young and 51 \ �Window I R.M. Goad At Home in the World: A Toast to the Graduates Delivered kY Louis Petrich, Tutor, May 4, 2015, at the Graduate Institute Commencement Reception D ear students, graduates, and guests of the Graduate Institute--on behalf of my colleagues on the faculty of St.John's College, I shall propose a toast with the help of several authors I happen to have been reading and pondering these last days. A classical origin for our words is, of course, a tribute to our inner resources, but also (as Nietzsche says) to our poverty of creation, our · spiritual ungainliness, if this is how we must quench our thirst, as humped camels do, from storage, surrounded all the while by much that has become desert in this noisy world. It is my hope, therefore, that you may discover, time and again, as thoughtful camels, something I recently experienced to my wonder, when I re-encountered a very famous English poem that I assigned to my senior language students, written by Matthew Arnold around 1851, called "Dover Beach." In it, a man stands by an open window, while looking out over the beach at Dover, England, and talking all the while to a silent woman present in the room with him. I remembered quite liking this poem when I first studied it as an English major in college over 30 years ago, at that time having seen next to nothing of the world, though the poem is in fact about the world and how to live in its turmoil. By the way, although I have been teaching for many years, here and around the world, I still ask myself how great literature should be taught to college kids who know so little yet of life in this world. Mathematics, science, metaphysics even, I can teach to novices, but literature?--which spans life and death, heaven and hell? I am satisfied if they store up its beauties for later uses; and therefore I proceed now with my toast in the confidence that you folks, being older, are perhaps readier to hear some hard things. As I was saying, I had not had occasion to return to this fondly remembered poem, "Dover Beach," until I reread it in the good company of my seniors, with whom I had pleasurably shared many old, lettered friends, but this time I found to my surprise that I disliked the experience at once. I felt somehow sickened by the poem, and immediately I sought relief in a parody written by Anthony Hecht in 1967 called (pardon me), "The Dover Bitch."This 52 parody is written from the point of view of the silent woman in Arnold's poem, who cannot stand being treated as a "cosmic last resort" by a nervous, classically educated man who would rather ruminate on the sonorous sufferings in Sophocles and over the terrors unleashed by the ignorant armies in Thucydides, than to make simple, proper love to a pretty girl on a romantic, moonlit beach. Who can blame her? I felt guilty to perhaps spoil my students' opportunity to like this poem, by impressing upon them my newfound dislike. But I asked them, as I do you, to lay this up for consideration: why is it that of the works we had loved as readers in youth, some retain or augment their power to transport and we love them the more, but others are found to disappoint or even to become repulsive in age? Is it that our more mature and refined tastes now detect better what is truly fine or disgusting in things? Or, is it that our chastened enthusiasms no longer catch at the surface beauties and miracles that formerly took hold of the eager heart, the depths and heights instead having become the lonely anchorages of our advanced journeys? In any case, my friends, as you grow older in the company of undying literature, I hope that you may experience these questions upon returning to a poem or book that you remember liking, or, I hasten to add, one that you did not like or did not take time to know, but may later find to be indispensable, like a new friend among enemies. Though the latter experiences are puzzling, because why would you return to a book that you did not like, or turn to one you know not? Well, maybe the book, if I may speak of books as friends, has a loyal liking for you. Besides, if the soul is immortal, as we may dare to suppose from our unquenchable thirst, or even if the soul is but a follower of the gay philosophy that promises jungles beyond deserts and playgrounds after jungles, then there will be time for those unread or disliked books, too; there will be time "for a hundred visions and revisions," as another poet of this modern desert landscape has put it, in another love song worthy of parody, of liking and disliking over time, because it is that good and deserving of a home in us. (T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of]. Alfred Prufrock''). 53 �At Home in the World: A Toast to the Graduates 54 Now there is something I had forgotten about Matthew Arnold that I rediscovered upon questioning my altered feelings towards his poem, for I was not resigned to lose an old friend, and I should like to share this singular fact with you. Matthew Arnold was, by profession, a lifelong school inspector. He believed that education was the only way to rescue the souls of the vast, rising middle classes from a sickness and evil that his contemporary, Baudelaire, named "ennui," and whose type Arnold himself was the first to label, "the philistine": a person of utilitarian dullness, comfort-seeking, security-mongering, media-minded, easy-going, always nice and inoffensive, therefore anemic, slavish, and trivial. I wonder what this Victorian school inspector would have to report of our cultural practices and their human types today. Perhaps, mindful of this fact, I should face "Dover Beach" again, with your help. Which behavior do you think is better: to look out a window at a moonlit beach, to hear the pebbles being thrown up and drawn back by the murmuring waves, and to invite your beloved to think of Sophocles, who made tragic poetry out of such sights and sounds?--Or, to register your satisfaction that this pleasant sea-side resort is rated, by the mass clicking of browsers under the moonlight--click, click, click-- one of the top twelve places to go for a convenient weekend get-away (discounted in the off-season), which earns points towards a free stay and partner points if you switch your life insurance? Indeed, I would like to ask the silent woman of Arnold's poem, or you ladies in the audience, what kind of man you would prefer as a lover. The man of the poem appeals to his lady-friend in these words: "Ah, love, let us be true/ To one another!" What does his appeal to "be true" mean, sandwiched as it is between references to Sophocles and Thucydides? In view of Arnold's professional concerns for the life of the middling soul in a "darkling plain," I think it means this: "let us keep in our possession the light, joy, love, and help that we find in the creative works of our predecessors, who poured their lives into making this world a place where we would want to be born. A place we strive to be able to call 'home'." This, I think, is essentially the appeal that Winston Churchill made in 1940, as he looked Bonaire, Netherlands Antilles I Louis Petrich, Tutor across the Channel from Dover Beach and saw what Arnold foresaw--the "alarums," the "struggle and flight" from barbarism-and he rallied the English classes, one and all, to be true to one another as keepers of the light. So, at the inspiration of this poem, which once I liked in innocence, recently disliked with experience, and upon present consideration begin to like again, I now make this same appeal to the graduates-"let us be true to one another." Rich in gratitude for the hours we have spent hearing together the murmuring sea of remembered voices sweet and bitter, the full tide of humanity right at our Chesapeake home shores, and with boldness to keep that tide from withdrawing over the edge of the world, let us, the faculty of St. John's College, raise our glasses to toast the graduates of this Institute, masters of the arts that make this world fit for poor human souls. 55 \ \ �Energeia I St. John's College VVriting and Art Publication 131 1 1 1696 ~01170if~ li1i i11721 1 1 1 ~11~~]1 1 l1l ~i 1 1 1 1 Spring 2016 •~ --~ 1- '- I ~ i / f I <T ' ATE DUE \ \ � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 55 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Piven, Jakub (editor) Purnell, Abigail (editor) Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Spring 2016 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2016 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Spring 2016. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Spring 2016 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/2399b256d21cedeb254cdccd40ee949e.pdf 9d396685e69b6547bf5dee1bf35c3a47 PDF Text Text - SPRING 1996 ~-I . . ~_.' : . '· ' . ·.' · �ENERG E I A: The activity in which anything is fully itself. fi ...vou EVEpyELa(wv ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) SENIOR EDITOR Christopher Anderson JUNIOR EDITOR Lydia Polgreen FACULTY ADV I SO R Abraham Schoener S P EC I AL THANKS To the Print Shop: Marcia Baldwin Chris Colby Vernon Magee Don Smith also to: Eva Brann Jennifer Coonce Lynette Dowty Cindy Lutz Seth Milliken Adrienne Rogers Jennifer Swaim Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published once a year and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis. The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community - essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. �TABLE OF CONTENTS John Singleton September 17, 1995 .............................................. 1 Carla Echevarria Joyce's Ulysses: The Quest for Paternity ............. 2 Matthew Braithwaite Magical Politics and the Perfection of Nature ...... 7 Jesse Berney Haiku on the Motion of a Stretched String ........ 16 Eva Brann Translation of Hermann Hesse's An Evening At Home With Doctor Faustus ........ 17 Beatrice Robbins Form of Language .............................................. 20 Dawn Star Shuman They Do Not Understand: A Discussion of the Heracleitus Fragment Number 12 ..... ........... 24 Janice Cater "For He Unlocked the Hidden Treasuries of Truth" Entertaining Ourselves with the Delightful Contemplation of Newton's Principia ............... 26 Peter Smith Heroism in Racine's Phedre ............................... 34 Alexa Van Dalsem Lyric Narrative ................................................... 37 �September 17, 1995 By John Singleton February 1996 First-born son and Sunday born, Blue-lipped, in fits he kicked and hit, A wingbeat flutter in my arms, He sung to me in squeaks and clicks. Like yeast and flour, the doughy flesh, Rose round, lamb-soft, and toasty white, His vernixed skin baked oven fresh, Eyes fixed upon the simple light. He'll go - and in his journey find, A young man's passion, folly, joy. A father measures his decline, In set-jawed stances of the boy. My own song then, I do extend. A relic father to his son. That wet lipped at the breast again Hot fisted under sabbath sun: Dance chanting in the star-lit night, Stomp blessings 'round its fires, Bend low beneath the kindred light, Sons crowned, unbound, unbriered. "Sing kindness in life's mystery, Beat praises to adventure, Sculpt rhythms to its history, Painting beauty at its center." �J 0 Y CE ' S ULYSSES : THE QUE ST F 0 R PATERNITY Joyce's Ulysses: The Quest for Paternity By Carla Echevarria Of "many-faced" Odysseus' many faces, one of those we glimpse least is that of him as a father. Among his multiplicity of personas throughout the Iliad and Odyssey are the sailor, the captain, the soldier, the trickster, the king, and of course, the mighty hero. In the latter poem, we also get a chance to see him as a husband: his long journey home and the bloody battle to reclaim his household finally find their conclusion in tl.ie arms of his beloved Penelope. But what of Odysseus' relationship with his son, Telemachus? Comparatively little is written about the reunion of the father with the son he left as a child, and found a young man. The result of their reunion is not a profound "mingling in love," filled with nostalgia and story-telling, but a strategic military alliance. They unite, but as soldiers, not family. Joyce's Ulysses is a hero in a much-less-thanmighty sense, and he is not at all a sailor, a soldier, or a king. But Leopold Bloom, at the end of the day, holds at least the potential for fatherhood. His odyssey through the Dublin of June 16, 1904, past dead men, drunks, whores, and Catholics, is one well worth considering with an eye to this potential end. When we first meet Bloom, he is the Odysseus of he Calypso episode: chained in domestic servitude to a goddess. Newly risen in the morning, his first concern is to prepare his wife's breakfast while she sleeps, and serve it to her in bed before attending to his own meal. It is clearly a regular morning ritual which Molly no longer even appreciates. Over the course of the morning, he displays signs of his marital servitude as he takes great care in running small errands for his wife: buying her favorite kind of soap at the druggist's, even picking out a sufficiently smutty romance novel to suit her reading tastes. While in another marriage these might be construed as little gestures of love, the fact that Bloom obviously does them out of habit and that Molly obviously doesn't care transforms them instead into shackles of slavery. Bloom must escape this ''Calypso's island" in order to realize the goal of his odyssey to fatherhood. The episode that follows ends with Bloom taking a bath. The organs corresponding to this episode in Joyce's schema 1 are the genitals, and it is here that we first get an explicit look at the sexual Bloom. His organ of fatherhood is described as he sits contemplating it in the bath: sheds much light upon a re-reading of this episode, for it marks the beginning of Bloom's odyssey toward fatherhood. At this point, he is "limp," and only the "father of thousands" by a remote potential, one that he brings closer to actualization by the end of the day. The Nausicaa episode [Book II, Ch. 10] describes a significant turning-point in Bloom's sexual process. It is 8 p.m., at the end ,of Bloom's working-day, and he has come to take a walk on the beach. An entire conversation of non-verbal flirtation-from-afar that takes place between him and the Nausicaa figure of the episode, a young girl named Gerty MacDowell. She coyly shows off her undergarments to him and awakens his sexual desire. Joyce uses the description of the fireworks display to hint at what is happening to Bloom, as the tumescence technic of the episode swells and climaxes with him: And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind blank and 0 ! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of 0 ! and everyone cried 0 ! 0 ! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, 0 so lovely! 0 so soft, sweet, soft! [Book II, Ch. 10] He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemon yellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower. [Book II, Ch. 2] We do not learn until much later that his "languid floating flower" has been languid for eleven years; he has been impotent since the death of his infant son, Rudy, at the age of eleven days. This information, however, 1In his "schema" for Ulysses, Joyce lists the Title, Scene, Hour, Organ, Art, Symbol, Color, and Character Correspondences that correspond with each chapter, or episode, of the novel. For example, let us take the first episode of the Book II: it is Titled the "Calypso" episode, and narrates a Scene which takes place in Bloom's house at the Hour of 8 a.m. The Organ of the kidney plays a prominent and interesting part in this episode, and because it concerns Bloom's domestic matters, the Art corresponding to it is economics. The Title alone makes it clear that the central Symbol of the episode is the nymph. Joyce chooses to identify this episode with the Color orange; he has written the episode with a Technic he chooses to describe as a "mature narrative". And, finally, the Correspondences between Joyce's characters and Homer's are listed as: "Bloom= Odysseus, Molly = Calypso". glish, to Middle, to Elizabethan. The transitions are seamless, and the reader feels as though he is witnessing somehing changing and growing with time, like a child in the womb. It is the Oxen of the Sun episode, and oxen are one of the age-old symbols of fertility. It is in this episode that Bloom's quest for fatherhood finds its first concrete object, in the form of Stephen Dedalus. Stephen, whom Joyce's schema explicitly lists as the Telemachus figure to Bloom's Odysseus, is in this episode sitting in a waiting-room at the hospital drinking with some rowdy, young companions. What we know about him has been established by the first three chapters of the novel, which Joyce names the Telemachia, and by the story of his early years as told in A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man. We know him as a charismatic young man whose status as an "artist" has yet to be firmly established; we have seen into his mind, saturated with a mess of unorganized bits of erudition, and acutely conscious of itself. But his role as the "son" of Bloom is yet unclear (their paths have not even crossed except in indirect encounter), and will only come to fruition over the course of this evening which has just begun. The conversation that the young men are having over their drinks is largely concerned with sex and pregnancy. At one point, Stephen condemns contraceptive intercourse and masturbation, asserting, in Thomistic argument, that the true end of sex is parenthood: "Gramercy, what of those Godpossibled souls that we nightly impossibilise, which is the sin against the Holy Ghost, Very God, Lord and Giver of Life? For, sirs, our lust is brief. We are but means to those small creatures within us and nature has other ends than we." The setting of this episode in a maternity hospital serves a purpose other than symbolism: Bloom, hearing the cries of women in labor, recollects the birth of his own son, Rudy, and it is the recollection that becomes an important segue into his paternal focus on Stephen: His onanism demonstrates that Bloom has regained his virile capacity for fertilization, and he is one step closer to fatherhood. From here, Bloom proceeds to the maternity ward of the National Maternity Hospital on Holles street. This episode [Book II, Ch. 11], one of the most stylistically difficult, opens with three incantations, each · reapeated thrice. They are delivered in the manner of the Arval Hymn, a chant which was part of a ceremony performed by the Fratres Arvales, priests of the Roman goddess of fertility. 2 This, along with the less subtle hint of the maternity hospital, are Joyce's signals to the attentive reader that this chapter will deal with fertility and reproduction. . This theme is reflected even in the technic which Joyce uses. In an impressive display oflinguistic capacity, he has written the chapter in a style that evolves slowly over the course of the episode, from Old En- But sir Leopold was passing grave maugre his word by cause he still had pity of the terror-causing shrieking of shrill women in their labour and as he was minded of his good lady Marion that had borne him an only manchild which on his eleventh day had died and no 2 1 owe this information to Ulysses Annotated, by Don Gifford, p. 408. 3 �ENERGEIA to "she." Bella/Circe is the central figure of this episode, and she represents the emasculating powers that Bloom must face and overcome. The madam herself switches back and forth between being Bella and Bello, and in her masculine aspect she is cruel and tyrannical like the Homeric goddess, holding dominion over Bloom with the words, "Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a thing under the yoke." She then makes him put on women's clothing of "shot silk". She and her whores then hold Bloom down to the floor and torture him with physical sadism as she recites a litany of his womanlike weaknesses. These turn out to be multiple and rather surprising. Made to don a corset, petticoat, and garters, he confesses to being a cro~s­ dresser: to having tried on his mother's clothes, and to having been turned into a "true corsetlover" by playing a female impersonator in a high school play. He is also revealed to have masochistic tendencies, linked to his fear of women: "(Cowed.) Exuberant female. Enormously I desiderate your domination." "The Sins of the Past" parade by in a medley of voices, telling of his deeds with whores and strumpets, his having masturbated in phone booths and over used-pieces of toilet paper, having written pencilled messages in pub1ic places offering his wife's services "to all strong-membered males". His subjugation to his wife is brought back to our attention by Bello: "The missus is master. Petticoat government." To this, Bloom can only reply, "That is so." His gender reversal and Bella's is symbolic of the reversal of traditional roles that has taken place in his marriage. We are reminded of our very first look at Bloom, eleven episodes ago, when he began his day by bringing Molly breakfast in bed. Bello completes the symbolism when he places a ring on the female Bloom's finger and says, "With this ring I thee own." The bizarre mess of hallucinations is finally shattered by Stephen, toward the end of the chapter, when he shatters the chandelier with a blow of his ash plant. With this sudden return of reality, Bloom regains his masculi nity by taki ng control of the situation. Bello, before whom the female Bloom once cowered in fear, reverts to being Bella, and she in turn cowers before the male Bloom, shrieking in fear when he raises the ashplant as if to strike. Having thus overcome the symbol of his emasculation in the form of Bello, Bloom is ready to take an man of art could save so dark a destiny ... and now sir Leopold that had of his body no manchild for an heir looked upon him his friend's son ... so grieved he also in no less measure for young Stephen for that he lived riotously with those wastrels and murdered his goods with whores. [Book II, Ch. 11] From Bloom's train of mental association, we can see that Stephen is to somehow become a replacement Rudy, at least for one night. This, finally, is the first explicit hint at the relationship between the two men, predicting a crossing of paths which, by the end of the evening, will have changed three lives forever. From the hospital, Bloom follows Stephen and his crew of "wastrels" to Dublin's red-light district, and the Circe episode begins [Book II, Ch. 12]. It is probably the weirdest of all the episodes, written as a "hallucination" by Joyce's description, and it reads like a surreal nightmare. Here, in the sordid setting of a lowclass brothel, we get a more intimate look into the candid workings of both Bloom's psyche and Stephen's, and the foundation of their relationship is cemented. Essential to paternity is masculinity, and one of the most formidable obstacles in Bloom's path to fatherhood are the forces which seek to emasculate him. In order for him to overcome his impotence and become a father, he must first overcome is emasculation and become a man. The division between the sexes is examined, contorted, ripped apart, and utterly done away with in this episode, and it is the process by which Bloom regains his manhood. One of the most bizarre things about Bloom's "hallucination" is the mess of gender-reversals that take place in the episode, following the entrance of the brothel's madam, Bella. She is the Circe figure of the episode, and we are reminded that in Homer's epic, Odysseus is warned by Hermes against this particular goddess, "lest you find yourself unmanned by her". In Homer's context, the warning is intended to mean that Circe's magic turns men into swine, but in Joyce 's, unmanned has a twofold meaning. Bella turns Bloom not only from a man into a pig, but from a male into a female. There are only the smallest, and rather confusing hints that this is so: Bloom falls to the ground "on all fours" and cries "Truffles!", and at the same time the personal pronoun pertaining to him switches 4 JOYCE'S ULYSSES: THE QUEST FOR PATERNITY active, real step toward paternity. This he does by rescuing Stephen from the redcoats who assault him. As Bloom stands over the younger man, waiting for Stephen to regain consciousness, a figure appears to him, an eleven-year-old boy in a school uniform, reading a book. It is the figure of his son, Rudy, who died at the age of eleven days, and is here seen by Bloom at the age he would haV'e been had he lived. The white lamb's wool coverlet that his mother knitted for his burial is transformed into a white lambkin peeping out of his waistcoat pocket. The delicate apparition hovers over Stephen, like the Holy Spirit above Christ in the waters of Galilee, and serves to symbolically "baptize" Stephen and, finally, make Bloom a father. Thus begins the Nostos, the homecoming [Book III]. United with his father in Ithaca, Telemachus must now help Odysseus conquer and slay the suitors who overrun his household, that he may regain his position as master of his home. Joyce spent a lot of time acquainting us with Stephen Dedalus not because he is the essential figure in this novel - else the novel might have been titled Telemachus - but because he is the necessary component to Bloom's nostos. No other character in the novel, not Buck Mulligan or Lynch or any other young man, could have fulfilled the role that Stephen does in Bloom's odyssey. This may be because of the reciprocative nature of their interaction: Stephen acquires from his evening with Bloom something that no one else could have given him, if only because no one else would have been willing to be a father to him for one night. In any case, the relationship that develops between Bloom and Stephen, adpotive father and son, though it endures for only the remainder of the night, would require an entire other essay to examine completely. I will not examine it incompletely here, because it is not the end of Bloom's odyssey toward fatherhood, but only the penultimate step. Once father and son have stolen back into their house, Telemachus bars the door behind them so that the suitors may not escape. But most of the slaying is left up to Odysseus. Likewise, after Bloom sneaks into his house via the window (having forgotten his keys), he lets Stephen in by the front door, and the younger man locks the door behind him. But the "slaying" of the "suitors" is a task that Bloom must do alone. The slaughter begins when Odysseus proves his identity to the suitors by stringing the great bow that none of them were able to string. Joyce lists the bow in his schema as a symbol for reason, and it is through reason - that is, rhetoric - that Bloom persuades Stephen to quit the company of Buck Mulligan. Mulligan corresponds in Joyce's schema to the first suitor who is slain, Antinous. The second suitor who is slain is Eurymachus, who corresponds to "Blazes" Boyland, Molly's lover. Bloom "slays" Boylan in his mind by rationally examining his emotional responses to his own cuckoldry (envy, jealousy, abnegation, and equanimity), and examining his options for retribution in a likewise very rational manner: Assasination, never, as two wrongs did not make one right. Duel by combat, no. Divorce, not now. Exposure by mechanical artifice (automatic bed) or individual testimony (concealed ocular witness), not yet. Suit for damages by legal influence or simulation of assault with evidence of injuries sustained (selfinflicted), not impossibly. [Book ill, Ch. 2] Finally, he justifies the affair and his own feelings by a process of reasoned "reflections" : The preordained frangiblity of the hymen, the presupposed intangibility of the thing in itself. .. the fallaciously inferred debility of the female, the muscularity of the male: the variations of ethical codes. . .the continual production of semen by distillation: the futility of triumph or protest or vindication: the inanity of extolled virtue: the lethargy of nescient matter: the apathy of the stars. [Book III, Ch. 2] Just as the aegis of Athena appears as a heavenly portent in Odysseus' hall in the midst of all the slaying, Bloom and Stephen simultaneously observe a "celestial sign" in the form of "a star precipitated with great apparent velocity across the firmament" as they stand outside urinating. When all the slaughter is done, Telemachus is sent away and Odysseus fumigates his house, just as Bloom does after Stephen's departure. Bloom has offered him the guest bedroom of his house, but Stephen declines. They have made plans between them, for voice lessons and Italian lessons, for "static, semistatic, and 5 �ENERGEIA peripatetic intellectual dialogues" in the future, but Bloom forsees difficulties in realizing these plans. He recalls how: once at a performance of Albert Hengler's circus in the Rotunda, Rutland Square, Dublin, an intuitive particoloured clown in quest of paternity had penetrated from the ring to a place in the auditorium where Bloom, solitary, was seated and had publicly declared to an exhilirated audience that he (Bloom) was his (the clown's) papa. [Book III, Ch ..2] We learn that the clown was not, as a matter of fact, Bloom's son. This memory is an illustration of what Bloom calls "the irreparability of the past." The past stands as it has happened, with Bloom's biological son dead and Stephen's biological father being someone else. It is for this reason that Stephen and Bloom go their separate ways at the end of the evening. Bloom may "adopt" Stephen for one night, as he has, but adoptive fatherhood is not true fatherhood, and his odyssey is not quite over yet. Throughout the slaughter, Penelope lies unaware, sleeping. When she awakens and.Odysseus presents himself to her, she is skeptical, and after ten years of separation, is reluctant at first to accept the "beggar" in rags as her lost husband. What finally secures her belief is Odysseus' knowledge of the unique construction of their marital bed. The final episode of the novel takes place in Bloom's marital bed, where Molly lies sleeping. He climbs into bed, she awakens, and they converse a little before falling back asleep. Two very important things happen, however, and together they constitute Bloom's final step towards fatherhood. The first of these is that Bloom, in kissing his wife's rump, gets an erection. This would not be a spectacular event, were we not alert to the fact that it is the first he's had while lying with his wife in eleven years. Traumatized by the death of his only son, Bloom was unable to have sexual relations with Molly for over a decade. This, his first instance of arousal in her presence, signals the beginning of a new episode of fatherhood for Bloom. The second important event is that Bloom, before he falls asleep, requests that Molly get him breakfast in bed the next morning. As she falls asleep, she reflects that "he never did a thing like that before", and we again remember how, for time immemorial it seems, Bloom always brought Molly breakfast in bed. The event of Bloom's erection, a figurative return to his marital bed after a long hiatus, is the culmination of the sexual process of revolution that has taken place over the day: from his limpness in the bath, to his masturbation on the beach, and finally to the beginnings of real sexual intimacy with a real woman, his wife. His request for breakfast in bed is the culmination of the psychological process of revolution that took place mainly in the Circe episode: the conversion of his marriage from a condition of domestic servitude and inequality into a real union of love _ nd a partnership. Bloom, with these apparently-inconsequential gestures, completes his odyssey and his homecoming. Just as Odysseus must now rebuild his kingdom on Ithaca and restore the familial bonds of his home, Bloom has begun the rebuilding of the both the physical and psychological foundations necessary to raise a home. He is ready to face a new marriage and a new fatherhood. It will be a fatherhood not only in the adoptive sense, but in the true, biological one. And as she drifts off to sleep, Molly responds to this proposition, yes I will Yes. • 6 Magical Politics and the Revelation and Perfection of Nature By Matthew Braithwaite The Tempest is a play the whose structure seems knit together by political events. Prospero's betrayal is the catalyst for the action of the play; his reinstatement its conclusion. Yet it is impossible to read the play as the tale of a wronged duke regaining his dukedom. This is mostly because there is much of the play that is more than political, and more to Prospero's actions than is necessary to his dukedom and Miranda's marriage. Furthermore, his magical powers allow him to achieve whatever ends he wishes with much less delicacy than he in fact devotes. By being as delicate as he is, Prospero manages wholly to avoid coercing others to do his bidding: even Caliban gets a measure of freedom. Prospero does form illusions and false impressions as guides,,but the characters' actions are their own. What is more, the situations Prospero creates prompt their actors more fully to express their natures in their actions: his illusions allow the light of truth to shine on whom they charm-a valuable gift for a philosopher. The decisions that most clearly enable this to happen are the division of the characters on Alonso's ship into groups according to Prospero's aims, and the manner in which Prospero appears to each group. To Ferdinand he appears directly (since Ferdinand needs no encouragement to fit into Prospero's plan; far from it), and to Stephano and Trinculo through Caliban's report. But he reserves his strongest use .o f magic for Alonso (who needs prodding to find his conscience), to whom he appears through the speech made by Arie1's "figure of a harpy" . The first scene of the play typifies Prospero' s treatment of Alonso and his company: he gives them pressures to endure, and all but Gonzalo take them poorly. Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio are absurd in their interference with the boatswain's office: they try to command what they cannot, and obstruct those who know better than they what to do. They are leaders who, by not recognizing nature for the rightful authority during the tempest, show that they do not know how to be led. When the boatswain says that they "assist the storm" (l.i.14) 1 he is of course unaware that the storm is Prospero's hand, but this is not lost on the reader. This is the first of many wonderful such ironies: these three wicked men by their very character cannot but assist the action of Prospero's justice upon them. When they are exposed to "state of nature", it becomes clear that Sebastian and Antonio do not have nobility within them but thrust upon them, as their viciousness here and later shows. Despite Gonzalo's urging them to behave as befits civilized men, it is clear that they do not consider anyone's case to be as their own. From Prospero we shortly learn that their evil has some history to it. The political arts that Prospero disdained, he cast upon Antonio, in whom they "awak'd an evil nature" (I.ii.93): Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, who t' advance, and who To trash for overtopping, new created The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang'd em, Or else new form' d 'em; having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the ' state To what tune pleas'd his ear (I.ii.79-85) What Antonio learned, that is, were the arts of favor; and with them he re-created Prospero's court in his own image. The license granted Antonio by this power is like that granted by the island: in most men, law 1 All quotations are taken from The Riverside Shakespeare, Vol. II, G. Blakemore Evans, ed. All citations to the play are made within the text in standard form. I am grateful to Dean Brann for her guidance; and particularly for the suggestion that I write on a work of literature, which, taken, has provided good instruction. �ENERGEIA fects nature, has so done, or merely gives the appearance thereof. Prospero's exchange with Gonzalo shows that he is acutely and painfully aware of the horrors that a civilized veneer can conceal: may be relied on as a counterweight to wrongful desires; but a ruler must rely on conscience to serve in that office, and Antonio has none. Like Caliban, he gives free reign to his desires (though they are of a different kind than Caliban's), subject only to practical obstacles; and so, like Caliban, he is slavish-the most unfitting condition for a-ruler. If Gonzalo's statement that "our case is as theirs" (l.i.55) is metaphorical, meaning that the state of the subjects is as the state of the sovereign (as we might suspect from Prospero's metaphor of subjects being "new created" in the sovereign 's image), the case of Antonio 's Milan is truly miserable. The most terrible example of Antonio and Sebastian showing their true colors comes when Prospero puts all but this evil pair to sleep. Prospero clearly anticipates what in fact occurs, as is clear from Ariel's words to Gonzalo: Gon. Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find Many, nay, almost any. Pros. (Aside.) Honest lord, Thou hast said well; for some of you there present Are worse than devils.(III.iii.32-6) The illusion created by Prospero for these "three men of sin" that they are sole survivors on a desolate island is completed by Ariel's appearance in III.iii. Alonso, despairing of ever finding Ferdinand, is prepared to enter into the dream that Prospero has made for him: that nature has requited his past injustices through the death of his son. Though this is not, strictly, true, one might well wonder if it makes a difference. Gonzalo, despite his not having seen Ariel, sees nothing peculiar or inexplicable about Alonso's guilt. Nor does Alonso himself think his own guilt to be a temporary insanity, as his penitence does not vanish with Ferdinand's restoration: he has undergone, Scroogelike, a curative dream. Unlike his brother, Alonso is not beyond redemption, and it is this that Prospero's illusions cause him to reveal. When Prospero breaks his charms, Alonso has expiated his guilt, and is minded as Prospero wishes him to be, suggesting himself the very solution to all problems that Prospero has planned: My master through his art foresees the danger That you, his friend, are in, and sends me forth (For else his project dies) to keep them living. (II.i.297-9) Exactly as one might expect, Antonio's evil wells to the surface, and resonates in Sebastian. Both in this scheme and in his betrayal of Prospero, Antonio counts on two things: the absence of strong men opposing him, and the means to crush any opposition swiftly and decisively. In deposing his brother, the first of these requirements is met by Prospero's preoccupation with study and by the malleability of his subordinates; the second by Naples' army. In plotting to do away with Alonso, he counts on being able to do in Gonzalo as well (whom he had previously ridiculed, but here takes seriously), and again on the weakness of his victims' subordinates. The things Antonio fears are men of strong conscience and outraged mobs. What the island provides is a means of avoiding these difficulties: there Gonzalo is easily killed, and a tearful Sebastian can tell the Neapolitan army and citizenry that his brother and nephew perished at sea. That is to say, by its isolation the island gives aid chiefly to the concealment (rather than to the perpetration) of an evil deed. The fact that Gonzalo's waking does not weaken Antonio's resolve suggests exactly this; that by means of the freedom its isolation provides, the island tests whether nurture, taken as that which per- A daughter? 0 heavens, that they were living both i Naples, The King and Queen there! That they were, I wish Myself were mudded in that oozy bed Where my son lies. (V.i.148-52) But of course this neat end, which moves Prospero's cherished daughter into the world, and in so doing, restores Milan from its "most ignoble stooping", is like Alonso's penitence in respect of its cause: though Prospero creates a setting in which the two may fall in love, it is their own natures that draw them together. Ferdinand's isolation, like that of Antonio and Sebastian, gives him a degree of liberty. He takes 8 MAGICAL POLITICS Miranda for his bride, as he says, "when I could not ask my father for his advice; nor thought I had one" (V.i.190-1) (the pain of which thought Ariel's music has softened). Miranda, for her part, is encouraged by Prospero to disobey his commands and show her love for Ferdinand: his own laborious trial tries her also. Though Miranda thinks her father sleeps when she converses with Ferdinand (III.i), both of them withstand their supposed freedom from his eyes with propriety. Indeed, Ferdinand's first request to Miranda is that she "will some good instruction give on how I may bear me here" (I.ii.425-6). Ferdinand carries his nobility with him, and so Miranda's reaction to him, Prospero knows, though, that she cannot forever inhabit his artificially pure and dream-like world; that he must release Miranda from being a daughter so that she may become a queen. His statement that she is ignorant of what she is (which fact she is aware of) means, I think, that Miranda belongs also to the world and that he can no longer keep her from it. Ferdinand's wish that they may keep Prospero's wise company in his island paradise is impossible, if for no other reason than that it denies a duty to rule. Miranda's upbringing on this island is, as Prospero says, blessed. To him the world of the political is suspect, since it conceals nature and breeds falsehoods: how could his child know the true from the false in such a setting when even he did not? Better to let her be exposed to truths: the only imperfections which Miranda has seen are Caliban's, and his nature is not evil, but simply not human. Nothing of Caliban is concealed; his very appearance speaks his nature. Against him Miranda can measure what it means to be a perfected human being. So by experi~nce Miranda knows the distinction between animal and cultivated, about which it is impossible to be deceived; but she is not for her innocence ignorant of the subtler corruptions particular to political man, as her question to Prosper_o, "Wherefore did they not that hour destroy us?" (l.ii.137-8) shows. Miranda is free from the clouded vision engendered by the political world, and this may help her survive in it. The forthrightness of her mind may be seen in Ferdinand's courtship of her. They speak between themselves with directness and purity. Miranda's admonition, "Hence, bashful cunning, and prompt me, plain and holy innocence!" (III.i.81-2), is the prerogative of her nature. She and Ferdinand are such as to banish suspicion and banter from each other's minds: to see is to love. Prospero's illusion for Ferdinand and Miranda is the same as that he creates for Antonio and Sebastian: freedom from watchful eyes. But the plain difference between the two pairs is captured perfectly m Ferdinand's defense of his virtue: There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with 't. (l.ii.457-9) and his to her, show great clarity of mind, though some might cynically remark that it is only Miranda's naivete that makes her speak thus, and that it was a lucky thing for her that the first young man she set eyes on was Ferdinand. This suggestion has an unfortunate hereditary parallel in the fault which lost Prospero his dukedom. But this is too ugly a thought to be true; it is both better and more plausible to take their "changing eyes" as the result of beautifully clear perception: they see each other's spirits made flesh in each other's appearances. It might at first seem paradoxical to say that Miranda exhibits this kind of sight. She is, after all, entirely innocent of human affairs. But her wholeness and intelligence say that she is not as ignorant as her isolated upbringing might suggest. Prospero has devoted no small amount of care to his daughter's education, and the education of a scholar and magician must be rich with teaching stories and dreams, and other noble lies. Miranda has been in some measure formed by Prospero's Art; she is a created thing, of whom Prospero is justly proud: Here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift. 0 Ferdinand, Do not smile at me that I boast her off, For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise And make it halt behind her. (IV.i.7-11) ... the murkiest den, The most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion Our worser genius can, shall never melt Mine honor into lust... (IV.i .25-8) And in fact, both pairs were given "the most 9 �ENERGEIA opportune place" to act wickedly, but while opportunity exposes baseness in Antonio, it makes Ferdinand's purity and devotion all the stronger. Prospero's description of Caliban as "a born devil, on whose nature nurture can never stick" (IV.i.188-9) illustrates the difference between these types neatly: it is clear that nurture has done more than stick to Miranda and Ferdinand. While Antonio's evil is concealed by his civilized garments, Ferdinand's and Miranda's natures incorporate the perfection of nurture, and so require no revealing. This last can be said also of Caliban, for when he is given opportunity he reveals nothing of himself that was not obvious. Caliban and Miranda are antitheses: the one animal and the other perfected, but both true. But while Prospero calls Caliban a devil, he rightly calls Antonio worse than a devil, because he is nurture perverted. So Caliban is at the center the play, for against him its foulest evil and most perfect beauty are both opposed .. Caliban has a deep connection to the island. Not only was he born there, but he is, we assume, left alone there at the end of the play. Where Prospero and Miranda are guests on the island, Caliban is its sole native. He knows the island's every corner, so much so that the island provides for his sustenance. He is infused with the island's nature. Strangely, misshapen creature that he is, he speaks beautifully. Even his curses are delivered in neatly-turned phrases. While uncivilized and crude, Caliban is capable of feeling, and is a lover of beauty, as this wonderful passage reveals: Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. /Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments /Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, /That if I then had wak'd after long sleep, /Will make me sleep again, and then in dreaming, /The clouds methought would open, and show riches /Ready to drop upon me, that when I wak' d /I cried to dream again. (Ill.ii.135-43) It is no mere beast that dreams and takes delight in music. What is, in a small way, tragic about these capacities is that Caliban is not sensitive merely to natural beauty, but also to human beauty. He has an expression of wonder for nearly everyone in the play: "These be fine things, and if they be not sprites. That's a brave god, and bears celestial liquor. I will kneel to him." (Il.ii.116-7); "But she so far surpasseth Sycorax as great'st does least." (IIl.ii.102-3); "O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed! How fine my master is!" (V.i.261-2). But if he finds beauty in Stephano, it can only be in comparison to his own ugliness. He is driven to serve Stephano simply because he sees him as something wondrously superior to himself (though, to his credit, he eventually escapes this misapprehension). Though it may be tempting to call Caliban a natural slave because of this, natural slavery requires that it be better for the one in question to be ruled. But Caliban is no better for Prospero's rule over him, since the latter's "humanly taken pains" cannot soften Caliban's inhuman nature. The idea of natural slavery depends on rule improving on the state of nature, but a human nature seems to be required to be susceptible to this improvement. When Prospero embarks for Naples, and Caliban is left alone as he was before Prospero came, he will be just as he was before, but with consciousness of his own inferiority and of beauties he will never attain. If ever enlightenment were cruel it is so here. The apparent contradiction between this picture of Caliban on the one hand, and that of the ill-mannered and bestial slave on the other, wants explanation. Certainly it is not merely an animal that speaks in unrhymed iambic pentameters. Caliban owes what he is to three things: his bestial nature, which he inherits; the island on which he grew up; and his association with Prospero and Miranda. Caliban has had from these two the gift of language. Though he says that his only profit from it is cursing, this is far from the truth. Without speech, there would be nothing curious about Caliban: the creature Miranda describes (l.ii.355) sounds truly like an unreasoning brute, an animal. The reverence we have for speech causes us habitually to assume that the abilities which we see expressed in speech, such as reason and poetry, are inseparable from the faculty itself. In Caliban, we find speech separate from humanity, so it pays to examine what in Caliban is due to speech, and what is independent of it. Such a division would also be the division between things that (in speaking creatures generally) are learned, and things that are required to be susceptible to that learning. 10 MAGICAL POLITICS Caliban first describes Prospero's teaching him language thus: different from an animal, but does merely that make him rational as we understand the term to apply to ourselves? If there is anyone in the play who typifies the man in whom reason has its rightful place, it is Prospero. His first words, "be collected", neatly summarize his behavior throughout. Even in seeing Miranda's and Ferdinand's love for each other he maintains his reserve, saying that he cannot be so glad as they because of the requirements of his designs. But his exchange with Ariel shows he is far from immunity to passion: [Thou wouldst] teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night; (l.ii.334-6) If the most fundamental act of language, that of naming, had to be taught to Caliban, then Sycorax must have died when he was very young, else she would have done this. But more interesting is that Caliban's own account of his learning language stresses his ability to name. Miranda's account is similar: Ari. Him that you term'd, sir, "the good old Lord Gonzalo", /His tears run down his beard like winter's drops /From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works 'em /That if you now beheld them, your affections /Would become tender. Pros. Dost thou think so, spirit? Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human. Pros. And mine shall. Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling /Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, /One of their kind, that relish all as sharply /Passion as they, be kindlier mov'd that thou art? /Though with their high wrongs I am strook to th' quick, /Yet, with my nobler reason, gainst my fury /Do I take part.(V.i.15-27) When thou didst not, savage, know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like I A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes /With words that made them known. (l.ii.355-8) So both accounts of Caliban's learning, in other words, describe his being given words for what he already has. But Miranda says that prior to being given language, Caliban did not "know his own meaning". It seems to me that this is the first of at least three aspects of Caliban concerning which the influence of language ought to be investigated. The second is his human aspect, expressed by such abilities as emotion and dreaming. The third is his rationality-is there any sense in which Caliban can be called rational? Concerning these things, it is useful to rephrase the above conclusion more formally: Miranda implies that prior to language Caliban is capable of intent. Similarly, Caliban's own words ("how to name the bigger light...") suggest that prior to language, he was capable of seeing things for things and (hopefully this is not stretching a point) of seeing relations between things: the roots of rational behavior. And Caliban's plotting against Prospero (IIl.ii.87-103) looks a great deal like the genuine article. One could, however, observe that animals exhibit behavior that seems rational in the same way: if a wolf seldom attacks waking victims, can't we say that it forms unspoken syllogisms, for example "defenseless animals are easier to kill, a sleeping animal is defenseless, therefore a sleeping animal is easier to kill"? In other words, how is instinct given language different from what we call rationality? Caliban's use of language makes him In this speech Prospero is held in the grip of two passions, fury and sympathy, with reason occupying its proper role as arbitrator: the very paradigm of human rationality. But the very fact of his sympathy is worth noting, since Prospero has somewhat turned his back on humanity. The chapters of his life with which the play acquaints us are his solitude with his books, his solitude on the island, and the solitude of his eventual retirement to Milan. The first _ these was clearly of willful; and though his banishment was not, neither does he look forward to his return to society with any apparent relish-understandably so, since Prospero has no very great reason to be fond of humanity in general (though he certainly holds some of its particulars dear), for he is acutely and painfully aware of the spectrum of human natures that runs from Gonzalo to Antonio. This speech makes it difficult blithely to attach to Prospero that most odious of scholarly stereotypes, 11 �ENERGEIA the unfeeling automaton. Prospero more resembles the philosopher-king, in that most of his joys in humanity, though lesser than those of the intellect, are not precluded by the latter (and like the philosopherking, he evades his duty to rule). Miranda, in contrast to her father, has none of the gloom or cynicism that presumptively underlie his withdrawal. Humanity's novelty to her makes it as wondrous to her as to Caliban. Her reactions to the dark underbelly of mankind are therefore a strange mix of youthful emotion and innocence made potent by a mature intellect. Her joy in her "brave new world" is a gift of Prospero's upbringing, which may save her from his disillusionment. Ferdinand is another, for he and Miranda are two of a kind, and so will keep each other from receding from the world. But Prospero has no equals to call his companions, only his daughter and the insubstantial Ariel (who shares his secret designs but not his humanity). In addition to all this, Miranda has a genuine love of humanity. Though Prospero's stories leave evil known to her, her first words to him show that she is perfectly unreserved with "the very virtue of compassion" (I.ii.27). Taken literally, as we are precisely to do ("I have suffered with those that I saw suffer" (I.ii.5)-the most precise evidence the subject admits of), compassion could be called the fundamental social instinct. It is certainly remarkable in Miranda, since she has only known the society of her father and Caliban. It is doubly remarkable in that her life has been uncommonly free from suffering. Her compassion, which we could say is due to something like nurture (acting on a good nature), is exactly what is absent in Caliban. Caliban is driven by desire, and if he has a conscience it is surely vestigial, being bothered by attempts at neither rape nor murder. But we are obviously not meant to take Caliban as an evil nemesis, since his attempt to do away with Prospero is entered into with drunken buffoons: the contemplation of murder is mingled with the comic relief. Caliban's animal nature, the way his actions flow directly from his desires, is precisely what mitigates his contemplation of murder, even as carefully as he plans it (Ill.ii.8795). If an act is not just unless it is done with just intent, then we may say that an act is not evil unless it is done with evil intent. And if one cannot intend to act justly without some knowledge of the just, one cannot have evil intention without some knowledge of evil. Most would agree that evil acts are so by nature. We take it that this implies that all men know what an evil act is. That is, to say that evil acts are so by nature is equivalent to saying that man naturally knows what acts are evil, or more generally, that man naturally knows what is by nature. But Caliban clearly does not have this knowledge (or has it in a different way), since he seems wholly to lack evil intent. This prompts the question of what difference between Caliban's nature and man's nature underlies his ignorance and our knowledge. Reflexively, one leaps to suggest man's rationality as the distinction. But Caliban appears to confound this idea, as he is in some way rational, and yet does not seem to know what is by nature. Then we must say whether man is rational in a sense that Caliban is not, or whether knowing by nature what is by nature is due to some other property that belongs to man but not to Caliban. If we were to adopt the first of these alternatives, namely, to conclude that Caliban is not rational in the proper sense, there arises a difficulty. If his rationality is to be distinguished from that of man, it must be done on grounds other than that of the ability to reason (since he appears to have that), and it seems like there are only two (related) options: the objects to which he applies reason, and the manner in which his reason is applied. The first of these alternatives certainly looks inviting, since one would imagine that there are objects about which Caliban would have difficulty reasoning. The difference could perhaps be captured by defining proper rationality as the capacity to reason abstractly, or as the capacity for intellection. The second of these alternatives is likewise appealing, since one could say that reasoning applied only to the satisfaction of desire is merely animal instinct given language, and so define proper rationality as the ability to reason with the desire to know. The two alternatives are nearly equivalent, so they may both stand as the consequence of assuming that Caliban, though he can reason, is not rational in the fullest sense. But neither illuminates why man knows by nature what is by nature, since when we say that man by nature knows what is evil, we do not have in mind a reasoning process, but as said before, something like an instinct for what is by nature. The ability to reason abstractly, therefore, or the ability to reason 12 MAGICAL POLITICS desiring to obtain knowledge, does not completely account for man's advantage over Caliban. The other alternative, then, is to name the property of man, deficient in Caliban, which allows him to know by nature what is by nature. Since we see Caliban's deficiency in this regard manifested in his asocial nature, it seems right to examine compassion, taken as the fundamental social virtue. Compassion (in the sense of knowledge of the likeness of others to oneself), when found in a rational creature, can be seen as a kind of knowledge: it makes the likeness of other men to oneself an intelligible fact, from which reason may proceed; in other words, compassion is what permits man knowledge of his own nature. It is the source of man's capacity for intellection about man. And so I think if compassion is natural in man, it is what permits man to know what is by nature (inasmuch as it permits him to know his own nature). But Caliban is not a man, and he knows it. Therefore, lacking compassion, he is not.by nature social, and so good and evil natures (which belong to man as social) have no meaning with respect to him: he has potential for neither. This makes it seem that Caliban is not fully conscious of himself: whereas man is naturally introspective, Caliban is not. Thus it may be that it was more right than it first appeared to suggest that human rationality is distinguished by its objects or its motivation. Caliban's lack of understanding of his nature is perhaps the strongest argument that he is not human, for when we speak of being rational, we mean rational and conscious of that rationality. If ther~ is any sense in which Caliban is rational, it is not a self-conscious one: he has neither the means nor the inclination to reason about himself. So it seems that he does not "know his own meaning", but only his purposes. Language puts Caliban somewhere between a syllogistic wolf and the self-consciously ration.al being (for a mere animal could not have understood the necessity of seizing Prospero's books) in that understanding language only gives him access to more information. Since he only uses the information gained from language to vent his desires, he is not rational in the same way that man is. Something like awareness of nature is probably still at the heart of this: man delights in language and reason for their own sake (rather than merely to serve desire) exactly because he is aware of these faculties in himself. In one respect, Antonio is much like Caliban, in that neither has a conscience to obstruct the satisfaction of his desires. But while Caliban has no pretensions to humanity (though perhaps he has hopes), Antonio tries to hide his lack of human compassion under the skin of a social creature. In his speech to Sebastian he shows that he understands himself perfectly on this point: Here lies your brother, No better than the earth he lies upon, If he were that which now he's like-that 's dead, /Whom I with this obedient steel, three inches of it, /Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus,/To the perpetual wink for aye might put /This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who /Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest, They '11 take suggestion as a cat laps milk; They' 11 tell the clock to any business that We say befits the hour. (Il.i.280-9) Prospero's comment on Antonio, "You, brother mine, that entertain' d ambition, ex pell' d remorse and nature ... Would here have kill'd your king, I do forgive thee, unnatural as thou art." (V.i.75-9) illuminates this disparity. "Unnatural" is precisely the right word, for the compassion that causes men to act well to each other (and so makes man social) is exactly absent in Antonio and Sebastian. Despite this, they preserve the appearance (but not the reality) of a social creature, using it to satisfy a desire that is peculiarly social: power. This concealment, which Prospero undoes, is perhaps the most awful perversion of civilized man. Miranda and Antonio are opposites in that they represent high perfection and low corruption, but are alike in that they are "nurtured". In other important respects, however, Miranda is very like Caliban. Both are the offspring of magicians expelled from human society, and both have had nearly no contact with mankind as a result of having been brought up on the island. Their island is a paradise: it furnishes fresh water and food (as we know from Caliban's account of his services to King Stephano), and the climate is presumed hospitable. Nothing in Caliban's various accounts suggests that the island's magical properties result from Prospero, so we assume they belong to the 13 �ENERGEIA island itself. I recall no mention of any remotely harmful thing residing there- nor, in fact, of any animals whatsoever, save small edibles. There are only magical creatures, who fill the island with music and sound. The foremost feature of the island is thus, I think, its unreality, and this taints Miranda, making her perfection strange. Despite her embodiment of the finest characteristics of nurture, she, unlike Antonio, is not the product of any society, but of Prospero's careful education: Here in this island we arri v' d, and here Have I, thy schoolmaster, make thee more profit Than other princess' can, that have more time For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful. (I.ii .171--4) In its general form, this resembles the suggestion I think implicit in the Republic that the perfection of nature comes about through a deliberate act of reason (in this case Prospero's), and not by chance: not simply by nurture, but by design. As Prospero intends her to rule (and hopefully better than he), this care is doubly appropriate. Both he and his brother "new create" others with an eye on political aims, but while Antonio 's creation breeds vice, Prospero's stories have bred a virtuous ruler. This perfection of nature through reason is the aim of Prospero's Art, as Ariel's speech to the "three men of sin" indicates: But remember, (For that's my business to you) that you three From Milan did supplant good Prospero, Expose' d unto the sea (which hath requit it) Him, and his innocent child; for which foul deed The pow'rs, delaying (not forgetting), have Incens' d the seas and shores-yea, all the creatures, Against your peace. (IIl.iii.68-75) Prospero, that is, has animated the hand of nature according to the demands of justice and reason, motivated by love for his daughter. While nature of her own strength will reward sloth, overindulgence, and the like, the "cankered mind" finds its reward from such human (and hence unreliable) sources as law and vengeance. Ironically, Alonso calls the events of the play's end "unnatural", the more unnatural viciousness of Antonio and Sebastian having escaped him. Contrary to his opinion, the nature of The Tempest, embodied by Ariel, is both animate and has a conscience, though perhaps it is apolitical: Antonio's betrayal has its natural reward only in the slavishness it requires; its temporal reward must come from Prospero. It is nature's conscience that makes it at once susceptible to Prospero's guidance, and, sadly, unreal. It may be this that accounts for Prospero's tone at the end of the play. He doesn't seem exactly sad, but he doesn't seem truly happy either. Mostly, he seems ready to die. His famous speech: You do look, my son, in a mov'd sort, As if you were dismay'd; be cheerful, sir. Our revels now are ended. These our actors (As I foretold you) were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air, And like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself; Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And like this insubstantial pageant faded /Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff I As dreams are made on; and our little life /Is rounded with a sleep.(IV.i.146--58) is tinged with the unmistakable melancholy of a lonely man. Prospero cares for two things in all the world: Milan and his daughter. But Prospero knows that he must return Miranda to the world of men, where he cannot himself live. As he acknowledges, he is at the end of the play engaged in a departure which will mean the end of his life . His great human drama is so dedicated also to ensuring that the things that are important to him are well and orderly disposed. Prospero appears to be substantially unchanged from the time, twelve years past, that his "library was dukedom large enough" (I.ii. I 09-10). Prospero's return to society entails the renunciation of his magic, which does not belong to the world of men, and by means of which he found a satisfying kingdom in the island. By his magic, natural power serves the just rule of man's reason, transmuting Alonso's submerged guilt into redemptive penitence, Ferdinand's and Miranda 's apparent nobility into graceful matrimony, Antonio's and Sebastian's hid- 14 M AGIC A L POLITICS that no long~r need serve him, nor will; to fall back on the hands of humanity, which will hopefully bear the careworn mage gently to his grave. His island has been a meeting place for nature and nurture, wherein all the possibilities are explored: the perfection of Miranda, and the imperfection of Caliban; the hopelessness of Antonio's evil, and the hope implied by Alonso's penitence and Gonzalo's nobility. The two worlds never really meet: Prospero is left with the memory of a paradise that could not fully be a kingdom, since nature's spirits belong ultimately to her, not to man; and Caliban is left with the memories of "brave spirits" that he can never become, and of a beautiful woman whom he cannot love. We can picture the two of them ending their lonesome days in their respective kingdoms, the brief touch of which leaves each impossibly wanting what belongs to the other's world. • den and hollow inhumanity into clear and gruesome treachery, and Prospero's own banishment into the opportunity to achieve these ends. In the island, "temporal royalties" and what may be termed "philosophical royalties" are one. Miranda's question, "What foul play had we, that we came from thence? Or blessed was't we did?" (l.ii.60-1) seems to imply that nobody would willingly relinquish temporal rule, but also that ruling the less "temporal" kingdom of the island surpasses it. Though Prospero always held the source of rightful authority in Milan (the love of his people), he effectively relinquished temporal rule by putting it in Antonio's hands, thinking that love and trust would protect him. In Milan, Prospero had to choose between the two sorts of royalties, but on the island he does not. The practical administration of that kingdom requires only the application of true Art and learning. 2 Magic is the means to all this, the agents of which Prospero addresses as: Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves, I And ye that on the sands with printless foot /Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him /When he comes back, you demi-puppets that /By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, /Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime /Is to make midnight mushrumps, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew... (V.i.33--40) There are no elves of cities, it seems, nor sprites of houses and fairies of roads. As the agents of magical power withdraw from the concentrations of men, Prospero must do so also to rule the perfect kingdom, a kingdom which is consequently small-though while it endures, an ideal, where music may be had for nothing. Prospero's island does not depend on him for its essence; and there is certainly something to Caliban's claim that he is an usurper, for Caliban belongs there more surely than he. Prospero's tenure on the island is inevitably temporary-it serves a purpose, but he must leave ; and leave there the instruments of magic 2 0f course, the island is made in the image of other rulers also. To Prospero's rule of reason we may compare Gonzalo's kingdom (II.i.144-69) of innocent and ignorant primitives, Stephano's coalition of murderous but essentially carefree drunkards, and Caliban's simple and undemanding anarchy. 15 �The Motion of a Stretched String: A Series of Haiku and Equations An Evening At Home With Doctor Faustus 1 By Jesse Berney By Hermann Hesse Translated by Eva T.H. Brann The taut striMg vibrates. We must describe its motion. But how? Equati011s. We describe two curoes. Two ratios are the same, Formed by ordinates. On these string-like curves Displacement and curvature Are in proportion. Acceleration Of any point on the curve Is as curvature. 2 2 2 d y/dx ad y/dt 2 All points on the string Reach the axis at one time. How is this explained? It is like our curves: Displacement and curvature Are in proportion. A function of "x," The curve is sinusoidal: Crest to trough to crest. d2y/dx2 = -k y y :i= A sin(kx) Our function describes The string still in one instant, Not its whole motion. Acceleration Proportional to distance, A function of "t" Combine our functions. Our equation now has both Time and displacement. Curves move down a line. This is a function of both Displacement and time. The speed of this "wave" Is determined by the string: Its tension and mass. More derivations Discover all the constants. Complete equation. d 2y/dt 2 = -roy ; y = B cos(cot) f(Jt,t) = C sin(kx) cos( rot) y = g(x-ut) Doctor Johann Faustus was sitting in his dining room together with his friend Doctor Eisenhart (the great-grand-father, incidentally, of the physician who later on became so famous 2 ). The sumptuous evening meal had been removed. From the heavy gilded goblets rose the bouquet of an old Rhine wine. The two musicians who had performed at dinner had just disappeared - a lutenist and a flautist. "Well, now I will give you the promised sampling," said Doctor Fa~stus and poured a draught of the old wine down his gullet, which had grown somewhat fat. He was no longer a young man; it was two or three years before his frightful end. "As I already told you, my assistant sometimes produces these droll apparatuses, by means of which one can see and hear this and that - things far off from us, or long passed away, or yet in the future. Today let us try out the future. The fellow seems to have invented something very amusing and curious, you know. So just as he has often shown us, in magic mirrors, the heroes and beauties of the past, he has now invented something for the ears, a sound funnel. It allows us to hear the noises which will be heard in the distant future in just the same spot in which the sound apparatus is positioned." "Might it perhaps be, my dear friend, that you serving spirit is swindling you a little?" "I don't think so," said Faustus. "For black magic the future is not at all unattainable. As you know, we 1 u 2 = S/µ 1928-30. In translating it, I disclaim any reflection on the sounds enveloping our quad on a balmy spring afternoon. 2 f(x,t) = C cos(cot) sin(2n/A.)x This vignette was revised by H. H. for publication in the years A reputed quack who lived from 1663-1727 and was memorialized in a German children's song as "the Doctor Eisenhart who cured the folk by his own art." When I was little I confused him with the serial killer of wives, Bluebeard, who was invented about that time. have always proceeded on the assumption that events on earth are, without exception, subject to the law of cause and effect. Therefore nothing about the future can be changed, anymore than about the past: The future too is fixed through the law of causality. Thus it is already there, only we do not yet see it and taste it. As the mathematician and the astronomer can calculate the occurrence of an eclipse accurately far in advance, just so any other part of the future we please could be made visible and audible to us, if we had invented a method for it. As it happens, Mephistopheles has invented a sort of di vining rod for the ear; he has built a trap in which tones are captured. We have tried it out repeatedly. Sometimes, to be sure, nothing becomes audible at all, because we just happened to come on a void in the future, on a point of time at which nothing audible is taking place in our room. At other times we have heard all kinds of things; for example, we once heard some people, who will live in the far future, speak of a poem in which are sung the deeds of Doctor Faustus, that is, my own. But enough; let us try it out." At his call the domestic spirit appeared in his customary gray monk's cowl. He set a small machine with a sound funnel on the table and urgently enjoined the gentlemen to refrain from all comment during the whole process. Then he cranked the machine, which began to work with a low, soft buzzing. For a long time nothing was heard but this suspenseful buzzing, to which the two doctors listened expectantly. Then suddenly a tone, never before heard, shrilled forth: an evil, devilish howling, of which it was impossible to say whether it stemmed from a serpent-monster or perhaps from a raging demon. Impatient, warning, angry, commanding, the evil tone screamed, repeating itself in short, fierce pulses, as if a hunted dragon had come whistling through the room. Doctor Eisenhart grew pale and breathed in relief when �ENERGEIA the horrid scream, having frequently repeated itself at ever increasing range, faded into the distance. There followed a silence, but then another sound became audible: a male voice, coming as from a great distance, in an urgently preaching tone. The listeners could understand fragments of the speech and take them down on writing tablets that had been placed ready to hand, for example the sentences: " ... and so, following the shining example of America, the ideal of economic enterprise marches irresistibly toward its victorious perfection and realization. .. .While on the one hand the standard of living of the worker has reached a height never heretofore experienced, ... and we can say without presumptuousness that by means of present-day production techniques the childlike dreams of paradise dreamed by earlier ages are more than ... " Again silence. Then came a new voice, a deep, earnest voice, which spoke thus: "Ladies and gentlemen, I request you lend an ear to a new poem, a creation of the great Nicholas Underwhelm3 of whom it may well be said that he, as no one else, has turned inside out the innermost recesses of our time, has most wisely discerned the sense and non-sense of our existence: He holds the chimney in his hands. From either cheek a flipper's hung. According as the mercury stands, He climbs the ladders without rung. So up along long ladders climbs He. Clouds are lining for his cloak He longs to save a life betimes. He's overcome with nolicroak. Doctor Faustus was able to write down the larger part of this poem. Eisenhart too took notes assiduously. A sleepy voice, without doubt the voice of an older woman or a spinster now became audible. It said: "Boring program! As if the radio had been invented for that! Well, at least here comes some music." And, indeed, some music now broke out, a wild, lascivious music with a very steady beat, now blaring, 3 The poem by Underwhelm ("Unterschwang") is in the style of Christian Morgenstern, a zany surrealistic poet writing early in the twentieth century. now languishing, a totally unfamiliar, alien, indecent, malevolent music of howling, quacking, and cackling wind instruments, vibrating with the banging of gongs, overridden now and then by a singing, howling vocalization, which ejaculated words and verses \nan unknown language. In between, at regular intervals, was emitted the mystifying verse: The world will marvel at your hair If you use Go go for its care! That first, malevolent, furious,, warning tone, too, that dragon-howling full of torment and rage, audibly interjected itself from time to time. When the domestic spirit had, with a smile, brought his machine to a stop, the two scholars looked at each other curiously, with a painful feeling of embarrassment and shame, as if they had unintentionally become the witnesses of an indecent and forbidden occurrence. Both of them reviewed their notes and showed them to each other. Finally Faustus said: "What do you think of it?" Doctor Eisenhart drank a long draught from his beaker. He looked at the floor and remained thoughtful and silent for a long time. Finally he said more to himself that to his friend: "It is horrifying. There cannot be any doubt about the fact that that humanity out of whose life we just heard a sampling is insane. These are our progeny, the sons of our sons, the great-grandchildren of our great-grand-children whom we heard saying such dubious, sad, confused things, who emit such dread-inducing screams, who sing such unintelligible idiot verses. Our progeny, friend Faustus, will terminate in insanity." "I don't want to assert that so definitely," Faustus said. "Your point of view has nothing unlikely about it, to be sure, but still it is more pessimistic than necessary. Just because here, in one single, limited spot on earth, such wild, despairing, indecent and indubitably insane tones are heard, that does not actually have to mean that all of humanity has become mentally ill. It could, after all, be the case that on this spot where we happen to be a madhouse will be located in a few centuries and that we got to hear fragments from it. Or it could be that a party of total drunks treated us to their brain-storms. Just think of the bellowing of a merry crowd, perhaps at a carnival. That sounds quite similar. But what takes me aback are those other tones, 18 AN EVENING AT HOME WITH DOCTOR FAUSTUS those screams, which cannot have been produced either by human voices or by musical instruments. They sound, so it seems to me, absolutely devilish. It can only be demons that utter such tones." He turned to Mephistopheles: "Would you possibly know something about this? Can you tell us what sort of tones we have just heard?" "We have indeed heard," said the domestic spirit and smiled, "demonic tones. The earth, gentlemen, half of which is, to be sure, already today the property of the devil, will within a certain time belong to him altogether and will form a part, a province of hell. You have expressed yourself somewhat harshly and negatively about the tonal and verbal language of this earthly hell. To me, however, it seems at any rate noteworthy and nice that in hell too there will be music and poetry. That is the function of Belial, to whom this whole department reports. I think he does his job rather nicely." • 19 �FORM OF LANGUAGE The Form of language By Beatrice Robbins Socrates claims thatthought is internal discourse. (Thea. 189e) Therefore, language is as necessary to thought as it is to conversation. But not all words mean the same things to all people. A word might have a standard definition which, given the existence of the Platonic forms, is wrong. So it seems that the intent of almost every dialogue is the creation of true language. A term is picked: be it justice, knowledge, or table. The rest of the dialogue is spent on comparing per.:. sonal definitions and eliminating false notions in an attempt to find each word's true definition. This perfect definition, were it ever to be found, would, by virtue of its truth, be accepted by and mean the same thing to everyone present. The word in question would be truly standardized, and from there thought would evolve towards understanding truth. The need to standardize language is demonstrated by the dialogues being multi-person conversations, not monologues. Because each participant is an individual there is no assurance that any particular word has the same meaning for him as for anyone else. One knows his own definition of the term in question, but because language is not completely standardized, he can not know exactly what the word means to anyone else. The Sophist' s Stranger explains the problem thus: At present you see, all that you and I possess in common is the name. The thing to which each of us gives that name we may perhaps have privately before our minds, but it is always desirable to have reached an agreement about the thing itself by means of explicit statements, rather than be content to use the same word without formulating what it means (Soph. 218c) 1• 1 Quotes from The Sophist, Theatetus, and Timaeus are to be found in: Plato, The Collected Dialogues of Plato, Edith Hamilton, ed.,(New Jersey, Princeton University Press, 1989). Sophist - pp. 958-1017, Theatetus - pp. 847-919, Timaeus - pp. 1153-1211. For the discussion to work as an interchange of ideas, the terms involved must mean the same thing to all those involved. To reach any meaningful conclusion, the thought and communication must be done with terms for which the standardized definition is the true definition. This need leads to the format of and material in the dialogues, most noticeably in the Theatetus and the Sophist. , In each dialogue, the quest for each true, standard definition begins with a question. Socrates provides examples: "But if our guest wil1 allow me, I should like to ask him what his countrymen thought and how they used these names ... sophist, statesman, philosopher (Soph. 217)," and, "Then knowledge and wisdom are the same things (Thea. 145e)." The question clearly and simply provides the terms which are to be the focus of the dialogue, and asks for their definitions. Because this is the obvious commencement of philosophical dialectic, one might claim that at this point thought begins. Perception, however, must be prior to thought of any type. Before one begins to think he must have something to think about. It need not be a sight, as suggested in the Timaeus, where vision is recognized as the foundation of philosophy (Tim.47a-b), although sight seems the most easily acceptable of the perceptions. Smell, taste, and hearing work just as well . That the perception is is the only necessity; there is nothing else to spark man's though process. Only after he has perceived something can he name it and begin to inquire about its nature. Thought will be further affected by later perceptions. Perception never stops causing and mutating thought. But it is from questioning the original perception that thought begins. Philosophy 's reliance on perception raises the problem of the forms: how can man inquire about the forms when he surely can not perceive them? No man's inquiries can start with the forms. He can ask, "What is Justice?" only after having perceived and identified some act or acts of justice or injustice as such. Whether or not he identifies them correctly is we' follow or get left behind (Soph. 243b)." In other words, Euclid is using terms whose standard definitions are not commonly understood. And, even the modern notion of defining a plane by three non-colinear points is confusing. For to understand that idea, one must understand exactly what a point is. So, while higher math and geometry are standardized, at their roots one finds the same problem that Theatetus, Socrates, and language face: irrelevant at this stage; he has merely found something about which he can begin to inquire. And, after recognizing that same property inherent in many actions, he might begin to guess at the existence of imperceptible forms to provide an explanation for the various perceived similarities. Perhaps the overwhelming dependence in perception is responsible for a general dependence in metaphors. When a concept seems to elevated, vague, or difficult to grasp, it is often made easier to understand by metaphorical transformation into perceivable images. Because metaphors force one to call an image of a concrete entity to mind, it becomes possible to 'see' the relationship in question. From that internal perception, thought about the abstraction develops. For the same reason, some concepts are so elevated one can only begin to attempt their comprehension through metaphor. Hence, Socrates uses them constantly in The Republic's allegories of the cave and the divided line. The need of metaphor, while painfully apparent, is troublesome to one attempting to standardize a true language. For, what could be farther from using each word as its one true meaning demands than using a seemingly random selection of words to illustrate various other, unrelated words? Metaphors are nothing more than a "common use of words and phrases, which the vulgar twist into any sense they please (Thea . 168c )" . In a true and standardized language, there would be neither metaphors, nor any need of them. Math may be taken as the closest thing to a model for standardized human language. The closest one may come to a figure of speech is an analogy, or ratio, between like terms. Terms are either precisely defined or defined as unknowns. There is only one meaning of scalene triangle. It is a triangle with no sides equal. There is only one meaning of triangle: a three sided figure on one plane. But, what is the exact definition of a plane? Euclid calls it "a surface which lies evenly with the straight lines on itself (Elem . bk. 1, def. 7)2," for which he, like the great ancient philosophers, might be faulted with "showing too little consideration for ordinary people like ourselves ... (and) pursuing his own argument to the conclusion without caring whether the first elements of which we and all other things consist are such that no account can . be given of them. Each of them just by itself can only be named; we cannot attribute to it anything further. .. (Thea. 201e-202) This, too, is one of the paradoxes of language. The most simple concepts, the elements, are undefinable but necessary to all that follows. Perhaps this similarity between the language of math and philo.sophy is one of the reasons Socrates puts the mathematical world 'immediately before the philosophical on his divided line (Republic . 510a5 llc)3. Perhaps, also, one must learn from the standardization present in the maths what he is searching for with philosophy. Math shows one mostly standardized language in a purely theoretical world, while, through philosophy one hopes to gain a standardized, true language which will work even in its starting place, the perceivable world. But the dependence on perception remains, presenting a difficulty. In the Sophist, the Stranger suggests that: "thinking and discourse are the same thing, except what we call thinking is precisely, the inward dialogue carried on by the mind with itself without spoken sound. (Soph. 263e)" And in the Theatetus, Socrates himself claims that the process of thinking is: "a discourse that the mind carries on with itself about any subject it is considering ... 2 Euclid, Elements,translated by Sir Thomas L. Heath, Robert McHenry, ed., In Great Books of the Western World, vol 10, 3 Plato, Republic, translated by Allan Bloom, (New York, HarperCollins, 1991. ), 190-191 (USA, Encyclopedia Brittanica Inc, 1990). 21 �ENERGEIA when the mind is thinking, it is simply talking to itself, asking questions and answering them, and saying yes and no ... So I should describe thinking as discourse, and judgment as a statement pronounced, not aloud to someone else, but silently to oneself. (Thea. 189e-l 90)" In other words, by Socrates' definition at least, thought is purely internal dialogue. As said briefly before, if this is so, thought demands language. Man must have a language in order to identify, name, and ponder his perceptions. But he must have perceptions before he can develop a language naming them. Perceptions give rise to names. Man saw rock, food, fire, before he began to try to communicate their existence to his fellow creatures. But surely as he was able to recognize his food for himself before he was able to name it. Isn't that thought? Perhaps rather than being thought, the recognition of food is an instinct or the beginning of an action. Urges to action and reason, although often coincidental, are not the same thing. One dances by muscle memory, eats and dodges oncoming cars by instinct. Impulses to action are not decisions. No internal dialectic is involved,. They are immediate reactions to the situation, an ability shared by all men and most animals. Thought, however, even if it be thought towards an action, is a slow, deliberative process: "Knowledge does not reside in the impressions, but in our reflection upon them (Thea. 186d)." But what provoked man to develop language, and how could he think to do it without already having begun? Further, accepting the definition of thought as being internal dialectic, how does one account for the strange difficulty of explaining ideas to others? Even Socrates must "try to put (his idea) into words. (Thea. 165e)" This simple phrase suggests that ideas or thoughts are not recognized in coherent groups of words but need to be structured into them to be communicated, which does not follow if the mind thinks by "simply talking to itself (Thea. 190)." That the mind thinks in its own variation of the common language is only a partly valid explanation. One must speak the language he thinks in. The two processes feed off each other; neither can develop without the other. On the other hand, it is not necessary that the mind use with itself exactly the same manner of speech that it uses when communicating with others. External language must be much more standardized than internal language, because, while one is sure to understand one's own thoughts, for others to understand these same thoughts as they were conceived they must understand the organization of and the terms used. Hence the need for the standardizing tools of grammar, punctuation, and common vocabulary. The more abstract and complicated the thought is, the greater the need for precise, comprehensible language. Man can not point at Truth the way he .can at food. He must be able to comprehend it with thought and explain it with words. The better standardized the language, the greater the chance the explanation will be understood. Hypothetically, truly standardized language, meaning language in which the one true definition for each word was know and understood, would allow perfect knowledge. Because it would be the only possible perfect, exact language, it would be the form of language. As such, it would allow absolute knowledge of the forms. One would actually know what Virtue was. One would know all Truth. But, as previously stated, language can never be truly standardized because it is based on ideas too fundamental to be explained. Just as Theatetus has far more difficulty in explaining letters than syllables, so one can explain a sentence or paragraph far more easily than the terms it uses. And, other words must be used to explain the terms in question, creating the need for further explanations in an ever-growing, meaningobscuring cycle. Additionally, because language is a human, bodily function, it can not ever actually 'reach' the forms. Humans, being a conglomeration of both body and soul, are not perfect creatures and can never reach perfect understanding, "We have intercourse with becoming by means of the body through sense, whereas we have intercourse with real being by means of the soul through reflection (Soph. 248)." Reflection, or internal dialectic, is the only way to use the soul. But, the perfect soul is shackled by the imperfect body, and so, the form of language as well as the rest of the forms, can never be reached. Language can never be completely true and completely standardized. Completely standardized language in the modem sense is not 'true language'. It is what computers speak. It is inhuman language for the lowest common 22 FORM OF LANGUAGE denominator. The emphasis is on standardization and not on truth. All that matters is that everyone understand the one definition for each term in the same way. What the definition is has little significance. And, because it allows no room for spontaneous expressions, for emotion, for the ever-changing connotations of words, it can only be the almost meaningless language of machines, a dead language. Attic Greek is far more standardized in the twentieth century than any current language, but one must use his own language to define Greek terms. So, while most Greek words have an accepted English definition, the translations themselves are part of the ever mutating English language, and thus are not completely standardized. No spoken human language can be because human thought is not stagnant. One grow, encounters and perceives new images and ideas, and his though process changes. No two people go through exactly the same metamorphosis, so no two manners of thought, and thus, no two personal dialects, can be exactly alike. And so, while Socrates strives towards both standardization and truth, even his lesser goal is an impossibility. "True" language, too, that seems the goal of philosophy, must be eternally static. Rather than subhuman, it must somehow be superhuman. "True" language can easily be imagined as the language of the gods. But, for the same reasons completely standardized human language is impossible, completely true language is impossible. "True" language faces the additional difficulty of at once being responsible for · and acquiring absolute knowledge. To create the language of the gods, the form of language, one must know all perfectly. To fully know all, one must use the form of language. So, the best one can hope to do is as Socrates does: attempt to purify and make more true his own, ever-changing language while reaching towards the forms. The problem of thought dependent on language is a clear paradox: neither can exist without the other, neither can begin without the other. Dialectic is the best path towards the forms, but grows from base perceptions. Language is necessary to thought, but must evolve with mankind. But if language evolves, how can it hope to reach the changeless, eternal forms? The effort is doomed, but necessary and noble. One must attempt to understand. "To rob us with discourse would be to rob us of philosophy. That would be the most serious consequence. (Soph. 260)" • 23 �THEY DO NOT UNDERSTAND They Do Not Understand: A Discussion of the Heracleitus Fragment Number 12 By Dawn Star Shuman The translation of the Heracleitus fragment number 12 in the series of fragments read for Freshman Language may not be the most difficult of these fragments. However, the nuances of meaning in some of the words are lovely, and the understanding of these nuances makes the meaning of the entire sentence both clearer and more complex. The sentence is as follows in Greek and in my English translatlon: ou ~uvLCiaw ws 8LacpEpoµEvov EauT0 6µoAOYEL. TTaALVTOVOS apµov(a WO"TTEp TO~OU KaL AUTTES They do not understand that in being rent asunder a thing agrees with itself; just like the back-stretched harmony of a bow and of a lyre.. This sentence makes sense grammatically, both as a translation of the Greek and as fluent English. What may not be immediately apparent is that it also makes very good sense as a statement of an idea. Some questions about the idea might be: how does a thing agree with itself? What is this thing? What kind of understanding are they failing in? The answers to these kinds of questions lead to a possible explanation of what the sentence means. cvvLCiaw is a form of the verb CJ'UV-L11µL, meaning "to bring or set together, in hostile sense ... mataph. to perceive, hear... 2. to understand." 1 This adds the idea of opposition to the more basic sense of perception and understanding. In this sense, understanding Except where otherwise noted, definitions for the Greek come from: Intennediate Greek-English Lexicon, Liddell and Scott, 7 ed. 1 might be the setting together of a prior knowledge in a person's mind with a fact or perception of the outside world and thereby coming to a new idea or knowledge about a thing. It is important to detail the relationships between the three verbs in the first part of the sentence. ~uvLCiaLV is the main finite verb. 6µo)..oyE'Lis also a finite verb which is modified by the circumstantial participle 8LacpEpoµEvov . The manual gives the meanings of6µ0)..oyE'L1s "agree, admit, or allow." Although I do believe it to be the most concise translation, there is something awkward about saying that a thing agrees with itself in English. It carries the sense of something maintaining internal consistency. But another possible meaning of 6µo)..oyEL is "simply to make an agreement, come to terms ... with another." With that meaning, agreement with itself might imply a process of reaching internal consistency rather than maintaining it. It is clear that Heracleitus is attributing this process of agreement directly to the circumstance of being rent asunder, not simply describing two concurrent events. I have translated apµov(a as harmony. This meaning is given in the Lexicon as the third possibility. Harmony in English does have some of the same connotations as apµov(a: in Greek, and I feel it is important to notice them. One meaning in Greek is "a fastening to keep ship-planks together, a clamp ... a joining, joint, between a ship's planks." This kind of joining is literally what is necessary for a stretched bow or lyre to remain whole. Another meaning given is "a covenant, agreement, settled government, order." In a bow, this might be a metaphorical covenant between the frame and the bowstring not to part. These meanings are consistent with the English connotations of harmony, which can mean "1. agreement; accord; harmonious relations. 2. a consistent, orderly, or pleasing arrangement of parts; congruity ." 2 Beyond the details of what each word means by itself is what they all mean together. I do not know who They are, but I do believe I understand how Heracleitus means that they do not understand. Understanding is the setting together of two possibly contradictory things in a person's mind and through examination finding their common purpose or meaning. A question that cannot be answered by looking at the text is what this thing is. Because the sentences in general are aphorisms, it seems likely that the thing is supposed to represent any particular thing a person might think of, including the people who do not understand. They do not understand how it is that they themselves could ever understand in his meaning of the word. Being rent asunder is compared to a bow being back-stretched. Thi~ means that the rending is not a destruction but something that allows the thing to do what it is supposed to do. When a bow is stretched, the wood and string are wrenched apart and a strong fastening at the point of connection is what allows the bow to impart energy to an arrow. What the thing is supposed to do depends upon the thing. They do not admit that they themselves can only be and function as whole things, as units, because they contain contradictory parts or ideas which play against each other. I am willing to admit that possibility, and to really consider it by comparing the differing ideas on the subject, which They apparently were not.• 2 Webster's Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language, s. v. "harmony" I fl 25 �".F O R HE UNLOCKED THE HIDDEN TREASURES OF TRUTH" ton puts forth the fundamental aspect of his method: In this philosophy [experimental philosophy] particular propositions are [deduced2] from the phenomena, and afterward rendered general by induction. (Ibid, 547) "For He Unlocked the Hidden Treasures of Truth" Entertaining Ourselves with the Delightful Contemplation of Newton's Principia By Janice Cater With his preface to the first edition of the Principia Newton gives to the student of his system unusual insight into his ideas of geometry and mathematics as a whole. He says in this preface that his purpose in writing is to explain mathematically the natural forces of the world. In putting forth this statement of intent, he implies that he believes natural forces are governed by mathematics, for what purpose would it serve to explain something mathematically that is not in fact ruled by mathematics? Such an explanation would be no more than an interesting account, one no more valid than any other. This important aspect of Newton's thought is frequently misunderstood. Often his approach is described as giving only a mathematical analogue to nature. By this analysis his method has three parts: first, a presentation of nature simplified and idealized, creating a system in geometric space in which mathematical entities move in mathematical time according to specific conditions expressible as mathematical laws or relations. Consequences are deduced by mathematical techniques and then transferred to the physical world. Second, a comparison of these results with experiential data and the results from such data. Successive attempts at correction of the original mathematical construct, which in turn alter the second stage, lead to a more accurate representation. Third, an application of the results of stages one and two to natural philosophy, in order to elaborate the entire system of the world. This stage applies results to the entire system rather than to individual objects, i.e., applying them to all planets rather than just to Jupiter. Even objects which are very dissimilar are included. For example, the same laws govern the forces of the planets in orbit as do the motions of falling bodies on earth. While the above account is perhaps a plausible reading of the Principia, it does not truly capture the spirit of the work or of the man behind it. From his words in the Preface and his letters to Oldenberg and Cotes, it is clear that Newton has something greater in mind. He believes that mathematics rules the world, that it is universal and basic to all beings. Hence, an explication of the system of the world must necessarily be a mathematical one. The Principia is not a mathematical reduction of the world, neither, however, can it be called an exact replica. A careful examination of this work provides ample evidence for attributing to Newton the belief that he had set out the only true method of describing the system of the world. In defense of this reading of the Principia, an account of Newton's method is crucial. While any sort of in depth inquiry into his method would yield volumes of findings, we can, for the moment, be satisfied with an identification of several major characteristics of his style. He says in the Preface: I wish we could derive the rest of the phenomena of Nature by the same kind of reasoning from mechanical principles, for I am induced by many reasons to suspect that they may all depend upon certain forces .... These forces being unknown, philosophers have hitherto attempted the search of Nature in vain; but I hope the principles here laid down will afford some light either to this or some truer philosophy (Principia, xviii). 1 The method of "reasoning from mechanical principles" is at the very core of his entire endeavor. Introduced in only a few words here in the Preface, its meaning is revealed only through statements of his method found elsewhere. At the end of the General Scholium, New- But hitherto I have not been able to discover the cause of those properties of gravity from phenomena, and I frame no hypotheses; for whatever is not deduced from the phenomena is to be called an hypothesis; and hypotheses, whether metaphysical or physical, whether of occult qualities or mechanical, have no place in experimental philosophy. (Ibid, 547) The process of deducing propositions from phenomena and then rendering them general by induction is very important in the Principia. It elucidates the distinction Newton makes between the physical and the rational. While he clearly values both components as necessary to science, he has extremely strong views on their respective roles. Comprised of two parts, the deductive process begins with phenomena, the visible and humanly accessible world. Through analysis of the general principles one conclusions both certain and necessary are drawn 3 • This step gives the boundaries of the particular inquiry, setting the stage for the thorough mathematical investigation. The next step is inductive; through synthesis, from the specific principles uncovered and proved through the mathematics, one arrives at general principles. Newton works from the physical world, to the rational, and back to the physical; while each is necessary, the roles are quite distinct. Also present throughout his works is appreciation for geometry as a science Newton's; he clearly values the accuracy of its method. To him, it is the only logical way to attack the problem of accounting for natural phenomena. Unlike his contemporaries, Newton was quite wary of using hypotheses. He is often quoted as saying "hypotheses non fingo" - I frame no hypotheses. This statement can be quite misleading, for he did in fac use hypotheses. (The Optics, in particular, is full of them.) No science can progress, no knowledge can be gained without hypotheses. With due attention to Newton's own words, howe~er, his true meaning becomes clear. The passage in question reads: This passage does indeed seem to be disavowing all hypotheses within experimental philosophy. However, he is speaking of the causes of gravity. Since Newton can deduce nothing of the sort from phenomena, he is not free to continue along such a line of reasoning. The strength of such reasoning lies in the certainty and necessity that comes with deduction from phenomena. Replacing this step with an hypothesis could not possibly lead to any definite knowledge. In a letter to Oldenberg, Newton elaborates his manner of using hypotheses: ... For the best and safest method of philosophizing seems to be, first, to inquire diligently into the properties of things and to establish those properties by experiments, and to proceed later to hypotheses for the explanation of things themselves. For hypotheses ought to be applied only in the explanation of the properties of things, and not made use of in determining them; except in so far as they may furnish experiments (Thayer, 5) 4 • He continues, a little later, to warn of what may follow misuse of hypotheses: And if anyone offers conjectures about the truth of things from the mere possibility of hypotheses, I do not see by what stipulation anything certain can be determined in any science; since one or another set of hypotheses may always be devised which will appear to supply new difficulties. (Ibid, 5) 2 replaces Matte's inferred; from the Latin, "In hac philosophia Propositiones deducuntur ex phrenomenis, et redduntur gerenales per inductionem." 3 Sir Issac Newton, Principia, Cajori revision of the Motte trans- 1 lation, 2 vols. (Berkley, University of California Press, Ltd., 1962) this in contrast to inference, where the formal process is less clear or present. "Newton's Philosophy of Nature, Thayer, H.S., ed., (Hafner Press, New York, 1974), p.5 27 �ENERGEIA In a letter to Cotes, Newton is even more explicit about his use of the word hypothesis: And the word 'hypothesis' is ... used to signify only such a proposition as is not a phenomenon nor deduced from any phenomena, but assumed or supposed - without any experimental proof. (Ibid, 6) Newton recognizes the role hypotheses can be made to play in science and he places the proper restrictions to their use. As he says above, one should begin by · investigating the properties of objects, carefully establishing their behavior through experiment. After one has done this, hypotheses may be formed to explain these behaviors. Experimental facts must invariably take precedence over any hypotheses which happen to come into conflict with them. Those hypotheses which seem incapable of proof by experiment must be viewed as highly suspicious. The distinction between exact experimental results and mere suggestions derived from hypotheses must be foremost in one's mind at all times. When found to be in irreconcilable conflict with experimental fact, they must be scrupulously eradicated. The strict guidelines Newton sets for himself are presented frequently. In the Rules of Reasoning in Philosophy in Book Three, we discover another such statement. These four rules are not astounding, in fact one would assume that any good scientist proceeds following principles such as the ones laid out here. Rule 1 orders one to keep all explanations simple, and to avoid unnecessary complications of such explanations . Rule 2 requires that the same causes or explanations must be applied to the same phenomena. Rule 3 states that the qualities of bodies derived from experiments are to be regarded as universal. It is in the explication of the third rule that we find another passage attesting to Newton's extremely high opinion of experimentation. As he says here: For since the qualities of bodies are only known to us by experiments, we are to hold for universal all such as universally agree with experiments, and such as are not liable to diminution can never be quite taken away. We are certainly not to relinquish the evidence of experiments for the sake of dreams and vain fictions of our own devising; nor are we to recede from the analogy of Nature, which is wont to be simple and always consonant to itself (Principia, 398). Having a more complete understanding of the strict use of hypotheses, the relationship between the rational and the physical, and the process of deduction from phenomena and subsequent generalization through induction, a clear idea of "reasoning from mechanical principles" is still lacking. The Preface, though merely sketching Newton's ideas and goals for the Principia, does offer a remarkable amount of insight into the role of geometry as it relates to such "reasoning from mechanical principles." Here Newton goes to great lengths to show how mechanics and geometry relate to each other. He begins by making a distinction between the aims of the ancients and those of the moderns. The ancients, he says, valued the science of mechanics more than any other in the investigation of natural phenomena, while the moderns attempted to fit the naturally occurring phenomena into the bounds of mathematics. Mechanics, as understood by the ancients, was a twofold science, comprising both practical and rational components. The rational proceeded by demonstration, the practical by construction and observation. For the ancients all manual arts fell under the heading of practical mechanics, for these arts are not perfectly accurate. Perfect accuracy became for them the property of geometry, distinguishing this science from mechanics in its accuracy only. Newton asserts that this lack of accuracy in mechanics (as opposed to geometry) is due to the artists, not the art. Were there such a thing as a perfect mechanic, he·necessarily would be perfectly accurate. He also asserts that the description of lines and angles belongs to mechanics rather than to geometry. Geometry is concerned with the properties of these objects, not the physical production of the objects themselves. He calls it the "glory of geometry" that it is able to produce so much in spite of so heavy a reliance on the production of these lines and angles by an entirely different science. Geometry, for Newton, is founded on mechanics; one must use mechanics to produce the lines and angles which are required for the study of geometry. Geometry becomes, then, a part of universal mechanics, namely that part which "accurately proposes and 28 "FOR HE UNLOCKED THE HIDDEN TREASURES OF TRUTH" demonstrates the art of measuring." Since the manual arts are concerned primarily with the moving of bodies, geometry is often used to speak of their magnitudes, and mechanics of their motion. In this way, rational mechanics then becomes the science of motions resulting from forces. However, Newton is concerned with only that part ofrational mechanics which deals with natural powers. In explaining the relationship between the two sciences, Newton clearly says that mechanics is the starting point for geometry. Now, geometry is perfect, yet mechanics is not necessarily so, being subject to all of the imperfections of the mechanic. However, a system that begins with an imperfect foundation cannot yield perfect results. In a letter to Cotes, Newton mentions first principles (and their relation to hypotheses) briefly. ... [A]s in geometry, the word 'hypothesis' is not taken in so large a sense as to include the axioms and postulates; so, in experimental philosophy, it is not to be taken in so large a sense as to include the first principles or axioms, which I call the laws of motion. These principles are deduced from phenomena and made general by induction, which is the highest evidence that a proposition can have in this philosophy (Thayer, 6). Since in the Preface Newton claims mechanics provides the foundations of geometry, the laws of motion, which he here names as first principles, must have some relation to mechanics. Because mechanics is the science of the forces which cause motion in bodies, the laws of motion must belong either to mechanics itself, or to geometry, which describes and measures their motion. But, as mentioned earlier, geometry takes its foundations from mechanics in the form of the actual production of lines and circles. The resolution of these two seemingly different concepts of the starting points of geometry (mechanics and the laws of motion) is not yet evident. One possible solution lies in an examination of another mathematician and philosopher, Pascal. In his work "On the Geometrical Mind" Pascal proposes a treatment of geometry and its first principles which offers unusual insight into Newton's own beliefs. In respect to scientific and perfect demonstra- tion of truth, Pascal says: I can give no clearer idea of the procedure we should follow to make our demonstrations convincing than by expounding the method observed in geometry (Pascal, 430). 5 He believes that the only method more rigorous and complete is one that man could never use, for "what goes beyond geometry goes beyond man" (Ibid, 430). This method would involve defining every term and proving every proposition. Simply because he is finite, man cannot participate in this ultimate method of finding truth. The first terms defined would require other terms; the first propositions would rely on prior propositions; in other words, he could never arrive at the first propositions or terms. Even though man is incapable of partaking in this perfect order or method, he should not surmise that any sense of order is outside of his capabilities. While geometry is certainly less convincing than this perfect order, Pascal claims that it is by no means less certain. By this distinction, Pascal only means to point out that geometry falls below the perfect order in failing to define or prove everything. However, this limitation does not weaken the certainty we acsribe to its findings. Geometry is certain in that it only assumes those missing proofs given perfectly clearly by natural light; nature steps in to fill the void left by discourse. Thus, it is perfectly true as well. Geometry does not attempt to define the things that are clear and understood by all men but seeks to define all of the rest. It is obvious that there exist words which cannot be defined. For example, we cannot define any term without using the words it is. Even a definition of being would utilize these two words. Since defining a term by using the term itself fails to yield a valid definition, we must conclude that there exist words which we, as men, cannot define. Nature makes up for this defect in us by providing a common concept of these words. If she had not, we would be unable to speak to each other, for we would have no basis for agreement 5 Blaise Pascal, On the Geometrical Mind, Richard Scofield, trans., In Pascal, Britannica Great Books Series, v. 33, (Chicago, Encyclopredia Britannica, Inc., 1952). 29 �ENERGEIA about the words we use. These terms given by nature are used with the same assurance as those we have had explained to us. Therefore, all of the terms used in geometry are perfectly intelligible either by the natural light or by the definitions given. This is the way in which geometry avoids falling into error in respect of either defining terms or proving propositions. Again, it defines only those terms which need to be defined, and proves only those propositions which are not evident. When in geometry man traces his steps back to the first truths that can be known, he stops there and requires that they be granted since geometry has nothing clearer to prove them with. Thus, all of the propositions in geometry are perfectly demonstrated either by the natural light or by proofs. Since nature supplies all that discourse cannot give, the order of geometry is just as perfect as anything of which man can partake. A telling example of Pascal's first principles is the (fouble infinity. For Pascal, the most important of all the properties that are common to everything is, constituted by the two infinities which are found everywhere, the infinitely great and the infinitely small (Ibid, 434). However great a space there may be, we can always conceive of one greater, and also, however small a space there may be, we can always conceive of one that is smaller. Whatever space we take, there will always be one greater and one lesser, so that everything lies between nothing and infinity, always remaining infinitely far from each extreme. This cannot be demonstrated, yet it is one of the foundations of geometry. While geometry can neither define its objects nor prove its principles, it is neither deficient in clarity nor in truth. Man has no knowledge more basic than this double infinity or any that surpasses it in clarity. Even so, since man cannot completely understand the infinite, he is often reluctant to admit its existence as well as its properties. Pascal claims that those who do not admit of the infinite divisibility of space will not be able to proceed in geometry. Those who do, however, can admire the greatness and the power of nature in that double infinity which surrounds us on every side, and learn by the consideration of such marvels to know themselves, seeing themselves placed between an infinity and a nothing of extension, between an infinity and a nothip.g of number, between an infinity and a nothing of motion, between an infinity and a nothing of time . Whereupon we can learn to assess ourselves at our just value and to make reflections worth more than all the rest of geometry itself (Ibid, 439). In this examination of geometry as a demonstration of truth, Pascal is not just defending the validity of its methods, he is saying something important about the nature of man. Man is incapable of perfect knowledge precisely because he is trapped between the two infinities. He is unable to prove first principles and know without a doubt that they can be extended to the truly infinite. This understanding of geometry's foundations produces an imperfect system, one that is based on first principles that can't be defined. Thus, as a whole, it relies on common acceptance, not on a common understanding. Pascal says that there is no geometer who does not believe that space is infinitely divisible, yet there is no geometer who understands an infinite division. This gap between acceptance and understanding is, in Pascal's mind, not a flaw in geometry itself, but in man. Pascal's treatment of the first principles is certainly an interesting one. In building any system of thought, one must start with at least one first principle. This starting point must stand on its own, or whatever came before it would be the first principle, and so on . In order to avoid this infinite regression, the starting point needs to be something common to everyone. Pascal, of course, posits that these first principles are implanted by nature in all men, so that they come from inside. The question of first principles is an important one. While Pascal's treatment of first principles certainly differs from Newton's in respect to source or origin, there are definite similarities. For Newton, geometry begins with mechanics, the actual physical production of the figures. These figures, borrowed from without, correspond to the indefinable beginnings of Pascal. To Pascal, man is imperfect, God is perfect. Geometry is imperfect, but it is the most perfect science that men have. Since geometry is imperfect, it draws 30 "FOR HE UNLOCKED THE HIDDEN TREASURES OF TRUTH" on certain indefinable terms and unproveable principles for its foundations. Now, Newton does not concern himself with the idea of first principles formally. Rather, his preoccupation with the distinction between mechanics and geometry seems to hint at questions of origin. But, in contrast with Pascal, to Newton geometry is, in fact, perfect; the beginnings are supplied by something no less perfect than the actual science. In contrasting the two views ot: geometry and the world, three distinct divisions arise. The first of these divisions is founding principles. For Pascal, these are granted by God and are therefore perfect. From this perfect foundation springs the second division, the system, or geometry. Pascal believes that since it springs from indefinable and unproveable elements (albeit perfect ones) from without, this system is necessarily imperfect. Yet it is the closest man comes to accurately describing the third division, the world. This is the actual God-given, God-granted world from which man derives his imperfect model. For Newton, these three divisions are not as distinct as they are for Pascal. Newton begins with the belief that the world was created by the perfect mechanic, of whom he speaks in the Preface, namely God. · This perfect mechanic, working with perfect accuracy, produced and set into motion the natural forces of the world. The orbits of the planets, the motions of fall ing bodies, all follow the precise mathematical laws He ordained. The first principles of this system, which Newton refers to as the laws of motion in the previously cited letter to Cotes, are directly related to mechanics. For example, the first law states: Every body continues in its state of rest or of uniform motion in a right line unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed upon it (Pricipia, 13). This law may be interpreted as the production of a perfectly straight or right line. The continuation of this law further provides for the description of the parabola as well as the other conic sections as they can be seen in the planetary orbits: sion are continually drawn aside from rectilinear motions, does not cease its rotation otherwise than as it is retarded by the air. The greater bodies of the planets and comets, meeting with less resistance in freer spaces, preserve their motions both progressive and circular for a longer time (Ibid, 13). These laws serve as the rules for generation of both the actual world created by the perfect mechanic, God, and the system proposed by Newton. In contrast to Pascal's first principles, which are logical, Newton's are natural and physical. Experimental philosophy itself allows for their discovery. Confidence is engendered by experience and the accuracy of the mathematics. For example, the parabolic motion of falling bodies depends on both the inertial and accelerative components set forth in the first two laws of motion. This motion can be seen experimentally as well as demonstrated geometrically. Since God created the world, it is perfect. The first principles by which He did so must necessarily also be perfect. God used mechanics to set the world in motion. Since Newton also uses mechanics as the foundation of his system, this system too begins with perfect first principles. If the first principles are perfect, and the method used is perfect also, how can the system itself fall short of perfection? Newton is very emphatic about the perfection of the perfect mechanic; any doubts must be referred to us, not to Him. Newton does not claim that the system of the world he comes up with is perfect, rather that his method is. The system is not necessarily completely accurate, and he allows for refinements. In the Preface, speaking of the forces by which particles of bodies are impelled to and repelled from each other, he says: These forces being unknown, philosophers have hitherto attempted the search of Nature in vain; but I hope the principles here laid down will afford some light either to this or some truer philosophy (Ibid, xviii). Projectiles continue in their motions, so far as they are not retarded by the resistance of the air or impelled downward by the force of gravity. A top, whose parts by their cohe- He has given an account of the general forces which dictate motion in the world. He has provided the fundamentals; all else is particular. This clarification Newton provides between the 31 �ENERGEIA system and the method elucidates the very subtle distinction between what wondrous things Newton has done and what lesser things are commonly ascribed to him. Proposition sixty-six (Ibid, 173) demonstrates our inability as men to see the whole system. We may treat mathematically all the things which we perceive, and-this itself is no small task, yet we cannot account for those things we do not perceive. Newton here gives a proof of our limits of understanding. (The very fact that he can demonstrate and prove the limits of our scope affords much credibility to his method.) All apparent uncertainties about the world are merely a result of our lack of ability to see the whole. In this way, one sees that while Newton is not merely proposing a simplified mathematical analogue of the world, neither is he putting forth a direct representation of it. He believes that the world is governed by mathematical forces which move it in a perfectly mathematical fashion, and sets forth, therefore, a compl'etely mathematical analysis of it. He is explaining the world through the only method capable of producing truth. In this respect, his system is not a simplified mathematical analogue to something more complex and not mathematical. However, it is true that we, as men, fall short of God in our abilities to perceive and understand the universe as a whole. We are able to grasp only parts at a time, and therefore, whatever system we devise to explain the whole will indubitably fall short of the truth . Nonetheless, Newton does give us truth after a fashion - his method. And this seems to be the most important distinction between the two mathematicians/philosophers: namely, the degree of perfection each of the divisions entails. Pascal, troubled by the question of the origin of first principles in a not-quite-perfect system, is led to question man's own perfection. To him, the benefits of geometry are obvious; geometry leads to truth. In agreeing with him, though, we must concede our imperfections and consign ourselves to an eternal struggle to decrease the ignorance we have of our own world. Our limited understanding of the double infinity leads us either to despair in the futility of scientific inquiry, or to pursue moderation in our attempts to explain the world. We are barred from true knowledge, and are able only to admire and delight in the workings of an incomprehensible universe. All we are left with is the task of focusing on ourselves and our surroundings, hopefully learning, as Pascal says, "to assess ourselves at our just value and to make reflections worth more than all the rest of geometry itself' (Pascal, 439). Newton, on the other hand, clearly believes that we can have true knowledge of both ourselves and the world. His veneration of geometry is evident throughout the work, and is found to be excessive nowhere. He proves to us the strengths or, as he calls it in the Preface, the glory, of geometry. We too are taught to revere this science for its accuracy as well as the enormous scope of its findings; we come to understand it as Newton does, as the science, inextricably linked to mechanics, which accurately describes the natural forces of the world. It should not be overlooked that our views of God and the world are irrevocably changed as well, for though the Principia is a geometrical treatise, it is not so narrow in scope, and is rightly entitled the "Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy." After a careful examination of this work we come to agree with Cotes's words from his Preface to the second edition: "FOR HE UNLOCKED THE HIDDEN TREASURES OF TRUTH" thence incited the more profoundly to reverence and adore the great Maker and Lord of all. He must be blind who from the most wise and excellent contrivances of things cannot see the infinite Wisdom and Goodness of their Almighty Creator, and he must be mad and senseless who refuses to acknowledge them (Principia, xxxii-xxxiii) We see now that Newton leads us, through a sincere and careful mathematical inquiry, to an informed participation in the glory of a most perfect universe.• Fair and equal judges will therefore give sentence in favor of this most exce-llent method of philosophy, which is founded on experiments and observations. And it can hardly be said or imagined, what light, what splendor, hath accrued to that method from this admirable work of our illustrious author, whose happy and sublime genius, resolving the most difficult problems, and reaching to discoveries of which the mind of man was thought incapable before, is deservedly admired by all those who are somewhat more than superficially versed in these matte s. The gates are now set open, and by the passage he has revealed we may freely enter into the know ledge of the hidden secrets and wonders of natural things. He has so clearly laid open and set before our eyes the most beautiful frame of the System of the World, that if King Alphonso were now alive, he would not complain for want of the graces either of simplicity or of harmony in it. Therefore we may now more nearly behold the beauties of Nature, and entertain ourselves with the delightful contemplation; and, which is the best and most valuable fruit of philosophy, be 32 33 �PHEDRE Heroism in Racine's Phedre By Peter Smith Yes, prince, I languish, I burn for Theseus: I love him, but not as hell saw him, The fickle lover of a thousand different objects, Who would dishonor the marriage bed of Death; But faithful, but bold, and even a little savage, Charming, young, drawing all hearts after him, Such as one depicts our gods, or such as I see you now. He had your bearing, your eyes, your speech; Your noble modesty reddened his face, When he crossed the waves to our Crete, Worthy subject of the vows of Minos' daughters. What were you doing then? Why, without Hippolytus, Did he assemble the elite heroes of Greece? Why, too young still, couldn't you then Board the ship which took him to our shores? You would have slain Crete's monster, Despite the windings of his enormous lair. To unfold the uncertain mystery, My sister would have armed you with the fatal thread. But no: in this scheme, I would have gone before her; Love would have inspired this thought in me first; It is me, prince, it's me, whose useful aid Taught you of the Labyrinth's twistings: With what cares I would have held dear this lovely head! A thread not enough to reassure your lover, Companion in the peril which you sought, I would have wanted to walk before you; And Phedre descended into the Labyrinth with you Would have, with you, returned or be lost. (Act II, Scene 5) eration and pious chastity are starkly contrasted with the uncontrollable lusts which plague Phaedra. He falls in love, it is true, but nicely. It makes sense, of course, that Racine should see the proud restraint which Hippolytus exhibits as the means of conquering one's passions. And just so that the analogy is made perfectly clear even to those who were not paying close attention during the first four acts, Hippolytus is made, in the finale, to battle the beast nobly in front of the wedding chapel, symbol of honorable, chaste, and divinely sanctioned love. With his heavy-handed use of metaphor Racine forces this understanding of man's battle with passion into the somewhat unwilling Labyrinth myth with which he is, after all, constrained to work. It does not always seem to fit though. What does it mean for Phaedra to lead the hero into the Labyrinth? Racine presents us with the image of a lecherous old woman enticing an innocent, luring him into the darkness of perversity. Her promise to teach him the turnings of the Labyrinth takes on a horrible and vivid significance, but it is a significance irreconcilable with the myth. There is a discrepancy on two different, but related, points. First, is the matter of the seduction: it is backwards. Theseus seduced the innocent Ariadne (and later abandoned her), and not the other way around. Secondly, it is only because of the knowledge she gives him, because of the fact that she betrays to him the secrets of her family, "du fil fatal efit arme votre main", that Theseus is able to kill the Minotaur. It is Ariadne's thread which suggests an alternate understanding of the hero, and a reexamination of the character of Theseus. That which makes it difficult for the young Hippolytus to see Theseus as hero explains the necessity of the seduction of Ariadne as preface to his battle with the Minotaur. In the eyes of his son (in the first scene) and Phaedra (in her speech), Theseus' penchant for playing the role of "volage adorateur" and his crimes against "trop credules esprits que sa flamme a tromp~s", tarnish the memory of his heroic deeds, but in the myth these seductions are closely bound to the idea of Theseus as a hero. Theseus was able to descend into the Labyrinth not because he was pure of heart, but because he was an initiate of the island's profane mysteries. He could kill the Minotaur not because of his strength and courage, but because he What is most striking about this passage is how Hippolytus usurps his father's position, not only as object of Phaedra's love, but also as hero. It is Hippolytus who should have descended into the Labyrinth. It is Hippolytus who should have killed the Minotaur and freed Athens. The fact that Phaedra ascribes to him the deeds of Theseus gives insight into Racine's reworking of the myth, and into his understanding of the hero. The image of the Labyrinth is an obvious one and central to the play. The story of its origin, of Pasiphae and the bull, of passion and bestial lust, hangs over the characters like a prophecy. It is the product of an ancient curse which dooms the descendants of the sun; the sun who looked upon, and revealed, the sins of a goddess. Their punishment , Phaedra's punishment, is unspeakable, subterranean desire. The torture is made more horrible for Phaedra because of the other half of her ancestry: she is the daughter not only of Pasiphae, but of Pasiphae and Minos. She is afflicted with remorse, the union of sin with the consciousness of guilt, of insatiable lust with divine, all-seeing, all-judging conscience. This monstrous union of man and beast is depicted for us in the image of the Minotaur, Phaedra's halfbrother. But if this is how we are to read the metaphor of monstrosity in Racine's play, how are we to understand the character of the hero, the monster-slayer? Theseus, as he appears on stage, is of little help. He is bumbling, incompetent and helpless. Until the final scene he has no idea of what is going on around him, and seems, for that little bit of the play he is actually in, more of a plot device than a character. In order to understand the nature of the hero one must tum toward the double image of Hippolytus Theseus being led into the darkness by Phaedra Ariadne. It is not difficult to see Hippolytus in this role. The imagery of the play, not only in this passage, points towards him as the monster-slayer, and in speech after speech his virtues are recounted. Racine writes Hippolytus as a bland paradigm of manly virtue, a character very different from the ambiguous and slightly repellent Amazon that appears in Euripides' play. He is proud and honorable, but in this play, only "un peu farouche". His sober mod- 35 �ENERGEIA was able entice Ariadne into revealing her secrets to him. It is also interesting to note that not only in his Cretan escapade are his heroic deeds linked_ to his conquest of women (if in the final analysis we can even make the distinction between the two). Theseus is able to save Athens from the Amazons who threatened it by coercing their queen, Antiope, the mother of Hippolytus, into committing an act of betrayal similar to that of Ariadne. Both of the threats to his kingdom come in the form of a woman (the product of Pasiphae's awesome lusts, and the proud and unbowing Amazon), and Theseus overcomes these threats not in combat, but with an act of seduction. This is the nature of Theseus' heroism. Racine ignores neither of these two heroes, but plays them off against each other, which is what makes Phaedra's speech so interesting. Even if, in the end, he seems to see Hippolytus as the hero, justifying his claim that this play, more than any other he wrote, exalts virtue, the decision is yet an ambiguous one. The fact that in loving Aricie he becomes her captive, that in finally battling the monster he becomes entangled in the twisting reins, leaves open the question as to whether the man who contemplates the storm standing safely on the quiet shore can really call himself its master. • Lyric Narration By Alexa Van Dalsem "Sing, goddess, of the destructive wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus ... " begins the Iliad, and through vivid language the reader is swept into the emotion and story of Achilles. The words provoke sympathetic sensations and pry upon the memory and imagination to relate a hero's tale. For from simple words, spoken or written, placed in careful succession upon the mind, one may experience countless lives and events and ideas. Being social, communicative animals, humans strive to communicate with others, most immediately through words and when words cannot suffice, perhaps through dance, art, theater, or music. In the studying and listening of the second movement of Beethoven's Symphony No.7 the music plays into a storyline, evoking different emotions in the parade of musical measures, combining to tell a story, such as the first words of the Iliad. Like a narrator's words, music is a storyteller. The oboe, clarinet, bassoon, and horns introduce the second movement as if ending a section of music, holding their notes for three measures. C makes an appearance as 3 in the oboe and bassoon, and E as 5 in the oboe and horns, outnumbering the A's in the clarinet and bassoon. The introduction has a feeling of being almost complete, not quite hitting home, leading to the entrance of the main character, who I call Kedos, represented by the lone notes of measures three and four, theme (a), a slow, precisely measured, melancholy beat (measures 3-26). The A-minor key gives the notes the familiar minor-key sadness. Measures 11-18 repeat from measure 19 on, but more quietly. Having victoriously concluded a war the stately Kedos leaves the battle land, walking in solemnity and solitude grieved of lost lives and his homeland. Coming upon a divinely lit clearing, he does not slow his steps, but approaches quietly, not wishing to be noticed by nor to disturb the figure dancing in the light. The viola and cello take up the melody, theme(~), 36 dancing behind (a) as a less solemn tune (measures 27-50). (~)moves up to the second violin, urging (a) to the first violin as the two tunes intertwine, the beat becoming momentarily less prominent (measures 5174). As(~) proceeds to the first violin, (a) is driven into the wind instruments in a crescendo of (a), made more prominent by the high pitch of the tones overriding, but not wholly hiding, the continued(~) melody in the first violin, and the contrast of the seeming lightness of the preceding section. In sympathy(~) plays along with (a) (measures 75-9.8), dropping off for a moment at 99-100 for (a). Despite his precautions, the figure turns towards Kedos, dancing around him, winding her song amidst his melancholy. Softly she sings of happiness, beguiling him to join her, to forget his pain for lightness. Tempted by her promises and the rays of joy laid against his sadness, prodded by the sharp pangs of his pain, Kedos tries to dance, to mingle with her song. But in his pain he can only erupt into the song of his sorrows, weeping and singing as she sings with him, dancing in sympathy, as he tries to purge his mind of the past. Enchanted by her continued song, Kedos ends his weeping, forgetting sorrow, and eases into her dance. After the crescendo and fall off of (a) , (~) picks up a lighter tune in a lighter key, A minor, in the clarinet and bassoon. The original rhythm of (a) continues in a variation by the bass, but pizzicato, so that the role of the pounding dominant beat is lessened (measures 101-42). Ending the tune,(~) reverts to A minor in measure 139 and begins a downward scale, to .spill into a full tumbling scale, covered by winds and strings from the flute to the bass (measures 144-48). A pair of eighth notes hang suspended at the end to be answered by two more sets of eighths (149). Having relieved Kedos 'pain, eased his piercing cries into soulful looks, she sings of her life, of the happiness he would find with her further soothing his wounds with �ENERGEIA tales of continued gaiety and merriment. She ends her song with arms outstretched towards him, asking if he will join her in the lightness, suspended as she wonders if she has convinced his pain to escape into her dance. He cannot but assent, wrapped in her enchanted song. (p) returns in measure 150, still accompanied by the pizzicato bass beat. Measures 176-77 hold a short set of saddened tones that give way again to a soothing tune, leading into the fugue. The fugue subject as appears in measures 183-86 is another variation of (a), using the same rhythm in a smoother sequence of notes. The fugue having begun with two string instruments widens to all four string instruments, comes to include the wind instruments, and builds to another crescendo of music for a return of the solemn pounding (a) theme (measures 214-23), repeating a part of what the flutes so plaintively declared in measures 7598 . Falling into the lightness, Kedos and she dance, signing her notes of glorious, lulling melody. Under her enchantment his pain finds rest, resurfacing in fleeting instances to be blanketed by her swift hands. She wove his pain into light, relieving his soul with masks made of his sadness. As he dances his light ascends, as she sings he flies, floating only among her notes to be gripped by his unyielding pain. Falling to ground, he cries in familiar anguish as memory triumphs over her presence, seized with realization of his dances 'futility, of the enchanted mask resting upon his face. As (a) repeats in measures 214-23, so does the melodic variation of (p) of measures 101-42 return, again to A major, futilely trying to dispel the reinstated sadness (measures 224-51). The sad (a) struggles over (p), returning softly in measures 243-45 to A minor and the original beat, and is more strongly reinstated in the following measures, becoming climactically loud (by all instruments except strings) as (a) returns, softly (only by the strings), loudly, softly, as if to reveal two contrary views of a situation (measures 24753). The succeeding beat series of quarter note, two eighths, and two quarter notes is played by pairs of the wind instruments in succession (flute and oboe, oboe and clarinet, etc.), to be supported and answered by all four strings in pizzicato, and then repeated (measures 255-70). Finally, the winds consent (measure 271) and the strings, returning to area, speed off to the end. Trying once again to dispel Ke dos' pain, an- swering to his repeated cry, she sings her song' of gaiety and merriment, enclosing his soul in her leaves of easement. But his melancholy winds shu.ffie her leaves to the ground, and as if to convince himself he exclaims, "I have t'o go," a yearning to stay lingering in his eyes, but convinced by his own words. Calmed by his conviction, he found his pain echoed in her slowing song, in her consent. Little to reply, he disappeared beyond the boundary of her faded light. Perhaps not coincidentally, this story resembles that of Odysseus and Calypso. As Homer's epic poetics composed the tale of Odysseus, so does music hold the ability to compose a tale. Listening to music, I often put phrases of words with the music, naturally matching the tones with words. Songs intentionally combine music that expresses emotions to simiiar emotions expressed by the words (or vice versa). Palestrina used voices formed around words to produce a musical composition, expressing sentiments through words and music. An in the Kyrie of the Missa Papae Marcelli, the singing of the "Kyrie" is shortened compared to the elongated "eleison," as if calling attention to the Lord and then singing in supplication for mercy, lengthening the word so that it reaches the Lord and giving "eleison" importance as if the Lord's attention can be easily gotten, but his mercy requires more effort. Together and separately music and words express a story or emotion or can portray a scene. According to Aristotle, " ... that which has a beginning and a middle and an end is a whole." (Pqetics VII.27) Musical compositions and written stories, being complete and whole like tragedy, should have a beginning, middle, and end in which to contain a story, and methods of revealing the building, climax, and resolution within those boundaries-words through suspenseful and climactic literal illustrations and music through the soundings of instruments. In the second movement Beethoven denotes when instruments should become loud or soft, when to crescendo and other such dynamics to set a scene or mood. Music from the beginning (a) overlaps the end of the fugue in stretto, building to a powerful reinstatement of (a), to give a booming and dynamic entry to a familiar tune. While (a) rested beneath(~) and hid within its variations, it could never disappear. Its reentry sneaks up on the listener and hits the ear with grand resolution at its return. (a) and(~) of the second movement 38 LYRIC NARRATION differ through dynamics as well-( a) being more of a march, stately and solemn, using the same rhythm every two measures, with each note pronounced. Whereas(~) flows into a dance rhythm, creating a song theme through varied notes, many tied together to soften the evident beat of (a). Dynamics of music describe a scene and actions as words and phrases describe a scene in a story. As words invoke images of characters which are carried in the mind throughout a story, the use in music of different instruments or tunes defines characters. The musical characters interact as the instruments and tunes interact, playing separately or together, one perhaps louder or higher in pitch that the other, to reveal different qualities and positions of the characters. Beethoven's use of two tunes (the beginning stately (a) and the added flowing(~) which play together, and sound separately, and build over one another, sets apart two characters acting together as the music acts together. Shiitz's St. Matthew Passion similarly distinguishes the characters, having the Evangelist and Jesus as single singers with music and words presented more as speaking than song, sung by musically different voices. The High Priests and Learned Ones as well as Jesus' Disciples sing with multiple voices to represent a group of people, differentiating the Evangelist, Jesus, and the followers. In music, characters are described through musical qualities, which act as words ion character descriptions by playing on the emotions conjured up by the musical qualities. Both words and music evoke one's emotions, letting the mind hold the story within itself, to experience vicariously sadness and joy, trouble and resoluti on, being the· foundation for humans to participate in stories. Different keys easily set the tone, as the beginning key of A minor of the second movement gives the music sadness and the intermittent A-major sections give the music a lighter, less solemn air. The regular beat of (a) reminds the listener of marching, giving the tune solemnity and stateliness. The melodic (~) , on the other hand, with notes tied together, trickling up and down scales in notes of smaller time increments, sounds like a dance, resulting in a tune with a tendency towards happiness. Without these memories or sympathies, one can only see words or music, without truly reading or listening, failing to fly above the tones. Like written compositions, music combines musical elements as a form of expression, resulting not only in a musical composition but an expression of emotion, resembling a story. • 39 �Non-Profit Or~ U.S. Postage PAID St. John's College Permit No. 6t Lutherville, Mc Annapolis, Maryland 21404 ___J � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. ii, 39 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Anderson, Christopher (senior editor) Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Spring 1996 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1996 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Spring 1996. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Spring 1996 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/fa4c981a8b17b557656ae870bd308804.pdf a35d551bed9d5e5039da2d2dd2b1f6e2 PDF Text Text WINTER, 1988 c z c Q ~ oi ... "' ::c Ill Ill u z c ~ z u ~ ,,.: Ill: Ill Ci z iii z c ~ ~ u Ill ::c Ill ::c ... �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. t1 ... Cover: Acrylic on Paper by Jana Giles Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland vou &vtpy&ta ~coti ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) Staff: Rachel Boyce Carloss Chamberlain Jana Giles Erika Hoffman Daniel Hoh Michael McShane Derick Miller Ange Mlinko Kenneth Paradis Dwayne Rogers Co-Editors: Laurie Cooper Rhonda Datcher Faculty Advisor: Henry Higuera With special thanks to: Tina Davidson Ray Gifford George Turner Ty Yancey Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published three times a year and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis and Santa Fe. The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community--essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like . • • ,,..., /J....,-'7 �CONTENTS PHOTOGRAPH Greg Ferguson 4 LOIRE-ET-CHER, 1986 Dahra Latham 5 THE THEME OF THE FUGUE INC MINOR Rachel Boyce 6 THE PROPHET Ange Mlinko 8 DRAWING Marcus Eubanks 9 THE WELL OF LIGHT Claudia Probst 10 ANALYSIS FOR THE DETERMINATION OF A PARAMETER FOR THE PARABOLA Mark Ressler 13 Jana Giles 16 17 18 GREEK MYTHS OF RESPONSIBILITY AND OTHER OBSTACLES TO PITY Donna Strow 19 AUTUMN DAY SALON E =MC Scott Vineberg 24 25 PHOTOGRAPH Greg Ferguson 26 SEEING WITH BOTH EYES OPEN Graham Redgrave 27 VARIANT SONNET: AMAZON MOURNING Dahra Latham 33 UNTITLED POEM Sahana Dharmapuri 34 THE RETURN OF OEDIPUS REX: THE METAPHYSICS OF INCEST Michael McShane 35 PHOTOGRAPH Greg Ferguson 39 A MODERN INVESTIGATION OF THE ECCENTRIC HYPOTHESIS Tim McNicholl 40 AN ADAPTION, 1987 Carolyn Barndt 44 THE BOW OF HERACLES John Pronko 45 THREE LOY AL HAIK US Jana Giles 47 THE LEARNED PRINCESS Erika Wilson 48 PHOTOGRAPH Greg Ferguson 52 I. II. III. KE I PO THE FOX T.J. �Loire-et-Cher, 1986 Dahra Latham ('90) I begin poetry in true face coming home, seal away weed-green contact lenses scrub away molten golden color that the world imposes rise through fathoms of falsehood revealing pearl-pale and storm-eyed body stepped out of Renaissance portrait shining like dolphin through ocean through ragged breaker of hair washed sudden} y from red to brown. I take up the pen. And all the hard-birthed beauties I have ever read fall about me an irrelevant rain. 5 4 �throws off expectations and requires that the more instinctive interval be passed. The second playing of the theme, in G minor, which begins " 7 /\. 4 6 1 1 instead of l 7 f 5 6, solves the problem of reaching down to 4 by introducing 4 earlier in the theme. This change takes away part of the theme's beauty and is not at all preferable. I\ I\ After the third repetition of 1 7 1, the center is not reached again. The 4 5 6 movement is heading in the direction of the original 1 but cannot pass the peculiar f?t interval to reach it. The 6 5 4 movement is heading towards tan octave below the original but stops at 3, E flat. Only the very last repetition of the theme allows the octave-lower 1 to be sounded in the chord: The Thetne of the Fugue in C Minor Rachel Boyce ('90) When I hum the theme of Fugue II from Book 1 of J.S.Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier, I invariably end up off key unless I am co~cent.rat­ ing. This may not seem particularly .puzzling smce many people have difficulty repeatmg even ~hort, simple tunes accurately. It does bother me. First, I picked up the theme almost ~nadverte~tl.y. It remained in my mind after the piece was f ~nished without any distinct effort on my part to fmd and distinguish it. Second, I have now listened ca ref ull Y to the Fugue ar least a dozen times, and the tendency to slip off key remains. . .. I decided to investigate my mab1hty t.o casually hum the catchy and elusive theme of th~s fugue. Since five of the eight times the th~m~ is heard, it begins on a C, it is written here begmnmg on C: though. The other problematic note, the seventeenth, is only a half step from the sixteenth, and there was no difficulty with any of the half steps between C and B natural. The theme isnot merely a series of intervals, and its dynamic qualities must be conside.red. Perhaps the location of the major sixth and mmor second within the melody produces the dif~iculty. The key signature might suggest E flat maJOr, but the B natural, producing a half. step. b.etween B natural and C,indicates that the piece 1s m .the key of C minor, the relative minor of E flat maJor._The center, t, is then C. The theme can now be written as: 7 5 6 7 2 5 "1 7 2 4 5 6 5 4 3. 1 1 1 1 The final E natural of the fugue is heard previously and more distinctly when the melody of the corresponding prelude ends on the same E natural. That last E natural, supported by the two C's in the bass clef, is pre para ti on for the following fugue. It is a 1i ttle unsettling to realize that the very comfortable sound at the conclusion of the prelude involves a melody ending on E natural in a piece with the key signature of E flat major or C minor. When a second inspection of the theme is done, it does not seem so positively C minor. Although it contains the minor half step between ~'nowhere is there the distinctively minor 23 half step. The B natural creates a ~ half step like that in the major scale, and the final E natural makes the previously minor whole step between 4 and 3 into a major half step. The theme verges on the key of C major. The theme may not be completely in the key of C minor, but neither is it completely in C major. The fourth time the theme is heard, it is played in E flat major with no accidentals, and any mystery or sweetness held by the original theme is lost. What is technically lost by playing the theme in a purely major key is the 56 half step.Similarly, the second I\ /'\ playing of the theme which begins with I 7 I 4 6 sounds less beautiful because it removes a half step. The theme's interest depends on the haunting 56 half step. The only flat in the fugue that has a consistently significant role and is not ever made natural is A flat, the note which produces that half step. The theme of Fugue II is between C minor and C major. Though the key signature points to C minor as the primary key, the theme lacks the half step. Though both prelude and fugue are resolved with a C major triad, the theme cannot be played in a major key without ruining it. This 56 23 "' 1 1.2..3 4S The first problematic note is the fifteenth, the first F played. The interval between the fourtee~th. and fifteenth notes is a major sixth, a more ?1ff1cult interval to duplicate than the other large i~tervals present: the perfect fourth between the thud and fourth notes and the perfect fifth between t~e ninth and tenth notes. There is no rea~on that ~his interval could not be memorized with practice, 6 There are three groups of f 7 f. The first swoop down from that grouping is a perfect fourth from 1 to 5 and the second a perfect fifth from 2 down to 5. The third plunge is, like the second one, from 2, but this time it reaches past the comfo~table 5 down to 4. Combined with the fact that 4 is the only note lower than 5 so far, the si~ilarity. of starting points and difference of endmg pomts In this last twist of the prelude's melody, written in the key in which we expect to hear the fugue, a C is played seven separate times and is held in the bass clef throughout. The next most frequent note is G, played four times. These two notes combine with the final E natural to form the C major triad. Both the C minor and the G minor heard in the fugue are explored in the prelude, evidenced by the many B natural and F sharp accidentals, .but the prelude concludes with the sound of C major. minor /major ambiguity causes my difficulty with casually humming the theme. I cannot lean into a fully minor or major key, so when I do not have the support of strong, easily sung intervals, I falter. Bach has not created an u'n easy sound with this ambuity, nor a problem to be resolved. The theme of Fugue II is compelling and delicately balanced, worth the concentration it takes to hum it properly. 7 �The Prophet ·,,. Ange Mlinko ('91) '/ ,, You want too much. To want Anything in this world is an arabesque Inverted desire to die; run instead While the wind fills your cup After mice visions scurrying Beneath trees across a litter Of skyfall; look up to shadows Brooding yellow in the veins Of every leaf. In the east A purple hand unshirts the sky; Left in the west is a blot of blood Where the sun was shot. If the walls had ears, you'd tell the walls. You have letters to send but no sticks And stones to break words with. Outside you sift the ground but wind, Wind like eternal October makes brick Patterns glide at your feet. A day is dying In this mass movement; on the skyline Collapsed in theatrics a dark soul On the playing field, fast scream like a crow And no one to hear it; the ears of the earth Are filled with wind and river. This the town your walls reflect, where Double doors exclaim men in credit shirts Who pause at the top of steps, become one White column on the portico of eternity And descend to the street. They read The Post and walk away the news rewritten On their hands, and two blocks down Two black-skinned boys face the wind All forecasts and headlines, . -\ \ / ...... ; Unearthing little liquor bottles from Underneath the statehouse shrubs. At night, cars jump like knives To a red light. Long-fingered men Hide their eyes when sirens sear by. f '\ I "·.., . \, / i ( ) ./ You are the confessor of all you see-You cannot dispose of your pu r i ty. Raking through leaves for fragments of sky To lift to your walls and nail there; Raking through words to sound out These secrets that trace with detached caress A lock in your head. And voice is no key. You cannot dispose of this purity. Scream then, back at the wind's scream With all insensate joy; you were chosen Out from under leaves to under sky-The world is burning in the glacial Radiance of your sun: It is a hard light to ask forgiveness from. The cup you hold is teeming, Receiving and receiving. You want Nothing but to hear the truth With the truth you see as the day Dies in pieces around you, asking who Unleashes the siren of the sun Upon all deadly mornings, and who Gives it pause at the portals of all ears? 9 8 �The Well of Light Claudia Probst ('88) Ryan held the zoom lens and wiped it gingerly with a piece of lens tissue before sending a blast of pressurized air across its surface. Having cleaned the last one of his six lenses, he replaced it in the box leather camera bag, zipped it closed around the top, and sat back resigned. This waiting was unbearable, when he knew that the picture of a lifetime might occur without him, that a perfect avalanche might go unframed and unrecorded. He wanted to jump up from the molded plastic orange seat in which he'd spent the better part of two hours, he wanted to grab the ticketing agent by her insolent kelly-green necktie and shake her until her heavily made-up eyes showed anything but indifference. Easy now, he cautioned himself; stay in control. He folded his powerful hands with their square-cut nails and sat up straighter. There was nothing he could do: if the mechanics were working on the plane, the mechanics were working on the plane. Slowly, he sent his eyes sidelong to the woman in the seat next to his. Her blonde hair was cut in layers and teased out in last year's style, so that he could see almost nothing of her profile. What did he have to lose? "Are you on your way to visit Salt Lake City too?" he asked, smiling his most winning smile and leaning back. She turned sharply enough for him to guess that her surprise was feigned, that she had only been resting her eyes on the open book in her lap, while her senses were all attuned to him, the stranger in the next seat. She twisted her florid face IO in an answering smile. "Well, not exactly to visit there. I grew up there, but left it for what I thought would be a more glamorous life ... " "Wait, let me guess. You were raised as a Mormon, and now you're returning to make peace with the church of your childhood." She gaped at Ryan as though he were a prophet. "How did you know that?" she squealed. "Oh, I've spent a little time there and I found the church of the Latter-Day Saints very compelling myself." The lies were coming easier now. The seats in the gate area were arranged back to back in rows of five, and two seats down, with his back to Ryan, Zach Himmelstein sat with his head in his hands, trying very hard to cast himself and his sister Rosa back to a time where the light of memory shone, steady and bright, like the sun of their youth on their family's Rhineland farm. He could call nothing up, though, and instead thought only of the wrenching sadness he'd felt two years ago when Rosa had told him her decision to move west. "Trust me Zachariah, the doctor says it would be better for my lungs, and Salt Lake City is very clean-- not like here" she'd said, gesturing with distaste at the grimy vista outside their Brooklyn apartment. He'd gazed down, not trusting himself to meet her eyes, and unable to speak. What was that piece of paper he pretended to be so taken with at that moment? Oh yes, he'd studied the doctor's scrawl on a piece of paper that showed a stylized mortar and pestle in one corner, healing symbols. The writing had reminded him somehow of how he'd teased Rosa, when they were children, and a favorite trick of dipping the tips of her pencils into hot wax just before they left for school. He now recalled his confusion, too, when she'd paused to let the words sink in, how he'd looked up with an apology that died on his lips for all the childhood pranks he'd played, if only she'd stay. Those weren't the right words, though, and it seemed to him that she'd packed and made arrangements and left before he'd had a fair chance to find the right ones. Yet now, dear Rosa, he thought bitterly, I'm going to bury you in that place of raw mountains and ski resorts and Mormon temples. He shook his head sharply to break that chain of thought, which would doubtless lead him to mull over how senseless her accident had been. It would never have happened, if she had still been living in a community that saw that the sidewalk was cleared and salted before the elderly residents wished to go out. If she'd been living with him in the neighborhood where she belonged. His mind, having reached this familiar dead end, began to drift and take in the voices coming from a few seats down and behind his back. Annoyed at the chatter, he stirred himself and rose, looking around for a destination. Across the waiting area there was a coffee and newspaper vending stand. The woman behind it was leaning on the counter, flirting in low, rich Jamaican tones with a security guard. He was struck suddenly by a feeling of kinship with her; neither one of us wants to be here, he thought. Zachariah made his way to the stand in his stiff walk, left leg dragging slightly. When he reached it he took off his fedora, without irony, to address the lady. "I would like a cup of coffee, please" he asked in his precise English, struggling as always to suppress his Yiddish accent. She gazed at him indolently for a moment, shrugged, and raised herself from leaning on her folded arms to pour the coffee into a styrofoam cup. The blue-uniformed guard followed her movements with narrowed eyes. "That be all?" she asked Zach, putting the cup down in front of him. "Yes, thank you." He pushed two quarters toward her with an almost imperceptible bow and picked up the cup. "Sugar and cream are over there," she added. "Thank you but I have my own sweetener, some saccharin tablets. They help keep me fit, you know, and ready ... " He trailed off. Ready for what? Had he been there to clear Rosa's sidewalk of ice? The woman shrugged again, turned her attention back to her friend. Zach flushed, and hastily picking up a napkin and a small container of cream, he retreated to his seat. Was that the guard laughing? It didn't matter; a young man like that wouldn't understand .. After taking his seat he· pulled himself up very straight and tall, and reached purposefully into his breast pocket. He felt his accustomed satisfaction at the power of these little white tablets, which allowed him to indulge his sweet tooth while staying trim. Rosa always said, it was pride, just pride that made him try to hide his age. She would laugh and sprinkle spoonfuls of sugar over her grapefru!t in the mornings. As he balanced his cup on the armrest, he could again hear his neighbors' con versa ti on. "Tell me about the book you're reading." Ryan commanded. "You haven't heard of this book?" The woman asked incredulously. She paused, considered the apparently daunting task. "It's called The Well of Light, and it's written by John P. Smothers, who left our church fifteen years ago and became the owner of a very successful cruise ship line. He describes how unhappy he was, entertaining rich clients and travelling constantly aboard his ships. He says he fell deeper and deeper into despair, drinking all the time and seeing no way out. But then God" - she paused for effect - "God went to work in his life, buoying him up from the depths of his despair, and making him care again. Care about his family and himself, too. That's what that title's about, you see. It was as though he'd fallen down a well of indifference, but then God put a light at the bottom, a light he didn't expect." "Uh-huh. Is this the book that made you think of returning to the church?" Ryan asked, uninterested in her specific answer, but fascinated that she could speak so feelingly about Smothers' well-calculated effort to make a buck. He marvelled inwardly at how people fool themselves. Zach held his metal box of saccharin tablets between his thumb and forefinger. He slid the lid back and was suddenly overwhelmed by the 11 �memory of a scene captured in a snapshot he hadn't seen in decades. It was of Rosa at a family picnic, squinting merrily up in the black and white photo, her wavy dark hair escaping her hair pins as ever. Her grubby hands held a tinderbox that was a relic even then. Zachariah sat, stunned at the memory of that day more than sixty years ago when grandfather Josef had made a demonstration of the tinderbox's use. How had he done it? Fingers twitching, Zach recalled his clumsy attempts to strike a spark. Hold the flint and steel firmly when you strike, Grandfather had said. Make the sparks dance, he'd said, and Zach had looked up, startled once again by the humor buried just under the somber surface of that beloved face. You had to pay close attention to the tiny flame. Grandfather had showered sparks over dry moss and cupped gnarled hands around it to shield it from the wind. The muffled sound of the saccharin tablets falling to the carpet brought him out of his reverie, but he snatched his drooping hand back too late to retain any of them in the metal box. He bent down on the floor to gather them. His urgency was enough to distract Ryan from the hopeful blonde, who by now was holding up both ends of the conversation admirably. She barely noticed his attention was straying, as she continued to talk animatedly of her native city. "In the spring and summer they open the gates and let the mountain run-off flood the streets, and afterwards everything is so clean and new, not a bit of litter or dirt left ..." Ryan's gaze was now fixed on the figure of an old man on his knees carefully picking up some spilled pills. As he straightened a bit to reach under the chair and find by touch any that his eyes might have missed, Ryan noticed that tears were working their way down the old man's deeply lined face. "Pathetic," Ryan muttered to himself, and turning away, saw with relief that the ticketing agent was about to announce that the plane was ready for boarding. Analysis for the Determination of a Paratneter for the Parabola by Mark Ressler '89 The method of analysis requires the assumption of what is to be proven, so that the truth of the proposition is borne out by the consistency of the consequences of that assumption. A proposition is solved by analysis when an accepted truth forms a necessary consequence of the initial assumption. The proof is established by reversing the sequence of consequences so that the argument begins with the established truth and ends with the statement of what is to be proven. Thus, if I want to establish that virtue is desirable, I would first assume virtue to be desirable. I would then examine the consequences of that assumption, with the hope of fin ding some universally accepted truth as one of the consequences--for instance, the existence of God. Then, if my reasoning is not faulty1, I can reverse my steps and argue that since God exists and since what follows from that would be true, virtue, therefore, is desirable. Consider Appolonius and the parabola: Appolonius can establish a simple geometr ic def inition of the parabola by claiming that if the intersection of a cutting plane and the plane that contains the axis of the cone is parallel to the intersection of the plane that contains the axis and the cone itself, then the intersection of the cutting plane and the cone is a para bola. However, this definition says nothing about the shape of the parabola; it may happen that the shape of a parabola is essentially no different than the shape of a hyperbola. A definition which encompasses this consideration might be more useful than a simple geometric definition like the one above. The establishment of a diameter and ordinates provides the means for an examination of the shape of the parabola, for as the parabola extends out away from the vertex, both the ordinates and the abscissa increase. If there is a direct relationship between the abscissa and the ordinates, that relationship would almost define the shape of the parabola. The abscissa may be to the ordinate or the ordinate to the abscissa in three ways: (I) as a given line to a given line, (2) as the abscissa is to a given line, or (3) as the ordinate is to a gi ve lin e. I proceed now to examine each of the cases using the method of analysis. In his notes on Euclid's Elements, Heath makes the following note concerning faulty reasoning in analysis: "Now Aristotle had already made it clear that false hypotheses might lead to a conclusion which is true. There is therefore a possibility of error unless a certain precaution is taken. While for example, B may be a necessary consequence of.A, it may happen thatA is not a necessary consequence of B. Thus in order that the reverse ingerence from the truth of K that A is logically true may be logically justified, it is necessary that each step in the chain of inferences should be unconditionally convertible." Euclid, The Thirteen Books of the Elements, 2nd ed .. , trans. Thomas Heath (New York, Dover Publications, 1956), p. 141. 12 13 �(I) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as a given line X is to a given line Y, then: A FIG. 1 DE: FE:: X :Y and DH: HJ:: X: Y. Therefore, DE: FE:: DH : HJ. Then D, J, and F will be in a straight line, and triangle DHJ and triangle DEF will be similar triangles. [fig. 2] Therefore, the abscissa cannot be to the ordinate as a line is to a line. (2a) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as the abscissa is to a given line X, then: D FIG. 2 DE: FE:: DE:X and FE= X. But FE will vary while X is given, so the abscissa cannot be to the ordinate as the abscissa is to a given line. (2b) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as a given line X is to the abscissa, then: DE : FE :: X : DE and DE 2 = FE, constant. DH : HJ :: X : DH and DH 2 = HJ, constant and, therefore, DE 2 : DH 2 :: FE,X :: HJ,X and DE 2 : DH 2 :: FE : HJ. But DE 2 : DH 2 :: BE 2 : KH 2, therefore, BE 2 : KH 2 :: FE : HJ. 14 Compounding both sides with the ratio KH : BE, KH,BE2 : BE,KH 2 :: FE,KH_: HJ,BE. Removing the common term BE,HK from the left side, BE : KH :: FE,KH : HJ ,BE. Since, EC = HL, BE,EC : KH,HL :: FE,KH : HJ, BE. But BE,EC = EF2, and KH,KL = HJ 2, therefore, EF2 : HJ2 :: FE,KH : HJ ,BE. Alternately, EF2: FE,KH :: HJ 2 : HJ,BE therefore, EF : KH :: HJ : BE. and alternately, EF : HJ :: KH : BE. But KH : BE :: DH : DE so EF: HJ:: DH: DE. Then D, J, and F will be in a straight line, and triangle DHJ and triangle DEF will be similar triangles [fig. 2]. Therefore, the abscissa cannot be to the ordinate as a given line is to the abscissa, for the statements: HJ2 = KH,HL (FE2 = BE,EC) DH2 = HJ,X (DE2 = FE,X) and DH : DE :: HK : BE are incompatible. (3a) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as a given line is to the ordinate, then: DE : FE :: X : FE and DE= X. But DE will vary while X is given, so the abscissa cannot be to the ordinate as a given line is to the ordinate. (3b) But if the abscissa is to the ordinate as the ordinate is to a given line X, then: DE : FE :: FE : X FE 2 = DE,X and DH : JH :: JH : X. JH2 = DH,X. Therefore, FE2 : JH2 :: DE,X : DH,X OR FE2 : JH2 :: DE : DH. But FE2 = BE,EC and JH 2 = KH,HL so BE,EC: KH,HL :: DE: DH. But EC= HL so BE : KH :: DE : DH, since KH is parallel to BE. segments of the diameter of the circle BFCG, in which EC is fixed in size for the parabola in the cone, whether it appears as DM or HL since DE is parallel to AC and KL is parallel to BC. Now since this relationship has been proven to be possible, the relationship itself may be used as a starting point for the determination of the given line. I then assume that X is already given for a given parabola, so that I may deduce a relationship between X and some known line: DE : FE :: FE : X so FE2 = DE,X. But FE2 = BE,EC so BE,EC = DE,X and BE : DE :: X : EC. But BE : DE :: BC : AC so BC : AC :: X : EC. Compounding both sides with the ratio EC : AD, BC : AC comp. EC : AD = X,EC : AD,EC. But EC = DM and DM :AD :: BC : AB so BC2 : AC,AB :: X,EC : AD,EC and inversely, AB,AC: BC 2 :: AD: X. And AB, AC, BC, and AD are all known lines; therefore, X can be found in accordance with this last ratio. If a line, then, is constructed such that as the line between the vertex of the section and the vertex of the cone is to the constructed line, so is the rectanglee contained by the sides of the axial triangle to the square on the base of the axial triangle, then the abscissa will ha vee to the ordinate the same ratio that the ordinate has to the constructed line. The square on the ordinate will be equal to the rectangle of the abscissa and the created line. Proposition 11, Book I, demonstrates these properties. Therefore, a relationship between the abscissa and the ordinate is possible, and it will be as the ordinate is to some given line. The relationship is similar to the relationship of the ordinate to the 15 �I KEIRO II The Fox (KEIPO) Jana Giles ('88) Jana Giles ('88) I would eat the flesh from your bones, such is my love for you, were it not against the law. It is just as well, thoughyour rotting flesh beneath that still mask would poison me, your stinking, stagnant blood would mix with mineone unnamed, untouchable, unknowable in this grief and sacred passion. In your acidulous smile I saw the wisdom and assurance of cloudless days and changeful moons, bitter Satisfactions's cold enterprise indulged by a dei f ic ac cept an ce. The wind wails, waxing fierce; my cold heart grows old . 1985 16 Sparkle, twinkle, said the fox his black tongue tripped him up his red tail white-streaked tripped him up my car struck him and he burst like a swollen sausage his mouth foaming and spilling blood and sequins and rhinestone jewels. Children squat in the blood their greedy, unsubtle fingers undulating like sea anemones stirred by a watery wind search and grab smeared stones in a noisy herd. Soon the birds of prey shall overcome him, naked as iron-grey clouds engulf the setting sun. 1985 17 �Greek Myths of Responsibility and Other 0 bstacles to Pity III LL Donna Strow ('90) Jana Giles ('88) these words are simple but I have nothing else to off er somehow the tide will pull me along reluctant and ignorant and young I only wish that when I sank beneath the muttering murky moonlit waters the fishes did not have your face 1985 "I would not wish either [to do or to suffer wrong]" says Socrates in Plato's Gorgias (Woodhead 469 c), "but if I had either to do or to suffer wrong, I would choose rather to suffer than to do it." He describes the wrongdoer as miserable and says that he is to be pitied (Woodhead 469 a). Is pity appropriate to the wrongdoer? Is it relevant to ask whether he deserves pity? Socrates h olds that wrongdoing is worse than being wronged (Lamb 473 a). Is it appropriate to pity the wrongdoer who has come to suffer and to regret more than we pity the wronged? That would certainly come as a shock to those who delight in saying, "He (the wrongdoer) got his (just dessert)!" or "(If) you make your bed, you lie in it," denying pity to the wrongdoer because they feel somehow that he does not deserve it. In any event, that is the question under investigation. Plato (Gorgias, Phaedo, Republic) and Aristotle (Nicomachean Ethics) will help. Before embarking on this quest, however, it would be good to state just what is meant by "pity." Socrates' word, € >.. € K.oµa i, is very close to our own. In this essay I will recognize two kinds of pity, one meaning a sorrowing over another's misfortune, the other meaning a seeking to end another's distress. because he is wretched), and that he would pref er to be wronged rather than to do wrong, implying that the wrongd oer is more to be pitied than the wronged. Unfortunately, his argument is insubstantial; he simply gets Polus to admit that to do wrong is more shameful and evil than to suffer wrong. Then he asks, "And would you choose the more evil and shameful in preference to the less?" (Woodhead 475 d), to which the latter replies negatively. Would I reply as Pol us does? Yes, I think so, but perhaps this is only because I have been taught to adopt this virtuous attitude. Yet if a wrongdoer were to suffer, either from guilt or from some other consequence of his misdeed, I do believe that his suffering would be the worse because he has himself to blame. Some would say that it is this very notion of "blame" that cancels the wrongdoer's claim to our sympathy. I think that before we subscribe to this notion we should at least determine whether the blame and the pity would both bear the same address if we were to pity the wrongdoer. Does the same man do wrong and then regret it? Is the part of the man that does the wrong the same part that does the suffering? Again, Socrates maintains that to do wrong "is the greatest of evils" (Woodhead 496 a, b), that the wrongdoer is to be pitied (most probably in my mind I have given you a fixed place that you cannot alter from your distance According to Cebes Plato's Phaedo, the body is "continually changing and disintegrating all through life, the soul [replacing] what is worn 19 18 �away" (Tredennick 87 d, e) Now, if we can assume that decisions about how to act are made by a nervous system, which is physical, this readily verifiable observation means that the man who pays for his crime is not quite the man (as he has not quite the faculties of the man) who committed it. In this case, then, we must not blame but rather pity the man who now suffers as a result of the misdeed of his former self. At this point in the dialogue, however, Cebes believes in an entity called the soul which is non-physical and rules the body. Does Cebes then believe that a man (or the soul of a man) is the same throughout life? That would be absurd, for Socrates' willingness to die, which is manifested throughout the dialogue, is founded on his belief that philosophy is carried on in the soul, a belief which all present seem to accept (64 e, 65 a). If a soul can learn, a soul can change. I remain convinced that a man is in fact a different man every instant of his life. How, then, can we blame someone for his past actions, especially one who clearly regrets them? Yet even if the nature of man were such that he remained the same, stagnant throughout life, I would still not be convinced that the faculty that committed the crime is the same faculty that suffers because of it. Both Plato and Aristotle divide the soul into three faculties. Socrates give a good argument to support this assertion in The Republic (Jowett 436): But the question is not quite so easy when we proceed to ask whether these principles are three or one· whether 1 that is to say w~ learn :Vith one pa~t ofour nature, are ;ngrywith another, and with a third part desire the satisfaction of our natural appetites; orwhe ther the whole soul comes into play in each sort of actionto determine that is the difficulty .... The same thing clearly cannot actor be acted upon in the same part or in relation to the same thing at the same time, in contrary ways; and therefore whenever this contradiction occurs in things apparently the same, we know that they are really not the same, but different. To Aristotle, the soul appears to have three parts also, but these are different from Socrates' three parts. Rather, it appears to him that the soul contains a rational principle and irrational, the rational being divided into the calculative or deliberating, part and the scientific part, whi~h is concerned with the truth of unchangeable facts. Given Socrates' argument, it is easy to see that whatever governs the emotions, be it soul or mind of any kind, it must be composed of more than one part, as evidenced by the fact that we some- times experience mixed emotions. We often even act despite misgivings. It seems most likely to me that the part of the soul or mind that suffers is other than the part that prompts us to do wrong. Let me test this idea using Socrates' argument: Are the parts of the mind capable of remorse and the origin of misdeeds respectively affected differently by the same thing at the same time? Yes, insofar as one can regret an action while at the same time perform it. To me this is tantamount to doing something reluctantly. Therefore, it seems that one part misbehaves and another must pay! The objection can be raised, however, that perhaps there is no one part of the soul capable of remorse or misbehavior, that many parts may each be capable of each. In that case it would not matter that one can perform an act reluctantly . It would not prove anything, for it would still be possible f.or the misbehaving element in a certain circumstance to be the very same part that regrets the act later. If this objection is to be sustained, it would seem to me in that case that the one faculty involved had completely changed its nature, as it changed with regard to the same action. I would not, then, blame the new, improved entity for the malefaction of the old. I am willing to assume, however, that one faculty is uniquely capable of remorse, another of action. If, then, the wrongdoer and the one who regrets are two different entities, is it not appropriate at least to pity the latter, both in the sense of commiserating and of seeking to end its pain? But suppose I am wrong and we must regard the same man and the same faculty that did the bad deed as the one that suffers. Many hold notions of justice and r esponsibility that demand this. Let us first examine justice, which some say points to the conclusion that blame somehow renders pity inappropriate, and then concentrate on the difference between th e wro n gdoer an d th e wro n ged , which we will call responsibility. Why do some of us feel it inconsistent to pity the one who is to blame for a misdeed? Can we not blame and pity (in both senses) the same man? Aristotle seems to take it for granted that we cannot (Rackham III. v. 15, 16). Yet, we are all sinners. We all make mistakes. What does the fact that a certain wrongdoer's sin is responsible for his misery have to do with our sorrow over his misery and our willingness to help him to overcome it? Some will answer that the said misery is the fulfillment of justice, and so we should not be willing to help the wrongdoer to escape it. Some will even go so far as to say that we should not even feel sorry fo r someone who suffers according to what they believe to be justice. Socrates and Aristotle present us with many kinds of justice in light of which to examine the above concerns. In the Nicomachean Ethics (Rackham, V. iv. 3) we are introduced to co r rective justice. Corrective justice restores equality between the wrongdoer and his victim by taking from the culprit and redressing, that is, giving to the victim. This serves two purposes. Obviously, it helps the victim, restoring the equality between the wrongdoer and the victim which was lost when the wrong was done. Also, it serves to deter potential malefactors from doing (and actual ones from repeating) crimes. Aristotle says, "la wgivers ...puni sh ... those who do evil... in order to ... repress [it]" (Rackham, III. v. 7). Now, pity of either kind fo r the wrongdoer certainly does no t prevent us from r ed r essing t he wrong for the victim's sake. Does sympathy inter fere with deterrence? I think not. I am sure that many people who have had to mete out justice of this kind have pitied the cr iminals. But what of the kind of pity that seeks relief from the suffering? Recall that the wrongdoer in my i nitial question regrets his action. If this is so, what need have we to dete r him fu r ther? It seems t hat corrective justice is of no use whe re this wrongdoer is concerned, and certainly should not prevent us from pitying him. The Ethics also raises the issue of r etribution. Since either form of pi ty would soften the blow of retributive justice, perhaps neither is appropriate to the wrongdoer if this should prove to be a valid concept of justice. Fortunately, Aristotle does not succeed in proving this. The best he can do is to say, " The very existence of the state depends on proportionate reciprocity; for men demand that they shall be able to requite evil with evil -- if they cannot, they feel they are in the position of slaves" (Rackham, V. v. 6). In other words, man's villainous instinct for revenge is at the root of this so-called justice! The Gorgias, too, contains some possible re ferences to retaliation as justice. Says Socrates, And so again ... supposing it is our duty to injure somebody, whether an enemy or anyone else ... we must make every exertion to trial, or if he does, we must contrive that our enemy shall escape and not be punished. (Lamb, 480 e, 481 a) Socrates, who believes punishment to be good for the malefactor, casually assumes that a man can be bound by duty to injure someone. What else could that be but retaliation? Henry Higuera entertained the idea that the latter part of the Gorgias (523) consists of an attempt on Socrates' part to pay Callicles back for his insulting manners. Callicles has been sarcastic and rude (Lamb 495 d). He calls Socrates "paragon of wisdom." He says also, "You could not speak, I suppose, if there were not somebody to answer you" (Lamb 519 d), and eventually he does stop answering. As Mr. Higuera says, "Tempers [are] high." So why does Socrates start preaching fire and brimstone? It could be that he honors retaliation as a form of justice. Aristotle tries, but in my opinion fails. It will take more than popular demand to convince me that two "wrongs" make a "right." If re taliation is not justice, then the notion thereof should not prevent us from pitying our repentant wrongdoer in any way. The Gorgias also presents Socrates' view of justice as medicinal punishment. "Paying the penalty is a relief from the greatest evil, wickedness" (Lamb 478 d) If this is justice (and indeed it seems to work in child-rearing), we should not seek to ameliorate the wrongdoer's suffering until he evinces his betterment by regretting his evil act, but our repentant wrongdoer is still an appropriate target for both kinds of pity. It seems that no real justice of any kind presented in the Ethics or the Gorgias renders pity for the repentant wrongdoer inappropriate! There are, however, those who insist on the existence of some a priori, cosmic justice involving something like retribution. It may be useful to ask exactly how much suffe r ing and of what kind the wrongdoer must endure as punishment for the satisfaction of this elusive cosmic justice. First let us look at natural consequences. Sometimes a crime will bring these with it. Sometimes, too, the righting of a wrong causes a wrongdoer pain, as in the case of a liar who is made to tell the shameful truth. The pain here is merely a by-product of the aspect of corrective justice that seeks to redress a wrong for the sake of the victim -- not justice itself -- or is it? Does this cosmic retributive justice demand that the wrongdoer of act and word to prevent him from being punished or coming 20 21 �suffer any and all such incidental (not related to the magnitude of the iniquity) consequences? Common sense says that this is ridiculous. Indeed, Socr ates unwittingly poses a broader problem when he suggests that punishment (natural or otherwise) be tailored to fit the crime (Woodhead 480 c,d). Who is to say how much punishment is enough? If the aim of justice is medicinal, the wrongdoer himself is the one to answer. The same goes in the case of justice based on deterrence. If justice means paying back the victim for his loss then the victim should answer. Such it is in the case of constructive forms of justice that the question of how much punishment is enough can be answered. However, if justice is cosmic, who is to answer? The cosmos herself? Does she really have a reputation for being fair and just? It is clear how ridiculous that is. Be that as it may, there are those who insist that blame, or responsibility, renders pity inappropriate to wrongdoers. Yet these same tenacious souls will pity the man who is abused by circumstances (or by a wrongdoer). The best I can do for these is to point out how much alike are those who suffer because of their own misdeeds and those who suffer otherwise, and how shallow and illusory is their concept of responsibility. Aristotelian responsibility is based on the volunta r iness of action, such that a man is responsible for an act that is wrong if he has committed it voluntarily. Again, Aristotle believes that pity cannot go hand in hand with blame. He says, "It is only voluntary actions fo r whiCh praise and blame are given; those that are involuntary are condoned, and sometimes even pitied" (Rackham III. i. 1). I think that this attitude results partly from his restricted use of the word "blame," which he seems to t a ke to mean, "that by virtue of which one is responsible (in the Aristotelian sense)." Aristotle says that voluntary acts are those in which the origin of the movement of the parts of the body instrumental to the act lies in the agent; and when the origin of an action is in oneself it is in one's own power to do it or not. (Rackham, III. i. 6) And again: 'None would be vile, and none would not be blest,' seems to be half false. If it is manifest that a man is the author of his own actions, and if we are unable to trace our conduct back to any 22 other origins than those within ourselves, then actions ... are voluntary (Rackham, III. v. 4-6). If one were hypnotized into committing a base act, I do not think that the act would qualify as voluntary, although we, in so far as we did not know of the hypnotist, would not be able to trace the agent's conduct back to any other origins than those within himself. Therefore I am inclined to believe that Aristotle meant to identify voluntary actions as those which a being equipped with perfect knowledge could not trace back to any origins save the wrongdoer himself. To Aristotle, this would pose no threat to his concept of responsibility, since he imputes spontaneity to our actions (that is, those actions not classified as "involuntary," a concept discussed below); however, the notion of spontaneous action by animals of any kind flies in the face of modern psychology. In a world that is always asking "Why?", searching for causes and patterns and the order of nature which we intuit to be a reality, there is no room for the idea of spontaneity. The truth, I believe, is that our destinies were set before the earth cooled, since nothing transpires without cause and nothing is caused to happen which does not happen, so that strung about the latticework of time and space is an immutable web of cause and effect, the vision of which Aristotle was denied. Thus any actions, theoretically ,should be able to be traced back to origins other than those within the agent. Spontaneity is, as I said before, a chaotic beast which we intuit to be nonexistent. Yet even chaos has intelligent suppo r te rs who point out that the universe may have had a beginning, and, if it did, this beginning would have been spontaneous. Therefore, they claim, spontaneity may be a monster on the loose in our very universe . I n light of the fa ct th at spo ntaneity may be a reality and that human acts may, to spite psychology cruelly, be spontaneous, let us reexamine the notion that, "where we are f ree to act we are also free to ref rain from acting." (Rackham III. v. 2) It seems to me that, while this is in one sense true (in that the action to a large degree depends on the agent), it is possible that the agent may be of suc h a character that he can only choose to act wrongly. If the character of the agent helps to determine his behavior, and the agent is not responsible for his character, it appears to follow that the agent is not responsible for his behavior, in the Aristotelian sense. Is the agent responsible for his character? Aristotle says that he is, since it is our practices that determine our character (Rackham III. iv. 15, 16). And yet, it is our character that determines our practices! It is obvious that, at some point in the past, the agent's character was not his responsibil ity and, therefore, neither are all ensuing actions and modifications of that character. Have I done away with responsibility? Not really. My attack is limited to Aristotelian respon sibility which, some claim, renders the wrongdoer undeserving of pity. I have left ample room for the more pragmatic responsibility that we use in everyday life in conjunction with corrective justice. According to Aristotle, "actions are in voluntary when done (a) under compulsion or (b) through ignorance" (Rackham III. i. 2, 3); ignorance of this kind is ignorance concerning (I) the person affected, (2) the instrument employed, or (3) the result of the action. But Socrates says that all seek the good and act in such a way as they believe will bring it about (Lamb 468 c - 469). In light of this, which seems to me true, are not all wrongdoers shown to act in ignorance of the results of their actions, believing them to be good whereas in reality they are not? Aristotle addresses this notion that the wrongdoer's "aim at his end [which he mistakenly sees as good] is not of his own choosing" (Rackham III. v. 17) by arguing that it destroys the idea of responsibility for good behavior as well as for bad (Rackham III. v. 18, 19). I find the argument insubstantial and Aristotelian responsibility (for both good and bad actions) fictitious. Finally, neither the repentant wrongdoer not the wronged person chooses evil, since "no object of choice belongs to the past" (Ostwald, l l 39b7). It seems that the re pen tan t wrongdoer and the wronged are very much alike, neither of them being responsible for their suffering in the Aristotelian sense, and neither choosing evil. Again, the malefactor is not the same entity as the repentant, nor does justice prescribe that we deny pity of any kind to the wrongdoer. It is clear, then, that the man who is "to blame" for his own suffering and the man who is abused by circumstances and thus suffers are equally to be pitied, both in the sense of commiserating and of seeking to end the sufferer's pain. Bibliography Aristotle: Nichomachean Ethics, Translated by Martin Ostwald, The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc., 1962; and Nichomachean Ethics, Trans. by H. Rackham, M.A. William Heinemann, Ltd., 1926. Higuera, Henry: Tutor and Advisor Plato: Gorgias, Trans. by W.D. Woodhead, Phaedo,_Trans. by Hugh Tredennick, from Collected Dialogues of Plato, Princeton University Press, 1961; and The Republic, Trans. by B. Jowett, Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. 23 �Aututnn Day Salon E = MC Scott Vineber g ('88) Scott Vineberg ('88) Combing the follicles of grass, Cleaning-up their natty harvest confetti; Leaves, trees' dandruff. I confess to Boreas My dislike of the season: Petty gossip. But the wind, darling, Is not a good listener. I tease the scalp Of old Miss Nature, Menopausal Spinster Earth, Greying and balding. A last clip. The old bat is just about ready to be embalmed. She's never satisfied with her color: "No," she says, "the tint isn't quite right. I think I want it white for down south this year." I don't think that would be a very good idea, bitch. Well, Then she beckoned to her bully brother Boreas, And he blew the clipping and cleaning Back onto her head. She stormed out. No tip again this yea r. But it was worth it, dear, It was worth it. A gentle, explosive equation. Tight Energy is Mass. Loose mass is energy. The equality flows so easily From dynamic burst power to thick ule. Fire frozen. Stone burning. It works so carefully in the world, Cradling us from inside ourselves And all around us. Papoose wrap Nature Rocks us with minute bursts inside Pinches us with soft solidity. ' We are the naked flame rock babies of the universe. So soft. Gravity is God's kind hand holding me. I feel how we are so cautiously tucked In the dark ch aotic sky; I feel the rigid relenting bed On which I am laid, And I know I am loved. 25 24 �Seeing with Both Eyes Open Graham Redgrave ('90) Both Claudius Ptolemaeus and Nicolaus Copernicus had only their eyes with which to observe the whirling lights in the sky. In addition, each had over a thousand years of pre-Common Era astronomical data at his disposal. Yet Copernicus built an astronomy which is mathematically superi or to Ptolemy's and which has since been shown to be closer to the actual form of the universe. Alth ough some discussion of what makes an astronomy superior is appropriate, this paper will be concerned with the progression of the philosophies of the two astronomers and the links, if any, between each's philosophy and astronomy. Was there, for example, a progression of thought which may have given Copernicus the freed om to see the heavens in a different light than that in which Ptolemy had seen them? A context, in this case astronomical, must be provided in which to judge the philosophies of these two thinkers, for otherwise one would be unable to grasp any possible relevance of the philosophy of the astronome r to his astronomy. Again, in order to make the progression of thought, both astronomical and philosophical, as clear as possible, we will begin with Ptolemy and proceed chronologically to Copernicus. Upon contemplating the Preface to Ptolemy's Almagest, it becomes clear that Ptolemy's conception of astronomy is thoroughly Aristotelian: Aristotle's name appears before the name of any religious entity. Consequently, Ptolemy finds that astronomy is a species of mathematics which, in the realm of theoretical enquiry, surpasses in accessibility both the physical and the the ological; for not only is mathematics the only discipline which "would give its practitioners certain and trustw orthy knowledge ... f rom indisputable procedures"(Pt.,pp.5-6), but also astronomy is "that special mathematical theory [which] would most readily prepare the way to the theological" and make "its followers lovers of that divine beauty"(Pt.,p.6). Irrespective of the virtue in studying astronomy, the fact is that Ptolemy considers astronomy to be kind of mathematics, and therefore subject to the principles of such a discipline, beyond any principles particular to astronomy. With this delineation in mind, let us examine several of Ptolemy's expositions to evaluate their mathematical and / or astronomical excellence. Before we sift through some of his specific ideas, let us first examine his conceptions. Ptolemy, in laudable Aristotelian manner, starts "from the things which are more knowable and obvious to us and [proceeds] towards those which are clearer and more knowable by na ture"(Phys., l 84a 16-1 7), ie., he observes the appearances of heavenly motion, both firsthand and from his charts, and proceeds to find the order in their movements. In accordance with his method, Ptolemy first asserts that the movement of the heavens is spherical (Pt.,1.3). What Ptolemy actually proves is that the heavens appear to move around 27 26 �the earth with spherical motion. Now without a powerful telescope to observe parallax, there is no way to prove which is moving, the heavens or the earth, but Ptolemy says not a word about any other possibility. Ptolemy's proof for the spherical nature of the earth (Pt.,1.4) is reasonable, as is his assertion in Chapter Six that the earth has the ratio of a point to the heavens. But in Chapter Five we encounter another difficulty. The fixed stars are so far away, as he himself says(Pt.,I.6), that there is justification for calling them fixed and saying that we appear to be in the middle of them; but the variable appearances of the sun and the wandering stars, i.e., the planets, seem to suggest that, even if the relationships between the earth and these stars are regular, the earth is not necessarily the center of that regularity. Furthermore, Chapter Six reinforces the contrast between the planets and the sun on one hand, and the planets and the fixed stars on the other (something prevents Ptolemy form postulating that the whole geocentric system might be as a point to the heavens--but what is that hindrance and where else in the Almagest does it manifest itself?). I do realize that hindsight affords a better vista of the problems in a given situation, but at the same time, Ptolemy was not proving what he claimed. As a result of finding the earth at the center of the of the center of the celestial sphere, he reasonably assigns no movement to the earth(Pt.,1.7), which is perfectly in accordance with Aristotle's ideas regarding the relative weight of the earth and the innate tendencies of the simple bodies. Thus far, though his premises are clouded enough to make his proofs almost reasonable assertions, Ptolemy's arguments are self-consistent and logically sound. After he deals with the earth's relationship with the sun and moon, Ptolemy orders the planets and the sun with respect to their closeness to the earth (Pt.,IX. l ), a process which seems substantially less sound than his proofs so far. Indeed, Ptolemy gives no reason for his order except concurrence with all the other top mathematicians of his day. The order is, of course, not without value; the appearances of the planets have begun to be explained. Mercury and Venus, the two planets placed below the sun, are tied to it in that they move with the same speed as the mean sun and, as a result, can never be more than certain elongations (longi tudinal distances) from the sun. This restriction on their movements accounts perfectly for their heliacal anomaly, the first of two anomalies of the 28 planets. Ptolemy's method appears valid: he isolates one appearance of the planet at a time, explicates it, and, if further explication are needed, he takes each in turn and gradually compounds the appearances (anomalies) together. Ptolemy puts both Venus and Mercury on epicycles of specific sizes which move on eccentric deferents at specific rates, in order that the planets appear to retrograde (they appear to stop, move backward, stop again, and then continue forward) at the appropriate time and that their elongations vary correctly (their zodiacal anomaly). He constructs similar hypotheses for the outer planets, at which point strange things begin to happen. To understand the problems which now emerge, let us review the appearances of an outer planet. First, outer planets can be at any elongation from the sun, and retrogradation may happen anywhere in the zodiac, as long as the planet artd the sun are in opposition (i.e., they are 180 degrees from one another). The fact that retrogradation occurs only at opposition ties the planet to the sun in much the same way that the inner planets have limited elongations. The outer planets' zodiacal anomaly arises from the fact that the severity of retrogradati on is contingent upon what part of the zodiac the planet is in when retrogradation takes place. Finally, a coincidence arises which haunts the Ptolemaic universe. For each of the three outer planets (Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars), "the sum of the cycles of longitude [the movement of the epicycle on the deferent] and the cycles of anomaly [the movement of the planet on the epicycle] always equals the number of solar years in which these cycles take place"(S=L+A)(p.24M). The resultin g table looks like this: Saturn Jupiter Mars Solar Years 59+ 7179+ Cycles of L 2+ 6- 42+ the amount by which the d'e f erent's center is displaced from the earth. But in proving that whenever the planet is in opposition it is at its true perigee, he assumes the existence of the equant. What is the equant? When Ptolemy calculates the eccentricity of the inner planets, the data he has gives him an amount of arc which corresponds to twice the amount of eccentricity he had previously calculated. Ptolemy is forced to posit the equant, the center of regular angular motion for the planet, at a point equidistant from the center of the eccentric deferent as the earth. The equanfs existence is problematic at best, since the planet whose regular motion the equant is describing is not on a circle about the equant. The planet, then, relative to the circle it is moving on, is moving with irregular motion! After assuming the equant's existence for the outer planets, Ptolemy makes accurate predictions concerning those planets; but how valid is the equant, an assumed equant at that, even if the predictions made with it are accurate? In summarizing Ptolemy's astronomy, I will say that the nobility of his philosophy far outshines the applications of his mathematics to such a philosophy. His clear, Aristotelian thoughts soon become tangled in an ill-supported muddle, at the heart of which lie three problems. The first is the fact that under the Ptolemaic system, according to the appearances, an outer planet must be at perigee when it is in opposition to the sun. Placing an outer planet on an epicycle, however, does not necessitate this phenomenon, as is shown below (Cp., p.525): Cycles of A 57 65 37 . . I -- - conJ nct10n apogee This coincidence gives rise to the discovery of another, namely that retrogradation occurs only at perigee. Ptolemy's constructions to make the epicycles fit the appearances of the outer planets are fairly complex and hard to capture visually. More imporantly, they are more difficult for him to do simply because the outer planets have unlimited elongations. Ptolemy must determine the correlation between the planet's perigee and its being in L Sun / ' opposition/perigee L - - '\ b ......... " \ \ Earth There is nothing in Ptolemy's mathematics that necessitates that Mars be in opposition at perigee; for it is clear that Mars could be anywhere on the epicycle. It is the appearances that dictate the necessity of having perigee at opposition, but Ptolemy does not construct a system in which this must happen. The second problem is that no explanation can be made for why the number of solar years equals the sum of the planet's cycles of longitude and anomaly. For Ptolemy this is a coincidence which, when explicated according to the appearances, produces the configuration of perigee at opposition, another coincidence! These two configurations would seem to make a strong argument for heliocentricity, simply because it is clear that the orbits of all the planets have far more to do with the sun than they have to do with the earth. The last problem, that of the equant, is more subtle, more elusive. It seems clear that if one wishes to maintain the purity, both from a philosophical and a mathematical viewpoint, of the orbits of the planets, one must use only perfect circles in the explication of phenomena. For without such purity of form, not only is the mathematics far more complicated, but also the philosophy (at least the Ptolemaic/ Aristotelian philosophy) becomes besmirched with something less than divine. Perhaps some discussion of the philosophical principles guiding Ptolemy's thought is here appropriate. In Book Thirteen, Chapter Two, Ptolemy states: But it is proper to try and fit as far as possible the simpler hypothesis to the movements in the heavens; and if this does not succeed, then any hypotheses possible. Once all the appear ances are saved by the consequences of the hypotheses, why should it seem strange that such complications can come about in the movements of heavenly things? (Pt., p.429) The first clause harmonizes with Ptolemy's determined reliance on the most simple and perfect mathematical figure, the circle. Simplicity is desirable beca.u se the simple is pure and therefore divine. And in the heavens, as Aristotle (De Cael~, i,2; Metaphys., xii,8) and Ptolemy (Pt., p.429) say, the simple bodies (stars, planets, etc.) are di vine. It does seem strange, however, that Ptolemy should think that we, as definitely non-divine creatures, should have such direct access to understanding this divine simplicity. For Aristotle says, at least of scientific enquiry, "the natural way [of discovering first principles] is to start from the things which are more knowable and obvious to us and proceed towards those which are clearer and more knowable by na ture"(Phys., l 84a 16-17). Indeed, it seems inconsistent to build a system with the simple elements, viz~, circles, for simplicity's sake, only to 29 �condone the use of those simple uni ts in the building of an edifice of such complexity that simplicity is nowhere to be found in the end product. Saying that the edifice is simple because it is composed of simple elements becomes a bad joke. It is not clear, in all fairness to Ptolemy, whether he is attributing the complications found in the explications of the movements of the planets to the planets themselves, or to man's inadequate astronomy. I cannot help but feel, though, that here Ptolemy is trying to apologize for or rationalize the equant, a step which I may feel necessary but which he may not. Later in the chapter, Ptolemy says that we should "judge [the heavenly occurrences'] simplicity from the unchangeableness of the natures in the heavens and their movement"(p. 429). I find a more subtle revelation of doctrine in this passage, which again is Aristotelian. Man's most exalted faculty, that of reason, is for Aristotle the driving force of the cosmos (Metaphys ., xii,8-9). Aristotle and Ptolemy both posit the unchanging nature of the heavens in order, it seems, to have the universe reflect the supremacy of reason, viz .., in the divine motion of the stars, which, when deified, has recognizable power in the heavens and endows men with the privilege of being able to gaze upon it in its manifestations. This belief in Reason makes Man in a very real sense the measure of all things, at ieast insofar as inquiry is concerned. A man, even recognizing the power of Reason, would still be confined in an inquiry not only by the limitations of his own intellect, but also by the particula r beliefs as to what Reasonable things are. He would only discover as much about the manifestatiosn of Reason (in this case, the heavenly bodies) as his belief in the particular capabilities of Reason (e.g., the setting of the stars in motion) would allow him. His belief would hinder his intellectual pursui t wherever a particular concept (e.g., the planets moving in quasi-circles) seemed un-Reasonable. It seems, then, that Ptolemy was hampered by his philosophy. But surely no man's mind is free to wander about the cosmos unfettered, without any form to shape and direct it? If a man must necessarily have some form of mind, what will be that form, that predisposition, which will work best to enable that man to see truth? And this paper is concernd with astronomical truth; therefore, if one were able to find a verifiably superio r astron ·· omy, one might be able t o compare the philosophy or predisposition of the astronomer in question 30 with that of Ptolemy. But what will be the requirements, at least mathematical if not empirical, by which to judge a work superior? Ptolemy's system is dubious in those places, as has been said, where he cannot produce a mathematical construction that necessarily provides the appearances. If an astronomer could structure his universe to allow for the one correct set of appearances, would not his universe be mathematically superior and probably closer to the truth? Copernicus, of course, is the magician of necessity who solves at least two of the three problems of Ptolemy's system. To reiterate, those problems are: 1) that the outer planets are only at perigee at opposition and vice versa, 2) that there is 'no explanation for the coincidence S=L+A, a coincidence which, in Ptolemy's universe, is intimately linked with the first problem, and 3) that the equant comes dangerously near, in the eyes of some, to astronomical heresy. Problem three is still a problem after Copernicus finishes with it, but in a different respect than it is with Ptolemy. In order to understand how Copernicus solves these problems, we shall summarize the Copernican exposition of the uni verse. To begin with, most of the Ptolemaic ratios dealing with the earth's relationship to the hea venly bodies are kept, for a very good reason . The calculations deriving these ratios are based on fairly accurate observations. The calculations now merely ref er to different relationships; for example, the size of Mars's epicycle now becomes the earth's orbit, while the size of the deferent refers to the size of Mars's orbit. The sun is at the center of the universe, and the planets, proceeding out ward, are ordered thus: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. All the planets are moving in the same direction around centers located very close to the sun, while the earth has three movements which p r eserve the appearance of the zodiac and the daily rotation of the celest ia l sphere. But now to address those three problems-first that of the oppositions and perigees of the outer planets. All we need do is diagram the situation according to Copernicus's system (Cp., p.525): It is clear that Mars (or any out er planet) can ony be at opposition at perigee. The second problem is solved when L is understood to be the speed of the slower planet and A the difference in speeds between the two planets (i.e., the number of times the faster overtakes the slowe r ). Now the planets are ordered from observati on by their angular speeds from the slowest to the fastest, outermost orbit to innermost. Thus, when Saturn has completed two orbits (L), the earth, the faster of the two planets, will have overtaken Saturn fifty-seven times (A) and will have taken fifty-nine years to do so (S). It is also evident that whenever a planet overtakes or is overtaken by the earth, a retrogradation will occur. Whereas Ptolemy had to calculate the rates for each planet and its epicycle and engingeer retrogradations, so to speak, Copernicus shows that with their observed rates of revolution around the sun, each planet must retrograde where and when it does. Copernicus's solution t o the problem of the equant is the most astounding of the three solutions. For Ptolemy, the necessity for the equant arose when he had to compound the heliacal anomaly with the zodiacal. In addressing the same problem, Copernicus, rather than resorting to the equant, changes the shape of the planet's orbit to a quasi -circle, a curve "diff erring imperceptibly" from a circle. Here Copernicus makes a radi cal leap away from Ptolemy. Where Ptolemy understood there to be a necessity for perfect circles in affirmation of the divine simplicity of the heavens, Copernicus sees the necessity for a very different kind of simplicity, namely that there be no loopings or spirals in a planet's movement (which Ptolemy and Brahe posit, respectively). This simplicity requires a denial of the fundamental divinity of the heavens--or does it? Copernicus's opening remarks are more fervent that Ptolemy's, full of praise for the virtue of astronomy and the "godlike" motions of the heavens. Copernicus is anything but an atheistic mechanist out to rend all the spirit from his art. Copernicus has shown himself to be master astronomer over Ptolemy, but what of his philosophy? At the end of Book One, Chapter Nine, in Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres, Copernicus says, "And the ratio of order. .. teaches us [the astronomical] truth, if only--as they say--we would look at the thing with both eyes." It is doubtful that Copernicus thinks that Ptolemy made his observations with one eye, one physical eye, shut. This being the case, Copernicus might well be making a statement about the mind of the astronomer, a mind not fully utilizing its ability to apprehend truth. But what would the hindrance to that mind be? Earlier in this discussion, Ptolemy was seen to be restricting himself by deifying reason. Copernicus appears to be claiming that his mind is unrestricted in comparison to Ptolemy's, but to investigate the meaning and validity of Copernicus' assertion, we must look at the commentary on Copernicus in Johannes Kepler's Epitome of Copernican Astronomy,JV. In the remarks To the Reader (Kp., p.848), Kepler indirectly quotes Christ in Matthew 24:35: "Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away." Kepler, in proclaiming his Christianity, is making a distinction about the term "heavens," which he goes on to explicate: "But his Most Supreme Highness will not pick a fight concerning the heavens; for he knows that the philosophers speak of the visible heavens; and Christ of the invisible heavens." It seems, then, that Christian dogma dictates that the universe, while "stamped with the adornment of harmonic proportions"(Kp., p.850), is as ephemeral as the ground upon which we stand. Christians are free to think not only of the earth as being related to the stars in a fundamental way, but also of the stars as not eternally moving in their perfect circles. As far as Christians are to be concerned, Aristotle's arguments resulting in the divinity of the (visible) heavens must be false, because he fixes the bounda ries of the divine at the limits of human knowing rather than beyond human knowing, as a Christian would. For Aristotle, the most divine geometrical figure is the perfect circle; consequently he posits that the stars, perceivably the most div .~nc bodies, 31 �move in perfoct circles. With Kepler's linking of Christian dogma to astronomy, however, astronomers are freed to violate certain Aristotelian precepts, simply because that which is Reasonable is no longer divine, merely reasonable. And although Man is made in God's image and, as a result, has some faculty for reason, Man is just that, an image; for him to decipher the unimaginably complex movements of the spheres, he will have to look to God for assistance. Given that Copernicus is a Christian (as is evidenced by his "Preface and Dedication to Pope Paul III"), how does he view the universe? Kepler, in quoting "Copernican Philosophy," uses Copernicus's understanding of astronomy to symbolize the Holy Trinity. The sun is a symbol for the Father, the planetary region a symbol for the Holy Ghost, and the sphere off ixed stars a symbol for Jes us Christ, the Son. Kepler is careful not to say, however, that these regions are the Trinity; he says merely that the tripartite nature of the universe serves as a vehicle for contemplating the Trinity. Now it is possible to see some correlation between the philosophical and the astronomical. Copernicus's assertion that truth can be seen if we open both eyes may be not merely an injunction to see that system which will necessitate the appearances; it may be instead an exhortation to the Christian faith, the faith which allows Copernicus to see man not as the focal point of the universe, but rather as an integral part of God's world. Having examined both Ptolemaic and Copernican astronomies in comparison with their respective philosophies, we have established some sort of correlation between astronomy and philosophy. Ptolemy, in a very Aristotelian manner, conceives of a geocentric universe, a universe whose first principle is Reason. Copernicus, whose universe necessitates the heavenly appearances rather than merely provides for them, is a Christian, and as a result is slightly less hindered that Ptolemy in his thinking about the heavens. We have established a correlation between astronomy and philosophy; but is there a causal relationship between the two? We have seen that ast r onomy is a species of mathematical inquiry, relating to the ordered movements of the heavens, but "philosophy," insofar as it has been used in this paper (and in the term "Copernican Philosophy"), might better be termed "the result of reflection upon one's belief." Ptolemy probably believed in the supremacy of Reason, if we take his Aristotelianism to its logical end, while Copernicus was a Christian. If this "belief" is the farm of mind as was discussed earlier, then it is fundamental in a person and in some way must have given Copernicus the ability to see things differently that Ptolemy. Again if, as Kepler says, "it should not be surprising to anyone that eyesight should learn from r eason,"(Kp., p.854) surely it should not be surprising to anyone that reason learn from belief? Variant Sonnet: ·Atnazon Mourning Dahra Latham ('90) The river sleeps beneath the sun; Her warm, fecund meanders run Through fen and forest drowsily To the cold wakefulness of sea. To rub her eyes and shake her hair, Thinking of sunstruck jungles where She slipped to sleep, having forgot What strange change this night's rest has wrought. So the pard-huntress surely rose At Tibur, surely shook her hair Half of her mind still in repose Forgetting what had brought her there. And raised her head, in sunstruck Syria crowned To see the first strange frost on Roman ground. N.B.: All quotations from Ptolemy, Copernicus, or Ke ple r were taken fr om Gre at Books of the Weste rn World, no. 16, "Ptolemy, Copernicus, Kepler," R.M.Hutchins, ed. All quotations from Aristotle were taken from The Basic Works of Aristotle, R. McKeon, ed. In addition, any quotation followed by "M" is taken from the Sophomore "Ptolemy, Copernicus" Manual. 32 33 �Untitled Sahana Dharmapuri ('91) When her eyes are violets, he is a universe of dandelions to her, and she folds easily into his gentleness. He smells her breasts like plums and rests quietly at her stomach, listening to the chatter of her flesh. He hides but does not hide here. He only hopes to touch her once again; "to fall into the sublime" he says. The conversation of their bodies is insanity, violence, delicate trembling. When they wish on distant nebulas and dying stars, midnight is a mistress to these sorrows. 34 The Return of Oedipus Rex · The Metaphysics of Incest Michael McShane ('88) Writing of Sophocles' Oedipus Rex, Freud asks why it, more than other "tragedies of fatedness," has enjoyed such continued prominence. What is it about Oedipus Rex that has allowed it to hold such powerful sway over minds and imaginations for so many centuries? Freud's answer to the question is well known: Sophocles' tragedy exerts power over us because we all (men presumably) are Oedipal; we all literally but unconsciously desire to kill our fathers and sleep with our mothers. Freud argues that the play touches an unconscious sexual nerve in its audiences and readers; they participate in Oedipus' drama without realizing it. Freud concludes that Oedipus Rex maintains its hold on audiences because Oedipus' sexual complexes and catharses are secretly shared by viewers. I think Freud's question is good but his answer somewhat limited. I am not convinced that everyone shares an unconscious literal desire to kill "his" father and marry "his" mother. Yet it does seem true that Oedipus Rex touches some universal desire, which perhaps Oedipus' murder and incest symbolize. This paper will argue that Oedipus is motivated primarily by a universally shared metaphysical desire. This desire is erotic, certainly, but not merely sexual. To show this the paper will first discuss some Aristotelian meta physics and then--for the sake of contrast--an Homeric corned y before turning to a discussion of the Oedipal tragedy itself. In Greek as well as in much post-Greek thought the form of the circle has held great significance. In the Physics, for example, Aristotle describes the motions of the heavenly bodies as being circular. The planets are divine because they eternally follow circular paths. The major characteristic of the circle, Aristotle argues, is that its end is also its beginning/end. Thus, unlike an object following a rectilinear path, the planet never experiences anything new. To a greater extent than any other movable, the planet's circularity allows it to transcend change and time. For Aristotle, then, the planets are divine; their circular orbits indicate a high degree of self-enclosed, self-sufficient, persistent identity. Following their circular itineraries, the planets recuperate themselves at every moment, suffering minimal intrusion of anything foreign or external to them. Nearly unconditioned, they return to themselves, eternally. The one thing that does condition the planets, Aristotle argues, is the most divine being in the cosmos, the unmoved mover. The prime mover solicits the circular motions of the planets, which are moved by an erotic desire for its perfection. The prime mover also displays a kind of circular quality. It is pure activity: thinking thinking. The prime mover thinks only its own thoughts. It always and immediately returns to itself. The prime mover can be imagined as an extremely tight circle of selfconsciousness. 35 �Even more than the planets, the divine prime mover transcends time. As pure activity, it has present in it no potentiality whatsoever. As such, the prime mover cannot change or move, given that Aristotle's definition of motion is "the actuality of potentiality qua potentiality." Aristotle describes time as the "measure of motion." Thus, the potentiality-less prime mover cannot move and consequently is outside of time. Thinking only its own self, the prime mover can be represented as even more self-subsistent and self-enclosed than the planets, which are moved by it. Closed off, the prime mover's world is populated only by itself.Unaffected by anything external to the circle of its own intellectual activity, the prime mover is radically unconditioned and free. From the above I hope it can be seen that in Aristotle's thought the form of the circle is the form of the divine, the eternal, the self-identical, self-enclosed and self-sufficient. From this thought I will try to show that there is a kind of "circle logic" at work in Greek literature as well as philosophy. Two examples of literary circle logic will be adduced. One is comedic--i.e., has a happy ending--and the other tragic: the tales of Odysseus and Oedipus. Odysseus' travels represent a great circle, starting from Ithaca, turning through the events of the Iliad, re-turning through the events of the Odyssey and ending with a triumphal return to his original starting point, Ithaca. Odysseus' r eturning to Ithaca represents the closing of his circle, where end meets beginning. There he recuperates his own origin: he makes peace with his father. There Odysseus kills off the external suitors, restoring the integrity of his family circle. He regains his ever-faithful wife Penelope, his troubled son, his kingship, his place. The return of Odysseus indi cates the recuperation of his very identity, which h a d been a t sta ke th roughout his a r cing journeys. As with the planets, the meshing of the Ithacan scene at the beginning of Odysseus' travels with the scene there at the end in di ca tes a kind of transcendence of time. The great circular reasoner, Hegel, remarks that true forgiveness means negating history; unweaving, Penelope forgives and trusts Odysseus, thus negating the troublesome period between his departure and return, a period when he was out doing godknowswhat with godknowswhom godknowswhere. Another example of temporal transcendence concerns the suitors. They die off relatively expediently. More than 36 that, however, by means of Athena's action, Ithaca somehow eludes the horrible regression of revenge seen in another return story, The Oresteia. As Helen drugged Menelaos into forgetting his past, so Athena somehow induces the families of the slain suitors to forget that Odysseus has wiped out their men. Only by this collective forgetting of the past can Odysseus ever hope to govern in Ithaca. The comedic nature of the Odyssey depends upon Odysseus' ability to transcend time and history. Thus we see two examples of how the triumphal return of Odysseus somehow involves a denial, forgetting, negation or transcendence of the time between. Turned full circle, Odysseus can live at peace with his wife, family, city and self as if he had never left town. Having fully returned to his origin, Odysseus has re-captured his identity, place and independence, in conformity with the circle logic of the circular path he followed. The fin al comedic nature of the Odyssey is guaranteed by its circular form: the end meshes successfully with the beginning. If, as I have suggested, the circular form guarantees perfection and absolute self-suff iciency in Greek philosophy and comic epics, it also presides over the tragedy of Oedipus Rex. An examination of that play will reveal a sense . in which the divine cir cle becomes a vicious circle for human beings. There are many aspects of circularity and broken ci rcularity in Oedipus Rex. I won' t go into all of them here, but the most obvious aspect of circularity in the play is Oedipus' geographical itinerary. Like Odysseus, Oedipus' wanderings form a great circle. He departs originally from Thebes and turns through Cithaera and Corinth, from there re-turning home to Thebes via the illfated crossroads and the interview with the sphinx. Although this itinerary seems to conform to the circular path taken by Odysseus, there obviously remains a tragic difference. For Oedipus, homecoming, although first apparently excessively successful, becomes increasingly and ultimately horrifying. An important difference between Oedipus' and Odysseus' circular paths concerns the tightness of their circles. Whereas Odysseus returns to his wife after killing her suitors, Oedipus returns to his own mother after killing his father. In terms of circle logic, what does it mean to marry mother after killing father? Why do men commonly dream of this kind of return, as Jocasta suggests? To marry one's own mother indicates the most immediate, most intimate form of circular return, where the circle closes back on itself extremely tightly. Oedipus has literally returned to his own place of origin, his mother's body. Conceiving children with her, it is as if he is conceiving himself. He can, in effect, be his own parent and child simultaneously. Returning so closely to his own origin, Oedipus expresses a desire to undo what has been done, to negate his past and start again, to re-create himself by himself. In this way we see in Oedipus' story, as in Odysseus', the Aristotelian premiss of time-transcendence as described by circle logic. The desire to marry one's own mother, it seems to me, comes out of an Aristotelian desire for self-sufficiency. As described above, self-sufficiency means minimal dependence upon anything exterior to the circle of one's own present identity. Such a desire for self-sufficiency accounts for Oedipus'(perhaps unconscious) desire to be selfbegotten, self-raised. It implies a dread of otherness, newness or foreigness. Having children by his own mother indicates Oedipus' desire to populate the world with himself. He desires to be like the unmoved mover, inhabiting a cosmos in which only he is present. Before Oedipus' self-sufficient dread of anything alien all otherness or negativity must be annihilated. Hence essential to Oedipus' return to his maternal origin is the killing of his own father. If self-sufficiency means being conditioned only by oneself then paternity, as a pregi ven and prohibiting condition, must be eliminated. To use the Aristotelian language, killing the father is for the sake of marrying the mother, which is for the sake of circular self-sufficiency. Thus we can see that Oedipus symbolically achieves the closest possible meshing of beginning and end as prescribed by the logic of circularity. Why is it then that Odysseus' circle is comically charmed while Oedipus' becomes vicious, tragic? This question might seem foolish; after all , one could reason, Oedipus committed incest, which is a horrible crime against nature, hence it is no wonder that he ended tragically in Oedipus Rex. Yet, such reasoning misses the point. Odysseus certainly committed a few crimes in his career. We must ask why incest is regarded as a uniquely horrible crime. This question becomes more compelling in light of the doctrine of circle logic set out before. Circle logic, as presented in my interpretation of Aristotle, seems to imply that the tighter the circle followed the more divine the follower. For this reason planets, although divine, are less di vine than the prime mover. As set out above, the planets do move, require externality, are conditioned, do desire some more original other. On the other hand, the tight inner circle of the prime mover implies its wholly original, independent and divine nature. If circle logic be taken as a standard, it would seem that Oedipus should fare better than his counterpart in circularity, Odysseus. For schematically, Odysseus' life (up to the end of the Odyssey) should look something like this: A birth, origin From this diagram we can see that Odysseus doesn't fully return to his origin. There is a rectilinear portion of his lif e(line AB), for which he must be less divine, according to Aristotelian circle logic. On the other hand, Oedipus' life drawing (up to the end of Rex) looks like this: birth, marriage, child begetting Cithaera Sphinx crossroads Here we can see that if circle logic is valid, Oedipus should end up more divine, more outside of time, more self-sufficient than Odysseus, for he more closely approaches his own origin. If this is true we reach the paradoxical conclusion that circle logic seems to sanction, even demand, incest; for incest 37 �represents the closing of the circle. Given, then, that Oedipus' life most closely approximates the divine pattern of the self-enclosed divine circle, we are compelled to ask our question again: "Why is it then that Odysseus' circle is comically charmed while Oedipus' is tragically vicious?" Why is it that Odysseus is able to transcend time while Oedipus remains haunted and destroyed by his own past? Why is it that Odysseus and those around him can forgive and forget, while Oedipus is doomed to remembrance and condemnation? Why is it that Odysseus is able to re-establish his own self-sufficient identity, his place and his kingship while Oedipus is left dependent, dethroned and exiled? Circle logic would seem to indicate that Oedipus should have been the most divinely content, self-satisfied and self-sufficient man ever. He obviously is not that at the end of the play. That contradiction, I think, lies at the heart of the tragedy of Oedipus Rex as human tragedy. It suggests the true meaning of Oedipus' much bruited "tragic flaw." It was not for something idiosyncratic, like his impatience or wrathfulness, that Oedipus had to suffer. It was because he made a bid for something all human beings intrinsically desire: he aspired to be divine, completely circularly self-sufficient. Like Aristotle's planets, Oedipus erotically desired to completely overcome all alien being, transcend time and his own history, to endlessly renew himself in a closed world populated only by himself. In short, Oedipus desired divinity, self-sufficiency and immortality. I think the message of Oedipus Rex is that such a radical transcendence of the human is impossible and dangerous, contrary to what Aristotle claims in the Ethics. Oedipus discovered that human beings must content themselves with human things. This means, in effect, that human beings cannot ever be sufficient unto themselves; Sophocles has Oedipus learn that there is no escape from otherness, newness, time and external conditions. To try to evade mortality, Oedipus finds, is to commit horrible crimes. He cannot close the circle of his history without annihilating his own father, killing off thereby, a part of himself. · I think the real power of Oedipus Rex lies in its depiction of the human soul. Part of being human is dreaming of immortality and self-sufficiency. As the Odyssey perhaps suggests, human nature holds out a vague promise of divine transcendence. Yet, full divinity can never be fully obtained, at least according to Oedipus Rex. Oedipus sensed the divine in him, sensed it perhaps as intellect or good fortune (his "mother"), and erotically pursued this divinity, although perhaps unconsciously. Oedipus' pursuit of his divine self took place in a dream-like state of amnesia. When Oedipus a woke the circle was broken; he had blood on his hands. The tragedy of Oedipus Rex is a tragedy of the impossibility of radical human transcendence. 38 39 �Thus, by substituting (5) and (2). into (6), we arrive at, (sin 2Lz)(3600)(Ui) 2 + [(cosL 2)(60)(U 1)-M(BC)] 2 = M 2(DB) Therefore, (sin2Lz) (3600) (U 1)2+ (cos2Lz) (3600) (U 1) 2 - 120 (U i) (cosLz) * M(BC) + M2(BC) = M2(DB) A Modern Investigation of the Eccentric Hypothesis Therefore, (3600) (U 1) 2 [sin 2L 2+cos 2LiJ (120) (U 1) (cosL 2 * M(BC) + M 2(BC) = M 2(DB) by Tim McNicholl '90 Therefore, (3600) (U 1) =M2(DB) - The circle in the above diagram is the eccentric with center C. Point Bis the position of the Earth, and D is a given position of the planet. Thus Li is the angle of apparent movement and L 2 is the angle of regular movement. The planet moves counterclockwise from point A, the perigee. The drawing is an inversion of the more commonly used diagram in Book III, Chapter Two, of the Almagest. However, this will not affect the results obtained. In the following equations, M(a) denotes the measure of line a. 1. Given the Angle of Regular Motion, to find the Angle of Apparent Motion. A M(DC)=60*U i (sinL 2)*60*U i=M(DE) ( cosLz)*60*U i=M(EC) Therefore, Li= Sin- 1 { (SinLz) (60) / +[ 3600 - 120 (n) ( CosL 2) + n 2] 1h} (15) (8) Q.E.F. Thus, Substituting (8) into (7), 2. Given the Angle of Apparent Motion, to find the Angle of Regular Motion. (3600)(U 1)-( l 20)(n)(U 1)2( cosLz)+(n)2(U 1)2 =M2(DB) Consider the following equations again, Let U i equal the unit that measures DC sixty times. Therefore, (U i) 2 [3600 - (120) (n) (cosL 2) + n2] = M2(DB) Therefore, +U i[3600 - (120) (n) (cosL 2) + n]11 M(DB) 2= (9) M(EC)=(CosLi)(Uz)+n(U i) M(DE)=(SinLi)*U2 M(DC)=60*U 1 M(DE)=(SinLz)(60)(U 1) By this unit, Let U 2=the unit that measure DB one time. From the drawing it follows that, (1) (2) (3) M(EB)=M(EC)-M(BC) (4) M2(EC)+ M2(D E )=M2(DC) (10) (11) +Ui[3600 - (120) (n) (cosLz) + n 2]112= U 2 (12) Equating (12) and (2), Substituting (3) into (4), we obtain, M(EB)=( cosL 2)( 60 )(U i)-M(BC) By this unit, M(DB)=l *U 2 M(DE)=(sinLl )*U 2 Equating (10) and (9), Now then, (13) (5) At the same time, Substituting (11) into (13), (6) 40 (14) (7) (120) (U 1) 2 (cosLz) * M(BC) + M2(BC) M(BC)=n*U i Therefore, SinL 1=(SinLz)*60/ +[3600 - 120 (n) (CosL 2) + n2]1/z This function does not work, however, when 90 > L < 360. For, within these values, CosL 2 is negative, slightly disturbing the value of the denominator of the right side of (15). This is mended by changing the - sign in the radical to a + operand which is - when O~L~90. Accordingly, Li= Sin-i{ (SinL 2) (60) + [ 3600 + (120) (n) (CosL 2) + (16) n2] 1/2} Let n= the number of times U i measures BC. With the publication of De Revolutionibus Orbium Coelestium in 1543, the heliocentric Hrevolu tion" was heralded along with the decline of the geocentric theory of Ptolemy. The many advances made afterwards in mathematics were used to refine and confirm the heliocentric system while the obsolete system of Ptolemy was given little of their attention. The purpose of this paper is to investigate the eccentric hypothesis of Ptolemy using the mathematics of the heliocentric era. Its goals are to derive formulas that yield the angle of apparent or regular motion when given the other angle, and to verify that mean passage occurs at apparent quadrature. Therefore, (SinLi) ( + [3600 - 120 (n) (CosLz) + n2 ]112) =(SinLz) * 60 (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) Substituting (1), (2), and (3) into (5) , [ (CosL 1) (U 2) + (n) (U 1)]2 + (Sin 2L 1) (U z) 2 =3600 (U 1) 2 Therefore, (Cos 2L 1) (Ut) 2 +2 [(CosL 1) (U z) (n) (U 1) ] + (n) 2 (U 1) 2 + (Sin L 1) (U z)2 = 3600(U 1)2 Therefore, (Uz) 2 + 2 [(CosL 1)(n) (U 2)(U 1)] + (U 1)2[N 2 - 3600] =0 (SinL 1) (U 1) + [3600 - 120 (n) (CosLz) + n2] 1f2 =(SinLz) (60) (U1) 41 �d/dL = (n2cos 2Li - n2+ 3600) 1/~ .5[d ( n2cos2Li /2 n 2 + 3600) I dLi] * [l / (n2cos2L 1 - n2+ 3600) 1 We now have an equation in the form ax 2+bx+c=0 where, L 2=t*m L 2/m=t x=Uz a=l b=2(CosLi)(U i)(n) c=(U i) 2[n-3600] Therefore, dL 1/d[L 2/t] or m*dL 1/dL 2 is sought. =.5 [d/ dL 1 n 2cos2Lil * [l /(n 2cos2L 1-n2+3600) 1/ 2 In addition to the basic rules of diff erentiation, the fallowing axioms have been used: Using the quadratic formula to solve for U 2, we obtain, And so, at apparent quadrature, the apparent and regular velocities are equal, no matter what the distance between the centers is. =n 2 * dcosL 1/dL 1 * cosL 1 * 1/( ... ) 1/ 2 =n 2(-sinL 1)(cosL 1)/(n 2cos 2L 1-n2+3600) 1/ 2 dL 2/dt = dt*m/dt = m*dt/dt = m (6) Q.E.D. 1 dsinx/dx= 1/(l-x2) h dsinx/ dx= cosx dcosx/dx= -sinx Inserting (5) and (6) into (4), (n)2 (U i)2 cos2Li- 4 Consider equation (8) from section two. Diff erentiating both sides with respect to L 1, d/dLi(-1/60 (sinLi) (cosL 1) (n) .±._ 1/60[ n2cos2L 1n 2 + 3600] 1/z =1/60{-n (cos 2L 1 - sin 2L 1) .±_ [-n 2 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) / n 2 cos 2L 1 - n 2+ 3600) 1lz) (7) Therefore, U 2=-2(CosLi)(U iHn)±_2(U 1)[(n) 2(Cos 2Li)n2+3600]11y2 dL 2/dL 1= d/dL 1 sin-1 [-1 /60 (sinL 1)(CosLi)(n).±_l / 60(n2Cos2L 1-n2+3600) 1I] (1) Substituting (7) into (3), Now then, d/dL 1 sin-i (1/60 (sinL 1)(cosLi) (n) + 1/60 [n2 cos 2Li - n2 +3600] 1/z dsin-i (1/60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) .:t. 1/60 [n 2 cos 2L 1n2 + 3600] 1fz/ d (-1 /60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) .±._ 1/60 [n 2 cos 2L 1- n2 + 3600] 1/z =1/60 {-n (cos 2L 1 - sin 2L 1) + [-n 2 (sinL 1) (cosLi) I (n 2 cos 2L 1 - n 2 + 3600) 1/U / {l-[-l/60(sinLi) (cosL 1) (n) .±_l /60[n 2 cos2Li -n2+ 3600] 1lz) 1/2 @ =l I (1 - { 1/60 (sinLi) (cosLi) (n) ±_1/60 [n2cos2L 1 - n2+ 3600] 1h) 2) 1 /z And so, substituting (8) into (1) and inverting the result, Uz= -2 (Cos Li) (U i) (n) .:t. (Ui) 2 [ n 2 - 3600 ] } 1h/ 2 {4 Therefore, U 2=-(CosLi)(U 1)(n).±_U i[(n)2(Cos2Li)-n2+3600]1fz (6) Equating ( 4) with (2) and inserting equation (6), SinLi { -cosLi (U i) (n) ±_ (U i) [ n 2 cos 2Li n 2 + 3600 ] 112) = SinL 2( 60) (U 1) -(SinL 1) (CosLi) (U 1) (n) .±._ (SinLi) (U 1) [ (n)2(Cos2Li) - n2+ 3600] 1l~(SinLz)(60)(Ui) - (SinL 1) (CosLi) (n) .:t. (SinLi) [ n 2 (Cos 2Li) n2+3600] 1f2/ 60 = SinL 2 (7) Sin-1 {-(SinL 1) (CosLi) (n) + (SinLi) [ n2 (Cos 2Li) - n 2 + 3600] lfi; 60 } =L 2 (8) (2) Multiplying both sides of (2) by d/dLi(-1 /60(sinL 1)(cosL 1)... ),d /dL 1sin-1( ... ) =d /dL 1 ( 1/60 (sinL 1 ) (cosL 1 ) (n) .±._ 1/ 60 [n 2 cos2L 1 - n2+ 3600] 1'2/ {1- [-1 /60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) .±._ 1/60 [n2cos2L 1 n 2 + 3600 ] 1/} 112 (3) Where the variable operand is + when O~L 2~.180 and - when 180>L<360. Now, solving for the numerator of the right side of Q.E.F. d/ dL 1(- 1/60(si nLi)( cosL 1) ... ) =l/60[d/fLi~inL 1 )(cosL 1 ) (n) d/dLi (n cos Li... ) 112] 3. To Verify that Mean Passage Occurs at Apparent Quadrature. It is first required to find the apparent velocity when the planet appears to have moved 90 from apogee or perigee. In the language of differentials: what is dLi/dt when L 1=90? Since L 2 is the angle of regular motion, and thus is directly proportional to time, (3), dL 1/dL 2 =[-1/60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) + 1/60 [n 2 cos 2L 1 n2+ 3600]1/}i/2 - / 1/60{-n (cos2Lr sin 2L 1 ) + [-n2 (sinLi) (cos2L 1) /(n2 cos2L 1n2 + 3600) 1/ 2} (9) Now, let L 1=90, dLi/dL 2= {l -L±_l /60(-n 2+36000) 1l} 1lz/ l/60[+n] = {1-[ 1/3600*(3600-n 2]} 1/z / n/60 .:t. ={1 -[l-n 2/3600]} 1/z / n/60 (4) The first derivative in the right side of (4) can be resolved as follows: d/dL 1 - (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) = -n [sinL 1 . dcosL 1/dL 1+cosL 1dsinLi/dLi]= -n [cos 2Li-sin 2L 1 ] (5) Resolving the second derivative in (4), = n/60 I n/60 =1 Now, in the first part of this section, it was determined that the apparent velocity at a point was equal to m * dL 1/dL 2. Thus, at apparent quadrature the perceived velocity ism. Since L 2=t * m, for any value of Li, 43 42 �An Adaptation, 1987 The Bow- of Heracles John Pronko ('90) Carolyn Barndt ('90) This is no garden. Don't think I mistook this for the banks of Euphrates: You are not the only man on the face of th e ea r th Although you might as well be --even as we have both tasted t he f ru i t of that tree whose branches are many bu t finite -I see whe r e we are. Cut off from the past Sa nctuar y, th e blind green re li ef -I found you culti vat ing your thi stles and th orns cursing th e ea rt h fo r n ot yie ld ing up more. --You know tha t story; this is not the begi nn in g. Not being the fi rst I can't take the blame for The pain in your r ibcage and countless transgressions: I' m not the agent of you r fall from grace, I Resist being pushed through the stencils of h isto ry. Far f r om paradise Why try to forget what might have been easy But may not be impossible? --although we need othe r skins , hi des fo r protectio n although we have skins at all --with th e fruit i n us rooted, to speak our own blame: To stand before each other, n aked and not be ashamed. Sophocles's employment of the deus ex machina as agent of resolution in Philoctetes is disturbing. There is a sense that Heracles' appearance completely undermines the events of the play. Philoctetes is understandably unwilling to serve the Atridae and Odysseus. He has for nine years fought his own miserable war on Lemnos and survived. Glory is no longer of interest to him, nor does he care to take steps to avenge himself. Philoctetes wants to go home. Neoptolemus can at least grant him that. He ultimately agrees to do so. One might consider this the human resolution of the play. This is blatantly inadequate, but it seems at least consistent with the rest of the play. Heracles appears and in one line Philoctetes, the play's paradigm of constancy, yields. Yes, Philoctetes will go to Troy. This is difficult to accept unless there is some way to understand the appearance of Heracles as necessary. In addition to the three main characters in the play there is a fourth, the bow of Heracles. It is the bond between Heracles and Philoct'etes. Perhaps this bow is the key to understanding this enigma tic conclusion. Heracles says to Philoctetes that after Troy is taken: "From the spoils of the campaign you must dedi cate some, on my py re, in memory of my bow" ( 1.1431 ). T.B.L. Webster chooses to translate the words, roewe €µwe ,as, "what my bow has achieved." It seems strange that a man should be asked to pay homage to a weapon. Heracles does not ask that homage be paid to himself or for that matter to Zeus. Odysseus' plan is to disarm Philoctetes. Without the bow Philoctetes is not to be feared, but while it is in his possession, it sends arrows that none may avoid, that carry death (1.105). Early in the play it is unclear whether Philoctetes is needed or not. For awhile it seems that the only matter is to get the bow, and Philoctetes is someone standing in the way. When Neoptolemus first speaks to the chorus he hints that the destinies of the bow and Philoctetes are inseparable. Neoptolemus also presents a connection between the bow and Philoctetes' suffering: As for his present loneliness and suffering, this, too, no doubt is part of the God's plan that he may not bend against Troy the divine invincible bow until the time shall be fulfilled, at which it is decreed, that Troy, as they say, shall fall to that bow. (1.194) The fact that Troy shall fall to the bow is echoed much later when Heracles declares that Ilium must twice fall to his bow ( 1.1439). As the play continues it becomes plain that Philoctetes and the bow are inextricably linked. In the mind of Philoctetes it is obvious that he identifies himself with the bow. When he introduces himself to Neoptolemus he is the master of Heracles' arms ( 1.260). This is before he is Phi- 45 44 �loctetes the son of Poias. It is worth noting that Philoctetes was not bitten by the viper until he posessed the bow, which links with Neoptolemus' understanding of the reason for his suffering. The suffering which is synonymous with the name Philoctetes is caused by the bow. This is echoed by Philoctetes' stern suggestion to Neoptolemus that he should bow in prayer to the Gods' envy that the bow may not be to him a sorrow as it was to himself and its former master ( l. 776). This connection between the weapon and Philoctetes' plight is further reinforced by the parallel Heracles draws between his own sufferings and those of Philoctetes: "All this suffering must be your suffering too, the winning of a life to an end in glory, out of this suffering" (1.1422). The divine bow will conquer Troy. Philoctetes suffers because it is his lot to bear the bow and share the glory it will win. The bow is a holy object. When Neoptolemus first beholds it he asks if he might see it closer, touch and adore it like a god ( 1.656). It has passed from the hand of a dying Heracles to the living Philoctetes. There is something immortal about it. It has a destiny of its own that has outlived the original owner. Mythologically the bow is believed to have been a gift from Apollo.(l) Heracles concludes his speech with the words, Holiness does not die with men that die Whether they live or die it cannot perish" ( 1.1444). Is the bow in some way a symbol of such holiness? Philoctetes is the rightful bearer of Heracles' weapon. He received it as a gift when he agreed to light the dying hero's pyre. Philoctetes himself states that it is as a result of friendly help that he fi rst won it (1.670). In a strange way the will of Heracles was transmitted to Philoctetes when he conceded to execute the man's last wish. Philoctetes is in a way bound to Heracles' will. The gift of the bow mi gh t be. un derstood to re present that bo nd. Until the appointed time arrived when Philoctetes no longer had to suffer because of the bow, it nonetheless was what kept him alive. The bow was what he used to shoot the birds that filled his belly (1.286). Without the bow Philoctetes would have died. Lemnos was the place where the bow and the man who was to use it had to be kept until a predetermined number of years had elapsed. The asocial properties of Philoctetes' disease may have been to further assure that neither bearer nor bow appear before the appointed hour. The bow belongs to Philoctetes, and since i t was acquired through an act of good will, Odysseus' 46 deception cannot successfully work against it. It is interesting to note that Neoptolemus does not falter in his deceit until he acquires the bow. Ultimately he realizes that it must remain with Philoctetes. The two cannot be separated. Any bow may be understood as a symbol of will. When a bow is aimed, before the shaft is released the archer has willed it to strike its target. This bizarre weapon that Philoctetes possesses never misses its mark. Unlike a man's will this bow never fails. Its will is greater than any man's. Philoctetes may believe that it was his own inner strength that allowed him to survive those nine horrendous years, but without the bow he would have perished. He may feel that he is the bow's master, but in the end he is its servant and through it a servant of the gods. He who is conquerable must serve the inconquerable. Heracles must appea r at the end of the play because his is the one voice Philoctetes must listen to. The bow is Philoctetes' provider and master. He will only understand that from the mouth of the person to whom he first subjugated his will, as a result of which he subsequently received the bow. This bow is an executive instrument of the gods, and the man Philoctetes has been chosen to launch its avenging shaft against Troy. The divine destiny of the bow and its se r vant is to kill Paris who is the cause of all this evil and take Troy (1.1426). Philoctetes may want to go home, but he cannot disobey. He h as success fu lly asserted h is will against men, but he cannot against gods. Divine destiny supercedes the aspirations of any man. The employ me nt of th e deus ex machina seemed to deny the h u man r esolution of this play. In fact this was no resolu tion a t all because it failed to consult wha t migh t be · considered the most important cha r acte r, the bow. Philoctetes was blind if he actually belie ved that Heracles' bow was destined me r el y to shoot bi rds and then retire on a dusty shelf i n Oeta. No one other than Heracles could open his exhausted eyes. Just as no man determines when and why he suffers, so also, no man determines when and why he tastes triumph. All men bow before the ins truments of the gods. Three Loyal Haikus Jana Giles ('88) In twilight often finding the geometry of your sonorous world; and from your strong eye I am given a gaze so finite, silent: this I know to be the moment of convergence the second splintered from infinity. 1986 All line mentions and quotations are from David Grene's translation except: ( 1) Larousse, World Mvthologv. p. 141, edited by Pierre Grima!. 47 �11 1 THE LEARNED PRINCESS Erika Wilson ('88) Once upon a time, in a kingdom not so terribly far away, a moderately fair princess was sighing over the lack of a certain something. "Oh," sighed she, "I wish I knew what it all meant." And with a trembling lip and a troubled brow, she returned to the books that lay scattered in a intellectual confusion about her royal chamber. For you see, our princess was a scholar. And though this may seem to be a rather odd occupation for a fairy-tale princess (for indeed she was), it had all come about in a most natural manner. Some years ago, no matter how long, the King had found himself with that rare st of royal commodities: Time on his hands. And so, as it was a most delicious spring day, he decided to take his delightful young daughter for a walk about the castle grounds. At first she ran about in all directions, squealing and chasing butterflies as her father strolled in a stately manner, watching her antics with gentle amusement. Inevitably, she grew tired, so she and her father lay themselves down on a cool green hillside to watch the cloud races in the sky. But now that her body was tired, it seemed that the little princess's mind was free to work without distraction. "Daddy," she piped, "what makes the sky blue?" "Huh?" he grunted, for the warm sunshine had just about put him to sleep. "Sky? Blue? ... uh, 48 Atmosphere ... urm ... Refraction ... ahem,ah ... humph." He paused to pull his eyebrows together, hoping that such a maneuver would aid his memory, but his daughter was too busy to notice, for she had rolled over and had another object in view. "Why is the grass green, Daddy?" "Chlorophyll." He answered triumphantly after a brief pause. "Ah, Photosynthesis ... ahem, ah ... humph." And he was stuck again. Unmindful of the black thunder cloud gathering on his brow, the little princess turned her wide blue eyes on him and asked sweetly; "Papa, what is the nature of _ Man?" His mouth shut with an audible snap, his eyebrows shot up and he answered her in the only way a truly wise king could. "I think I smell chocolate chips. Let's go see if Mama's making cookies." And that was the end of that. But later that night, as he and his queen were getting ready for bed, he mentioned their daughter's precocious curiosity, and the question she had put to him that day. "The nature of Man." He chuckled. "Who would have thought?" And he laughed and ·h ook his head, willing to leave it at that. But the Queen nodded quietly and looked thoughtful, for she had a great deal of that even more rare of royal commodities: Good common sense. And she knew that a mind such as her daughter had shown would be a terrible thing to waste. So as her husband snored, she lay long awake, planning and making notes on the big legal pad she always kept on the bedside table. The next day, she took her daughter bY. the hand and led her into a part of the castle that the little princess had never seen before. They walked down a long cold passageway, thick with dust and cobwebs. Something small and black skittered around a corner and the princess shivered, but ·s aid nothing. They came to an abrupt halt before a huge wooden door with great knobby bars of black metal criss-crossing it in a most uninviting manner. With a loud rattle that startled the Ii ttle princess, her mother pulled a ring of keys out of her pocket and choosing the largest and ugliest one of all, she inserted it into the nasty old padlock tha.t guarded the door. Using both hands, she managed to turn the key around and the unhappy lock snapped .o pen with a mangled sort of sound. The Queen put her shoulder to the door and as it creaked unheathily open, our princess squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that whatever lay begin such a grim facade· must be horrible. Her mother pulled her gently forward and said softly: "Come on dear, it's all right. You can open your eyes now." Unwilling, but trust~ng ·; trre- mater­ nal instinct to keep her from harm, sh'e opened her eyes and gasped at what met her bewilqered gaze. Books! Wall to wall, floor to ceiling; door to door, the entire room was filled with books. "Oh mother!" the princess exclaimed as her glowing eyes caressed the room's occupants with barely restrained eagerness. "Wherever shall I begin?" "Right here," her mother said, and laid three books down on a nearby desk. Her daughter walked over and ran a puzzled finger across the names stamped on the covers. "Yewklid?" she asked. "Didn't he do math or something?" "That's right," her mother replied. "He will show you how to think." "Oh," said her daughter, and nodded vaguely. "And this one, Play-doh?" "He will show you how not to think," said her mother, and smiled at some little inward amusement. "Uh huh," said the daughter, unconvinced. "And the last, Airsdoddle? "Oh yes," said the Queen. "He will show you what you should think and not think about." The princess frowned, and a slight line appeared between her delicate ~yebrows. She wasn't q"4-ite sure what her mother was talking about, out then she felt the srucwth leather beneath her hand~ and smiled a radiant ~mile . . "N~ matter," she thought, "I'll soon understand everything." ·' ' ·· Some weeks later, the line between her delicate brows had become deeper and the residents gf the castle thought it had become a permanent ' feature upon the' little p'rincess's face. "I don't like it," the King told his Queen one d~y. "She spends all her time locked up with t-h ose d us..ty old tome. It's not healthy, I tell you." Quietly the Queen agreed, and soon the peasants that lived about the castle became used to the sight of the 11t'tle 'princess with he·r skirts tucked up about her knees·, dangling her bare feet in a creek while reading a book and munching on an apple. Appealiilg to her daughter's now-found love of logic puzzles, the Queen also began sending her on strange .little errands. . . ·"Go find me something no orie..has ever seen be"ror~,:' she would ask one day. The littl~ princess .w ould smile, then frown, then walk out to saddle ·heT ·fa:vorite little ·horse. Most-of Hre ·da-y.-_wou-1-d be ·sp~rit riding aimlessly . about, trying to see . a solution to the problem. Sometime before dinner, the princess would return, dirty and disheveled to place the acorn in her mother's hand. "Open it," she would say and skip away to wash up and find out whether or not Meno discovered what virtue was. Much time passed smoothly in this fashion and the princess's stack of completed books became_ ·! taller and taller. But the line between her brows grew still deeper and she began to look at all the books lining the walls of the library with something akin to dismay. "Oh mother," she exclaimed finally, "'I feel myself to be floundering amidst all .this knowledge." Her mother raised an eyebrow at this rather ornate language but the distressed princess. never even noticed. "I have no anchor about which to build a secure fortress of understanding." The Queen glanced at the book her daughter clasped. It was Sophocles and her mother smiled. "Choose one thing, child," the Queen an swered. "One topic, one subject that you have seen addressed and wish to truly unders.tand. Then come to me and we shall set up a course of study so that you might come to know this one. thing. For in ·coming to know this one thing, you will pass 0 49 �I through a great many others and once you truly grasp this thing, all else will be made manifest through it." She patted her daughter's cheek. "Now go out and saddle you pony. I'll expect your answer at dinner." And so later, as she was carving the roast swan at the dinner table, the Queen looked expectantly at her daughter's glowing face. "Well?" she asked. "Oh mother," burst out the princes, "I want to understand what Love is." The Queen's face remained impassive, but her eyes twinkled. "Why daughter," she said evenly, "that is a fine thing to study. Most great authors have spent at least some time addressing the subject of Love." "Most of them?" the little princess inquired uncertainly. "How many does that mean?" Her little daughter looked so crestfallen that the Queen could not restrain the little laugh that escaped her. "Oh daughter, don't despair. You have chosen ·a very difficult thing indeed, and the road to true understanding is never an easy one." She looked kindly into her daughter's worried face. "But the rewards will be greater than you can imagine, and I will help you all I can." She placed a tender slice of swan on the princess's plate. "We will begin after dinner." And so it began. The princess studied Plato, Virgil, Ovid and Bacon. She read with wide eyes the Song of Solomon and wept and laughed in quick succession as Shakespeare acted out for her the comedies and tragedies of life. The poets were many and varied and she delved deeply into Donne, Byron, Valery, Browning, Coleridge and Gibran. And though she learned much of Love in all its manifestations, she could not say that she was growing towards an understanding of it. Much of the time she felt that she was actually doing the reverse. And so it was that we found her at the opening of our story: troubled and in doubt. She was just about to pick up the Maxims of La Rochefoucauld when there was knock at her door. With something that just might have been relief, she moved away from La Rochefoucauld to open the door. It was her mother. "Hello dear," she said as she moved easily into the room, ''I'm sorry to disturb you, but we have a visitor." The calm grace of her mother sent a cool wash over troubled spirit and the little princess smiled cheerfully. "Is it someone I know, mother?" she asked. "Oh yes," her mother replied with a smile. "It's your cousin Rolf. He's on vacation from the University and wants to spend some time with us before going back to finish his education." The llttle princess was delighted, for she hadn't seen Rolf for several years. He and his parents had often come to visit, and though he was some years older than she, he had treated her kindly and together they had many pleasant adventures. But he had been sent off to school and had become too busy and intelligent to visit with an old playmate. Until now. "Oh mother," she exclaimed, "Rolf! How is he? Did he learn lots at the University? Has he changed a great deal?" Her mother laughed. "We will all be having tea together on the porch in about an hour. He's in his ro om right now resting after his journey, so why don't you get ready and come to find out for yourself?" The Queen left to prepare the tea and there was a look of amused anticipation lurking in her eyes. The princess was setting a plate of cookies on the table when Rolf stepped out onto the porch. Both of the young people stared at the other in startled recognition, for though it had only been a few years since they had last seen one another, those had been very crucial years. Rolf had changed from a scrawny, self -consci ous teen-ager into a sturdy young man of admirable presence and bearing, while the princess, thanks to he r mother's subtle guidance, had grown from a reedy little scarecrow into a graceful young woman of considerable intelligence. And yet, some things remain constant. The princess still had a light spray of freckles across her nose and Rolf still had the habit, whenever he was unsure of himself, of pulling on the thick lock of hair that was forever tumbling in his eyes. When she saw him doing this, the princess laughed and he smiled as he walked over to give her a cousinly kiss on the cheek. When the Queen arrived with the teapot, she found them already deep in an animated discussion about Rolf's education. They were delighted to find that they had read and enjoyed a great many of the same books. The Queen sat silently and smiled as she watched the tea in their cups grow cold, untouched and forgotten in the rapid flood of conversation between the two young scholars. The princess told Rolf of her studies, and he agreed to help her with her search for understanding. From then on they spent nearly all their time together. He would read to her, or she to him as they sat over the remnants of a picnic lunch in a golden meadow. They would discuss salient points while trotting through the woods on horseback, ceasing only to race across the open spaces where the loser would come galloping up, laughing breathlessly and say: "but if we want to look at the love between a parent and child, what about Cordelia's speech in act one? ... " And in the evenings, sitting silently by the glowing fire, they would each underline relevant passages and hand them to the other, who would read it and nod gravely before returning to his own study. The Queen watched all this without comment, but nodded to herself as she observed the peculiar expression that came over Rolf's face whenever he looked at the princess and thought that he himself was unobserved. The princess was quite blind to such things, for she was totally absorbed in her studies. Learning on her own had been rewarding and satisfying, but studying with another, especially one as perceptive and sympathetic as Rolf, was a joy such as the princess had never before experienced. She was deliriously happy and was quite satisfied with things as they were. Not so Rolf. Finally it was nearly time for Rolf to return to school and he and the princess were up in her room getting in one last study before Rolf had to start preparing for his journey. He was standing stiffly at the window with his back towards the princess who was reading to him: '"It is the joy of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of the gods; desired by those who have no part in him, and precious to those who have the better part in him."' But Rolf, what does Plato mean when he says ... Rolf! What are you doing?" For just as she looked up from the text, Rolf had turned around, snapped the book shu t and with one swift motion, flung it out the window. She stood up to protest, but just then Rolf turned to her and the look in his eyes stopped the words in her throat. Gently, but firmly, he grasped her hands and placed them together, palms upwards, like the leaves of an open book. "Here," he said,"here is one book you haven't read." And he traced his finger lightly across her palms as if he were outlining a passage. "Can you tell me what it says?" She opened her mouth, but shook her head mutely. "Then here," and he pressed one of her hands to his chest. She could feel his heart beating strongly and rapidly. Then he pressed her other hand to his cheek. It was warm and flushed with feeling. "Here is a book open only at your touch, only for your eyes," His voice lowered to a whisper,"Can you say the same to me?" and he released her. For a moment she clasped her hands together between the two of them and stared with wonder into his eyes. Then slowly, like a flower unfolding to the first touch of the sun, her arms opened to him and she began to understand just a little of what she had been studying so diligently for so long and she laughed a light, sweet, and joyful la ugh. Below, the King and the Queen were walking together in the royal rose garden, enjoying one of the last days of warmth, when a waterfall of books suddenly fell with great splashing into the moat, narrowly missing a pair of black swans swimming serenely by. The Queen was startled only for a moment and then she squeezed her husband's arm and laughed softly. For she had known all along that knowledge gleaned form books could carry one only so far, and that true understanding came from within. I guess this is the end of my story, though the princess continued to learn a great many important things. And like her mother before her, she managed to impart much of it to her children in such gentle and unobtrusive ways, that they didn't realize it themselves until many years had passed and they were well along in their own journeys towards understanding. But I can hardly be expected to trace the stories of all those many Ii ves. That, gen tie readers, I leave to you. 51 50 ! �52 �Non-Profit Org . BULK RATE U. S. POSTAGE St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 PAID PERMIT No. 120 ANNAPOLIS , MD. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper (bound book) Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 74 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Winter 1988 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Winter 1988. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Barndt, Carolyn (Editor-in-Chief) Rivera, Ray (Editor-in-Chief) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1988 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Winter 1988 Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/ef22da382d3d7a8ad05751b558a24454.pdf c78473eefd3d319daef55c117df90116 PDF Text Text WINTER, 1990 L �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. Ei 8' Ecr'tlU Ti EU8mµouia Kat' apE'tTJU fotpyEta, EUAOyou Km:a tilu KpaticrtT]U" UU'tT] 8' liu ElT] WU apicrtou. Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics X vii Conrad Baugh, Rachel Boyce, Molly Hinshaw, Sharman Levinson, Greg Little, Thomas Madden, Tim Maher, Ange Mlinko, Vanessa Stratton, Shannon Wardell Staff Rachel Boyce Special Thanks, Editing Anne Carpenter, Ray Rivera Assistant Editors Carolyn Barndt, Akiba Covitz Editors-in-Chief Cover: Bajii Vala Rakesh Brennig ('93) Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland Joe Boucher Alumnus Contributing Editor Henry Higuera Faculty Consultant Best Impressions Typesetting & Layout Chris Colby Special Thanks, Production David Murchake, Don Murchake Special Thanks, Production and Composition Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published two times a year and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis and Santa Fe. Energeia welcomes submissions from all members of the community - essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, laboratory projects, drawings, and the like . �Contents 5 What the ... ? Postulates of Pure Reason? Walter Plourde ('89) 24 Untitled (Photograph) Rakesh Brennig ('93) Senior Prize Winning Essay 1989 2S The Contradictions of Empiricism Craig Thomas ('90) 13 Untitled (Photograph) Scouse ('93) 14 Wedding Ange Mlinko ('91) 15 On the Theaetetus Rachel Boyce ('90) Freshman Prize-Winning Essay 1987 18 Untitled (Photograph) Rakesh Brennig ('93) 19 Pre-Cadent Membrance Anonymous 20 Werner (Photograph) Tara Beall ('92) 21 Some Thoughts on Warmth, Heat, and Temperature Bryan Dorland ('92) Junior Prize-Winning Essay 1989 30 Camel Ride Ange Mlinko ('91) 31 The Poet (woodcut) S.J. Ahn ('90) 32 What is Philosophy? Eva Brann 36 The Philosopher (woodcut) S.]. Ahn ('90) 37 Gubbio' s Festa dei Ceri William Ney (GI '82) 48 Now Is Less Absolute Than You Think Carolyn Barndt ('90) Prize-winning Poem 1989 �What the ... ? Postulates of Pure Reason? Walter L. Plourde ('89) In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless wasteland, and darkness covered the abyss, while a mighty wind swept over the waters. Then God said, "Let there be light,' and there was light. -Genesis: 1, 1-3 You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Men do not light a lamp and then put it under a bushel basket. They set it on a stand where it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, your light must shine before men so that they may see goodness in your acts and give praise to your heavenly Father. -Matthew: 5, 14-16 Jesus spoke to them once again: I am the light of the world. No follow er of mine shall ever walk in darkness; no, he shall possess the light of life. - John: 8, 12 I. INTRODUCTION Einstein in his paper On the Electrodynamics of Moving Bodies gives the following two postulates: 1. The laws by which states of physical systems undergo change are not affected, whether their changes of state be referred to the one or the other of two systems of coordinates in uniform translatory motion. 2. Any ray of light moves in the 'stationary' system of coordinates with the determined velocity c, whether the ray be emitted by a stationary or by a moving body . (p. 41 *) I shall examine these postulates with respect to the transcendental philosophy of Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, or the question arises as to whether these postulates have a priori validity. I will show that, grounded in Kant's Critique, both postulates are valid; and further that both postulates- individually and together-have a definite and vital epistemological significance . *Pagination for the Einstein paper is from the collection of papers entitled The Principle of Relativity. Specifically, I will show that the first postulatethe now famous Principle of Relativity-is only a scientific restatement of Kant's principle of the synthetic unity of the manifold of intuititon in apperception- the "highest principle of understanding." By a simple translation the similarity of these two principles is strikingly obvious, but I shall go into some detail in order that the epistemological aspects of Einstein's principle may be better shown. Secondly, I shall examine the epistemological aspects of Einstein's second postulate. fo particular I will show that the second postulate fills a great need in Kant's Critique-that of fleshing out the faculty of receptivity, which Kant apparently thought inappropriate or unnecessary to do-and further, that the concept of a limiting value, c, may be understood as a postulate of Pure Reason. That is, the concept is a condition independent of any particular object for knowledge of objects. Such a condition, though, may seem to be a movement away from the fundamental principles of Kant' s theory of knowledge . So it is . Thus, the reader must keep in mind that many of the positions and assumptions in the early parts of this paper-positions and assumptions taken simply as Kant gives them-are taken only provisionally. II. THE PRINCIPLE OF RELATIVITY. Kant begins his description of knowledge in general with the distinction between sensibility and understanding: The manifold of representations can be give n in an intuition which is purely sensible, that is, nothing but receptivity ... But the combination (conjunction) of a manifold in general can never come to us through the senses, and cannot, therefore, be already contained in the pure form of sensible intuition . For it is an act of spontaneity of the faculty of representations; and since this faculty, to distinguish it from sensibility, must be entitled understanding, all combination-be we 5 �conscious of it or not, be it a combination of the manifold of intuition, empirical or non-empirical, or of various conceptsis an act of the understanding . (B129-B130*) This distinction between sensibility and understanding is founded on one of Kant's assumptions about our experience: that things in themselves are in no way given to us, but what is given are things as appearances only. From this radical distinction between sensibility and understanding, it follows that any perception of even the simplest object-this page, for example~is ~oss.ibl: only upon the assumption of an act of co.mb~nat~?n m 1m~g!~ nation. Kant entitles this act of combmabon synthesis, as ''indicating that we cannot represent to ourselves anything as combined in the object which we have not ourselves previously combined. " . . . That is all to say, direct perception of objects m consciousness is not possible, a claim which we shall examine in more detail later (Section III). It suffices now to say that what Kant means by all this is that the data of intuition-whatever they might be-must be gathered together, synthesized, to form the perception of an ject. It is as if each moment of existence wer~ a frame m a film, with sensibility as the camera, and with the synthetic faculty, that is, the understanding, the director capturing each scene. . . But this director is no random or capnc1ous creature; rather, as Kant demonstrates, the understanding must be a faculty of rules, for the play of appearances before me keeps to an orderly progression. Order is only possible on the condition of rules of synthe~is, because appearances are "products" of t~e connec.tmg process. These rules are, of course, Kant s categories. This way of understanding the categories, si.n ce it is founded on a feeling of orderliness in actual experience, is merely empirical. While indicating the. basis of !<a~t' s argument in the common sense of experience, this kmd of exposition is not sufficient for Kant's purpose. The p~r­ pose of Kant's transcendental deduction of the ~atego~1e~ is to derive the necessity of the rules of synthesis a prwri, independently of any particular experien~e. . Kant's transcendental deduction has its foundation in the unity of the ''I think'', that is, the unit~ of thou~ht in one self-consciousness, or, as Kant calls 1t, the umty of apperception. As Kant describes it : o?- It must be possible for the 'I think ' to accompany all my representations; for otherwise something would be r:pres~nt­ ed in me which could not be thought at all, and that is eqmvalent to saying that the representation would be impossible, or at least would be n othing to m e. (B131-Bl32) In its simplicity, this statement seems to sum up selfconsciousness, inasmuch as a thing not thought by me *Wherever possible p agination for the Critique is taken from the. second edition-"B" pages. Where the passage is found only m the first edition, it will be so indicated with the A" p ages . /1 6 is certainly a thing I do not think. However, this self-consciousness, if it is to be the foundation of all thought in general, cannot be the vague feeling of "I" that accompanies any particular representation. As Kant puts it: Consciousness of self according to the determinations of our state in inner perception is merely empirical,. and ~lwa~s changing. No fixed and abiding self can present itself m this flux of inner appearance. (Al07) Thus what Kant means by the "I think" is a transcendent~! unity of apperception: a self-conscious~ess wit~ respect to no particular representation, .and a u~ity to this consciousness that is transcendental m that 1t grounds the very possibility of a thought being mine. And Kant moves to knowledge from selfconsciousness: But as self-consciousness is a transcendental representation,. numerical identity is inseparable from it, and is a priori certair:. .. Now, since this identity must necessarily enter the sy~t~esis of all the manifold of appearances, so far as the synthesis is. t~ yield empirical knowledge, the ap~arance~ are subject ~o a pnon conditions, with which the synthesis of therr apprehens101_1 must be in complete accordance. The rep.resent~tion of a urnve:sal condition according to which a certam manifold c~n be posited in a uniform fashion is called a rule, and, when it must be so posited, a law. (Al13) That is all to say, in Kant's way of looking at things, that nature (taken here as the whole of appearances) is lawful because we make it so, that the synthetic faculty lays rules upon the manifold. And further, when w~ "discover" a law of nature, we in fact discover a umversal condition of our own synthesis in an empirical employment. Or rather, we discover the manner in which our own categories and principles are employed in ordering the manifold of intuition into a whole, a unity in selfconsciousness. And when this ordering is given as necessary, admitting of no deviation, the principle is called a law; a~~ wh en this principle applies to experience, to the empmcal, a law of nature (e.g. the law of universal gravitation). This last limitation placed on any principle is really quite superfluous in Kant's system. Kant makes a sharp distinction between phenomena and noumena. We cannot stress strongly enough that the sharpness of Kant's distinction is here simply accepted, but that as our discussion progresses this distinction will be severely strained. We must constantly keep in mind and be aware of this: Kant's transcendental arguments are all based on the assumption that things in themselves are in no way known by us. This assumption is the unstated premise of the transcendental deduction, and Kant simply assumes that there is no ontological "grey area" between things in themselves and things as appearance~ . His whole theory of knowledge is founded on this assumption. Now, one may disagree with, nay, may harshly criticize Kant's phenomena/noumena distinction; but we need give no heed to such criticism here. So far as we are concerned-indeed, so far as we are willing to go along with Kant's method-Kant's categories have employment at least with respect to the empirical. That is to say, the laws of nature must, one and all, relate to possible experience. We are now in a position to make the transition from Kant's transcendental philosophy to Einstein's Principle of Relativity. We may now translate Kant into Einstein, or vice versa . Since, as we have just seen, the synthetic unity of the manifold in apperception is represented by the laws of nature, all laws of nature must refer to the unity of self-consciousness. That is, the laws of nature must present nature as a unity, corresponding to the unity of consciousness . But nature is here taken as the whole of appearances, and thus, the manifold synthesized in accordance with a law of nature is not the manifold of particular intuitions, but the manifold of disparate experiences. In other words, the law of a determinate phenomenon is the synthetic principle presenting all the experiences of the phenomenon as a unity to consciousness. And further, if the synthesis is to have the necessity of a law, the law must present all the possible experiences of the phenomenon as a unity . That is all to say, a law of nature is such only insofar as it is true for every possible experience of the given phenomenon. And in particular, any "asymmetries" such as those in Maxwell's electrodynamics that interested Einstein-are incompatible with a law of nature, if it is to be a law. Furthermore, in keeping with the mathematical basis of science, the expression "possible experience" may also be translated. Since every appearance may be given in relation to a mathematical coordinate-axis system, and since different views of the appearance may be expressed by changing the axes, a possible experience is any such coordinate-axis system. Thus, understanding that a law of nature is a principle of the synthetic unity of the manifold and that a possible experience is a coordinate system, we see that the relationship between Kant's and Einstein's principles is rather evident .* Roughly paraphrased: "The laws of nature are true for every coordinate system'' means ''The principles of the synthetic unity of the manifold must relate to the the possible experience of the manifold ." Thus far, then, we see that Einstein's Principle of Relativity is a p rinciple by which all other laws of nature may be judged. That is, a law for a given phenomenon is such only if it is valid for every possible experience of *That Eins tein s peaks of "systems of coordinates in uniform translatory motion" poses no further difficulty, for a coordinate system in motion is still a " possible experience ." Thus, a law of nature must be valid for such a system . the phenomenon, and this principle derives its validity from the necessary unity of nature in self-consciousness. But now we turn our attention to Einstein's second postulate. Notice that Einstein uses this postulate in such a way that the undesireable asymmetries of Maxwell's equations are nullified. That is, by means of the spacetime transformations based on the constancy of the speed of light. Maxwell's equations are made to yield a unity to the manifold. It is as if the constancy of the speed of light is a condition for the unity of the manifold. On the other hand, though, we notice no such constant arises in Kant's exposition of the synthetic unity of the manifold.* For Kant the unity of the manifold comes about by means of, or rather, as a result of the synthetic faculty through principles, or concepts. And concepts alone. This difference between Kant's and Einstein's methods is of great importance for our discussion, inasmuch as both Einstein and Kant have the same goalsynthetic unity of the manifold. Thus, our understanding of relativity with respect to knowledge in general will turn on our understanding this difference between Einstein and Kant. Therefore, before we turn our full attention to Einstein, we need to examine the extent to which concepts can provide the unity that we call nature. *This statement is, unfortunately, not complete, and for that reason lacks complete accuracy . What this statement lacks may only be a red herring (like any red herring, though, it adds intrigue to the plot), so we will only touch on it briefly . When Kant turns his attention to determinate objects, to science itself, in his Metaphysical Foundation s of Natural Science, it turns out that ' 'Absolute space" is necessary as a concept . Its presence is most notable when Kant deals with the addition of velocities, wherein he proves the following proposition: "The composition of two motions of one and the same point can only be thought of by one of them being represented in absolute space, but instead of the second motion being so represented, a motion of the relative space in the opposite direction and with the same velocity is re presented as being identical with the first motion. " (AK 490 : Kant here is only dealing with the composition of equal velocities .) One may take this concept of absolute space to be a " constant " or condition of the synthetic unity of the manifold-at least in thought-but as this concept possesses a character totally different from Einstein' s second postulate, we need not treat of it here . However, this intriguing question arises : Why does Kant find such a concept necessary, since absolute space is a conce pt that admits of no possible experience? Kant is quite adamant about that in the Critique. But since the scope of this paper doesn ' t allow a full treatment of this question, I will say only that the arguments following on the faculty of receptivity, if taken further than in this paper, may allow an answer to this question . Further of note : the concept of absolute space and that of the ether, which Kant adopts as an h ypothesis later in the Metaph ysical Foundations, both prove to be unnecessary in Eins tein 's theory of re lativity. 7 �III. THE FACULTY OF RECEPTIVITY. We have seen so far that Kant's system for the unity of nature in concepts is founded on a clear distinction between the faculty of receptivity-wherein the data of intuition are received-and the faculty of spontaneitywherein these data are gathered together into appearances, and, indeed, gathered together in the unity of nature-but is this distinction valid? If not, then the synthetic unity of the manifold by means of concepts alone becomes a questionable proposition. The limitations and difficulties of this distinction-at least in Kant's system-are best seen in his refutation of Idealism, wherein the question of receptivity becomes this: Is there anything in any of my representations that necessarily indicates that objects exist outside of me? Idealism holds that any answer to this question is only problematic; Kant's thesis against this position begins like this: The mere, but empirically determined, consciousness of my own existence proves the existence of objects in space outside me. (B275) Kant's proof of this thesis is based on the concept of the permanent; it is only by means of the permanent in perception that time determinations may be made, including the time determination of empirical selfconsciousness. (Empirical self-consciousness is here to be distinguished from the "transcendental unity of selfconsciousness" which is the logical function that subsumes all empirical determinations of self.) Kant goes on: This permanent cannot, however, be something in me, since it is only through this permanent that my existence in time can itself be determined. (B275) And Kant modifies this statement in the preface to B: But this permanent cannot be an intuition in me, for all grounds of determination of my existence which are to be met with in me are representations; and as representations themselves require a permanent distinct from them, in relation to which their change, and so my existence wherein they change, may be determined . (B xl, note) Kant's argument-and yet it still seems to lack, for this argument rests squarely on the distinction between the faculty of spontaneity and that of receptivity. The permanent as a synthetic principle of time-determination (the first analogy of experience, B224f) requires that one have data of intuition to work on; and requires that, if this permanent is to yield representations of objects as existent outside one's own consciousness, the data must be received. That is, it must come from outside, and not be generated in one's consciousness. 8 In other words, Kant is trying to prove that one's sense of "outsideness" to the world is not an illusion, and yet, he tries to do this by means of representations which are one and all subjective. Beyond the feeling of "outsideness" to our representations, the only certainty is that they are at least subjective. But are they really more? Kant feels confident that he has proved they are. In the footnote to B277 he says: The immediate consciousness of the existence of outer things is, in the preceeding thesis [the refutation of Idealism], not presupposed, but proved, be the possibility of this consciousness understood by us or not ." Consider this sentence in relation to the whole of the Critique; Kant's method is to take the world just as we experience it and, by means of the transcendental argument, to demonstrate the possibility and conditions under which the world is just as we say it is. And one of the basic experiences is this consciousness of an outside world. Thus, understanding the possibility of cons~ ciousness of the outside world must play an important part in the theory of knowledge, if that theory is to demonstrate the validity of our knowledge. Now, Kant concludes this footnote about the possibility of immediate consciousness of the existence of outer things: The question as to its possibility would be this: whether we have an inner sense only, and no outer sense, but merely an outer imagination. It is clear, however, that in order even only to imagine something as outer, that is to present it to sense in intuition, we must already have an outer sense, and must thereby immediately distinguish the mere receptivity of an outer intuition from the spontaneity which characterises every act of imagination. For should we merely be imagining an outer sense, the faculty of intuition, which is to be determined by the faculty of imagination, would be itself annulled. " Kant is quite correct, as far as he goes; if our imagination produces not only the form of intuitions, but also the content of them as outer, then surely those intuitions would be presented to consciousness as outer. And thus we would have an outer sense-but in thought only, merely as another subjective representation. One could hold this position that both the form and the content of all experience are only so many states of consciousness, but what follows from this position, as Kant says, is that the faculty of intuition is annulled. If the intuition is annulled, then the outside world and the objective validity of any knowledge of it become, at best, problematic. That is, the assertion that such-and-such concept is true-even with the condition that it applies to appearances only, which, in a purely subjective world, includes the "appearance" of an outer sense-loses most of its meaning. Thus, Kant's argument ends where it began; if there is to be intuition, there must be objects, but, of course, there may be neither. The beginning from the subjective representation of the permanent in appearance fails to go beyond itself to any kind of objectivity. In the refutation of Idealism, however, Kant leaves a clue to a possible resolution of the problem: time. Time is the link between my existence as 'consciousness and the outside world. Time is the form of both inner and outer intuition, but it is not so much the mere form of time that is our clue; it is the "content" of time, timedetermination. If we can define a way of identifying the validity of time-determination distinct from appearances-which are one and all subjective representations-then it would be possible to assert that time-determination is not wholly subjective. If there is a way of establishing that timedetermination in the appearances is not merely a creation of my own consciousness in its representations, that would indicate that indeed something is received, that my sense of "outsideness" is no chimera. But how could this work? Let us consider: the modes of time-determination, as Kant gives them in the general principle of the analogies of experience (B219), are duration, succession and co-existence. As an analogy, the concept that an object endures through all change, or that one object follows another, or that one is simultaneous with another is only a synthetic principle; and no fault is found in these principles, for these are just what we say about actual time determinations . But let us consider these principles in actual experience, for, as Kant says, "There can be no doubt that all our knowledge begins with experience." (Bl) The law of the permanent in appearance is given from experience as the law of the conservation of matter (or energy); but this law is derived from the successive changes in appearance, since that which endures is known only if it endures through change . Laws of change-cause and effect-however are known only through time determinations of succession; but time determinations are possible only in the permanent. In practice this little circle poses no difficulty, but in the theory of knowledge it poses grave difficulties. On the one hand, taking the permanent as fundamental, one must assert that the permanent in appearance is directly perceived, so that time-determination is made valid. But direct perception is the foundation of the arguments of Idealism, for with a direct perception it is not possible to know whether the object is perceived exactly as it is, only as self-consciousness wants it to be, or what. If one accepts direct perception, then one cannot forestall the arguments of the Idealists . On the other hand, taking changes in appearance as fundamental, one must give a condition of appearance- different from a perceived permanent in the appearances-that validates time determinations of succession, or for that matter, simultaneity-the other "object" in a science of time-for succession may be given in a formal science of time as merely the negation of simultaneity. Such a condition of time-determination, if it is given as truly distinct from the appearances, would clearly indicate that the ''time'' of the appearances is dis- tinct from any of our representations. This is not to say that time is a thing in the objects; we do not want to admit things in themselves. But this condition is meant to indicate that the placing of objects in time-the content of the synthetic process-is not wholly a product of one's own consciousness. Or again, this condition indicates only that, while the form of appearance is wholly subjective, the relations of the form are not wholly subjective; the Other, the outside, is required. As we shall see next, Einstein's second postulate fulfills the requirements for such a condition. IV. c. The time of an event is that which is given simultaneously with the event by a stationary clock located at the place of the event, this clock being synchronous, and indeed synchronous for all time determinations, with a specified stationary clock. (p.40) So Einstein says in his paper On the Electrodynamics of Moving Bodies. Einstein is interested in empirical events, so he speaks of clocks. The clocks themselves are unimportant to us. In Kant's terms, a clock is merely an empirical representation of the pure form of intuition, namely, time. As he puts it: [Time] cannot be a determination of outer appearances; it has to do neither with shape nor with position, but with the relation of representations in our inner state, and just because this inner intuition yields no shape, we endeavor to make up for this want by analogies . We represent the time-sequence by a line progressing to infinity, in which the manifold constitutes a series of one dimension only. (B49-B50) Or we make up for this want by representing the timesequence in the hands of an analog clock (thus the name), or the numbers on a digital clock-both of which are much more practical than a line drawn to infinity. Thus, clocks present no conceptual difficulty; however, the synchronism of the clocks does. First of all, Einstein makes this statement: We have to take into account that all our judgements in which time plays a part are always judgements of simultaneous events. If, for instance, I say, 'That train arrives here at 7 o'clock,' I mean something like this : 'The pointing of the small hand of my watch to 7 and the arrival of the train are simultaneous events.' (p .39) We will make two comments on this. First, we must recognize that what Einstein means by "judgements of simultaneous events" is just what Kant is trying to define in his schematism (for that matter, in all of the Critique) . The schemata are the formal principles of experience; judgements are simply statements about this experience. And all judgements are true only so far as they represent this experience; that is, only so far as the knowledge that the judgement is meant to 9 �express conforms to the object, or phenomenon. This relationship between judgements and formal principles of experience is what justifies Kant's taking the table of judgements as the "clue" to the table of categories, and thus, for Kant the judgement is valid only when it is in conformance with the schemata, the "forms" of experience. Since the schemata are all principles of determinations of experience in respect of the time-sequence, whatever can be known about an object-and, of course, any valid judgement about an object-will come by means of the connections of the time determinations of the object in experience. Simultaneity being the "object" of time-determination, Einstein's statement is seen to be valid; in fact, the way Kant looks at things, this is the only valid thing to be said. Second, we must again be clear about Einstein 's discussion of actual time-pieces . The time-pieces, themselves, are only tools, objective representations of the time-sequence; and further, they are here employed as mere representations of the determination of time. That is, the clock gives evidence of simultaneity, but in itself does not give the time of the simultaneous events. Another way of expressing this would be to say that one could represent the arrival of Einstein's train as simultaneous with any phenomenon, for example, the explosion of a firecracker; and no one would say that "explosion o'clock" gives the time of the train' s arrival. Next, Einstein goes further into the difficulty inherent in clock time. Einstein says: It might appear possible to overcome all the difficulties attending the definition of 'time' by substituting 'the position of the small hand of my watch' for 'time.' And in fact such a definition is satisfactory when we are concerned with defining a time exclusively for the place where the watch is located; but it is no longer satisfactory when we have to connect in time series of events occurring at different places1 or-what comes to the same thing- to evaluate the times of events occurring at places remote from the watch. (p.39) This is key to our discussion of Einstein and our way of looking at relativity. Specially important is Einstein's comment about connecting events in time. The word ''connect'' is very suggestive after we have examined Kant's Critique. To connect events in time means nothing other than to synthesize events in time, to synthesize the manifold . In Kant's system, the synthesis of the manifold is the job of the understanding through the principles represented by the categories. As we discussed earlier, however, there is a difficulty in establishing that the relation of objects in time represents anything more than the subjectivity of synthesis in consciousness. Einstein is addressing this difficulty by discussing what it means to define a time, what it means to actually place an object in time. Specifically, he is talking about what it means to prove that an object has been placed in time in a valid relation to other objects. He is talking about evidence of "time" in appearances. 10 Thus, when Einstein speaks of a time for an event at place A and that for an event at B (p .39), he recognizes that there is no necessary connection between the times . If the times were immediately connected, then it must be that the "time" of the two events is somehow immediately perceived in the events. This much we have already disallowed, as it tends toward Idealism. Therefore, with no necessary connection between the times, no synthetic principle may be adduced about the events at A and B. That is, since synthetic principles of events-e .g. that A causes B-are one and all principles of time-determination, and since no timedetermination may be made until the relationship between the two times has been established, any law of A and B remains problematic . Einstein's solution of this problem is founded on his second postulate : We have so far defined an 'A time ' and a 'B time .' We have not defined a common 'time' for A and B, for the latter cannot be defined at all unless we establish by definition that the 'time' required by light to travel from A to B equals the 'time' it re~ quires to travel from B to A. (p.40) A nice prosaic way to understand this definition of time, indeed, to demonstrate the difficulty of defining time is this: place one clock in the attic and another in the basement. The question is," Are they reading the same time, are they determining the same time?" Of course, the way to find out is to go upstairs, note the time, turn around, retreat to the basement, and note the time there . We are at first surprised that the two clocks don' t read the same time, because we cheated and had set them to the same time in the kitchen before we started. Now, if we were machines or were feeling rather obtuse on the day of the experiment, we could run back and forth between the basement and the attic until the clocks matched, or until we dropped from exhaustion. The latter would be, of course, the most likely result of this experiment, because it obviously takes "time" to run up the stairs and "time" to run down the stairs. Furthermore, if it takes more time to run up the stairs than down-as seems very likely-then we could never tell if the two clocks were giving the same time. That is, we could run from attic to basement, keeping note of the time interval of the run as given by the two clocks, but if the velocity of ascent were different from that of descent, upon returning to the attic, we would find the time interval different . We might conclude from this that the clocks were not synchronous. But that would be absurd! For this conclusion assumes that the clocks were synchronous when we ran dow nstairs- an d thus that the taking of a time interval could provide useful informationbut then they weren't synchronous when we went back upstairs. In fact-forgetting for the moment that we cheated and set them in the kitchen-whether we determine that the clocks are synchronous or not, we can never be sure what the real cause of that determination is- maybe the clocks are really synchronous, or not; maybe the ve- locity upstairs and downstairs is the same, or not; maybe a combination of both. Or not. By now we're pretty tired of running up and down all those stairs, but if we assume that our velocity up the stairs is the same as that down-if we assume that we are propagated always with the same velocity- then this little experiment yields positive results in about thirty seconds. This experiment works in the same way if we let light be our messenger, and thus, only upon the assumption of the constancy of the speed of light is a time established for a "stationary system", wherein the time for all events may be established. Furthermore, as is quite clear in Einstein's paper, the constancy of the speed of light is also the factor that allows one to relate the times of events experienced in systems in motion to the time of the stationary system. That is, Einstein's second postulate provides the factor that establishes the validity of all time-determination . Of course, many propositions follow from Einstein's method of establishing time-determination, but what concerns us here is simply the phrase ''by definition" in Einstein's definition of time . The status of the constant speed of light as a postulate means a great deal to the theory of knowledge. As we discussed in the previous section, Kant's system lacked a way of establishing the validity of synthetic principles. The proposed solution to this problem was that a condition of time-determination be given; Einstein's second postulate seems to provide such a condition. However, one requirement in order for this postulate to be the condition of time-determination is that it be given as distinct from the appearances wherein the time determination is made, for only in this way would the validity of time-determination be established as distinct from the consciousness of the subject. Thus, we must determine whether Einstein's postulate fulfills this requirement. Consider this statement by Einstein: The th eory to be de veloped is based-like all electrodynamics-on the kinematics of the rigid body, since the assertions of any such theory have to do with the relationships betw een rigid bodies (systems of coordinates), clocks, and electromagnetic processes. (p.38) In this statement Einstein is quite explicit about what the phenomena in question are. And as far as we are 'concerned, we need not worry about the electromagnetic phenomena, since with respect to the condition of timedetermination the only phenomena are rigid bodies and clocks . Notice, th ou gh, that w hen we consider the appearances of rigid bodies and clocks, neither of these present themselves as indicating that special property of light, i.e. that the velocity of the light remains the same no matter what the condition of the body from which it is propagated . Indeed, such a concept goes against common experience, which tells us that the velocity of an object emanating from a moving system is conditioned by the motion of the system. Or again, the speed of light is postulated as unconditioned, but the unconditioned is never given in appearances . To be blunt: Einstein's second postulate doesn't make any "sense", and that's the beauty of it. The usual assumption is that what makes "sense" is correct. Usually that is true, but if Einstein's postulate made sense it would be of no use to us. Why? because in a system that employs subjective principles of synthesis to represent appearances and to connect those representations, what makes sense in appearances is that which we have placed in them ourselves. What doesn't make sense indicates that which we have not, ourselves, placed in appearances . Thus, Einstein's second postulate is a condition of time-determination that is distinct from the appearances wherein time-determination is made. This is what we wanted. Finally, let us consider what all this means about knowledge . What does a condition of time-determination indicate about knowledge in general? As we saw earlier, Einstein's Principle of Relativity and Kant's highest principle of understanding-the synthetic unity of the manifold in apperception-amount to the same thing, indicating, surely, that the goal of both is the same. This goal is the unity of nature in consciousness, which is only possible if the synthetic principles of consciousness have that property of unity . Einstein provides for the synthetic unity of nature- that is, he nullifies the asymmetries of Maxwell's equations, shows the validity of the composition of velocities, and demonstrates the law of the permanent, the law of the conversation of mass-energy-by means a condition of time-determination. But inasmuch as a condition of time-determination grounds the unity of nature, it grounds the possibility of preesenting nature to consciousness in such a way that it makes sense. In other words, by connecting nature together by means of his two postulates, by connecting these two postulates together, Einstein is saying : "I cannot present nature as making sense in a rational way, unless I present a postulate differing from the rest of nature, all of which is understood relatively .' ' And this indicates one thing : Einstein's second postulate is a correlate in pure reason of Kant's postulates of practical reason, namely, God, freedom and immortality. Strange as this may be, we cannot avoid this conclusion . The postulates of practical reason are provided so that morality, the moral laws, may be presented as making sense, as being rational; and, clearly, Einstein provides his postulate of pure reason so that the obj ect of pure reason, nature, may be presented as rational, as conforming to the highest principle of understanding. But if Einstein's second postulate is a postulate of pure reason, what becomes of the highest principle of understanding, the Principle of Relativity? The indications are that this principle, too, has a parallel in practical reason . The Principle of Relativity appears to be a physical 11 �imperative, so called to correspond to a moral imperative. An imperative, though, is given in such a way that the phenomenon (in a moral world, the action) follows on the concept as on a cause. To a certain extent, Kant's highest principle of understanding is an imperative, inasmuch as the categories produce the unity of nature in consciousness. But in Kant's system the unity of nature is founded on the unity of the ''I think'', and is in no way related to the content of intuitions, or sensibility, for that would indicate that there were things in themselves which, at least in a limited way, could be known by us. Einstein's second postulate, his condition of timedetermination, does indeed return the status of things in themselves to the appearances, but only in a limited way. A condition of time-determination is given as separate from the appearances, as a datum not in the appearances. But, since the laws of nature must conform to this condition, Einstein's method indicated that knowledge does consist of concepts conforming to objects. On the other hand, the relativity of space and time-although founded on the condition of timedetermination-demonstrates that objects are appearances only. If things in themselves were given to us, then the space and time wherein they exist would have objective reality. Einstein clearly demonstrates that this is not the case, since the space and time of all objects is conditioned by the frame of reference of the subject. And, since all objects must conform to the relativity of space and time, Einstein's method also indicated that knowledge consists of objects conforming to concepts. Thus, Einstein's method, since it indicated both of the opposed positions-things in themselves and things as appearances-lays out a dialectical middle ground wherein the question of knowledge is neither "How do concepts conform to objects?" nor, "How do objects conform to concepts?'' The theory of knowledge must address this question: How much do objects conform to concepts and how much do concepts conform to objects? late of pure reason, then shouldn't there be two others conforming to two other moments of thought? To give these other postulates is not possible here, but to determine the moments of thought that these postulates must belong to, it is only necessary to consider the frame of reference of special relativity. Special relativity deals with frames of reference in uniform translatory motion. The "opposite" motion to this is uniformly accelerated motion. And the combination of these two is surely wave motion, since a wave is an accelerated system in translatory motion. General relativity, clearly enough, is the science of systems of uniformly accelerated motion; and quantum mechanics, at least as given in Schrodinger' s wave equations, appears to be the science of systems of wave motion. One might say the postulates of these two systems are, respectively, that gravitational potential conditions curvature of space-time and that energy comes in discrete quanta; but these are not very clear in the way that the postulate of special relativity is, nor do they exhibit any · clear connection among the three systems . One thing becomes clear, though, upon consideration of the science of quantum mechanics. As Heisenberg lays it out in his paper on the uncertainty principle, there is a difficulty in the imperative of science that Einstein gives. Since Heisenberg shows a dichotomy between giving the space-time of objects and connecting the objects in causal relations, perhaps the principle that the laws of nature should yield a unity to nature in consciousness is not really valid, or even possible. Thus, the direction of the theory of knowledge seems to be a forked road: one path to establish a valid imperative-whether it be the Principle of Relativity of something else-and the other to give the number and nature of the postulates necessary to present nature to consciousness in accordance with that imperative. V. POSTSCRIPT: POSTULATES OF PURE REASON. I think it appropriate to end this paper with a question. Knowledge is always a question, and answers are boring. But I want to give a direction, at least, to the question of knowledge, and the preceeding speculations are quite suggestive of that direction, especially with respect to natural science. When I consider postulates of pure reason, I cannot help but consider the moments of thought as given in Kant's categories. I am always presented in each category with two extremes and a third moment which is a synthesis of these two-for example, in the category of quantity, the moments are unity, plurality, and then totality. Kant presents the postulates of practical reason as if they conformed to the moments of thought in the categories. Thus, if Einstein's second postulate is a postu- 12 I �Wedding On The Theaetetus Ange Mlinko ('91) Rachel Boyce ('90) The bridled gelding is hooked to its trap, Grazing the widow's weeds that line the lot Between the church and cemetery. In the restaurant window I stock and set The salt and pepper shakers, apiece Each bride and groom by the sugar packets. What for, what for, what for? I beg the horse, full of dolor. First young, then courted, then feted; Dosed with your sugar pill, honeymoonA hard pillow, the moon, once you have itWhat then, what then, what then? Ground and scattered, both of you cured Pat, in a vat of tears, all that's incurred Between the church and cemetery. At the top of the flight, they emerge: She stands, mouth frilled, stiff as baker's icing. One finger is stiffer than all the rest With the prize of a black coal mine. She walks as though salt had been tossed On her plait, a kind of confetti, And though legends are leery of cutlery, Fork by knife, husband and wife, Her face is stainless, shallow as teaspoons, Her table set for a miracle. 14 Socrates' interest in Athenian youths ''thought likely to distinguish themselves"(143d) is not casual. In the Republic, he describes the nature of the true philosopher and the many dangers of corruption that youths of philosophical nature must face. He also describes the proper course of studies for such youths. In the Theaetetus, we see Socrates put his concern for potential philosophers into practice. Socrates searches out a promising student, Theaetetus, and, drawing him into a dialogue, attempts to discover whether his nature is that of the philosopher and to help him along in his training. Theaetetus receives a remarkable commendation of his abilities from his teacher, Theodorus. Theodorus says that he has a ''combination of a rare quickness of intelligence with exceptional gentleness" plus "an incomparably virile spirit" (144a). Additionally, "his approach to learning and inquiry, with the perfect quietness of its smooth and sure progress, is like the noiseless flow of a stream of oil"(144b). Theaetetus shows himself to possess "a certain keeness for study" and "a good memory and doggedness and industry in every sense of the word'' (Republic, 535b-c) which he will need to pursue the philospher's studies. He must also possess the trueborn nature of the philosopher, who loves the labors of both body and mind, is angered at voluntary lies and distressed by ignorance, and discriminates ''with reference to sobriety ... and bravery, and loftiness of soul and all the parts of virtue" (536a). A subtle indication that Theatetus has this nature is that the first definite thing Theodorus mentions about Theaetetus is his resemblance to Socrates. The likeness between Socrates as an old man and Theaetetus as a young man must be striking for a geometer to recognize it. It seems that the likeness might go deeper than mere physical appearance. Theaetetus confirms the reported quality of his abilities with his descrip tion of his approach and solution to the problem of finding common terms for all roots. He does not progress nearly so smoothly in the dialogue, though one would expect a trueborn philosopher to take to it almost immediately. Theaetetus has difficulty understanding many of Socrates' speeches and does not recognize most of Socrates' bogus arguments. Socrates, however, does not give up on Theaetetus, but tells him that "those who frequent my company at first appear, some of them, quite unintelligent"(150d). Theaetetus' difficulties are not due to any inadequacies of intelligence but to his ignorance of the dialectic. When Socrates inquires about Theaetetus' education under Theodorus, we hear that Theaetetus has been pursuing the very course of studies prescribed for the young philosopher in the Republic: arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and harmonics. The only thing which Theodorus has neglected is the dialectic. Since Socrates and Theodorus appear to be old acquaintances, Socrates is no doubt familiar with Theodorus' dislike of participation in dialogues. Theodorus criticizes Socrates' love of argument which never seems to definitely establish anything other than refutations. He also complains of the Ephesians' refusal to state their views specifically and concludes ''We must take over the question ourselves and try to solve it like a problem"(180c) . Theodorus is an educated man and a respected teacher, but he ~uch prefers problemsolving to the pursuit of the elusive nature of things. Theaetetus is so inexperienced with the dialectic as Socrates practices it that, when asked what knowledge is, he lists all the things he considers to be knowledge . Even after Socrates has explained that he wants to discover the nature of knowledge, Theaetetus still puzzles, ''But I cannot persuade myself that I can give any satisfactory solution or that anyone has ever stated in my hearing the sort of answer you require'' (l 48e) . Socrates waits until the very end of the dialogue before he states specifically what is gained by the experience of a dialogue. Then supposing you should ever henceforth try to conceive afresh, Theaetetus, if you succeed, your embryo thoughts will be the better as a consequence of today's scrutiny, and if you remain barren, you will be gentler and more agreeable to your companions, having the good sense not to fancy you know w h at you do not know (210b-c). For Socrates, the dialectic is set "above all other studies to be as it were the coping stone" (Republic, 534e). However, Theaetetus has never practiced the dialectic and believes knowledge to be no more than the things Theodorus teaches him and the crafts of workmen. It is 15 �impossible that the inexperienced Theaetetus comprehend Socrates' last speech until he has participated in a dialogue . Socrates must utilize the dialectic itself so that Theaetetus may understand the dialectic to be the highest and most important part, the culmination, of his education. Socrates prepares Theaetetus for the dialogue itself by describing his practice of the dialectic, which he likens to midwifery. He describes it later and more concisely as ''the skill to get some account of the matter from another's wisdom and entertain it with fair treatment" (161b). Socrates does not teach as Theodorus does, for he claims to have no wisdom in him and to have made no discoveries, and thus has nothing to teach to students. The people who frequent his company make progress without learning from him but are, at the same time, dep en dent on his assistance. The dialectic is not a mystical process which produces truths. It requires an interplay of presentation and testing of ideas for progress to occur . Theaetetus presents his second idea for Socrates to test: ''knowledge is perception.'' Socrates associates the doctrine of Protagoras with Theaetetus' s definition and pursues a series of arguments about the doctrine which take up nearly half the bulk of the dialogue. There are a number of good reasons for Socrates to bring in Protagoras's doctrine. Theodorus is kept interested in the dialogue since it concerns the philosophy of his friend. The dialogue is less threatening for Theaetetus, because Socrates attacks his idea indirectly. But the most important result of this is that Socrates is able to take on the persona of the necessarily absent Protagoras and, as an outsider, critique the progression of the dialogue. This is the doctrine of Protagoras as outlined by Socrates and Theaetetus. When a thing which can perceive and a thing which can be perceived meet, two things come into being: the perception received by the thing which can percieve and the qualities attributed to the thing which can be perceived. These things, the perception and the qualities perceived, are unique . Subsequent perceptions and qualities perceived will be necessarily different since the thing which can perceive and the thing which can be perceived are both in the process of constant change . In short, as Socrates says at the beginning, "nothing is one thing just by itself, nor can you rightly call it by some definite name, nor even say it is of any definite sort" (152d). Each individual's perception is absolutely true for that individual. Socrates does not give a fair treatment of the idea just established, but latches onto the first inconsistency he can find and uses it to demolish not only the doctrine but Protagoras' personal integrity too. If each person's beliefs resulting from perception are equally true, Socrates argues, then no one is wiser than anyone else, not even Protagoras . Either Protagoras is a shyster who cannot justify his well-paid position as teacher, or he is lying to flatter the public. Theaetetus is understandably taken aback at this attack and can find no way to defend his idea. Socrates gives a number of examples of prediction i-n which an expert's opinion is superior to an untrained person's opinion. Protagoras himself, according to both Socrates and Theodorus, claimed to judge better than any other ~'what was going to be and appear in the future'' (179a). Therefore, Socrates concludes, "one man is wiser than another''(179b). The wisdom which Socrates has shown to exist is not the ability to substitute a sound opinion for an unsound one, as was stated in Protagoras' defense, but the wisdom which "lies in thinking truly"(170b), as Socrates proposed. Socrates' third argument attacks the Heraclitan principle of continual change which was stated at the beginning as a necessary part of the Protagorean doctrine . The previous two arguments dealt with the truth of the individual's opinion. This argument deals with the truth of th e individual' s perception . Socrates describes "two kinds of change-alteration and local movement''(181d). All things, in order to be completely in change, must change continually in both ways . According to this idea, even the faculties of hearing and seeing change, and nothing may be rightly called perception. Thus, the principle of continual change makes the statement ''knowledge is perception" nonsensic al inste ad of supporting it. Three possibilities arise . Some things may change continually only in location and so possess definite qualities. Some things may change continually only by alteration and so be at rest . Some things may not change at all, eternally stable in location and quality. It seems that Socrates makes an elaborate effort to expose Theaetetus to ideas through the dialectic when he might simply tell Theaetetus directly. There are several reasons why Socrates does not tell Theaetetus his ideas. The first is that Theaetetus has the nature of the true philosopher. Although he makes faulty statements and becomes confused, Theaetetus always struggles patiently onward. He never becomes completely discouraged in his pursuit of the answer to the question he could not get out of his mind from the start. Several times Socrates praises the spirit he shows. Theaetetus acknowledges his errors and takes Socrates' criticism constructively . He remains honest, straightforward, and respectful. Even when Socrates teases him, asking, " Will you accept it as palatable to your tas te?", h e responds mildly, "Really, I am not sure, Socrates. I cannot even make out about you, w hether you are stating this as somethin g you believe or merely putting me to the test" (157e). By th e final part of the dialogue, which deals with true opinion combined w ith rational explanation, Theaetetus is able to keep up with Socrates quite well. The second reason is that Theaetetus' teacher is Theodorus . Theodorus is not a bad teacher, but his teaching stops short of the education Theaetetus needs as a young p h ilosopher. Socrates, in the Republic, warns of the many dangers of corruption a young philosoph er faces: he risks being swept away by the lure of public approval an d fame. ' 'His kinsmen and fellow citizens, then, will desire . . . to make use of him when he is older fo r does not intend to fool Theaetetus into believing his argument. He wants to expose Theaetetus to such attacks so that he will neither succomb to them nor use them as valid arguments. "We profess," he says, "to be seeking wisdom, not competing for victory"(164e) . Socrates interrupts the dialogue, in the persona of Protagoras, to scold both Theaetetus for taking claptrap seriously and himself, Socrates, for arguing from probability. Socrates is not yet ready to settle down and argue seriously with Theaetetus. He plays the part of a "mercenary skirmisher in a war of words'' (165d) and introduces three paradoxical examples: Do we know the words of an unlearned foreign language when we perceive them? Does a man who stops perceiving by closing his eyes also stop knowing? When a person covers one eye, seeing and not seeing, is he then knowing and not knowing simultaneously? Theaetetus manages to d efuse the foreign language example by saying that one knows the shapes and sounds one perceives, even if not their meaning. He is not able to untangle the other two examples . Speaking as Protagoras, Socrates interrupts for the second time and makes a long speech to defend Protagoras' doctrine . At this point, an interruption is necessary, for Theaetetus is unable and Theodorus unwilling to defend Protagoras against Socrates. "No one can elude the toils of argument you spin for him," says Theodorus, as Socrates draws him into the argument. In fact, none of Socrates' three dialogue partners escape. Protagoras is conjured up from the realm of the dead. Theodorus is forced to participate. Theaetetus, too intimidated and hesitant to continue productively, is rather harshly criticized and sent to the bench . Socrates, accompanied by Theodorus, attacks Protagoras ' doctrine from three different angles . None of these arguments satisfactorily refutes the doctrine as a whole. Instead, Socrates whittles away at it until it suits him. Each argument points out a paradox which can only be resolved if a certain aspect of Protagoras' doctrine is rejected as false . Each time, an alternative idea, never stated directly, must replace the Protagorean idea in order to resolve the paradox. This is the closest Socrates can get to stating his own views to Theaetetus without presenting them as another doctrine . For the first argument, Socrates brings opinions, true to the individuals who hold them, into the realm of public dispute . Neither Theodorus nor any Protagorean is ''prepared to maintain that no one regards anyone else as ignorant or as making false judgements"(170c). In order to defend himself against his opponents, Protagoras must admit that false judgments do exist. Otherwise, Protagoras is forced to "acknowledge his own belief to be false, if he admits that the belief of those who think him wrong is true"(171b). This argument implies that, even if the individual who holds an opinion believes it to be true, it is possible that the opinion, under proper scrutiny, may be conclusively proved false. In the second argument, Socrates casts the individual's true opinion into the realm of prediction. He their own affairs'' and ''they will fawn upon him with petitions and honors, anticipating and flattering the power that will be his"(494b-c). It is up to Socrates not merely to expose Theaetetus to the practice of the dialectic, but to convince him that it is the appropriate pursuit for him. There are a number of places, early in the dialogue, where Socrates associates invalid arguments with "professional controversialists"(164c) and the like. Socrates also makes an abrupt change in topic, during his dialogue with Theodorus, to compare the orator and the philosopher. He presents the education of the orator as a harsh and fearful process that produces a trained orator when it "has dwarfed and twisted his growth and robbed him of his free spirit, driving him into devious ways"(173a) . In contrast, "the free man always has time at his disposal to converse in peace at his leisure" (172d) . Socrates also vividly describes the public mockery that a philosopher risks. However, orators, Socrates claims, ''if they are men enough to face a long examination without running away .. . end by finding their own arguments unsatisfying"(l77b). At least the philosopher follows the pattern "of divine happiness", seeking not apparent but true righteousness. We know, from the description of Theaetetus as a grown man in the prelude to the dialogue, that Theaetetus did evade the corrupting influences that Socrates warned him to avoid and did become a "remarkable man"(142d) as Socrates predicted . The image a reader might create of the two men conversing, old and young, but like to like, has similarities to Socrates ' description of his meeting with Parmenides. Parmenides himself is in my eyes, as H omer says, a 'reverend and awful' figure . I met him when I was quite young and he quite elderly and I thought there was a sort of depth in him that was altogether noble(183e-184a) . It is impossible to determine how much Socrates actually influenced Theaetetus, but perhaps Socrates hoped to leave as lasting an impression on Theaetetus as Parmenides had on him. The translations quoted in this paper are F.M. Cornford's translation of the Theaetetus and Paul Shorey's translation of the Republic, both of which are fo und in Th e Collected Dialogu es of Plato, edited by Edith Hamilton and Hu ntington cairns, Princeton University Press, 1961. 17 16 - �Pre-Cadent Metnbrance Anonymous ! ,/ I I Bring or be brung anyhow try to come and perhaps you'll agree this hall I believe wants to see your evocative smile as fervent as mine. With radiant glory like of a Mount descent enheartened souls will meet the floors to make life in Dance slurred with effervescence enhanced. Swing or be swung in some blurred form of flung over eyes near unmoved there's this streaked world in blue, amber white, red and brown racing right only round and to see is to be lie that wide-open eye; Impassioned celebration of embodied revelationCulmination spirited brings the Post-cad.e nt Trance: of Ambient resonance. 19 �Sotne Thoughts On Warinth, Heat, and Tetnperature Bryan Dorland ('92) When one talks of the warmth, heat, and temperature of an object, it seems that one specific aspect of that object is being discussed, for the three appear at first closely related to each other. Upon closer scrutiny, however, the three terms are radically different in their meanings and the phenomena they describe. So what is this certain aspect which is capable of being described in three related yet quite unlike terms? Before this question can be answered the three terms must be differentiated. Thus, what is meant by warmth, heat, and temperature when talking of an object? Warmth is the most elemental. When someone touches an object, he decides whether it is cold, warm, or hot. A man grasping an ice cube in his left hand and a cup of tea in his right can say the ice cube is cold and the cup warm. He can also say that the cup is warmer than the ice cube. Thus it a pears that the man has given places to these two objects on an innate, internal, ordinal scale of warmth, for an ordinal scale as defined in the Freshman laboratory manual Measurement and Equilibrium is one which " ... enable(s) us to ascertain the existence of sameness or difference between two instances of a variable characteristic ... '' The man can say the cup is warmer than the ice cube because he can compare them directly with each other. But if the man just picks up the ice cube, what is it in the obj ect that allows him to make a judgement on its warmth without direct comparison? Is it that he compares it with himself, an idea that is readily contested by anyone who has ever swum in 90 degree water. · The water is very warm to the swimmer, yet it is below his body's temperature. What if the man makes the comparison between his environment and the object? That is, if an object is below "room temperature" is it thus judged to be "cold"? What about the person who, while sitting in a room with no heat and the window open, remarks that the room is cold? He cannot be comparing the temperature of the room to itself and corning to the conclusion that the room is cold for it would have to be colder that itself, which is absurd. It would seem that each human body has a certain range of warmth within which it is comfortable. A man being placed in the Arctic Circle during winter will say "it is cold", and a man being placed in the Amazon basin during summer will say "it is hot". Thus there appears to be an internal notion-a meter-against which things are compared to in order to judge their warmth. If this is so, is this meter universal-is it an "absolute"? The man who travels into the tropics will feel the oppresive heat, yet will eventually "acclimatize" to the environment to the point that what was once hot now seems normal. I would further assert that the meter is not universal, in the sense that to a Phillipino, Maryland might seem cool, yet to a Norwegian, Maryland would seem very warm. Thus, this internal meter seems to fluctuate and tends toward the warmth that surrounds the observer, although this adjusting seems to take some time. What of the case of the observer who first places his left hand in ice water and his right in hot water, then both in lukewarm water? He judges the water to be both hot (using his left hand) and cold (using his right) simultaneously. I would say that the man, by first introducing his senses to different extremes, has in essence, substituted the meter of the warmths of the two containers of water for his own. This is not a concious decision on his part, but it certainly is a result of exposing his senses to the two extremes before attempting to judge the mean. Furthermore, if the man were to withdraw his hands from the water for five or ten minutes and then test the third glass, would the results be similar? I would say that the senses would rapidly return to the internal meter of the body, and thus the third glass would be judged equally warm or cold by both hands. So the concept of warmth is one of comparison, both between any number of objects and also with an internal "warmth meter" . The relative warmth of a thing can then be used to give it a place on one's own internal ordinal scale of warmth. But it has been shown that while warmth is logically consistent, it is also completely subjective to the observer both as a person and as a product of his environment. Is it possible to construct a measure of warmth which is objective? Further, is it possible to con- 21 �struct a ration scale of warmth? Farenheit, by observing the expansive effects of warmth on mercury, devised the objective form of measurement. The name of the instrument which is su pposed to be this obj ective measure-thermometer is derived from th e Gr ee k '' E>E pµo c; ' ' meaning warmt h a n d " TO µ£ Tpou" meaning measure, h ence the me asurer of warmth . By translating volume of m ercury into an absolute measure of warmth. By translating volume of mercury into an absolute measure of w armth itself, the idea of "temperature" comes into being. A sealed tube containing a constant amount of mercury, and large enough to allow for a fluctuation of the volume, will, by its nature, be subject to only one variable: temperature. Thus by measuring the length, and so volume, one measures temperature . Because all other variables have been removed, it would follow that whenever a given volume of mercury is duplicated, the temperature it is measuring will be duplicated. Is this so? Without knowing much about boiling and melting, common sense says that when either of these two occur, it represents a change in state (i.e. solid, liquid, and gaseous states). The change in state seems to be dictated by the fact that for any given material, the thing can only be in one such state at any one temperature, and further, that which governs the state the thing is in does not fluctuate. This means that when it is very cold out, water is in the form of a solid because it can only exist as such. When it is gradually warmed, a point is reached at which it will simply be unable to exist as a solid because of its very nature. Thus it becomes liquid at that specific temperature. No matter how hard one tries to heat the solid, one cannot heat it above this point because it cannot be so. It is similar with liquid and gas. No matter how many logs you throw on the fire, you cannot heat liquid water past a certain point, because it loses its essence of liquidness and becomes a gas. If this hypothesis can be agreed to, then it will be shown that if our thermometer reads the same volumes of mercury when repeatedly exposed to these '' transformation" or "becoming" temperatures, then it will truly be a measure of absolute warmth, and the concept of temperature will be proved true . And indeed this is the case, as experiments demonstrate. Water melts at a certain length of mercury no matter how many times the measurement is attempted, as it also boils at a certain temperature. So temperature is absolute warmth, and a thermometer is the measure of the temperature. But is a thermometer a ratio scale? It would seem both yes and no. The temperature of two liquids mixed together is shown in experiments to be inversely proportional to their volumes. This means that a volume twice the second will, when mixed with the second, suffer only half the temperature fluctuation of the second volume no matter what temperatures they are measured at. In other words, the temperature gradients, or the units assigned to measure the temperature (a function of the length of mercury) are the same near the bottom of the scale as the 22 gradients near the top of the scale. So they are additive, which is a step in the right direction, for to be additive means that temperature is at least an interval scale. Yet to be a ratio the gradients must also be sh own to be multiplicative (for what is multiplication but repeated addition starting from the unity). So is one hundred degrees farenheit twice as warm as fifty? If one were to argue th at the melti ng point of the brine mixture is as cold as it can be (i .e. totally lacking warmth itself), then Farenh eit's scale w ould p ass the test. But this is absurd, as frozen brine is manifestly colder then the zero reading. If we consider our measure of the temperaturethe volume of our mercury-then we might find the answer. If it truly measures temperature, then the volume will continue to decrease until it either freezes or stops becoming smaller. If it freezes, it becomes useless to us, as we have no indication that solid mercury fluctuates with the temperature. But if it were the case that the second were true, then we would have truly reached a zero point for our absolute ratio scale. But our problem, and Farenheit's, is that with our equipment in the lab it is· plainly impossible to reach this absolute point, and thus it appears to us that temperature is not in a ratio scale. Is it the case that an absence of absolute zero prohibits our instruments from detecting it, or simply that we can not measure it with the instruments at hand? The problem is similar to a man standing on the roof of an eighty story building looking towards a ninety story building standing side by side with a hundred story one. Is the third building twice the height of the second? To our rooftop observer it appears to be, but it is not. The only vantage point that would show their true ratios would be from the ground. So we now have warmth as the subjective measure of warmness and temperatures as the absolute measure of warmness. But what is this warmness? What is it that your hand really measures when you touch ice, and a thermometer measure when in boiling water? It is heat. Heat is that which gives something its temperature . Heat is that which makes something warmer than another. Heat is that which blends proportionally when two substances are mixed . But is heat a quantity or a quality? Aristotle, in Categories, discusses what it means to be one or the other. I find his stringent distinction between a quantity (e.g. three feet) and a quality (e.g. white) is that " ... a quantity has no contrary" while "contrariety with respect to quality is possible.'' So, no matter how hard you look, an opposite of three feet will not be found, yet whiteness and blackness are plainly opposed. Is there, then, an opposite to heat? If there is, let u s call it "cold". Not cold in the sense that on our ordinal scale one might say that "ice is cold", but rather as opposed to heat, and equal to it in the sense that they are both qualities. Does the quality of cold exist in an object alongside the quality of heat? Plato investigates the nature of hot and cold in the dialogue Sophist (line 243): say, "Ye, who affirm that hot and cold or any other two principles are the universe, what is this term which you apply to both of them, and what do you mean when you say that both and each of them are? How are we to understand the word 'are'? Upon your view are we to suppose that there is a third principle over and above the other two-three in all, and not two? For clearly you can not say that one of the two principles is being, and yet attribute being equally to both of them; for, if you did, whichever of the two is identified with being, will comprehend the other; and so will be one and not two. So if we are to say that the nature of anything that is is to have a certain amount of heat we cannot say at the same instant a thing has a certain amount of cold. They cannot both define being as principles, for they are contrary. Thus if the contrary to heat is "not", it must be a quantity. So it has been shown that a thing partakes of the quantity of heat. The degree of this partaking is enumerated by the temperature of the thing. Finally, our interpretation of the temperature of a thing, dependent on both the observer and his environment, and completely subjective, is what we term warmth . So three are both different and at the same time similar. But we must now deal with two new phenomena which present themselves to the laboratory experimentor. How do the ideas of heat capacity and latent heat affect the arguments? Equal heat in two different objects does not necessarily mean equal temperature or warmth. Joseph Black demonstrated this with his experiments on water and mercury. Differing materials have a different "capacity" for heat, which is to say that the lower the capacity for heat, the greater the effect on the temperature or warmth. In the case of equal amounts of mercury and water being exposed to an equal amount of heat, the temperature of the mercury will be higher than the temperature of the water in direct proportion to the ratio of the heat capacities. So different materials act differently when exposed to equal amounts of heat, the only variable is the nature of the materials. Stranger still is the idea of "latent" heat. While heat and temperature still seem to behave "normally" (i.e. in direct correspondence) in most instances (given that you do not change materials), the object behaves "abnormally" when near its "becoming" temperature. Solid water, at 31 degrees farenheit will absorb much more heat for the sake of melting than would normally be required to raise it one or two degrees either as a solid or as a liquid. the same phenomena occurs when liquid water is nearing 212 degrees. The act of becoming seems to require heat, thus heat cannot also affect the temperature or warmth of an object. It appears that some work is being done inside the material itself, preparing for the change in state. What this means to the observer is that additional heat does not necessarily mean additional temperature. So it seems that heat itself is a quantity contained within a thing and that is principle of all things that are. It manifests itself through the object, and this manifestation is what we experience as both warmth and temperature. But while heat manifests itself through a thing, the thing somehow effects this manifestation. The object, with its heat capacity, dictates in what ratio the heat will translate into temperature. Further, as an object's temperature approaches a becoming point, the object requires heat to transform itself into the next state, heat which does not affect the temperature. So a thing is acted upon by heat, and through the nature of that thing, heat is manifest as warmth and temperature. The right method .. . w ill be to call into our presence the dualistic philosophers and to interrogate them . " Come," we will 23 �The Contradictions of Einpiricisin: Hunte's Relations as Necessary Non-Etnpirical Ideas Craig Thomas ('90) Hume's pervasive skepticism, as it evolves in the first book of his Treatise of Human Nature, depends largely on his principle that all ideas are derived from impressions. From the optimistic subtitle which opens the treatise, "An Attempt to Introduce the Experimental Method of Reasoning into Moral Subjects," to the gloomy metaphor of the ship-wrecked sailor in the conclusion of Book I, Hume proceeds down a path of increasing doubt and disillusion. In the process of developing this thought, however, he ends by contradicting himself. Since he later asserts the irrational origin of our belief in causality, he cannot contend that ideas are derived from (i.e., caused by) impressions. We must restate his principle thus: all ideas in our experience have immediately followed impressions similar to them. His later explanation of causality as a mental habit can be similarly criticized by his own standards, but we shall postpone this discussion for now. First we must ask if we are willing to accept even the restatement of his principle. Have all of our ideas followed similar and antecedent impressions? If we answer no, we are left with two alternatives. We can contend that one or more ideas are innate to the mind-that is, prior to all experience and so not consequent to any impression. We can also hypothesize that, in the midst of our experience, ideas spring into begin which are in no way traceable to impressions . Although experience may be the spur to their first appearance, these ideas are not mere copies of the objects of sensation. We need not worry about the old scholastic objection .that such ideas would have no explicable cause; Hume himself has shown us that reason does not recognize the necessity of a cause. Whichever alternative we prefer, we face the same task-namely, to provide at least one example of an idea which does not appear to be derived from an impression. If we can find such an idea, we have taken our first step toward refuting several of Hume's most troubling claims: that we have no real idea of causality, no real idea of the self, no real idea of external body. Perhaps these are innate ideas, or are in some part derived from them. Hume's own rejection of the possibility of innate ideas is brief and unsatisfying. In Part I Section I he presents several examples of ideas which obviously reflect sense impressions: an apple, his chamber, the city of Paris, the color red. Apparently Hume believes these to be an adequate sampling of our myriad ideas, for he then concludes that every idea must similarly reflect an impression. The only possible exception he can find is the ability to imagine a never-before-experienced shade of color between two given shades. The very singularity of this case, however, leaves him confident that he can generalize his principle to a universal truth . At the end of Section I he scoffs at those philosophers who have defended the existence of innate ideas. Again he considers only a couple of uncontroversial cases: We may observe, that in order to prove the ideas of extension and colour not to be innate, philosophers do nothing but shew, that they are conveyed by our senses. To prove the ideas of passion and desire not to be innate, they observe th at we have a preceding experience of these emotions in ourselves. Now if we carefully examine these arguments, we shall find that they prove nothing but that ideas are preceded by other more lively perceptions, from which they are derived, and wh ich they represent. (Treatise, p. 7) In light of Kant, we might see extension as a controversial contender for status as an innate idea. But although extension is a priori for Kant (since it is known simply by analysis of the concept of body), it is not pure a priori like all innate ideas. (Critique of Pure Reason, Intro., IV) Hume has really ignored all the ideas which philosophers, before and after his day, have most often suggested as nonempirical. These we can divide into two groups for convenience. The first are these ideas which Plato frequently discussed as eternal "forms'~such as goodness, justice, truth, and beauty. Hume ignores these difficult, abstract ideas entirely in the first book of his Treatise, so we cannot know how he would attempt to trace them back to impressions. The second group, however, he deals with at great length, so we can certainly use it as a line of criticism. This group comprises certain ideas which we employ to order and understand our sense experiences. Kant's pure concepts of the understanding, the categories, are examples of this type of non-empirical 25 �knowledge which renders experience possible . We shall investigate whether Hume's "relations" are not also of this type, and as such may be termed "innate ideas." In Part III Section II of the first book, Hume writes: ''All kinds of reasoning consist in nothing but a comparison, and a discovery of those relations, either constant or inconstant, which two or more objects bear to each other ." (Treatise, p. 73) Reason, then, is really only the observation of relations between objects. Consequently, these relations are of great importance to Hume, and he enumerates and analyzes them in detail . All philosophical relations fall under seven general heads, which are: resemblance, contrariety, degrees of a quality, proportions in quantity or number, identity, relations of space and time, and cause and effect . Of particular importance is resemblance, since all the other relations incorporate it to some extent . In H u m e' s own words, " No relation of any kind can subsist without some degree of resemblance." (Treatise, p. 15) Hume splits the seven relations into two types: those which cannot vary without changing the ideas of the objects which are related, and those which can vary. The first four relations listed above, according to Hume, are of the kind that cannot vary; the remaining three can. One of these latter, causation, receives extensive treatment in the Treatise. Hume's conclusion about it, of course, is that it cannot be inferred from experience. We never have an impression of causation but only of constant conjunction. This immediately casts suspicion on his other relations . If causation is a mere fiction of the imagination, so might be the other six types. If on the other hand, we uphold the belief that we have real ideas of resemblance, contrariety, and the others, then perhaps we can salvage the idea of causation. Hume' s own argument against the existence of innate ideas, as we have already remarked, is that for every idea he could think of, he could remember a similar and antecedent impression. Let us submit one of his relations to the same test. Since he considers resemblance fundamental to all the other relations, we shall use it as our example. First we must agree that we do indeed have an idea corresponding to the word "resemblance." And even more p rimary, we need to settle upon an acceptable definition of an idea. Hume's definition is of course unacceptable, as it assumes the point in dispute-that is, that ideas are less vivid copies of impressions. Rather than discuss the origin of ideas, we should inquire exclusively into what they are once they do exist. Taking common usage as our guide, an idea is virtually synonymous with a thought. We cannot limit its meaning to mental "pictures," for we also have ideas of incorporeal abstractions (e.g., justice, truth) and even entire statements . In its standard, though admittedly broad, definition, an idea is any element of our understanding or our reason considered as a single entity. By defining it as an element of the understanding or the reason, I mean to exclude impressions as they initially appear to the senses (from whatever source). These must be reproduced by some means as ideas before they become objects of the under- standing. In this way I maintain H ume's distinction between impressions and ideas. By defining an idea as a single entity, I mean that whether it be simple or complex (in Hume's sense), represented by a single word or a sentence, it is referred to as an individual unit of our thought. Thus "the virtuous man is happy" has a single corresponding idea just as do the individual words "virtuous'' and ''man.'' By our definition, certainly we have an idea of resemblance. We use the term regularly to denote some distinct element of our thought, whatever its origin might be. We may have difficulty defining it without resorting to virtual synonyms like comparison and similarity, but we are all able to call such an idea to mind. We should address one possible objection, however. We seem also to have an idea corresponding to the word "cause," but Hume has suggested that this is really a pseudo-idea. What we call the idea of cause if really only a movement of our thought, the habitual expectation of one idea triggered by the appearance of another. We shall criticize this . explanation later in connection with cause; for now we need only ask if our idea of resemblance might not be a similar pseudo-idea. We can definitely say that, if it is a pseudo-idea, it is not of the same sort as "cause." In Hume's analysis, we arrive at this latter by a mental habituation which results from the recognition of resemblances among our experiences. Therefore the idea of resemblance is assumed to explain such a supposed pseudo-idea as causation. If resemblance is some other sort of pseudoidea, I leave it to anyone else to explain what sort. We can accept with reasonable certainty, then, that we have a genuine idea of resemblance according to our new definition of idea. Should one react skeptically to any conclusions based on this new definition, however, we need only turn to Hume's own words . In Part I Section V he writes, "It may perhaps be esteemed an endless task to enumerate all those qualities, which make objects admit of comparison, and by which the ideas of philosophical relation are produced." (Treatise, p. 14) He continues by showing that these endless qualities can be resolved into the seven types of relation already mentioned. The quotation points out two important facts: 1) Hume accepts that we hav e ideas of these relations, including resemblance and (at this point) even cause; 2) He believes that these ideas are produced by qualities of the objects which are related, i.e., the relations are derived from impressions. Admitting that we h ave an idea corresponding to the word "resemblance/' let us now inquire whether this idea originally followed an impression similar to it. Obviously we h ave never witnessed " resemblance'' itself, stripped from any of its particular manifestations. The only logical place for us to look, of course, is at the impressions of particular objects which resemble each other. Let us take, for example, two copies of the 1939 Oxford Edition of Hume's Treatise of Human Nature. If we choose two that are sufficiently similar, we may even fool someone into asserting their identity. We need only show him one, substitute the other in the same position when he is not looking, and then show him the second. It is quite possible that he would mistakenly assume that the two were just one book. Sometimes this proves true even with people, as in the case of "identical" twins. These examples should suffice to show that we do not have a special faculty to detect identity-that is, sameness rather than similarity. Identity, then, is really not a separate relation from resemblance, but is only a specific case of it (resemblance in a very great degree). Hume's distinction between the two, however, is valid psychologically if not philosophically . Although we recognize no philosophical distinction between resemblance and identity (except one of degree), there is an enormous difference in our manner of thinking about the two . When we close our eyes and reopen them, we believe that the objects before us are not merely similar to, but identical and continuous with those we saw previously. Upon the distinction between resemblance and identity rests all belief in the permanence of objects. But our chief question, again, is, whence came the idea of resemblance between the two books? We expect that even a child who had never seen any book before would acknowledge this resemblance. Is the resemblance contained in the impression of either one of the books? Obviously not. Neither book, considered individually, elicits the idea of resemblance. But the two impressions together are nothing more than the sum of each considered separately. Otherwise, some quality not present in either book individually would mysteriously have appeared when the two are viewed together. To demonstrate that this is clearly not the case, we need only view the tw o books separately with a span of time between them. If one day we see the first book, then we form one impression for it. If a day later we see the second book alone, we simply receive another solitary impression for that book. Yet we still form the idea of their resemblance. This resemblance cannot be a mysterious quality of the objects themselves, for it has appeared only between the ideas of the books. It was not present in either of the individual impressions. It must have had an origin within the mind itself. The only way to contest this conclusion is to find an impression which actually contains resemblance within it. But it is obvious that we never have an impression of resemblance itself, and equally obvious that resemblance is not contained in the impressions of any particular objects which resemble each other . What other sort of impression could possibly communicate the idea of resemblance to us? In the absence of an answer, we can only hypothesize that resemblance is a very real idea which nevertheless has no impression as its counterpart. One additional observation will help to emphasize this point. Hume' s fundamental principle, as we have seen, is that all our ideas have followed antecedent and similar impressions. Yet this very principle necessitates the prior idea of resemblance . Without possessing the idea of resemblance, we could never con clude that our ideas reflect our impressions. We would have no reason to suspect that our ideas were derived from any external source, and were not merely phantoms of our imagination. We could not assert that we arrive at the idea of resemblance empirically, for without its prior existence in the mind we would recognize no connection between the idea of it and any impression which might have produced it. Now that we have achieved this foothold against Hume's principle with the idea of resemblance, let us examine its consequences. First we will ask: Is our idea of resemblance innate, or did it simply appear in our minds at some time? This is very difficult for us to determine, for in either case the idea is present very early in childhood. An infant is clearly able to recognize the same object or person over an interval of time, and since identity is simply a special case of resemblance, we must admit an idea of resemblance in the earliest stages of youth. This would incline us toward the theory of its innateness, though we have by no means an incontrovertible proof of this. Similarly, we have shown that a prior idea of resemblance is necessary for us to observe any connection between our ideas and impressions. Without this idea we would be unable to assert that any of our ideas were "reflections" of our impressions. This would render all empiricism impossible, for we would have no means of tracing ideas beyond our own imagination. Since we very rarely (if ever) encounter this drastic solipsism in children, we are again inclined to the view that resemblance is an innate idea. As yet another alternative, we may hypothesize that the idea of resemblance begins simultaneously with experience. This is of course the position which Kant holds in regard to his pure a priori concepts. They are mere forms until they gain some empirical matter, at which point they become objects of knowledge. Perhaps, in parallel fashion, resemblance becomes an idea (that is, an object of knowledge) only after experience has provided a particular example which takes the form of resemblance. One may debate whether such an idea can properly be called innate, but the argument is really irrelevant. In any of the above hypotheses, the idea of resemblance is not a "reflection" derived from some imp ression; its origin is within the mind. I have used the term "innate" because Hume poses it as the opposite of his strict empiricism. We can never truly decide whether the idea of resemblance exists before all experience, though it was surely not derived from it. How does our conclusion about resemblance reflect .on Hume's other relations? Since, in his own words, "no relation of any kind can subsist without some degree of resemblance' ', we must admit that the ideas of all his relations depend at least partly on an idea with no corresponding impression. None can be completely derived from experience. Since Hume casts the greatest doubt on the idea of causality, we shall examine it in particular. The element of resemblance in causality, I imagine, is the similarity in place and time between the two objects which we call cause and effect. This is the contiguity and succession which Hume points out. He rightly argues that 27 �we never have an impression of causality (this would be analogous to having an impression of resemblance, which we have found impossible). He then concludes, however, that we cannot have any idea of causality, because such an idea would defy his principle. But are we not all conviced that we do indeed have such an idea? In such a case, we should perhaps abandon the principle rather than ignor the evidence of our thought. In light of our overwhelming belief in causality, we must turn to Hume's explanation of it as neither innate nor empirically derived. According to Hume, we never have a true experience of cause and effect. In situations where we appear to witness causality, careful analysis reveals that we really experience only the contiguity and succession of objects. He is, I believe, justified in reaching this conclusion. The exact same sequence of events could be explained in a non-causal way, as the coincidental but unrelated actions of the two objects. The appearances of the causal hypothesis (where one object determines the change in the other) and of the coincidental hypothesis (where no interaction occurs) would be indistinguishable . Consequently, in simply looking upon the sequence of events, we could never determine whether the relation of the objects was causal or coincidental. We could not derive the idea of causality from these appearances, for contiguity and succession are not a sufficient assurance of cause and effect . Hume writes: Shall we then rest contented with these two relations of contiguity and succession, as affording a complete idea of c~usa­ tion? By no means . An object may be co ntiguous and pnor to another, without being consider'd as its cause. There is a necessary connection to be taken into consideration; and that relation is of much greater importance, than any of the other two above-mention' d. (Treatise, p.77) Contiguity and succession fail not only as an adequate source of the idea of causality; they are insufficient even to bring about the pseudo-idea of causality formed by the imagination. This is because we often experience contiguous and successive objects without attributing any causal connection to them. There must exist a necessary connection between the objects. If such a necessary connection can truly be discovered, then we may uphold an authentic idea of causality . If this connection does not truly exist, yet the mind is misled into believing it does exist, then we will form the pseudo-idea of causality. Hume searches for this necessary connection and finds the most likely candidate in ''constant conjunction''. By this he means that contiguity and succession have occured repeatedly when two objects were placed in like circumstances . In section VI he writes, "Contiguity and succession are not sufficient to make us pronounce any two objects to be cause and effect, unless we perceive, that these two relations are preserv' d in several instances." (Treatise, p.87) In Hume's assessment, then, contiguity and succession present in constant conjunction are sufficient to bring about the belief in causality. Are they sufficient, however, to establish a true idea of 28 cause? Hume answers no . Constant conjunction is not the necessary connection we required . The recurring pattern of past events acquires the force of necessity only if we accept the principle, "that instances, of which we have had no experience, must resemble those, of which we have had experience, and that the course of nature continues always uniformly the same.'' (Treatise, p.89) In considerable detail, Hume demonstrates the impossibility of deriving such a principle from experience. Nor can it be deduced from logic, for no contradiction would arise in denying it. Constant conjunction is not a sufficient impression to produce the idea of causality, and Hume despairs of ever finding such an impression. We can have no genuine idea of cause, and he is forced to explain it as a false inference drawn from a mental habit. When we have experienced a sequence of events repeatedly under the same circumstances, our mind becomes accustomed to the pattern of impressions which follow one after the other. When next we find ourselves in those circumstances and the sequence begins, our mind will anticipate the rest of the sequence out of habit. When · we have experienced the sequence a great many times (and with no deviations from the pattern), the mind will become so fixed in its anticipation that the rest of the sequence will be assumed automatically. This, according to Hume, is the only legitimate meaning of necessity . "Necessity, then, is the effect of this observation, and is nothing but an internal impression of the mind, or a determination to carry our thoughts from one object to another.'' (Treatise, p .165) If the repeated experience has been of the contiguity and succession of objects, then our minds will have that particular impression of necessity known as causality: "A cause is an object precedent and contiguous to another, and so united with it, that the idea of the one determines the mind to form the idea of the other, and the impression of the one to form a more lively idea of the other .'' (Treatise, p .170) Although he has defined both necessity and cause, they are clearly not what we originally thought them to be. We can advance two important criticisms of Hume's new definition of cause. The first concerns constant conjunction and the h abituation of the mind. As we have seen, the contiguity and succession of objects are not alone sufficient to make us assert an instance of causality- some necessary connection must also exist. According to Hume, constant conjunction serves as this necessary connection, and when it is p resent we w ill unhesitatingly interpret the objects as cause and effect. He is correct that mere contiguity and succession are insufficient to make us interpret events causally. But constant conjunction is not the necessary connection which the mind seeks . If objects can be contiguous and successive once without being interpreted causally, then they can be so any number of times. They can even be necessarily determined as contiguous and successive, thereby being in constant conjunction without a single deviation, and yet inspire no causal interpretation. Such a th eory has appeared several times in the history of philosophy, nota- bly in the Cartesians and Leibniz. Several followers of Descartes, having concluded that interaction between mind and body was impossible, invented the theory of "two clocks" to save the appearance of the mind's effect on matter. Both mind and body are determined in perfect synchronization, like two clocks keeping identical time. When one clock points to the hour, the other will strike, giving the impression that the former caused the latter. Mental and physical phenomena likewise follow a determined, synchronised sequence, but with no actual interaction and no cusal interpretation. Leibniz proposed the "pre-established harmony" of monads, which actual interaction and no causal interpretation. Leibniz proposed the "pre-established harmony'' of monads, which may be far-fetched speculation, but they demonstrate tht constant conjunction does not imply a causal interpretation. The crucial element of our idea of causality is not constant conjunction, but the determination of one object by another. When we assert an instance of causality, we do not mean only that some change in an object occurs always next to (in space and time) some other object. We mean that one object actively influenced the other. Hume is correct in arguing that we cannot derive any active influence from experience; cause and coincidence have the same appearances. So where does this notion of active influence originate? It cannot be explained as a mental habituation of constant conjunction. By such a theory, we are habituated only to expect events in sequence; we could just as easily interpret them as being determined coincidentally. There is nothing in the observation of constant conjunction which implies influence, yet this latter is the real sense in which we use "cause". If active influence cannot be derived from our impressions, nor explained as a mental habituation, it may well represent another "innate" idea. Once the universality of Hume's principle has been challenged by our idea of resemblance, we need not fear to put forth cause as another exception. This would of course put us in agreement with Kant, who upholds causation as one of the pure a priori concepts . We can make one other significant criticism of Hume's explanation of cause. Simply put, our criticism is that he employs the idea of cause to demonstrate that we have no real idea of cause. since we have had no true impression of cause as an active influence, he is forced to define it as no more than the observation of constant conjunction. But, according to his explanation, constant conjunction is the cause of our mental habituation . His very definition of cause states that the idea of one object ''determines the mind to form the idea of the other.'' If we have no real idea of causality, what does it mean for an idea to "determine" the mind. He recognizes no l necessity at all in the events we call "causal", but he is forced to claim that one idea necessarily determines the mind to form another. If we take the word "determines" to mean ''cause'' in the sense of his new definition, then we are left with some such statement as this: 'A cause is an object precedent and contiguous to another, and so united with it, that the idea of the one is precedent and contiguous to the formation by the mind of the idea of the other, and the impression of the one is precedent and contiguous to the formation of a more lively idea of the other.' We could likewise complain that "the formation by the mind'' is a causal concept which should also be rewritten with the ludicrous precision above. When we clear Hume of his contradictions (brought on by his need to use causal language), he is reduced to an endless regression of constant conjunctions and to near meaninglessness. Even Hume must retain the idea of "cause" as an active influence. Considering the doubt and despair into which Hume is thrown by adhering to his strict empiricism, we should be glad to have challenged its universality. We have seen that the relations, in which he places such importance, cannot be derived entirely from impressions. Resemblance, without which no relation of any kind can subsist, gives every indication of being an innate idea. Other hypotheses do not fully account for its origin. And we have seen that the idea of resemblance is necessary to render any empiricism possible- without it we could see no connection between our impressions and ideas. Resemblance plays a role in our idea of cause as well, insofar as the latter involves contiguity and succession. But we have observed that these two relations, even in constant conjunction, do not fully elicit our idea of causality. Also necessary is an idea of active influence, by which one object determines the change in the other. This active influence cannot be derived from our impressions, nor explained as the mental habituation of constant conjunction. It appears, like resemblance, to have had a nonempirical origin. Finally, we observed that Hume is often forced to contradict himself by using causal language. The fundamental principle of his Treatise is that all ideas are derived from impressions . Yet th is very principle makes him doubt the idea of cause, which in turn renders his principle untenable ("derived" being a causal word). When he offers a new definition of cause to avoid implications of necessity and influence, he is forced to say that one idea "determines" the mind to form another. Again he has used a causal word in its ordinary sense, implying both necessity and influence. We must temper his strict empiricism, allowing for non-empirical "innate" ideas, if we are to accurately account for our experiences. 29 �Cainel Ride Ange Mlinko ( '91) See-do Chimpanzees, through Helpless resemblances To us, with this captivity Make do; Lions Curb their torments Into figure eights traced Infinitely sideways, and the Reptiles Ingest Their restrictions And sleep on them; otters Go under, unto other lawsWater And airBaubles, swan, hawk, Pheasant's element: tooled Plumes and hidden hardware, flutes For bones. Ruckus Free wings cause near Us do not stir the caged , Nor do visitors stir to see One of Them, me Leading their kids On camels, circumspect, With light, flat step; with suspicion You learn. �be a spontaneous check on our snug involvement with life - a sudden sense of estrangement . Or it may be a teacher who tears us out of our usual context by the right sort of question - that is, when all is said and done, the most dramatically and unforgettably useful thing a teacher can do. The resultant state is what two great ancient philosophers, Plato and Aristotle, call "wonder". Wonder is not the same as "questioning things." when you question something you really have a mental reservation about it; in fact, such questioning is usually a cagey way of attacking other people's opinions. Wonder, as these philosophers understood it, is puzzlement and delight all wrapped up together. It is the attentive suspicion that things are not only what they seem to be, that there must be more to them than meets the eye. This suspicion makes parts of the world extremely attractive. But instead of being centered on one human being, as in the case of falling in love, the attraction now extends to things and conditions. Let me give you an example of a case of wonder which has been a recent preoccupation of mine: Take a picture, say a snapshot of a person you care about: How many .words are needed before that picture is so completely described that someone who doesn't know your friend can see him in the mind's eye? Wondering about such a question turns out to draw one into a more and more fascinating affair with words and pictures. There is positive love and there is negative love. Negative love is the kind of involvement that has to begin by denigrating and denying its object so that it can build it up again in its own image. There is certainly personal love of this sort, in which the supposed lover feels compelled to remake the other person so as to feel perfectly safe and certain in the relationship. This negative love, or negative wonder, is called doubt. Doubt, systematic doubt, is the approach to philosophy associated with the name of Descartes. One might say that Descartes is the first modern philosopher - he wrote in the early seventeenth century - and that we moderns have this manipulative, negative love bred in our bones. The purpose of Descartes' philosophical doubt is to achieve certainty. Considering that few things in our ordinary beliefs are clear or distinct and none are certain, he begins by deliberately doubting everything, just to see if there might be one thing left which is indubitable . He does find such a thing: It is the doubter himself, the thµ11.<ing being that does the doubting. For it is clear that he cannot doubt that he is doubting and thinking. So he concludes that one sentence is certainly true: "I think, therefore I am,'' and from this thinking self he then proceeds to develop a world of certainty. I won't follow him in this reconstruction except to say that the world he gets back is not quite the ordinary world, but the world of science. Now the fourth kind of love. If doubt is a kind of negative wonder, it is possible to go one step further along this road. It is possible not only to put a negative sign on wonder but to negate it entirely . It is possible for the sake of the love of truth to try to squash that wonder altogether. This sort of philosophical love, too, exists and What is Philosophy?* Eva Brann "Philosophy" as a word and as an activity has been around almost twenty-four hundred years, so it is no wonder that a lot of technical talk has accumulated around it. But today I want to talk to you about it in the simplest terms and describe it with the boldest strokesmuch as I present something to myself when I want to get the basics clear. The word philosophy has perfectly common uses, of course. People talk of their "philosophy of life," meaning the way things look to them and the rules by which they live. Beauty parlors have a "philosophy of hairstyling'', meaning you pay ten dollars more. But the word has a higher origin, which is Greek, since the Greeks discovered the activity. Notice by the way that I keep saying "activity," not subject. I shall explain why before long. So philosophy is a Greek word which is actually familiar even to those people who would say here that it is all Greek to them . The first part, the "philo-" part, had to do with love, as in Philadelphia, the city of Brotherly Love. The second part, '' sophia, '' is known to us as a women's name and means wisdom. It follows that philosophy originally means ''the love of widom. '' Therefore, if I want to give you an answer to the question which forms my title, What is Philosophy? I have to explain just two small items: love and wisdom. Let me begin, boldly, with the "love" part. To say that some sort of love is involved in philosophy is first of all to say that it involves some sort of passion which is its very own. Somewhere, in some ultimate part, it must be carried on for love and not for money . Since we must all eat, it does not seem wrong to accept money for doing it, though its early practitioners refused to take pay, and most people who feel the passion even a little still make a distinction between the work they get paid for and the cause they serve. It is humanly unavoidable that ambition, the honor that comes from being thought clever or wise, should play a role. And it is positive1y honorable that the love that goes with philosophy should gain *For delivery as a public lecture at Southeastern Louisiana University at Hammond, Louisiana in October, 1989. its devotees special and lasting friendships. But somewhere, somehow, the thing is pursued for its own sake . Now this passion I am talking about has taken various forms in the history of philosophy. Let me set out some six that I can distinguish, and tell you who among the philosophers was particularly alive to each. The first case is quite literal: The passion of philosophy is said to begin with the ordinary-or if you like, extraordinary-condition of falling and being in love. This bold connection is made by Plato, or rather by his character Socrates, in the dialogue called the Phaedrus. It takes account of a psychological factor. In beginning love, there is, for all the desire to get together, a certain inhibiting factor, a sense that the physical appearance of the other person is only a front, a kind of facade that both exposes and hides the real object of love. Someone in love in this way feels the attraction as a kind of labor of love, a search for the being behind the appearance, or, as Socrates puts it, for the god within . Now that search has great similarity with the love of wisdom, as I shall set it out later. In philosophy too the lover looks with deep fascination at the looks of things, but not with the immediate intention of possessing or using them, but rather with the feeling that there is something behind them that is really worth getting at. So first love is a good analogy to philosophy, and in fact, in my own school it is often the freshmen who get themselves most ardently mixed up in difficult love affairs and abstruse metaphysics. The second kind of love is really not so different from the first, but it is less personal. Our ordinary state is to live enmeshed in the goings-on of the world. We may feel embattled or we may feel snug, but it all seems v ery natural and normal to us. I know that in modern times few people accept social inequities and human vice as natural and normal. On the contrary, most of us, certainly in th e universities, live in a constant state of indign ation with these, or, as we say, we " question" them. But there are vast and more fundamental parts of the world which w e don ' t question much at all, such as the solidity of the ground we tread on and the fact that one w ord can name a whole class of things. Now sometimes something happens that breaks through our attitude of taking things for granted. It may has in fact been the most influential passion in recent academic philosophy. Its greatest protagonist is Wittgenstein, who died in 1951. It seemed to him that many of the questions which caused wonder in traditional philosophy are either false questions or unanswerable ones. For example, to go back to the mind's eye I mentioned before: Our language makes us talk about seeing things in our imagination . We are carried away by this manner of speech to talk about images we have in our head and then to wonder what sort of pictures these might be. But this, Wittgenstein thinks, is love's labor lost. We have no good reason to think that we actually have a mind's eye and that it sees mysterious internal pictures. And if we do have such pictures we have no way of showing them to anybody. So better than wonder about invented entities, attend to your use of language. Wittgenstein thinks that our wonder is a sort of pathology for which his careful analysis of language is the therapy. Our puzzlement is like a fly buzzing about in a bottle and philosophy's most honest task is to let the fly out. Here a new love of truth is in mortal combat with the old responses to philosophical wonder. There are other than negative modern ways of being attracted to wisdom. One of these is most worth remembering because it is responsible for the grandest structures philosophy has produced. There is a kind of deeply serious appetite for workmanlike thoroughness, which is expressed in the great philosophical system of Kant. Kant, whose great founding work, The Critique of Pure Reason, was published just about the time of the French Revolution, has a name for this impulse. He calls it the "architectonic" principle. It is the sense that nothing can be done unless it is a part of a well-organized, comprehensive system. Above all, such a system must have a good foundation, and the only trustworthy foundation, for Kant, as for Descartes, is the exposition of the self that knows, or as Kant says, the subject. Kant wrote, in fact, three fundamental works and each has the word "Critique" in the title. That is because critique in those days has nothing particular to do with criticism: It meant an investigation into the powers of knowing of a human being, and the laying of a foundation for scientific knowledge. As Kant himself intimated somewhere: For systematic critical philosophers, love of truth is expressed as a passion for work, the work of a builder, especially a layer of foundations. I must mention one last, the sixth kind of philosophical love, which runs from antiquity through modernity. Probably its greatest representative is the medieval theologian Thomas Aquinas. Some people might argue that philosophy and theology are radically incompatible: a theologian begins with faith and a philosopher with questions. In faith those deepest questions that attract the fascination of the philosopher are already settled. The theologian may do a lot of thinking and reasoning, but not about ultimate matters . This battle has been fought for millennia. Thomas himself has a great deal to say about it. But for present purposes I won't enter 32 J 33 �into the argument but simply assert that the love of a God already accepted by faith can indeed induce a love of wisdom: It seems to be quite possible to have a desire to know in a position of ultimate assurance. To make an analogy: One might explore a great mansion with fascinated interest because one feels like a guest and a stranger and wants to discover its architecture and its plan and its owner. Or one might investigate it with devout interest precisely because one is a child of the house and knows the father who has built it and owns it. So faith too can lead to philosophical love. Well, I have said a lot about the "philo-," the lovepart of philosophy. But of course, that love is a love of something-as the word tells us, of wisdom. So now I come to this wisdom. That, too, is a word of many meanings . Let me give you an example. I have a student back at my college who comes from Ghana, from a little village 140 miles distant from the capital, Accra. The jungle comes close up to the house of my student's father and a river runs by the village. Sebastian-that is his name-had often mentioned the old men of the village in class. Once, when we were at dinner together I asked him if these old men were wise. He said, "O yes, they were wise.'' I asked him what they were wise about. He said that they knew when to plant the sweet potatoes (or something to the same effect). Now the analogue to knowing when to put the potatoes in the ground in a village is something like planting the commas in a student essay in college: I know rum to do that, but no one w calls me wise for it-one would-say I was literate or competent. But of course, that farming know-how is not really what makes Sebastian call thes'e elders wise. He venerates them because they know how to keep the village going in the old ways. If know-how is not wisdom, is it then knowledge of the tradition? No, the wisdom I mean is not knowledge of the old ways and what I might call "the truths of the tribe" either. Those who know the traditions, the myths, the rituals, the conventions ~ and know them not as myths, rituals and conventions but as living truths, sacred rites and life-preserving rituals, certainly know something that is more than worthwhile. They know something invaluable. So I want to take time out here to say a word about the relation of philosophy to tradition. Since the origin of this peculiar enterprise about 500 years before the birth of Christ, there has been a great tension between the philosophers and the bearers of the tradition, as between those who have insight and those who simply carry on in the unthinking ways of their forebearers. Derogatory remarks about ordinary thinking occur in all the founders of philosophy, but it was Socrates who found the aggressively intelligent formulation. He distinguishes three states: knowledge (the wisdom that I am on the way to delineating), a middle thing he calls opinion, and simple ignorance. What he admires most, as a generally achievable condition, is ignorance, or better the knowledge and admission of one's own ignorance: 34 Accordingly, when the divine oracle called him the wisest of the Greeks, he interpreted the god to be expressing his approval of his own favorite saying: ''I know that I know nothing.'' You are probably familiar with the fact that he made it his life's business to be a gadfly to his Athenian fellow citizens, goading and stinging them into-usually unwilling-the admission that they didn't know what they were talking about when it came to the matters they supposedly cared most about, like the difference between good and bad and how to bring up their children. As you know, he was accused of corrupting these same children and of denying the city's gods, and he was executed. That was in 399 B.C. Now if Socrates thought that having opinions was the worst of conditions to be in, worse certainly than having the knowledge, but worse also than beingconsciously-ignorant, this opinion-having must be a very interesting state. What did he mean by it? I think he did indeed mean a state which we spend most of our time in, and which is, when you come to think of it, a fascinating possibility. He means thoughtless thought. Being human seems to mean, among other things, being able to say with a certain conviction what we don't in the least understand. Whenever almost everyone says the same thing-which is called public opinion-that is usually what is taking place: Everyone says it, but hardly anyone is thinking anything much. Let me give you what seems to be the best concrete example of current "opinion": All of us, myself of course included, talk, at the drop of a hat, about our "rights." I have a right to be heard, you have a right to a decently prepared talk, we have a right to safe this or adequate that. We certainly fervently believe it, but who among us can say what we mean except that we feel strongly about it? A person who has thought out this question of rights, who can tell you what are the conditions for having rights and the limits on them is, you will admit, very rare. That is the sort of state that stung Socrates and made him sting his fellow citizens in turn. It seems to me, however, that there are two sorts of states of opinion when we say words without really having thought out what is behind them. You might call them plain and fancy . The fancy sort stems from the intellectuals in the universities or the scientists and technicians. Our current language is full of such borrowed wisdom. For example, who among us hesitates to say that ''society is responsible for this or that'' or ''we are programmed to do this or that?" But this is not natural human talk-it is what we have picked up from our experts of the day . The plan sort comes from an older source, the folk wisdom and common traditions we have learned, such as: "That's just plain the decent thing to do," or "I don't know what drove me to do that," or above all, "No matter who says what, I know right from wrong because my parents brought me up that way.'' Now here is my point: From the beginning philosophers have not made as careful a distinction be- tween the plain and the fancy kind of mere opinion, between the community's traditions and sectarian sophistry, as they might have . When those traditions held strong and were almost unassailable, this aggressive desire to cast a cold eye on the truths of the tribe was understandable and, in fact, admirable because it was valiant - it could cost something. But in our day, it seems to me, things have changed. The critique philosphy practices on society, the enlightenment it has brought to personal opinion, has been so overwhelming a success that it is high time for philosophy to become more inclusive and to begin to preserve and protect what it has hitherto attacked and denigrated . I am saying that traditional wisdom and the wisdom loved in philosphy are still two different things, but philosophy should find ways to encompass and give foundation to the truths of the tribe rather than to withhold its sympathies. I need hardly tell you that very few among those who ply philosophy as a profession would agree with me. Having now told you two things that are not the wisdom I'm after, namely technique or tradition, you might be expecting me to get to the point with a positive answer. But I have two more w isdoms that are not the wisdom of philosophy and that it is particularly important to say something about since we are on the grounds of a university: The wisdom of philosophy is certainly not scholarship . To study carefully and intelligently the books of one or many philosphers is not to do philosophy. Especially studying the history of ideas is not philosphy, even though such course titles are listed under philosophy. It turns out to be very helpful to thinking-though it is not absolutely essential-to have studied such subjects but one should not confuse the study of philosophy with philosophy itself, for two reasons. First, just as the study of the history of painting is not the same as to look at a painting, or to study comparative literature is not the same as to experience a novel, so to run through a string of different philosophers is not the best way to do justice to the thinking of any one of them. But my second reason is much more fundamental. I am really saying that the work of study and the activity of thought are - believe it or not - mutually exclusive. You can't do one without the other, but you shouldn't confuse them either. It is possible to study very hard and think very little . For example, there are great Plato scholars who have no interest in wisdom at all. The other wisdom that is distinguishable from philosophy is science. The tendency nowadays, and as far as I can tell it is a healthy one, is not to make such a deep division betw een science and other human activities. But there are still some pretty strong marks separating science from philosophy. Let me say in the fewest possible words what seems to me to be the most charac- teristic activity of a scientist: A scientist tries to find and to perfect rational models, usually expressible in mathematics, which will predict certain types of phenomena. The model itself, whether it is a set of laws or a geometric construct, is not usually thought of as being real-it is an intellectual construct . And that, it seems to me, is exactly where philosophic wisdom differs: What the philosophers are after is more than a brilliant explanatory device: They want the inner truth of things. No sooner have I said that then I have to modify my statement: It is what philosphers used to want. I have to tell you what you probably already know : Nowadays there is no agreement about what philosophers ought to want, and, as I have already pointed out, there is a vigorous and event brilliant movement by professional philosophers-a phrase that is, incidently, a contradiction in terms-to put an end to philosophy. I do not think this movement will succeed because one of the various kinds of positive philosphical love always springs up again. So what then are these lovers of wisdom after? As you might have guessed, the answer it as simple as it is vague . They are after some steadfast knowledge of whatever is beneath, behind, beyond the ordinary world, something that will give it coherence and significance. A first reaction to this way of putting it might be to think philosophy is after "abstractions," generalities. But that does not do the longing justice, since it is for something more potent and more steady than the things we see before us, something richer, not poorer than the world that appears. Of course, I could become more specific and give the names and descriptions of all the objects of wisdom that philosophers have pursued, such as Forms, Ideas, Things-in-themselves, but then I would be myself plying the sort of philosophical survey in which I was expressing my lack of faith above. But there is an even better reason why it is not altogether wrong to mention such philosophical aims even without quite specifying and understanding their actual objects. Recall the meaning of the word ph ilosoph y with which I started. Philosophy means the love of wisdom. Ever since the invention of the word in the sixth century B.C., people have periodically pointed out that philosophy is the love, not the possession, of wisdom. A philosopher is therefore one who longs for wisdom, not one who is wise, one who searches for knowledge and thereby admits not having it. Accordingly when talking philosophically, it is quite appropriate to talk about things one has a glimpse of a hope for, but maybe not any firm grasp on. And that is certainly what I have been doing tonight. 35 �Gubbio' s Festa dei Ceri William Ney (GI '82) The Italian peninsula's only landlocked region produces a world-class wine in Orvieto, voices and chocolates of reknown in Perugia, attracts Beautiful People everywhere with its arts festival in Spoleto, and cherishes one of the great churches in Christendom- and one of the most important and stunning collections of early Renaissance art- in Assisi. Despite these glories, however, foreign visitors often recall Umbria, 'Italy's Green Heart ' by the guidebooks, as the place they were most glad to both see and leave behind. No town in Umbria suffers more this reaction than ancient Gubbio . Founded by the Umbrian people, who came to Italy centuries before the Etruscans, Gubbio was thriving when Rome was a hamlet, and in 1151 defeated an alliance of eleven cities to re-affirm itself as a power in the north. The quarters that comprise the city proper have weathered the subsequent 800 years with little change . Today the great number of its people, the eugubini, live in medieval museum pieces built of a distinctive pale granite. Perhaps no other city in Italy, including Siena, has preserved so much of its medieval self, and this beauty is what attracts Gubbio' s modest share of the tourist trade. Yet Gubbio is small enough to see in a day, and the tensile, resonant pottery for which it is also wellknown is no reason to stay overnight. Moreover, when the skies and hills turn grey, as they often do throughout 'Mysterious Umbria, ' the limpid granite can suddenly remind one of a pauper's tombstone, and the city seem an enormous mausoleum. Memories of the brighter hills of Tuscany and the vitality of the Renaissance are apt to send the typical tourist packing, suddenly less than charmed with the Middle Ages. There is, however, a better reason to vist Gubbio than to climb among its medieval structures. Each May, the eugubini honor their patron saints, Ubald, George, and Anthony, by observing perhaps the most vital and astonishing series of rituals in Italy- and again, Siena has not been forgotten . The Feast of the Candles attracts Italians from all over the north, and fills several pages the next day of Milan's Corriere Della Sere, Italy's international newspaper. In recent years the television cameras have observed. Only in Jessup, Pennsylvania, U. S.A., does anything like Gubbio' s Festa dei Ceri take place, and, as l one eugubino put it, "In Jessup it is sport. Here it is heart." In Gubbio there is also a mountain . It first seem s odd that the town sits low on the shoulder of Monte Ingino, rather than on top . But two other mountains closely flank each side, Calvo to the north, Gerolamo to the south, and one appreciates that the town's defensive posture in wartime was more than adequate. And perhaps Providence played a part in the Umbrian designs, for in the Christian era Ingino's summit was capped with a basilica dedicated to Ubaldo, a beloved Bishop and civic leader. Today the saint himself rests inside the fortress chapel, in a glass coffin, and nearby, leaning against the wall, are the three ceri that become so important in May. Cera means wax, and cero candle. The ceri (pronounced 'cherry', rolling the 'r') of Gubbio, however, are ornate, octagonal wooden pillars, very heavy and fifteen feet tall when topped with a statue of one of the three saints. Such a candle is not burnt, but rather borne, by gaily bedight men dashing madly through the streets and up Mt. Ingino to Ubaldo's fortress . A casual hiker takes perhaps twenty-five minutes to climb from the high city gate to the summit. It takes the bearers of the ceri, the ceraioli, eight minutes to make the same trip, burden upon their shoulders. This frenetic run, La Corsa dei Ceri, on the fifteenth of May, is the climax of the festa, and the event that captures the imagination of Italians throughout the penninsula. Every m an, woman, an d child of Gubbio is a member of one of the three saintly families . Ubaldo was of old the patron of the stonemasons, Giorgio of the merchants of town, and Antonio of the countrymen, the contadini, and students . All participants in the madness of the fifteenth- ceraioli, musicians, flower children, and enthusiastic spectators- will wear white pants and red kerchiefs, and distinguish themselves with their shirts; the Santubaldari don yellow, the Sangiorgiari blue, and Santantoniari black. The first movement of the festa begins late in the morning on the first Sunday of May, la Prima Domenica di Maggio, and in contrast to the corsa is a gracious affair. To the cheers of gathered townsfolk, the ceri emerge from Ubaldo' s basilica and are carried down the mountain in a leisurely procession. Marching bands lead each family in civil and sacred songs, while upstarts among the crowd 37 �initiate the profane . There is laughter, and perhaps some wine. On this day the ceri are carried horizontally, and the youngest children, in their uniforms, ride twenty at a time astraddle the pillars with bright black eyes, holding long, droopy lilies in their hands-surely ?ne of t~e warmest sights in Italy, and a lovely way to begin explaining the complex meaning of the common adjective "simpatico." La Prima Domenica e simpatica. . During the next week or two, preparation~ £.or th~ holiday pre-occupy and agitate the placid eugubim. ui:1forms are bought, refitted, and repaired. The three family taverns, large complexes of rooms and courtyards open only on feast days, are stocked with f~od and :-"i:1e. The great bell in the tower of the Consuls Palace is mspected and exercised. Meanwhile, high above even the ever placid Ubaldo, the bald crown of Monte Calvo goes from grey to green, telling one that grass grows where trees cannot. At dawn on the Fifteenth, three bands of drummers pass through the streets beating an ominous ta~o?, and the eugubini awake. When the armies of cerai?ll have mustered two-hundred and fifty or so per family, they are prese~ted by the sleepy young girls of town with small bouquets of local wildflowers, white hawthorn and violet, reenacting, it seems, the old send-off to war. Origene Rogari, a native, has written a small book.on the ceri, and records the lyric of a song traditional to this early morning exchange. First the men sing: "When Signorina marries, I'll give to her in turn a basket of lilies and roses ." "Surely," the girls sing in reply. "But with the permission of the husband." "Tomorrow I'll press this little bouquet between the pages of a book, which I'll leaf through until the day I die, and think o~ her." . ,, "If it hasn' t first been burnt by the iealous wife. "If it withers too badly I'll give it to the mother-in-law." By mid-morning a procession of the saints is winding its way through town, led on horsebac~ by t~e gra~d old Capitano of the Company of Horse, all m white, with a red sash, and brandishing with gusto an antique sword. The statues of the saints, wh ich will soon be affixed atop the ceri, are carried by a select band of ceraioli, chief among whom are the three Captains of the Ten, the men chosen that year to lead their families in the corsa. Each Capo Die~i carries a large amphora, broccha, specially made for th~s day, and decorated with the signs and colors of his patron. It should be noted that in this, as in all the processions of the festa, the retinue of Ubaldo is always first, then that of Giorgio, then Antonio. Even in the fury of the corsa this order is never violated, for unlike the competions of Siena's Palio, Gubbio's 'run' is n~t a race. A member of the Sangiorgiari would be scandalized by the suggestion that his patron's cero should overtak~ Ubaldo's: Ubaldo must be first, Antonio always last. Vi- sitors often discover this during the course of the day, and Americans especially may consider it conclusive evidence of madness among the eugubini: are the fury and pain entirely without point? But the native reply, remember, is that the corsa is a matter of heart, not sport. In 1977, the fathers of the three families declared If on a sad day this name [Family) co.mes to signify a fu~­ row of pride and fraternal division, the Cen will have lost what s truest and most precious about them . Unlike American-schoolboy football, the corsa is not thought of as training for life in the business world. It is not a dramatic, dynamic image of ''Work Hard and Get Ahead." The business of Gubbio, one realizes, may not be business. One stumbles upon cities here and there throughout Europe that seem essentially static and in balance without seeming poor, and one appreciates the communal experience and discipline that lie behind such appearances. In post-war times, new industry has come to Umbria, and Perugia is as hectic at rush hour as prosperous Padua and Milan. But in Gubbio, which is neither backward, poor, nor rich, the idea of progress seems to have never quite caught on. The eugubini know well the resources of their city and of the large, out-lying commune, and they live, accordingly, an Italian life in which food and conversation are as important as anything, a life the meaning of which seems apparent and the basis . of no good question. Yet ''The Madmen of Gubbio'' is an appellation familiar throughout Umbria, and one of the first things a visitor will be told by these garrulous people is that they, the eugubini, are indeed mad. Rogari writes : Joyous and vital spirit, natural intelligene without hubris, we are also lovers, thanks to our cheerful, cordial character. The Madmen of Gubbio? This doesn't offend us at all, for as a people of spirit and such innocent insanity, we bid go.o d luck one and all to humanity's sages . This madness has its own 'diploma,' far more desirable and in demand than the usual decorations and laurels Ad Honorem. A visitor can earn the eugubino Certificate of Madness by accompanying a native to The Madmen's Fountain, in Bargello Square, and partaking there in a time-honored ritual. The eugubini are generally simpatici, friendly, gracious, honorable, and loveable, both among themselves and with visitors. There are no homeless on the perfectly clean streets, few doors are ever locked, and- ano:~er anomaly among Italian towns in general- e:en pohh~s fail to disturb the peace . A young commum st puts his arm around an older man, and with a wry smile informs a visitor that the latter is a fascist. "It's not what you think,'' the older man assures one with an embarassed laugh. A social democrat jumps in to plant a kiss on the fascisti cheek, and the three return to the business at hand, to wit, teaching the visitor both the proper and vulgar phrases with which to approach the young women- the latter of which, of course, are never to be used. Animosity smoulders, when it exists, and is deeply personal. Late in the war, Italian partisans killed two soldiers in the occupying German army, and forty eugubini men were shot in reprisal. The partisans became in peacetime the Communist Party, and today, the aging widow of one of the Forty Martyrs bitterly insists she is a fascist, having never forgiven her countrymen their senseless provocation, and deeming meaningless her public alignment with the exexecutioners of her husband. There is little in Gubbio to disturb such dispositions or habits of thought, and little occasion for fresh controversy. It is proud and aware of, and promotes, its insularity, and is thereby able to maintain the balance and beauty of its life. It is then quite understandable that a profound anxiety often infects those eugubini who go away, perhaps to school, and see life in Milan, or Rome, or Paris, or America. They see wild growth, and seeming potential without limit. Tension develops between the nurtured deep love and need of the eugubini equilibrium, and the newly stimulated, perhaps innately human, urge to get ahead. Perhaps then the gloominess that tourists often experience in Gubbio is due not only to the somber granite and skies, but also to having apprehended this sublime anxiety in the eugubini, and to having experienced it themselves, having experienced the contrast of a beautiful and balanced life with their own. A suggestion of an answer, then, to the question of the baffled tourist: the point of la corsa dei ceri, this race no race, may be to embrace the given hierarchy and one's place therein, be you Sant' Ubaldo, San Giorgio, or Sant' Antonio, to celebrate with conscious pride the given way of life, and to express as a community common values and the will that they endure, that the beautiful life recur over and over again . The corsa is symbolically pointless, and symbolic of something eternal. The notion of progress- of getting beyond, to something or somewhere new- has no place. The mid-morning procession concludes by eleven, when the statues dei santi are taken up a sweeping stairway into one of Umbria' s m ost remarkable monuments, the Consuls' Palace, Il Palazzo dei Consuli, built in the 1300s by Matteo Gattapone, eugubino and architect. Inside, the ceri have been waiting since the First Sunday. Never yet since their reappearance on that day have the ceri been upright . The moment of their raising, the Alzata, perhaps the most exultant and mad of the entire feast, and is preceded in the great Piazza della Signoria, next to the palace, by an interminable series of introductions, handshakes, and declarations-Mayor to Capitano, Capitano to Bishop, Bishop to Father of the Sanubaldari, etc.-all such dignitaries dressed in their idiosyncratic, High Feast garb. Directly overhead, in the palace tower, young men dare to stand upon the great bell and in that way set it in motion. The tolling is a dull shudder. Lighter bells are ringing everywhere in churches around town, while on the piazza each movement of the pageant is ac- companied by screaming, drums, and clear blasts from the walls of the palace portico where men in red smocks and white leotards press to their lips long and elegant silver trumpets . With relish, the crowd approaches its frenzy, overflowing from the plaza down tributary streets. On other days a fine view into the plain of Gubbio' s private vale can be had, looking out over the long western wall of the plaza, but not today. Every window, every roof, the palazzo battlements-all seats are taken. The vantage points are well known, not having changed in over five hundred years. Near the piazza wall, in comparative order, stand perhaps half of each ceraioli army. Each holds in readiness a barella, the base and handles to which the cero will be fixed. Barella means stretcher, but instead of a cot between the twelve-foot rails, those of Gubbio have a wooden crosspiece, with a hole in its center to receive the cero stem. The parade of dignitaries is complete when the Capi Dieci have emerged from the palace, one at a time and in the proper order, and join the crowd, still carrying the large amphorae. The three statues follow, and now the eugubini are one, in an incessant scream, i santi, i santi, Sant' Ubaldo, San Giorgio, Sant'Antonio. The fey Capitano is again on horseback, hewing antique Romans right and left, the joy of battle upon him. Built upon four immense arches, revolutionary in their time, the elevated piazza shudders not a whit beneath all this, but the roar and crush of the crowd will throw the unprepared visitor off his feet as the great doors of the palace are thrown fully open and the cero of Ubaldo comes flowing down the stairway on a tide of yellow shirts. Those who bear it are grim-faced and blind to anyone in their way. The Master of Ceremonies screams for dear life into his microphone, il Cera di San Giorgio, il Cera di San Giorgio, and a river of blue gushes forth from the palace. The Ubaldo Capo is hoisted seven feet in the air, to stand on the crosspiece of the barella, which is held upright, perpendicular to the plaza floor. The cero is brought in from behind for coupling . It fits imperfectly into the barella's steel collar, and so the Capo throws himself back and forth at the hips, wriggling the stretcher to aid the union. When the thing is done, he is handed up the broccha and pours a libation upon the new joint, both to bless it and to tighten it, for the water causes the wooden stem to swell. When the Antonio crew completes the same rite, the Alzata has come. The Capi Dieci remain on their perches, holding the empty pitchers in one hand and steadying themselves with the other. A signal is given and several things happen at once. Everyone screams. Each Capo tosses his amphora high into the air, into the crowd near the center of the plaza. Sometimes the pitchers are half caught, sometimes someone gets one on the head and is taken to the hospital when things quiet down, but always in the end they smash to the brick and 39 38 �shatter into a million pieces. Despite the imminent danger, people dive to their knees for the souvenir shrapnel. The top half of each cero is given a great heave skyward-"L'Alzata!"-and the saints are suddenly twenty feet in the air. As the barelle snap to the horizontal, the three Captains are thrown forward into the crowd, and th~se with faith and elan are able to give themselves up, to plummet earthward in graceful swan dives. Loyal ceraioli catch them, as others assume the characteristic position along the stretcher rails, and perhaps three seconds after the signal to begin i ceri di Gubbio are off and running. At full, shocking speed they circle the flagpole, like Hollywood Indians around a ring of hapless pioneers. The spectators caught in the middle are indeed at risk, for the tight knot moves in deference to the will of the whirling ceri, and underfoot are those scrambling for pottery chips of the proper color. Trip and fall and the crowd may slip away, like a wave from a beach, leaving one face to face with the raging ceraioli. After three turns, the disturbance pours out of the piazza, and the ceri separate for relaxed and unprescribed parades through town, during which any man, woman, or child may take hold of a rail and bear a cero. By two o'clock, the three have been reunited near the Stonemason's Church on Via Savelli della Porta, and are abandoned there, left standing upright on ornate wooden pedestals. It's time for lunch . The second meal of the day in Italy is the big meal. Businesses and banks are generally closed by one, to reopen at four, and those in small towns sometimes fail to reopen-something to keep in mind when planning menus and shopping. Most eugubini repair to their homes for lunch on the Fifteenth, but the ceraioli and city officials are feasted in the Consuls' Palace. The former, at least, with their strenuous trial only hours away, would seem to have good reason to eat lightly, and Rogari writes that the meal is by tradition one of fish, in solemn observance of the vigil of Ubaldo' s death. Having taken such notice, however, one peruses the menu of the 1987 Banchetto dei Ceri, and finds roasted crayfish, broiled mussels au gratin, and a sweet and sour "Seafood Caprice" for starters, a house rice dish (Risotto del Palazzo) and scampi, salmon steaks with artichokes and butter, broiled sole, french fries, a salad with anchovies, and Fantasia al Marachino and a liquored-up marscapone for dessert. To wash all this down, the soldiers proceed with Peroni Beer, eugubino white wine, Cinzano Asti Spumante, and a liquer made in Gubbio named "Monte Ingino," of which the people are very proud. Of such a feast, Rogari writes One might say that it is a symbol of generous eugubina hospitality . But not only a symbol. It is also a reality, all the more happy and appetizing that it is not down there, in the cellar of the great hall, where gloomy sarcophagi bring to mind that eternal maxim "Momenta mori." Crowds outside stand and stare at the ceri. Rogari quotes a head-scratching visitor ignorant of what he has stumbled upon this day in Gubbio: "The things of mad40 men, obviously, but what do they do with them?" The eugubine women seem authentically taken with the ceri, and actually served as ceraioli during the leanest years of the Second World War, walking instead of running. Today they play in the marching bands, and drink, eat and dance at night. A visitor ask,s them "Do you wish you could be a bearer?" and is answered "Are you mad?" Rogari suggests that their feelings towards the corsa range from pride and awe to disdain, dismay, and fear, and that a prayer that begins "Sant' Ubaldo, let the ceri run well ... " is their prayer for the safety of their husbands. Indulging in domestic comedy, perhaps, he also offers this as characteristic of the advice of a wife to her ceraiolo spouse: Behave honorably but be prudent! Don' t be a fanatic and above all don ' t drink too much . Put off your drunk until tomorrow and I'll give you a 'push' of our own, without a cero. Young children are allowed to climb upon the pedestals and barelle, while men no longer able to serve mill about, complaining of old age, rheumatism, and numb shoulders. By four-thirty, the banquet has ended and the ceraioli are parading to Via Savelii. Another procession issues from the town's odd cathedral, featuring another statue of Ubaldo, the vestments of which people reach up to touch, murmurring prayer. The living Bishop carries the true relics of the patron, with which he'll bless the ceri i ceraioli. The first leg of the corsa is all downhill, and runs along Gubbio' s Main Street, the Corso Garibaldi, newly renamed for the hero of the 1860 unification. A huge statue of Ubaldo enthroned crowns the top of the Corso, reminding one of Abe Lincoln in his Washington monument. The colorful children scramble upon its shoulders and lap for the best seats in town. Other wily ragazzi may try to sell a likely-looking visitor a window or foot and handholds in the walls along the way. The houses throughout town stand shoulder to shoulder, without alleys, and many butt without curbs right upon the street, leaving narrow channels of stone which are filled now with the happy impatience that Americans awaiting fireworks on the Fourth of July exude. Cheers from the higher part of town provoke more of the same here, but the older eugubini merely wag their heads; false rumor is the rule. Then a scream rises and refuses to die, and all eyes are glued upon the festooned Ubaldo. And there they are! Rounding Via Dante onto Garibaldi! They take the corner on two wheels, so to speak, listing like a freighter in a storm, and the fear of a fall-"Un caduto!"-grips the crowd. Some can' t bear to watch, others only scream louder, and one sees that the street is so packed here below that the ceri will tumble; but a lane clears just in time, a small envelope just long and wide enough to allow passage. Close up, the strain upon the bearers is memora- bly clear. The shock falls upon the collarbones and neck, despite an attempt to absorb it with the hands . Some grimace so fiercely as to completely disfigure their red faces, while others have gone completely slack and white, so stricken it seems that they're about to faint-and indeed, some do collapse when relieved of duty. One cannot get enough of the sight, it passes too quickly. Try perhaps to follow along behind, but the crowd intervenes, and then the ceri are already distant. The saints snap sharply back and forth as if too impatient for words; a comical sight, especially for Ubaldo with his flowing golden dress and staff-"I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date ... " Giorgio rides a horse, a blue and silver cape flapping in the breeze, while Antonio shakes and rattles along in the black habit of a monk. While ten is the official number of men per ceri, there are usually more involved at any given moment, due both to ad hoc participation-perhaps by those who had decided this year to give up the struggle but who find themselves unable to do so, for passion or shame, as the cero passes-and to the fact that the crews of ceraioli change, in stride, every hundred yards or so, depending on the terrain; it simply isn't possible to go further at such speed. This fluid shiftwork the bearers must engage in is a wonder to behold, and explains why the armies are so large, as well as how it might be possible to run a thousand pounds of awkward wood up a mountain in eight minutes. Within the city there are three legs to the corsa, each followed by a brief rest that allows the crews-and spectators-to re-position themselves along the route. Including the ascent up Ingino, then, each ceraiolo partakes in four nasty, brutish, and short dashes. If there were more eugubini, perhaps there would be fewer rest stops, but then, too, the three falls of Christ, on his passage through Jerusalem to the Mountain of Skulls, are nicely figured the way things are. II Caduto-should it come-is the event that will receive the most attention in talk that evening and in the weeks to follow. The possibility of such a collapse introduces into the corsa its only taste of competitive sport. In 1987, forty yards down the Corso Garibaldi-beneath the very eyes of the great stone Ubaldo-un caduto ripe for controversy occurred. Having negotiated the difficult corner, the Giorgio crew seemed in control when its right side stumbled and gave way, quickly dragging the left to its knees and chests as well. Yet they managed to hold onto the barella, and the cero did not fall. The blameless Santantoniari were not so lucky . Unable to come to a controlled stop before the obstacle suddenly in their path, they fell off to the left and down came the cero, slashing like an oak, crashing into a house and decapitating St. Anthony. Men and women cried as if witnessing the execution of their sons. The Sanubaldari, however, leapt in triumph like boxers, pounding the air with their fists. In sober moments commiseration will replace such shameless pride, but in the heat of the corsa one sees eugubino blood flowing. By grace, Antonio's head was preserved, dangling from its collar, and during the first stop, at the base of Via Cairoli, was returned to its place. The disturbance has now reached the level of the plain. The second leg runs along even ground, into the Plaza of the Forty Martyrs (where all buses to Gubbio drop their passengers), through the public gardens, and into San Martino, by repute the maddest of the quarters. Here, in truth, begins the ascent up Ingino, within the city, up Via dei Consoli. The second rest is taken just below the great piazza that at noon had witnessed the alzata, and when the run resumes, the whirling about the flagpole, le birate, is repeated. The ceraioli are exhausted, and the road will only steepen, up Via Arpennino and along the city wall to the high gate. Up above, the mountain swarms with eugubini. Climbing the road, one sees a smooth granite plaque laid into the rough stone of the mountainside. A terza from Dante is here inscribed, from the Paradiso, in which Thomas Aquinas begins to tell of the blessed marriage of St. Francis and Poverty. Intra Tupino e l'acqua che discende Del colle eletto dal beato Ubaldo Fertile costs d'alto monte pende Between Tupino and the water that falls From the chosen hill of blessed Ubaldo There hangs from a high peak a fertile slope The expression is left unfinished, for the next lines name Perugia, often a bitter enemy in milennia past. The 'high peak' referred to is Assisi's Subasio, and a visitor naturally takes the 'chosen hill' to be Monte Ingino, and 'l' acqua' to be the Camignano, a torrent that runs along its north face into Gubbio. But for Dante scholars, even the facts of geography become doubtful. Some say that in truth Aquinas speaks of the river Chiascio, which flows from a peak northeast of Gubbio that Ubaldo has chosen for the construction of a retreat; and, indeed, Mt. Subasio sits six kilometers from the confluence of the Tupino and Chiasco. Most eugubini scholars, however, insist that Dante meant the Camignano, and hence the plaque upon their mountain. It was customary during several medieval centuries for Italian cities to select an outsider as their executive, hoping such a man would rule fairly having no personal interest in local affairs . Gubbio provided Florence with over a dozen such Podeste, one of whom, Gabrielli, ordered Dante into permanent exile. The poet's life thereafter is murky water, but there is some basis for the claim that he passed thorugh Gubbio while looking for a place to live. Townspeople today still point to a window, on Via Dante, to identify the place where he slept, and Francesco Picotti, in a fragmented and undated history of the city, writes that Dante stayed "in the Guelfoni house and at the Colmollaro palazzo, and Bosone Raffaelli, in his palazzo, twice welcomed his friend Alighieri. From there he retired to A vellana ... "-where much of the Comedy was written. In the poem, Dante finds the eugu.bino painter 41 �Oderisi doing laps around Monte Purgatorio, bent double by a large stone upon his back-this the appropriate penance for having been too Proud of his art during life. He shouts out to Dante, who crouches to look him in the face. "Hey," I said to him, "aren't you Oderisi, The glory of Gubbio, the glory of that art Called 'illuminating' in Parisi?" The painter calls Dante 'brother' and talks his ear off, and at one point the poet feels censured-thankfully so-for his own pride . But contemporary critics find no support in their apparent acquaintance with it for the claim that Dante came to Gubbio, since Oderisi spent most of his active life at the university in Bologna and at Rome. And Mario Apollonio, a contemporary scholar at the university in Perugia- the old enemy- has this to say: It's more than curious that a name and a place like Gubbio should be connected in such a particular way with the fortunes of Dante. Was there nurtured perhaps in this portrait of the garrulous Oderisi a commentary on the commune [of Gubbio] itself, on a particular attitude of its people? Was there presaged perhaps a not-so-distant future? Did Dante here stir and deepen his personal resentment for one of the leaders of the Blacks in Florence, an architect of their coup, and his unfair judge, Cante Gabrielli? a resentment, even, for that insufferable style of language that he knew from the songs of Castra? As it happened, the eugubini repaid this complex attitude with an arbitrary documentation of the poet's sojourn in Gubbio, with puerile falsehoods, with a bona fide legend that is clearly a transparent legend ...pious and contradictory tampering ... The ancient feuds go on, history no less serious a pursuit today than soccer. There were two disastrous archive fires in Gubbio, during the Guelf/Ghibeline strife that by 1384 led to its surrendering its freedom to the Montefeltri of Urbino . For this reason, among others, the history of the ceri is no better documented than that of Dante, and no less flamboyantly and passionately pursued. In the year 800, a visitor from France, the first and newly-crowned Emperor of the West, Charlemagne, was so pleased with the eugubina hospitality that he presented the people with a great gift and true relic: the finger of John the Baptist. From then until the passing of Ubaldo, it seems, John was the city's protector. Rogari says that candle-lit processions in John's honor took place in Gubbio, featuring flowers, gonfalone, and offerings of wax, an expensive, cherished, and sometimes sacred commodity. He allows the assumption that soon after 1160 such festas were celebrated in Ubaldo' s name, but what he vehemently refuses is the suggestion that their candelabras, waxen gifts, and tall, wooden poles metamorphosed into the ceri of today. Professor Piero Luigi Menichetti, eugubino, has recently published a very thorough history of the festa. The oldest document he finds referring to sacred candle processionsin Gubbio is dated June 28, 1199. On that day the Consul of Cagli, Acursus Bonus, signed a paper subjecting his city to Gubbio that also required h,i m to come and carry a ceremonial candle, "unum Cereum bonum et oratum," each year during the festival of St. Ubaldo. Menichetti concludes his five-hundred page, silk-bound investigation with six concise statements, one of which reads "the 1982 edition of the Corsa dei Ceri will be the 823rd." Assuming yearly runs, this places the first in 1160. For ten days in 1160, the beloved and famous Bishop Ubaldo lay stricken on his deathbed, during which time the eugubini gathered and came bearing candles to his home, offering their love and prayers, and asking forgiveness for past offenses- opportunities for which had been plenty . Ubaldo died on May 16th, and for a year thereafter candle-lit processions went daily to his tomb. Canonization came quickly, in 1192. Gubbio was then leaning Guel£, to the Pope-betraying, in a manner of speaking, the current Holy Roman Emperor, Henry VI. Fearing the sacrilege of Henry' s soldiers, who regularly came pouring through the Apennines via the nearby Flaminian Way, the eugubini rebuilt as a fortress the ruined Oratory of St. Gervasio, atop Ingino, and secured there the remains of their saint. By 1194, then, things were in place for the running of a corsa as it runs today. But wax is not wood. Writers have long been suggesting that the first ceri were trophies of the famous 1151 war, in which eleven cities, led by Perugia, laid long seige to the town. (Ubaldo it was who inspired the eugubini to endure, and who came up with the nifty strategem that finally routed the enemy .) Abandoned in the plain outside the walls, the theory goes, were the sanctified, ox-drawn wooden tanks, carroccio, that were so often the focus and arbiters of medieval battles, and from which rose tall masts bearing standards and icons. Perhaps the first ceri came to Gubbio as the legendary horse to Troy. Rogari reports, however, that carroccii were not common until the 13th century . And Menichetti concludes: The Heroic Hypothesis is not sustainable, because it is deprived of documentation, because there is not much similarity between carroccii and ceri, and above all because the three ceri were for more than four centuries huge votive candles of wax' Rogari seems so mew hat at odds with his colleague townsman, although they stand shoulder-to-shoulder when it comes to .speculation without documentation: In this case-even though the argument leads back in the end to an origin both Christian and patronal, offerings of ceri in honor of S. Ubaldo-there is not a single document that details the transformation from wax to wood. History is based on documents. If not, it is Pre-history. Until the blessed day of judgement I will remain in the most legitimate and obstinate sense of the word a Positivist. One wonders, perhaps, what all the shooting is about. The arguments most eugubini would like to forestall are those that lead back in the end to origins B. C.. Gubbio became an avowedly Christian city some- time between 250 and 400 A .D., after perhaps more than fifteen centuries of Umbrian and then Roman pagan life. Several ancient authors, including Pliny, report that the Umbrians were the oldest inhabitants of the peninsula, while modern day scientists for the most part agree that they were invaders from the north, relatives of the Latins, the Sabines, and the Samnites, and were established in today's Umbria and Tuscany by the beginning of the Iron Age. Ikuvio was the name of Umbrian Gubbio. A legend claims that the city was one of the first five built in Italy after the great flood, and that Noah's grandson Gamero Gallo was the founder. The picotti who detailed Dante's bedspots in Gubbio writes that King Bobbio, 432 years after the fall of Troy, and 750 before the birth of Jesus, built magnificent catacombs beneath the city for his wife, whom by oracle had been doomed to death by lightning. About this time, the Etruscans were settling in, invading the homeland of the Ombrikoi if Herodotus is right, and then came the bloody Celts. By 300 B.C., the Latins, become Romans, were enforcing a sort of peace in central Italy. Then came the elephants ... Among the many legends and histories and scientific facts, there sit today in the civic museum, in the Palazzo dei Consuli, seven very reliable tablets of purified bronze, undeniable souvenirs of Gubbio's pagan life. Discovered in 1444, in an underground chamber beyond the city walls, the oldest are inscribed with the Latin-like Umbrian language, and date perhaps to 400 B. C.. They record the rites of the priestly Brotherhood of the Ateidi, the religious and perhaps political authority of Ikuvio. Ikuvio seems to have been the sacerdotal center of the Umbrian culture, of a very loosely bound confederation of cities that was entering its old age . By the time the youngest tablets were cut, around 70 B.C., most Umbrians were solid citizens of the tottering Roman Republic, and the assimilation of the (assimilated) Roman religion and their own was well-developed. Some of the ceremonies described on the Iguvine Tablets are strikingly similar to those known to have taken place under the auspices of the A vrales Brotherhood, in Rome . To detail the procedures for purifying the city and its people was the chief concern of the Tablets' authors, perhaps because the old ways were being lost. Jupiter Grabovi is the deity to whom prayers ''for the Fisian Hill, for the Iguvine State, for the name of this hilt for the name of this state," are to be addressed, in a solemn, repetitive litany similar to that of the Roman jurists whom Cicero wryly observed, and of today's more traditional Christian celebrants. Before the Lustratio Populi can begin, the head priest, the Flamen, must be sure no barbarians or hostile Umbrians stand within the walls . Three times he expels the aliens: Whoever is of the Tadinate state, of the Tadinate tribe, of the Etruscan, Naharcan, Japudiscan name, must go out from this people. If this people goes not forth, if anyone be caught, take him to that place which it is the law, and do to him that which is the law. A command is issued to those whom, in the face of such threats, remain: "Be drawn up in order, be arranged in companies, Iguvines!" The Flamen then leads a procession of subordinates and sacrificial victims three times around the ordered muster. Each time the deity Cerre Mars is called upon to plague the enemy : Alarm, make to tremble, destroy, abolish, wound, cripple, bind hand and foot, the Tadinate State, the Tadinate tribe, the Etruscan, the Naharcan, the Japudiscan name, the nobles girt, not girt, the young men armed with spears, those without spears, of the Tadinate State, of the Tadinate tribe, of the Etruscans ... Boars and sows, "red or black," are sacrificed at specified places around town, while at other times oxen, dogs, sheep, and the young of each serve as victims . Every movement is prescribed, as fastidiously as those of a Japanese Tea ceremony. Libations pour from ceremonial vessels, which are then smashed, and the pieces collected and offered up in prayer: "Cerre Martie, direct by every way harm to the Tadinate State, to the Tadinate tribe, to the Etruscan, Naharcan, Japudiscan name ... '' Tadinate State, incidentally, is today a thriving Umbrian town, Gualdo Tadino, for which one finds mong the eugubini an unreasonable disdain. The lustration of the people climaxes with the running of three heifer-calves through the streets and down to the Forum, which an American, Ireme Rosenzweig, Ph.D ., guesses is today the Plaza of Forty Martyrs . The townsfolk are called upon to catch the animals, which are then sacrificed by the Flamen to end the rite. There is, of course, much food here for an imagination probing the origins of the ceri. Are the mutated spiritual offspring of the family of Gods entitled Cerre running through the streets of Gubbio each Spring on the proud and pious shoulders of the eugubini? Rosenzweig concludes her presentation of the Tablet lustrations with a brief account of the Festa dei Ceri. At the bottom of it all we may be sure there is hidden avestige of the ancient Ikuvium and its life in the days before Christianity had made its appearance. It is to the lustratio arcis and populi, the most important ceremonies of this district in antiquity, that one would naturally look for the ultimate origin of the Festa of the Ceri, whatever may have been the steps through which it passed in the course of its development. Such conclusions, undocumented yet invested with the rhetorical power of the quasi-sciences of the 19th and 20th century, are what infuriate so many of the eugubini scholars and poeple on the street. And no one has infuriated more than Herbert Bower, an English visitor to Guggio in the 1890s . He participated as a ceriaolo in two corsas, and was a student of folk-lore, an anthropologist . Naturally, he wrote a book. Frazer's The Golden Bough was then new to the world, and served Bower and many 43 �others as a basis of speculation far more reaching than that which the Iguvine Tablets alone support. The private ceremonies of the Ateidi Brotherhood, after all, took place outside of town, in a secret Arvum, a sacred wood. Tree worship seems to have occurred in primitive societies everywhere on earth . Springtime processions, featuring a freshly cut tree and people dressed in leaves and flowers, brought to the town and the fields the spirit of vegetation, and its blessing. If a May-Pole endured through several seasons, replacing fresh trees, it was often topped with a fresh birch or the like-as the saints now top the ceri of Gubbio. In 204 B. C., the Roman Republic, weary of Hannibal, sent out to Asia minor for the goddess Cybele, Phrygian Mother of the Gods. Her 'body,' a black stone, was brought from Pessinus and placed in a temple on the Palantine Hill. The harvest that fall was better than any in recent memory, and Hannibal was gone within a year . Frazer records the spring festival of her son Attis, god of vegetation, celebrated that year in Rome: A pine-tree was cut in the woods and brought into the sanctuary of Cybele, where it was treated as a great divinity. The duty of carrying the sacred tree was entrusted to a guild of TreeBearers. The trunk was swathed like a corpse with woolen bands and decked with wreaths of violets, for violets were said to have sprung from the blood of Attis ... ; and the effigy of a young man, doubtless Attis himself, was tied to the middle of the stem. On the second day, ...the chief ceremony seems to have been a blowing of trumpets. The third day ... was known as the Day of Blood: the high priest drew blood from his arms and presented it as an offering. Nor was he alone ... Such Tree Spirits tend to anthropomorphize, first in name and then in transformation of body, but no one has dared to formulate the laws governing the process, and as Bower points out, willful men can twist and arrest it. The destruction of tree festivals was still a great concern of Christian rulers in 700 A.D., and Sacred Groves were known in Saxony in the year 1000. But destruction, pure and simple, was not the method of choice for overcoming the pagan customs. Pope Gregory, the Great, in a letter well-known to all practitioners of this sort of speculative science, recommends that whenever possible the existing rites be peacefully adapted to the service of the Gospels. Tell (our brother Bishop Augustinus) how long I have been anxious and thoughtful concerning the Angli, considering indeed that very little destruction of idols' temples should be made among that people. But let the idols themselves that are in them be destroyed, water blessed and sprinkled in these temples, altars constructed, and relics deposited . For, if the same temples be well built, it is needful that they be changed from the worship of demons to the allegiance of the true God; so that, when the people do not see their temples destroyed , they may cast out error from their heart, and knowing and adoring the true God, they may gather together the more readily at the accustomed places. And since it is the habit to kill many oxen in sacrifice to demons, therefore as to these also some attention of observance ought to be made; so that the people may for themselves make booths from branches of trees about these churches which are changed from the temples, and may observe a solemnity with the religious feasts on the day of dedication or birth of the holy martyrs whose relics are there deposited, and may not now offer the animals as sacrifice to the Devil, but may slay the animals to the praise of God in their own eating, and from their own fullness render thanks to the Giver of all things; so that, whilst in external matters some joys are preserved to them, they may more easily come into accord with the joys that are within. For it is no doubt impossible to separate at once all things from rude minds, because he who strives to reach the highest point is raised by steps or paces, not by leaps. No wonder so many scientists feel free to speculate without documentation, and are able to present likely stories of the pagan origins of a Christian festa. Bower, for his part, freely admits that it would be "presumptuous and foolish" to claim that the swirl of anthropology, philology, history, and archaeology can support a positive conclusion: "the foregoing conclusions are submitted to the reader certainly in no spirit of assertion ." But the eugubini, generally, don ' t read him that way. Having reviewed the Latin and Italian sources, Menichetti turns to the barbarians: And who of all people, and more so than any other, has sustained the thesis of a pagan origin of the corsa but an Englishman, Herbert Bower ... Another modern-day Italian, P. Benveduti, referring first to the Darwinian revolution and applauding Frazer in particular, is similarly displeased: In the wake of this great, time-proven work [The Golden Bough] we have Bower, a modest scholar, outlining his thoroughly offensive work on the Ceri on Gubbio, h av ing undertaken the preparation of a dilletante . Bower definds himself with Prof. Allessandro Reggiani, eugubino, who thought that the ceri were originally pedestals that supported holy bodies in the pagan temples. He also claimed that standard-bearing antennae, like the masts of the carroccio, were carried by the three most war-like companies of eugubini in the time before Ubaldo, and were surmounted by figures of Giorgio, Antonio, and Francesco. But Benveduti's reply is a grumble about .. .arbitrary and gratuitous hypotheses in circulation en masse, enough to fill two columns in the dailies or an hour's lecture, and Menichetti' s final-and shaky-word is this: Such [pagan] hypotheses cannot be sustained, for diverse reasons . Because to re-connect this popular manifestation to others most ancient presupposes historical continuity. But I am able to confirm that the Ceri were in existence, in the second half of the 1500s, as great candles of votive wax, and that the manifestation was exclusively and exqusitely religious. But doesn't the possibility of a pagan tree spirit turned medieveal antenna turned great votive candle revive the discussion? Let me add that to date no one has proposed a parallel between the twelve Capomanicheans and the twelve Apostles! It becomes clear that the debate about the history of the ceri will have no end so long as the ceraioli remain ready, willing, and able to run their burden up the mountain . For it not a debate about history, if "history" refers to that which is long past and no longer part of life. Rogari points again to the great gap in the historical record, and then explains himself: I cannot accept that a silence which not a single document interrupts can be very eloquent regarding a pagan derivation of the Ceri. And it is a silence that embraces-in the least-ten centuries! If one fine day an archive somewhere furnishes a small faded document or two that allude to a silvan festival celebrated in eugubino territory, just once through these many mute centuries, then-as an eugubino and as a priest- I will not protest in commotion and pride, because I see in the Ceri of my city the continuity of history from its beginning, while at the same time I'm immersed in the mysterious fascination of an antiquity most remote; I am able to see in the Ceri a symbol of the supercession of ancient paganism in the new light of the Gospel. Gubbio was reduced to rubble three times in its recorded history-by the Ostrogoth Totilla, by the Lombards, and by berserk Hungarians in 917; the curses of the Iguvine Tablets attest to the state of worldly affairs in Pre-Roman times. One need look no further than to Rome and Pope Boniface, to Florence and Savronola, to ridicule the principles of Christianity, and no further than Machiavelli to declare them dead in practical affairs, yet there were men and women who by the examples of their lives gave life to those principles in medieval Italy, thereby offering their people something to work for-the hope of a life less nasty, less brutish, and less short. Today, an intelligent Neapolitan desk clerk asks an American about Reagan, and declares himself a fan, "Forza !' The guest demurs, and they each laugh. "But what leader can be perfect," the clerk shrugs. Then he brightens-" Ah, St. Francis." The festa today is a celebration of the given, beautiful, and balanced life, and of the man whom the eugubini continue to thank for his service after 800 years. Ubaldo calmed civil strife, turned back the great siege, and went out upon the plain to talk a seething Frederick Barbarossa into giving up his rage, saving the city from a fourth destruction. All the while he was famous throughout Italy as a Christian holy man. He quietly refused the Bishopric of Perugia. There was apparently nothing wrong, by the principles of the Iguvinate State, the Tadinate State, the Tadinate tribe, etc., about spilling thy neighbor's blood. Today's eugubini feel that such blood stains the memory of Ubaldo, and what he stands for. Their anger for the Pagan Hypothesis, and their imperfect debate of its merits, have little to do with the various kinds of facts that compose the discussion. The road up Ingino is covered with gravel and wide enough for two cars, although none are ever permitted, and all along its length on the Fifteenth the uphill side serves as grandstand seating for the eugubini. Olive trees have given way to dark, scrubby pines, in which sit or stand the three varieties of ragazzi with the aplomb of leopards. Pausing to catch some breath, one turns and looks out over the city and its private valley. The Consuls' Palace has assumed a place among the other structures, no longer a towering bulk. Some information about the lay of Ikuvio is afforded by the Iguvine Tablets, for the path and stations of the lustration parades were as carefully prescribed as those of the corsa are today. Three ancient gates and plazas are known, and Rosenzwieg guesses that the temple of the Ateidi Brotherhood, the Arx Fusia, was well up the mountain, near today's cathedral and ducal palace. Another source, however, states that the city itself never reached so far up the mountain until after the rampage of Totilla, in the sixth century A.D., when it was rebuilt with money from the Byzantine Emperor. Out beyond today's walls one can see support for this idea in the Umbra-Roman theater, for it dates to 100 B. C. and was said to have been in the center of Ikuvio. This theater is the one great ruin of the ancient city, but was nearly buried and completely ignored for over a thousand years until excavations in 1789 and 1836, and thereafter was the victim, like Rome's Colliseum, of scavengers looking for quality building material. Today it has been restored and receives more respect, although it sits in the open in an unkempt field, which the crowds go kicking through on their way to the soccer games. Occasionally a ball bounces off the pagan wall. Beyond the theater, the modern suburbs quickly thin and only the homes and barns of the contadini spot the plain. Four miles distant the mountains rise again, bearing the road to Perugia. Resuming the climb, one comes through the last hairpin curve and onto a three-hundred yard straightaway, the corsa home stretch. At the top of this slope sits Ubaldo' s basilica. The crowd there presses respectfully but stubbornly into the chests of the elite, elegantlyattired Carabinieri, the national guard, who try to hold a line across the base of the fortress stairway. Unable to beat or shoot the populace, however, they fight a losing battle, losing ground with each intake of breath. To get so close to the finish line, one must forsake the birate and start climbing at the end of the second leg in town. The hope is to enter the basilica with Ubaldo' s cero, no easy task since the gates are slammed shut again as soon as it crosses the threshold. Only the family dignitaries, the final crew of ceraioli, and a few fleet specta. tors witness the commotion and celebrations of the first finish. The ceri of Giorgio and Antonio must wait outside until the Sanubaldari are willing to admit them. Bells rise from town to signal the beginning of the ascent, setting off a wail. Spines bend to the will of the mob, and sometimes one stands without touching the steps at all. A final surge throws the Carabinieri back against the gate. The Capitano of the Company of Horse comes swimming through the crowd, sword sheathed and on 44 45 �foot, but the fever is such that he receives neither recognition nor respect. Finally someone grabs him by both shoulders and cries "Il Capitano!" Exhausted from the climb, the old man smiles gratefully, and shakes his head to acknowledge the dignity of his person. The crowd applauds, and somehow a path has been cleared into the fortress. A first-time visitor will be surprised to see that Ubaldo' s basilica does not in fact sit upon the summit of Ingino, although it certainly appears to from the streets of the town . Another fortress, long in ruin, claims the highest spot, and dates to the Byzantine reconstruction. If one climbs upon its tower, the reward is a view into the east, a tableau overfilled by the forbidding march and majesty of the Apennines. One supposes a notch somewhat south to be the portal of the Falminian Way, but it seems no great improvement on going over the top. The same sense of heartbreak grips the visitor as he stares north down the slope of the home stretch. New and disorganized memories of the corsa as it ran through town, and the experience of having merely walked up the mountain, carrying only a camera, convince him that Ingino must win the final match. How many caduti are suffered in the loose gravel? The sun has set below the western ridge, leaving the base of the slope vague and grey. One feels foolish for having thought that the ceraioli actually run up the mountain. It's clearly impossible. Just above the slope from this perspective looms tree-bare Monte Calvo, still illuminated by the sun. The penultimate surprise is that a crucifix stands there, of monumental size, no doubt, but at this range a sliver, so barely discernible as to leave one imperfectly sure of its existence. If the path and stations of the corsa are in this age properly taken to figure Christ's walk to Golgotha, then here on Calvo is the image of the terminus, of the utter and wretched loneliness of Black Friday. The bare crown is itself immense, broad and gently bowed like the horizon at sea; the cross seems the mast of a ship about to fall off the edge of the world. I ceri! They're humping and bumping in the characteristic way, and looking straight on as they approach one cannot gauge their speed. But in sixty seconds they're nearly home, and one's blood chills with wonder. The crowd screams in pain when it seems that Ubaldo has stumbled, but ceraioli are at hand to catch the column as it falls forward, for only in this position can it pass through the gate. They break upon the basilica steps without snapping their knees, and opportunity presents itself to the spectator-an open spot amidships. With a great cry of "Sant' Ubaldo!" one has joined the yellow soldiers and passes inside. A Carabinieri snarls but has his hands full. The cero is immediately upright again and begins a birate that seems ungoverned by laws, around and around the small courtyard. Men embrace and bellow in disbelief. At their leisure, the ceraioli perform an alzata in reverse, removing both barella and santo from the cero, 46 during which the game Capo Dieci reclaims his perch and waves his fist, laughing and crying. The statue and cero are taken into the small chapel, where an exquisitely ecstatic priest screams into a microphone, reading from his prayerbook. When a spontaneous soccer cheer rises in opposition, he happily joins in, and dashes down from his lectern to hand out flyers upon which are printed Ubaldo's prayer. The crusty saint lies visible not five yards distant. The cero moves off to the right and is leaned against the wall. The statue is placed on a lit frame that has a homemade look, and after this the gates open for the Sangiorgiari. In 1905 a train line ran through Gubbio, but not anymore; a backward lurch not so curious, perhaps, to one who now knows a bit more about Mysterious Umbria . Along the Rome-Florence train line, get off at Perugia for a bus to Gubbio, or if riding from Rome out to the Adriatic-Ancona-and then up to Venice, get off at Fossato da Vico for a shorter bus ride. Even if one fails to plan on being in Gubbio for the Fifteenth of May, there are still reasons to visit while touring the north. On the first Sunday in May after the Fifteenth, the teenagers get their chance to be ceraioli, and with less extraneous fanfare but equal gusto run half-sized ceri, i mezzani, up the mountain. The next Sunday the small children give it a go, staying within the city, and the extra charm of each event is added by the proud parents with their cameras. The parties afterwards tend to be more lively, too, for the big boys are rested. At the end of May the Crossbow Palio is held, a revival of medieval warfare. The costumes are splendid, and the competition with the city of Biturgio entirely serious. The Pope-at Ubaldo' s suggestion- once outlawed the crossbow as too cruel and devastating a weapon. Gubbio' s soccer team now plays in the professional leagues, having won that honor in a playoff game last year on Sunday the seventeenth of May, only two days after the Festa. Such a weekend shall not soon be seen again, but the games are always exciting, and good seats always available. If one approaches Gubbio at night from Perugia during the Christmas season, one sees suspended in the sky the world's largest Christmas tree. Green lights have been strung from the south side of town, up the mountain to the basilica, and then back to the plain, north of town, outlining the familiar shape: a Christmas tree slightly smaller than Monte Ingino. Finally, at Easter, a haunting, beautiful procession takes place Saturday night culminating with a large bonfire. The eugubini sing medieval songs, and dress in white hooded cloaks that, unfortunately, were adopted in America by the Klu Klux Klan. The Festa, too, ends on a solemn, simpatico note. Night has fallen. The three statues, on the homemade frame, are carried at the head of a slow parade back down into the city. Ubaldo's prayer has a melody, and if the visitor has a flyer he or she can sing along. The chorus begins brightly, carrying on from the climax of the corsa, but slowly sobers while coming down the mountain, losing tempo, not strength, and finishes as what to the untutored ear seems a dirge. Until very recently there were torches to light the way, and bonfires set throughout the valley by the contadini. Bower counted fifty or so in 1896. The statues are brought to the Stonemason's church on Via Savelli, and in a brief ceremony set in place until next year. The sad singing ends, and everyone goes home to take a rest. Later the taverns will open, with food, wine, and music for those that have the energy to enjoy them. A boatload of eugubini once got up the nerve to emigrate to America, and settled in Pennsylvania coal country, in the town of Jessup. There is communication between the two cities, and each year the Americans celebrate Ubaldo' s vigil with a corsa of sorts, with ceri similar to the mezzani of Gubbio. Nothing strikes one accustomed to the Italian version so much as the wide open streets the Jessup people course through. If one looks back to Gubbio while driving off to Perugia, a remarkable image of the medieval hierarchy is plain to see. The highest thing, beneath the sun, is the lonely crucifix of Monte Calvo. The tree line well below marks the limit of Nature, nestled within which rest~ Ubaldo, surrounded by spirits of vegetation but high above the crumbling city walls. The city skyline is dominated by the Consuls' Palace, but from this distance barely rises above the plain. "Tutt'a pasta," one mutters. All's in order. 1 Bibliography Apollonio, Mario, "Dante e l'Umbria," Umbria Nella Storia, Perugia (city), 1950 Benveduti, P. Quoted in Menichetti, pp. 123, 124 Bower, Herbert M., The Elevation and Procession of the Ceri of Gubbio, David Nutt, London, 1897 Frazer, George, The Golden Bough, Macmillan, New York, 1922 McCracken, Laura, Gubbio Past and Present, David Nutt, London Menichetti, Piero Luigi, Storia dei Ceri del Gubbio, Gubbio, 1982 Rogari, Origene, I Ceri, Vispi & Angeletti, Gubbio, 1977 Rosenzweig, Irene Rituals and Cults of Pre-Roman Iguvium, Christophers, London, 1937 47 �Now- is Less Absolute Than You Think Carolyn Barndt ('90) Enough! Today I said: Enough. Today my drawn and darkened brow washed clean in the bath of a yellow afternoonblew clear in astonishing blasts of warm wind, scattering a stale hoard of thoughts. The wet earth stank, ripe with that mineral potency which nourishes indiscriminately every hungry thing not yet too distant from it. I could no longer stand apart, confining myself to my mind' s stifling closet, haunted by the ponderous overcoats of others' secondhand conclusions, never quite fitting, always unseasonable. Startled by freshness , my senses lent freedom. A young woman walked byhair the healthy color of hay, green sweater slouched on her casual body, cheeks ruddy, rounded in smiling . I breathed her intoday, she is a blossom, not my obstinate weed. Today she has a fragrance, a lingering pleasure that opens closed passages. Enough, then of the scribbled epitaphs, my morbid, solemn dirges, while the lazy breeze ripples through the leaves like laughter. Laughterthese colorsmy brain's mere arrangements? Pray, let me exclaim "But how-lovely she is!" and kindness pours, golden into this bitter cavitygladness diffuses the rankness of envy. Therefore let me believe, you for whom I have doubted, austere and inflexible rival for right, antagonist who vanquished my language. In your dark and tedious freezing night, I forgot any thought of the thaw to come. Today I am not that winter self, not wound and muffled in heavier layers than my own thin skin, huddling in what hollows of warmth I could find, at odds with the instable elements. Today a breeze tousles my hair, and my arms, bare to the elbows, are not idle but free to enfold these frail, frantic, these babbling things that gambol or squat on the lawn. Reproach me not! I have survived until thisa sudden, tumultuous moment's bliss. 49 �See here-the ground, torn by behemoth machines, at one time heaped in raw, crumbling mountains, is settled-today its heals into green. It will stay bare no more than the leaves of November will not rot to provide for their tender descendants. From such motions, imperceptible to the eye alone, not even the writings in stone are immune . Set your stony facade thenyour scowling brow as strange and forbidding as some rain-forest icon! say the movement unceasing, unseen, tomorrow will show it to be not so sharp. And the environs, a climate above tiny forces may shifta new season may dumbfound all grievanceas today leaves me speechless and renders me gentle toward all who had fostered the frost, even you. 50 �Non-Profit Org. U.S. Postage PAID St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 Permit No. 66 Lutherville, ·Md. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper (bound book) Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 50 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Winter 1990 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Winter 1990. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Barndt, Carolyn (Editor-in-Chief) Covitz, Akiba (Editor-in-Chief) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1990 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Winter 1990 Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/41ca83e7d4697ba19586b96932869f9c.pdf efe5b8a09f4cad31825ceb03a9208413 PDF Text Text SPRING 1993 . �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. fl ... vou £Vepyeia srofl ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) Staff Laudelyn Asinas Amy Flack Aimee Lalone Kristen Riddlespurger Senior Editor Rachel Blistein Junior Editor Yvonne Belanger Faculty Advisor Abe Schoener Special Thanks To the St. John's College Print Shop: Chris Colby Tina Davidson Andy Long Don Smith Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis. The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community - essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. �Table of Contents Kristen Riddlespurger Untitled [Photo] .. 2 Elliott Callahan Attacking the Image . 3 Panayiotis Pappas Salome and John 11 Eugenia E. Skarstrom Window [Photo] 12 D. Jennings Descartes' Interpretation of the World as Arising from his Method . . 13 Stacie Slotnick Orion outside my window . . . . . . . 18 Nancy Marcus An Investigation of Key Characters (and Character's Keys) In Mozait's Don Giovanni . 19 Sara Valentine Untitled [Sketch] . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Kathleen Wilson The Reeve's Tale by Geoffry Chaucer 29 Jean Holman Untitled [Poem, Photo] 33 Rachel Blistein Greek Urn . . . . . . . 34 Laurence Berns An Introduction to Kant . 35 Burton Blistein The Visual Arts and the Liberal Arts 39 Eugenia E. Skarstrom Ancient Ones [Photo] . . . . . . 53 Francie Roberts Her Hair by Charles Baudelaire 54 Susanna Beiser Choosing to Believe: Free Choice and the Knowledge of God in St. Thomas . . . . . 57 Eva T. H. Brann Cover Art-Eugenia E. Skarstrom, GI '94 Front: "Euclid and Stella" Back: "Journey" On the Relation of the Speech of Alcibiades to the Other Speeches of the Platonic Symposium ......... 61 Nedalina Dineva Hope in Sophocles' Antigone 63 Jean Holman Untitled [Photo] ...... 66 Janice Thompson Human Nature and War in Thucydides' by Nietzche History of the Peloponnesian War 67 Kristen Riddlespurger Untitled [Photo] 73 J. H. Beall Two swans .. 74 J. H. Beall Morning-for Mary Ruth Clance . 75 �Attacking the Image U Elliott Callahan '92 Where are you going, Don Quixote? What demons have you in your heart that incite you to assault our Catholic faith? Devil take me! Look, it's a procession of penitents, and that lady they're carrying upon the bier is the most blessed image of the spotless Virgin. Look out, sir, what you're doing, for this time you've made a real mistake. (p. 453) Loving and reading are acts of faith. In order to be seduced by the beloved, or enchanted by the book, we must place our faith in the imagination, and believe what it, and no other, can tell us. It is important then, from time to time, to have our faith tested and our beliefs questioned. The imagination, it appears, needs to be roused from its slothfulness, exerted, and provoked. For it realizes its potential when it unexpectedly finds itself towering over reason-when it is twisted and contorted until it discovers itself creeping up on its own shadow-and surprising us, its not very attentive keeper. Then we can revel in the imagination, for clearly it is most delightful when we discover that, unbeknownst to us, it had been busily working away, seducing our more reasonable halves. Reveling in the imagination fortifies our faith in it, and hence, our capacity to love, read, and believe. Don Quixote, "mirror of knight errantry," is the champion of the imagination. He reads with the same amount of passion with which he loves, and vice versa; a degree which is clearly beyond our grasp. Don Quixote's superior imagination and unwave1ing faith, display labors of love rivaled only by the labors of Hercules. It is possible that Don Quixote is the greatest lover the world has ever known. For unlike most of us, for whom it is true that "love is not loving," Quixote is capable of loving love and Dulcinea del Tobosa at once, and yet somehow remains conscious of both without contradiction. He is able to allow the image to enchant him and, at the same time, to recognize it as an image. Quixote is the embodiment of the paradox that we spend our lives trying to resolve. In the author's prologue, Cervantes says: Don Quixote's final adventure represents the culmination of his exploits. Throughout the course of his enterprise, the Knight of the Sad Countenance has attacked the objects of what the reader considers the "real world," mistaking, or understanding them to be images of his imaginary world. Now, instead of attacking reality, he attacks images. The consequences of Quixote's attack upon an image, and especially an image of the Virgin, are essential to understanding our relationship with this "lean, shriveled, whimsical child" (p. 25). The final episode is a crucial point in the story where Don Quixote's character begins to emerge in a new light. This new perspective is the result of the transformation that occurs in the relationship between Quixote and the reader. The events in the last adventure force the reader to reexamine his notions of reality and imagination, upon which are based his dual relationship with Quixote-both as a character and as a book. In his earlier adventures, Don Quixote attacks windmills and various innocent travelers whom he meets on the highway. He mistakes squalid inns for castles, whores for ladies, and a barber's basin for a helmet. In those adventures, Don Quixote's imagination overpowers his perception and transfonns everyday ordinary objects-"real" things-into the cast and props of knight errantry. In the final episode, Quixote is no longer the only one to recognize and incorporate images into reality. He is joined by his companions, and although they disagree on the basis for admitting this image in to the real world, they all perform the same act. In the eyes of the other characters-Sancho, the barber, the priest, and especially the penitents who scourge themselves-Don Quixote does not merely attack their wooden statue, but also attacks the Virgin herself. This adventme is the pinnacle of Quixote's movement from the real world, that is the real world of the characters as seen by the reader, to the imaginary. Although his comrades obstinately resist being seduced by the realm of the imagination, Quixote has forced them, albeit unwittingly, into a battle in which they cannot resort to the experimentally verifiable world. For the first time, the battle in which Quixote is engaged is no longer between the real and the imaginary, but takes place solely within the bounds of the imagination. The battle is a contest of faith, and Quixote has dragged his companions down into the murky cave where he can But I, though in appearance Don Quixote's father, am really his step-father, and so will not drift with the current of custom, nor implore you, almost with tears in my eyes, as others do, dearest reader, to pardon or ignore the faults of this child of mine. For you are no relation or friend of his. Your soul is in your own body, and you have free will with the best of them, and are as much a lord in your own house as the King is over his taxes. So who is the bigger liar, Cervantes or Benengeli? For Quixote is our fiiend and brother, and we love him dearly: he is the great mirror of our imaginations, and his adventures are the reflection of our faith. * * * In Book I, Chapter LII, in which is related Don Quixote's last adventure, the enchanted knight leaps on his steed and gallops off to offer combat to a band of kidnappers abducting a noble lady. Sancho says: 3 2 �challenge their beliefs just as they have challenged his. For Quixote's companions, attacking the image of the Virgin is tantamount to attacking the real, flesh-and-blood Mother of God. For Quixote, the statue is also equivalent or parallel to a living, breathing maiden, but not to the Holy Virgin. Both Quixote and his companions have granted the image, through their faith in it, the certainty and significance reserved for the "real" object it represents. In their minds the image is no longer an image, but a living woman. Thus their disagreement is only in terms of the particulars of the imagination, and the battlefield has shifted from one between the two separate worlds to the imaginary world alone. By attacking the image of the Virgin, Quixote also attacks the Catholic faith. Thus by denying or misperceiving a single idea, Don Quixote inadvertently attacks the foundations of his comrades' beliefs. In one fell swoop Quixote deals a decisive retaliatory blow to his comrades' beliefs. He suddenly shoves their world into the same perilous position into which they have forced his throughout the novel. The tables are turned when Quixote, who is continually forced to defend his system of beliefs throughout the course of his adventures, requires his persecutors to defend their own beliefs. The same questions with which his comrades have challenged his beliefs, he now unwittingly forces them to ask themselves about their own beliefs, namely their faith in Christianity. How sacred is their image? Can it be any more sacred that the image of Dulcinea del Toboso? Quixote's actions force us to compare the sanctity of the Virgin with the sanctity of Dulcinea. It seems that in the minds of their respective champions they are equal. How then can we assert our faith in one image over another? And how can we be certain that the faith we put in any system of beliefs is anything other than quixotic madness? Don Quixote's last adventure is crucial in exposing the absence of reason and the dependence upon the imagination that is integral to all our beliefs. When Don Quixote attacks the image of the Virgin, he not only challenges his companions, but, as we will see, he challenges the reader as well. We are too drawn into battle with Don Quixote-and this battle is important in the determination of our relationship with him. Like Quixote's companions, we have insisted that Quixote is a madman. But when his image (Dulcinea) is compared with theirs (the Virgin), and they appear equally legitimate, we are compelled to consider the validity of our own. First, we must address our relationship with Don Quixote up to this point. Then we can examine how the last adventure draws us into battle with him, and finally, how the results of that conflict change our relationship with Quixote. It appears that before this pivotal adventure, our relationship with Don Quixote is a fairly simple, almost superficial one. We love and admire Don Quixote because he has an unshakable faith in his principles. Moreover, they are principles that Quixote easily convinces us are noble and true. Like the priest, the barber, and the others, we are surprised by the sound reason Quixote displays when discoursing on the virtue of his profession. In these moments of lucidity, when Don Quixote does not endanger the lives of innocent people as well as his own, it is difficult for us to deny the logic which underlies laws of chivalry. But because it is universally agreed that the profession of knight errantry is half fiction, half nonsense, Don Quixote is considered a madman. Even though his arguments are sound and persuasive, the laws of chivalry are incongruent with our system of beliefs: His hearers were moved once more to pity at seeing a man, apparently of such sound intelligence and with such understanding of everything he spoke of, lose it so entirely on the subject of his foul and accursed chivalry. The priest said that there was much justice in what he said in favor of arms, and that he was of the very same opinion himself, although a scholar and graduate. (Ch. XXXVIII, p. 345) Both Quixote's companions and the reader perceive Quixote as a madman because the focus and foundation of his apparently sound reason and judgement is chivalry. We do not consider chivalry in any serious fashion, so any man who treats it so rationally and with such conviction must be insane, despite his seeming intelligence. But this apparently raving lunatic is a charm and delight in part because he is no threat to us. Many others have good reason to bear some animosity towards the "mirror of chivalry": Andrew, who is doubly beaten by his master for Don Quixote's interference; the innkeepers in whose inns Don Quixote wreaks havoc; and all the various travelers and shepherds, who fall victim to Don Quixote's outlandish escapades. But the knight's ardent conviction, his physical vulnerability, and his tender heart, soften our judgement of the damage that he does. We are in no danger and can thoroughly enjoy (from a comfortable distance) the spectacle of the havoc that he wreaks upon the innocent. Despite his imperviousness to the destructive effects of his actions, Quixote is also a tender, caring man. He offers the same courtesy to whores at an inn, as he does to the Duchess; every woman he meets is a damsel in distress to whom he extends his unconditional service. ... the first man of our times, of these calamitous times of ours, to devote himself to the toils arid exercise of knight errantry; to redress wrongs, aid widows and protect maidens, such as roam up-hill and down-dale with their whips and palfreys and their whole virginities about them. (Ch. IX, p. 76) Don Quixote is also a faithful lover and friend-a lover who must be admired and ranked amongst the best. His faith and devotion to Dulcinea del Toboso, whose honor he places above his own life, are flawless. And despite his sometimes harsh treatment of Sancho's drolleries, Don Quixote's unfaltering resolution to find his squire an island and the paternal tenderness with which he attempts to instruct him on the laws 4 of chivalry, testify to Don Quixote's noble intentions and tender heart. It seems important that Quixote be a character whom we neither fear nor dislike. On the contraiy, as our relationship with the Knight of the Sad Countenance begins to change, it becomes essential that we love him. This relationship with Don Quixote, that we establish early on in the novel, changes in the last adventure. It changes not because of any alteration in Quixote's character, but indirectly with the reversal in the status of his companions' beliefs. Tluoughout d1e adventures, we have been more or less in agreement with Sancho, the barber, and the priest. They, like us, love the knight, but consider him a lunatic whom they are obligated to restore to his senses, his family, and proper way of life. This diagnosis, namely that Quixote is insane, excludes us from his world (the imaginaiy) and includes us in the world shared by the otl1er characters (the real). We have shared with Quixote's companions a common system of beliefs loosely based on the description of our experiences primarily through inductive reasoning. Quixote, on the other hand, describes his experiences deductively from the fictional "laws of chivalry." But when Quixote attacks the image of the Virgin and we see our allies ascend into the imaginary world where the image is tantamount to the living Virgin, they too begin to paiticipate in Quixote 's deductive reasoning. Regardless of whether or not we are Catholic, or even Christian, we are forced to realize that the beliefs of our cohorts, which we were certain were just as rationally grounded as our own, are now indistinguishable in kind from Quixote's. The world of Quixote's companions, which we supposed was entirely rational, and wid1in which we included ourselves , suddenly manifests this quixotic ai10maly, thus undermining its rationality and certainty. Hence we must doubt the original certainty which we have placed in our own world. This world in which we ai·e left in becomes even less certain with the disintegration of the alliance we had formed with Don Quixote's companions. As they ai·e drawn into the imaginaiy world through their belief in the image of the Virgin, we are left alone in the world that only recognizes the image as a wooden statue. Hence what was once the imaginary world in the view we shared with Sancho, d1e barber, and the priest, and the penitents, is now their real world, and we are left suspecting that they, including Don Quixote, imagine our world, which recognizes the image as a mere image, as imaginary. Because we do not participate in the belief that the image of the Virgin has any special significance, we are immediately excluded from the world of the bai·ber, the priest, and the penitents, in which we originally included ourselves. But it is the awareness of exclusion that allows us to realize that we had believed in a different image-the image presented by the book- but we were completely unaware of the belief. In a single moment we are excluded from the world of the characters because we have not embraced the image of the Virgin, and at the same time brought back into the world with a whole new insight. We sudden Iy become aware of our belief in literary images. We are able to be enchanted by the book, and thus to have that spell broken by our exclusion from the characters' beliefs, only because we were initially able to transcend the literary images of the characters through the imagination and to allow them to become as real to us as the image of the Virgin is to them. Our relationship with Don Quixote is dramatically changed. For we are now unable to approach Quixote with the same objective rationality as before. Ouroriginal analysis that Don Quixote is insane, is no longer valid. We see that we ai·e like Quixote in many ways we never suspect until the certainty of our own world begins to deteriorate. It is Quixote then who demonstrates to us the uncertainty of our world, or that the certainty we put in our beliefs can only be as absolute as the certainty Quixote puts in his own . This revelation has the potential to be a frightening one. If Don Quixote were evil, if the enactment of his beliefs required murder and robbery, the discovery that we are unable to condemn his beliefs with any legitimate judgement would be teffifying. But we love Quixote, and now that he has led us to this self-discovery, we love him more. Don Quixote, the "mirror of chivalry," is also the mirror of ourselves. For without Don Quixote, we have no means of examining the certainty of our own beliefs. Without Don Quixote we are stuck in the so-called "real world," forever peering into the imaginary world, ai1d separated from it by an insurmountable distance. An analysis of tl1e last adventure, in which Don Quixote attacks the image of the Virgin, reveals to the reader the almost imperceptible barriers that separate the imaginary world of the book from the so-called "real world" of the reader. The bar1iers only become apparent after Quixote, albeit unknowingly, indirectly trespasses into the reader's world by questioning our unexamined beliefs. His attack upon the image allows us to recognize our own participation and faith in certain images by highlighting our lack of faith in a particular one (the Virgin). Our distance from the image of the Virgin reveals our intimacy with the characters, which can only be achieved through faith in d1eir literary images. But "The Last Adventure" represents a simple, isolated case of a more complex and thorough subordination of our unconscious faith in the literary images. For in the discussion of the authorship of Don Quixote, another, more effective, and more disturbing, attempt is made to subvert our faith in the image. At the beginning of the book, in the author's prologue, Cervantes claims the title of authorship for himself, declaring in the opening line: "Idle reader, you can believe without any oath of mine that I wish this book, as the child of my brain, to be the most beautiful, the liveliest and the cleverest imaginable" (p. 27). The perfectly rational assertion that Don Quixote is Cervailtes' brain-child, which any reader would easily grant, turns out not to be so cut and dry. A few sentences later, Cervantes tells us that though he appears to be Don 5 �the author and the character may confront one another, and second, that the author may confront the reader. The author's presence in the story is a constant reminder to the reader that he is reading-that the reader's involvement with the characters is an act of faith. The author is the craftsman who has created this image. His presence within the form of his own creation undermines our faith in the story and accentuates our willingness to let this creator of images seduce us, the believers. The remainder of Book I is taken from the work of Benengeli and the discussion of authorship is dropped. But the origin of Don quixote's history has been thoroughly convoluted and demands some explanation. There is some evidence to indicate that Quixote himself is at the bottom of this endless chain of narrators. Don Quixote is aware of the necessity of a knight errant to have a personal sage who will direct and record his adventures, and states this a number of times. When Sancho dubs him Knight of the Sad Countenance · he says: Quixote's father, he is really only his step-father (p. 27). Already, before the story has even begun, the identity of the author is cast into doubt. This is a strange way to write a story, but as this subtle departure from our expectations lies somewhat inconspicuously in the prologue, the importance of this subtle departure from our assumption of authorship is easily overlooked. The question of authorship becomes unavoidable in Chapters VIII to IX, which relate the stupendous battle between Don Quixote and the Basque. At the height of their combat, Cervantes abruptly interrupts the narrative: "the unfortunate thing is that the author of this history left the battle in suspense at this critical point, with the excuse that he could find no more records of Don Quixote's exploits than those related here" (p. 74). We are forced from this statement to conclude that Cervantes is not the original author of this history. Rather, he is narrating the work of a previous author, who based his version of Don Quixote's history on certain documents and records whose origin is a complete mystery. Cervantes goes on to describe his search for the conclusion to Don Quixote's battle with the Basque, and how by chance he found it amongst a heap of old parchments in a silk merchant's shop. A tattered old book which catches his eye miraculously turns out to be the "history of Don Quixote de la Mancha, written by Cide Hamete Benengeli, Arabic historian" (p. 77). Cervantes relates how he had the book translated for him by a Spanish-speaking Moor. The conclusion of the story is Cervantes' account of the translation of Benengeli' s work. Unfortunately, there are two points which further complicate the origin and veracity of Cervantes' Don quixote. The first difficulty is Cervantes' own doubt as to the veracity of the original which he expresses immediately after relating his discovery of Cide Hamete Benengeli' s history: ... the sage whose task it is to write the history of my deeds must have thought it right for me to take some title, as all knights did in olden days ... the sage I mentioned has put it into your thoughts and into your mouth to call me now The Knight of the Sad Countenance . .. (Ch. XIX, p. 147) If Don Quixote is the original author, then it is he who has put these words into Sancho Panza's mouth. Despite Sancho's wit, "Knight of the Sad Countenance" does not sound like a title that the squire we are familiar with would contrive. But, the explanation Sancho gives for the title, namely Quixote's shriveled up, pathetic appearance, does. It is not unreasonable, then, to suppose that Don Quixote might have given himself the title for another reason: his eternal longing for Dulcinea del Toboso. Don Quixote knows that, according to the books of chivalry, which form the foundation of his beliefs, his adventures should be carefully guided and recorded. Since the laws of chivalry demand it, so does Quixote's system of beliefs. It is possible to cite that Cide Hamete Benengeli is this omniscient, omnipresent sage, and he is actually referred to as "the sage Cide Hamete Benengeli" at the very beginning of Chapter XV (p. 111). But it is more likely that Quixote himself is his own sage-and that Benengeli, a liar, distorted the famous deeds of the Knight of the Sad Countenance. If this is the case, then in the original account of Don Quixote's adventures, written by Don Quixote, though Sancho may actually dub Quixote "Knight of the Sad Countenance," he is inspired to do so by Quixote's appearance rather than his love for Dulcinea. In the original work, we speculate, Sancho is perhaps slightly more informed of the laws and customs of knight errantry. But this, of course, could only be a figment of Don Quixote's imagination, which the Arabic historian Benengeli uncovers, and reveals in his own account of Don Quixote's adventures. The disastrous ramifications of this Now, if any objection can be made against the truth of the history, it can only be that its narrator was an Arab-men of that nation being ready liars, though as they are so much our enemies he might be thought rather to have fallen short of the truth rather than to have exaggerated. (Ch. IX, p. 78) The second difficulty arises in Chapter VI, but is only manifest in light of the entire discussion concerning the authorship. During the inquisition that the priest and the barber hold in Don Quixote's library, Cervantes describes how a copy of one of his own works, Galatea, is spared from the flames by the priest, who says: ''That Cervantes has been a great friend of mine for many years" (p. 62). Suddenly Cervantes and Don Quixote become contemporaries. The notion that Cervantes is the original source, the metaphorical biological origin of the hero begins to collapse. Time and priority become confused. the author finds himself in the mind of the character that was supposedly his brain-child. The reader is forced to consider two disturbing possibilities: first, the possibility that 6 hypothesis lead us to conclude that Benengeli is less of a liar than we had initially supposed. Don Quixote is well-read, and apparently not without some literary talent of his own. According to Chapter I, "often the desire seized him to take up the pen himself' (p. 32). On more than one occasion he displays the ability and inclination to write. His sonnets are found carved in trees in the Sierra Morena and he has a propensity for literary criticism. Furthermore, Don Quixote knows that, according to the laws of chivalry, as a knight errant, he is obliged to be a poet: " . .. for I would inform you Sancho, that all or most knights errant in the olden times were great troubadours and great musicians as well" (Ch. XIII, p. 185). If Don Quixote is the original author of his history, he could not have begun recording his adventures until the time of his penance in the wilderness, when he first comes into possession of Cardenio' s notebook. But it is possible that he had already begun composing his personal history in his mind. Quixote spends many of the nights awake, while the other characters, especially Sancho, are asleep: "Sleep yourself, for you were born to sleep, or do what you will. I will do what best suits my profession" (Ch XX, p.152). One of the essential requirements of Don quixote's profession as "knight errant" is chastity, which, in this story, is the equivalent of being a poet. Throughout Book I of Don Quixote, Cervantes devotes special attention to distinguishing the literate characters from the illiterate. But this peculiar detail is discussed only in connection with certain characters---characters that must be recognized as lovers, or distinguished as non-lovers. The first time this distinction is made is in Chapter X, when Don Quixote and Sancho Panza discuss the laws of chivalry. This discussion exemplifies the author's treatment of lovers and non-lovers, literate and non-literate. Don Quixote, as we already know, is the most well read character in the book. On the other hand, we might asswne that Sancho, as a peasant, is illiterate. At first this distinction between the knight and his squire hardly seems to matter. In fact, however, it does. For in their conversation in Chapter X, Quixote repeatedly insists that if Sancho had read the "histories" he would know the practices of knights errant. Sancho insists that he can neither read nor write. The emphasis put on the respective literacy of knight and squire gains added significance from the interpretation of the pair as lover and non-lover. Quixote is clearly the most ardent of all the lovers in the book because he alone is capable of passionate faith in the image of Dulcinea del Toboso, a woman whose noble qualities he invents despite all appearances to the contrary. Dulcinea is nothing more than an image of the ideal maiden who holds a knight errant's heart captive. None of the other characters can claim such zealous, unceasing love in such a distant, ungrounded idea. Quixote's passion for Dulcinea finds expression in poetry, a highly developed form of literacy. By contrast, Sancho, an illiterate laborer, though he loves his wife, daughter, and ass, is not capable of the faith, devotion, and complete selflessness that is required of a lover. Sancho is capable of loving only what is physically real. It is impossible for him to place his faith in Dulcinea, giants, or any other characters which people the world of knight errantry. It is evident from their many conversations that Sancho, because he is utterly ignorant of the laws of chivalry, has no concept of being a lover. 111is connection is made clear in Don Quixote's tirade on him in Chapter XXX: ... excommunicate rogue! For that you certainly are, for defaming the peerless Dulcinea. Do not you know , you clod, you ignominious vagabond, that but for the power she infuses in my arm I should not have the strength to kill a flea? Tell me you viper-tongued villain, who do you think has conquered this kingdom and cut this giant's head off-if it is not the might of Dulcinea, employing my arm as the instrument of her exploits? She fights and conquers through me, and I live and breathe and have my life and being in her. (p. 264) The connection between love and literacy is not accidental. Immediately following Chapter X, Don Quixote and Sancho meet a group of shepherds, with whom they spend the night. One of the shepherds entertains them that evening with a song which he sings for them; naturally, it is a love song. This shepherd, according to his comrades "is a very clever lad and very much in love; and, what is more, he can read and write, and plays the fiddle as beautifully as can be" (Ch. XI, p. 87). Again, love and literacy appear in relation to one another. Shepherds seem to attract love-sick literates, for no sooner has this shepherd finished his song than another arrives to tell them of the death of Chrysostom, whose funeral Don Quixote and Sancho attend the next day along with the other shepherds. Chrysostom is yet another shepherd-student whose fierce love of Marcela, the beautiful shepherdess, has consumed his very life. Chrysostom is a poet as well as a fervent lover, he "was a great one for making verses , and was so good at them that he used to write carols for Christmas Eve and the plays for Corpus Christi" (Ch. XII, p. 92). The story of Chrysostom provides us with the beginnings of an explanation to the apparently invariable little between lovers and poets. At the shepherd's funeral, one of his comrades reads aloud one of Chrysostom's poems, in which he complains "of jealousy, suspicions, and neglect" (Ch. XIV, p. 107). But one of his fellow shepherds claims that Chrysostom "was tormented by imaginary jealousies and suspicions, as fearful as if they were real" (Ch. XIV, p. 107). It appears that imagination is somehow necessary to the experience of becoming a lover. Returning to our paradigm of lover and non-lover, we find in Don Quixote an unnaturally powerful imagination and hardly any at all in Sancho. Imagination seems to depend on literacy, because reading and being seduced or enchanted by a literary image require imagination. 7 �In order for the reader to give life to the dormant ideas and lifeless words that fill the page, he must exercise his imagination. He must transform the static images of the words and sentences into living motion. Don Quixote, the most voracious reader in the novel, has exercised his imagination to the point where it no longer depends upon the literary image. His imagination is no longer constrained to roam the pages of books and corridors of the mind, but has broken its fetters and lives independently of the books. But his imagination remembers its origins, and occasionally frequents its old haunts for renewed inspiration. When Don Quixote serves his penance in the Sierra Morena, he debates with himself over what route his penance should take, and which knight errant's example he should follow . Quixote's debate over whether "to imitate Roland's downright madness or Amadis' melancholy moods" (Ch. XXVI, p. 214) depends on how Dulcinea has injured him. But it is uncertain if Quixote has ever seen Dulcinea del Toboso, and it is certain that she is totally unaware of his existence, so that Don Quixote's injury, and thus his extravagant penance, like Chrysostom's, are completely dependent upon his imagination. Furthermore, since the entire notion of retiring to the wilderness to serve this penance is inspired by the fictitious histories of the knights of old, it is also dependent upon literature. Sancho, on the other hand, has no imagination at all. while his master gallivants around the meadows, carving poems into the trees, the dutiful squire sets off to Toboso with a letter for Dulcinea that describes the knight's afflicted heart. Sancho, of course, never gets to Toboso because he is intercepted by the barber and the priest. The three men set about concocting a plan to retrieve Don Quixote from the mountains, and return him to his home, where his madness might be cured. Later in the story, when Don Quixote asks his squire about his mission to Toboso, Sancho is unable to describe Dulcinea, whom he can only imagine as Aldonza Lorenzo, in terms of ordinary, peasant activities. Sancho describes Dulcinea, winnowing wheat, smelling "rather mannish," and, moreover, unable to read Don Quixote's letter because she is illiterate (Ch. XXXI, p. 268). The imagination and literacy are inextricably connected. Sancho, an illiterate, has an utterly weak imagination. The ability to become a lover also depends on the imagination. As Quixote says: Dulcinea, an image, is very real. Quixote's love for Dulcinea follows from the rules of chivalry: Quixote is a lover because he must be; his profession demands it. As Cervantes relates: Now that his armor was clean, his helmet made into a complete head-piece, a name found for his horse, and he confirmed in his new title, it struck him that there was only one more thing to do: to find a lady to be enamored of. For a knight errant without a lady is like a tree without leaves or fruit and a body without a soul. (Ch. I, p. 34) Dulcinea del Toboso is part of the larger scheme of his faith in a system of beliefs which he finds irresistible. Since being enamored is such an integral aspect of knight errantry, one can make the claim that Dulcinea is not merely incidental; rather, that Don Quixote's priorities really lie in becoming a lover. Whatever the relation between lover and knight errant (perhaps they are ultimately equivalent), as a lover, Don Quixote is in love with love, and not Dulcinea. In this sense, the relationship between love and imagination essentially signifies faith in a system of beliefs. Don Quixote's system, like Chrysostom's, requires that he be injured by his lover (inadvertently or intentionally). And like the beliefs held by Cardenio, another great lover-poet, Quixote's love requires a temporary suspension of reason. When we speak of Don Quixote as a lover, we mean a lover of ideas: " ... and so, carried away by the strange pleasure he derived from these agreeable thoughts, he hastened to translate his desires into action" (Ch. I, p. 33). The two stories that are told in the inn confirm the connection between lovers and their imaginations. "The Tale of Foolish Curiosity" illustrates the disastrous effects of unhealthy imagination, and a general lack of faith in the imagination when combined with passionate love. "The Captive's Tale" exemplifies a healthy imagination, and the faith that is rightly placed in it. Accordingly, its characters find love, happiness, and good fortune. In "The Tale of Foolish Curiosity," the characters demonstrate the dependence of love on faith in imagination, and the tragedy that results from warped imaginations in would-be lovers. Anselmo wants to prove that Camilla's faith is that than which no greater can be conceived. It is not enough to believe that his wife is the most faithful, circumspect, and modest woman in the world; he must prove it empirically. His fanatical insistence upon a demonstration of Camilla's virtue and dedication renders Anselmo incapable of being a real lover. His friend, Lothario.tries to persuade him against his foolish enterprise: Most of [the poets' mistresses] were invented to serve as subjects for verses, and so that the poets might be taken for lovers, or men capable of being so... I imagine all I say to be true; neither more nor less, and in my imagination I draw her as I would have her be, both her beauty and her rank... (Ch. XXV, p. 210) You seem to me, Anselmo, to be in the position of Moors, who cannot be convinced in the error of their sect by quotations from the Holy Scripture, nor by arguments drawn from intellectual speculation or based on the canons of faith, but have to have examples, Don Quixote's love of Dulcinea is possible only because of his faith in his imagination. But although her "beauty and her rank" may be subject to Quixote's imagination, his love of 8 palpable, simple, intelligible, demonstrable, and indubitable, with irrefutable mathematical proof like: If equals be taken from equals ... (Ch. XXXID, p. 287) taken place at the inn, the captive's story is not only incredible, but continues in the audiences' own lives, leaking out of the past into the present; from the world of the story into their own. The captive, Ruiz de Viedma, and his Moorish bride, Zoraida, both have faith in their imaginations. Ruiz's imagination contrives that attached to a beautiful white hand is a beautiful woman who will be his deliverance and his bride. He also imagines the renegade to be an honest man who does not double-cross him. Zoraida imagines that the captive is a gentleman who will take her to Christian soil, have her baptized and marry her. But all of Zoraida's imaginings depend upon her faith in her visions: Anselmo's lack of faith in his imagination render him incapable of loving, just as the Moors' disbelief in the scriptures render them incapable of Christian love. Love, as we have witnessed in Don Quixote, requires the lover to imagine and truly believe in the beloved. Since Anselmo has become obsessed with obtaining proof of his beloved's fidelity, Camilla is incapable of being truly beloved. She no longer moves Anselmo to believe what can only be accepted as a matter of faith. Just as Anselmo is incapable of loving, he is incapable of friendship. For, like his supposed love for Camilla, the great friendship he once shared with Lothaiio depends upon trust and faith. Anselmo refuses to take sincerely honest and solli1d advice his friend offers him, because it would require him to believe in "intellectual speculation." Even when Lothario finally yields to Anselmo's pleading and promises to attempt to seduce Camilla, Anselmo does not even believe his friend's word, but spies on him through the keyhole. But Anselmo is not entirely without imagination; he is merely incapable of placing ai1y faith in it. Unfortunately, the imagination he does possess is unhealthy. The fact that Anselmo derives so much pleasure from pushing his scheme as far as it will go, suggests that he needs to live vicariously through his f1i end. Even when Anselmo claims to be satisfied with Lothario's attempts to seduce Camilla, he has him write love sonnets to an imaginary lover, and then read them in front of her. It seems Anselmo's perverse imagination has already decided that Camilla is unfaithful and will allow herself to be seduced by Lot11ario. But Anselmo's lack of faith in his imagination is so weak that he must convince his friend to enact it for him under the pretense of demonstrating Camilla's modesty. Eventually Lothario and Camilla use Anselmo's weakness to their own advantage and enact the tragic scene with the dagger in order to hide their affair. Undoubtedly, within the context of the novel, a character like Anselmo would be despised, and destined for ruin. It is important to observe the reactions of the characters who listen to "The Tale of Foolish Curiosity" When I was a girl my father had a woman slave, who taught me the Christian prayers in my own tongue, and spoke to me often about Lela Marien. This Christian died, and I know that she did not go to the fire but to Allah. For I saw her twice afterwards, and she told me to go to Christian lands and see Lela Marien, who loved me very much. I do not know how to go. I have seen many Christians out of this window, but none of them except you has seemed a gentleman. (Ch. XL, p. 358) The story of the captive and Zoraida is received quite differently than "The Tale of Foolish Curiosity,'' which is almost completely rejected by its audience. The only comment is the priest's brief critique of the latter tale concerning its plausibility. There is no further discussion because there is no sympathy or love for the chai·acters. Zoraida and the captive, however, are exalted by t11e audience: ... Cardenio and all the others offered him their utmost services, in such warm and sincere language that the captain was thoroughly convinced of their goodwill. Don Ferdinand, in particular, offered to make his brother the Marquis stand godfather at Zoraida's baptism if he would return with him, and himself to provide enough money to appear in his country with suitable dignity and decency. (Ch. XLII, p. 381) Their story is marveled over and the women in the group delight in Zoraida's beauty. this scene is entirely charming, while "The Tale of Foolish Cwiosity" evokes nothing but disdain. The fact that two stories whose treatment of the imagination is the same, but whose endings are almost exactly opposite, are told before the very same audience and elicit opposite reactions, demands that we consider the relation of the reader as part of the audience to the story. This question returns us to the discussion of the aut110rship and the consequences of the attack upon the image. The mysterious treatment of the authorship of Don Quixote confuses the relation of the chai·acters to authors. Cervantes, Benengeli, and Quixote all act both as authors of the story and characters within it. Don Quixote is a narration of a narration of Don Quixote's own writings. Since Cervantes is trapped I like the tale, said the priest, but there is something unconvincing about it. If the author invented it he did it badly, for it is impossible to believe that there could be a husband so stupid as to want to make the costly experiment Anselmo did. If it were the case of the lover and his mistress it might pass; but between husband and wife there is something impossible about it. Though for the manner of its telling, that does not displease me at all. (Ch. XXXV, p. 324) But "The Captive's Tale," which is equally fai1tastic, is received by the same audience with enthusiasm and belief in its credibility. On top of the already astonishing events that have 9 �n Salome and John within the consciousness of the very character he claims to have created, we are lost in a circular history that has neither beginning nor end; neither author nor characters. This labyrinth of characters and authors forces us to think about where the story really begins. In whose imagination does the story begin? Perhaps it begins in our own. Until we actually engage ourselves in the process of reading the story, it is nothing but a collection of dormant ideas. Reading those ideas activates them and our imagination breathes life into the characters, bringing motion into their movements, depth and meaning to their thoughts and feelings. When we exercise our imagination we become a little like Quixote.Just as he invests his faith in the image of Dulcinea, we put our faith in literary images. We bring the images to life in the real world of action and consequence. When we believe in the image, we translate it in our mind into this real world of action. It is possible, however, and even probable, that we will not recognize such a translation unless someone, or something, forces us to. Don Quixote, which has one, three, or no authors, demands that we attack the image of the story and thus realize our own participation in its creation. The same thing happens when authors become characters. They step into the imaginary world of the novel and thereby at once blur and clarify the boundaries between the imaginary and the real world. Faith in the imagination is the essential element to reading a story. This faith, as we have seen, is also essential to loving. Reading, then, becomes an act of love. When we read a book, we cannot be like the priest, who, by failing to observe his own reflection in Anselmo, is doomed to read as the characters love in ''The Tale of Foolish Curiosity." Instead, we must turn to the captive and Zoraida as our models of faith. When the literary images of the book fall under attack, our faith in the imagination is questioned; our love of the characters and our willingness to believe in them is challenged. Such an experience is disturbing because we are forced to declare our loyalty to the imagination. When we read, the imaginary and real worlds blend together, but when that delicate balance is disturbed, the reader must make a choice between the two. Unless we close the book, we choose to put our faith in the world of the imagination. The aversion that we experience when the images are attacked lasts only as long as we allow ourselves to doubt our belief in them. When we read Don Quixote, however, we are required to rise to a higher, more complex model of faith. We must imitate Quixote himself. In addition, our faith in its images (like any other story), Don Quixote constantly challenges them and makes us conscious of our faith. As we become aware of our faith, we become aware of our kinship with Quixote: we are bound together by our faith in imagination, and our belief in images. by Panayotis Pappas '93 A dragon lifts his misty head out of the cumbersome clouds of rapture and scatters them across the dusty halls. Dance now, dance here. Sway like a swallow, with wings woven of silk, sweep through the royal chambers alight before king Herod's feet. Unfold, bend back and rise again a woman. SuITound the fires and veil their radiance; the night grows deeper in your gown's tint. And dance. Move slowly, lightly graze his hair, flow like a soul-thieving fiery breeze. What is your fee ethereal meander? John of fire loudly poking the silent ashes of Jerusalem; bring forth your charcoal eyes, restful upon this silver platter, as you soak in, and scorch, these your last visions. Leaping, twirling, crouching, writhing, within a divinely orchestrated se1mon, you rattled your tambourine of words; a fire lasting against all desert winds, tlu·ough water spreading your spirit-consuming Lord. Waiting you were for the serpent to rise out of the cumbersome clouds of rapture, and scatter your embers across the Heavens. 10 11 �Descartes' Interpretation of the World as Arising from his Method D. Jennings '93 methodological doubt. This doubt, the subject of the first The world problem is, stated simply, the consideration of how we are to interpret the world as a whole. Our answer to this problem entails an explanation of the phenomena of consciousness. For experience to be possible there must be a "coming together" of entities both in the world and in the "I." Accordingly, this coming together is conditioned by both the nature of the entities and the nature of the " I." In an analysis of philosophical works, one is rarely in the position of exposing blatant illogic or even sophistry. The ultimate point of interest in such an analysis is rather how the thinkers see the world. The presence of the world problem and the attempt to resolve it form the core of human thinking, even "everyday" thinking. The world problem according to Descartes arises in the context of his method. The essence of Descartes' philosophy is method. As early as 1620 (Descartes was only 24 years old at the time) Descartes observes that the use of "definite rules" is a fundamental part of solving mechanical problems. In the Regulae, composed eight years later, he posits method as the sine qua non of scientific and philosophical investigation. He writes in rule four, "By a 'method' I mean reliable rules that are easy to apply and such that if one follows them exactly, one will never take what is false to be true... but will gradually and constantly increase one' s knowledge (scientia) till one arrives at a true understanding of everything within one's capacity." The aim of philosophy is scientia, a systematic body of indubitable knowledge. The possibility of such a system is grounded upon method. The purpose of critiquing Descartes' method is to find the guiding principle which serves as its foundation. This foundation itself acts to reinterpret the world. The text most conducive to analysis regarding the world-problem, then, will be the one that is closest to being a "world-text,'' a text that presents the world as a problem. It is the Meditations that serves this purpose both inlrn- and extra- textually. The Meditations is not about method or physics, but rather it is an application of the method to the world problem intent upon finding what is true and un true in experience. Through the Meditations the resolution of the world problem is presented extra-textually to the world. Thus Descartes sees fi t to dedicate his book to the " doctors of the Sorbonne" as judges. The Cartesian resolution of the world problem, one that is to a certain exten t our own, arises within the course of the Meditations. This resolution is itself at the core of the method. The first step in the method is the implementation of 12 Meditation, is the radical leveling of past opinions. The purpose is to destroy what came before in the guise of scientia and to startover"from the foundation s" to build a true scientia that is "stable and likely to last." The leveling is not conducted in regard to the viability of independent acts of thinking, but rather it throws out old opinions on the force of the doubtfulness of their common foundations as a scientia. Cognitions ("cagnitianes") as Descartes names acts of thinking, are themselves internally unaffected, meaning Descartes does not question what a thought is or what value it has independently of its place in the overall scheme of the scientia. Descartes lays the ground for truthfulness-"is this indeed the case?"in principle distinct from considerations of the qualities internal to the cognition in question. As a result, Descartes asks two questions concerning entities that the mind takes under consideration. He asks what an entity is (quid) and whether it is (quad). These two questions are always distinct. The quid question concerns the internal aspects of the cognitions formed with respect to entities under consideration. The quad question, on the other hand, concerns whether or not the cognitions concerning an entity fall within the larger scientia. If they do then we can admit that (quad) the entity truly exists. Descartes' application of the method not only reveals the quid/quad distinction, but it also shows that the quid precedes the quod in the proper methodological order of inquiry. In the methodological exercise with a piece of wax in the second Meditation, Descartes takes up the wax and investigates its quid while its quod is still under the effect of leveling doubt. This procedure consists in the suspension of belief in the existence of some thing under consideration. In other words, a cognition formed concerning something is investigated before that cognition is given a place in the scientia and its existence granted as true. The precedence of the quid over the quad is expressed in the Discourse on Method as the division of "difficulties" into "as many parts as possible .. . in order to resolve them better." Here the "difficulty" is the thing under consideration. The division of the difficulty into parts is an approach to the quid question. The resolution of the difficulty, a resolution that takes place after division, is the resolution of the quad question. The quid question is fundamentally an ontological one, meaning one that proposes "what the thing is" as a problem. (The quod question, on the other hand, is a factual one. Whether or not some thing exists is a matter of determining 13 �whether or not that thing can be encountered in the world.) Descartes, in the investigation of the piece of wax, present this investigation as a process of reduction to "what the wax is really made of." Already, we see that Descartes in posing the question allows the thinking subject an intimate knowledge or ontological access to the thing. This access, i.e., this ability to approach and know the thing, is extra-experiential in principle. Descartes does not even know whether or not the wax exists, but he nonetheless endeavors to find "what it is really made of." (There is a question as to how much "what a thing is really made of' provides an ontological account of the thing. The confounding of "what a thing is" with the logically distinct question of "what a thing is made of' may indeed be at the heart of Descartes' understanding of the world problem.) The thing's presence in the world is temporarily passed over to allow for a reduction of an item of experience to its real make-up. The mind reviews all the stages of appearance of the wax as it is heated by a candle. At first the wax tastes of honey, smells of flowers, is hard and cold to the touch, and so on. When this same piece of wax is put to the flame, however, the taste of honey disappears, the wax becomes soft and warm, and all of the other sensible qualities of the wax change into others. That which remains of the wax is the ontological characteristic of things in the world, namely extension. This extension, because it assumes an infinite number of manifestations, cannot be comprehended by the imagination. What Descartes calls "pure mental scrutiny" reveals the knowable aspects of the wax. The "pure mental scrutiny" provides the ontological access to the wax. The act of this "mental scrutiny" is "knowing" itself. Descartes' interpretation of knowing follows directly from the precedence of the quid question in the method. ff we do not know that a thing is then our interpretation of what it is will necessarily take on an extra-experiential character. The quod question, because it concerns matters of fact, carries with it considerations of context. Facts, because they appear in the world, occur within the context of experience. For example, if one said that there are clouds in the west today, then that person has made a statement concerning clouds within a specific temporal and spatial context. Without this context the statement makes no sense. The quid question, however, lacks any experiential context. The quid question is, in effect, a reduction of experiential data to "what things are really made of." The ontological make-up of a thing stands independently of any context. In following the method, we raise the question of what a thing is as if its quod were not apparent, even when it appears in an "everyday" manner. The smell, taste, etc. of the piece of wax suggests its quod to the everyday consciousness. Descartes' method, however, rules that this consciousness has no bearing upon any real knowledge of the wax. The richness of experience is reduced to a knowledge of extension. Because the quid of extended things has priority over the quod in the order of analysis, we will not prove that some thing in the world that is cold and has the smell of flowers as its ontological make-up exists. Instead, we will prove that what we can know, i.e., extension, exists. What we can know to exist determines what we do know to exist. This statement is a truism adopted by Descartes. What is important, however, is not the truism itself, but Descartes' sense of the word "know." Since the scope of knowledge is confined to extension, so are entities in the world. For instance, we can no longer say that there is a true, ontological foundation for, e.g., smell when smell is no longer an item of know ledge (scientia.) The precedence of the quid question over the quod question, then, entails that the entities met with in the world be of a determinate kind. Experience is predetermined by the understanding of the quid. The experience that goes beyond the bounds of the quid is seen merely as an accident of subjectivity. The resolution of the quid question regarding a thing is in effect the judgement of what holds true of the thing. The conditions of true judgement are in turn the determinate factors in the quid analysis of a thing. At the beginning of the third Meditation Descartes states the condition under which judgement is valid. He writes, "So now I seem to be able to lay it down as a general rule that whatever I perceive very clearly and distinctly is true." A true judgement is made when the object of that judgement is seen "clearly and distinctly." But in the fourth Meditation that deals with truth and error specifically, the judgement and the will are taken as one faculty while the faculty of producing ideas provides for know ledge. The judgement will' s sole function is to recognize that something is true. This recognition is merely the recognition of a correspondence between idea and object. The faculty of judgement, then, adds no know ledge not already provided by the mind's production of ideas. Judgement itself is given the material for judgement, i.e., the idea and the object to which the idea corresponds, and simply pronounces "yes" or "no." The result of the dominion of ideas over both the quid and the quod is that the existence of an object becomes interpreted in light of the idea which corresponds to it. An object to which an unclear idea corresponds cannot be said to exist; hence, an unclear idea cannot be said to correspond to an actual given thing. A smell, for example, does not indicate a real object. The greater part of experience becomes in some sense unreal. A question remains, however, of what is meant by "clear and distinct." Descartes shows his meaning in the course of the Meditations by trying to discover an item of knowledge that is "clear and distinct" on its own. In the second Meditation he turns to the "I" as the first object of this self-evident certainty and the only object whose quod can be resolved before its quid. He achieves the certainty of the "I" by formulating a series of questions regarding what he can know with 14 certainty: "Can I know God? my body? myself?" His only the last question that Descartes can, indeed must, answer affirmatively. It is the pure subject, the "I," that is unavoidable regardless of the validity of what the "I" thinks. An "evil genius" cannot deceive the "I" as to its own existence so long as the "I" thinks. From this point Descartes turns to the quid of the "I," asking likewise what cannot be denied of it. The answer is that thinking cannot be denied the "I" regardless of whether what is thought is ever true. "I feel," "I doubt," "I think" all indicate that feeling, doubting, and thinking cannot be denied the subject and are thus of the quid of the "I." Undeniability is itself what constitutes certainty. Clarity and distinctness are to be found in the certainty of the existence of the " I" and in the certainty of the different types of thinking as constituting the quid of that "I." In the course of the rigorous subjection of the world problem to Descartes' method, the idea of the "I" is the first clear idea to arise. The argument of the existence and characteristics of the "I" show that clarity and distinctness are to be found in undeniability. What this means is that whatever is clear and distinct cannot be self-consistently denied. But hitherto we have dealt only with the metaphysical "I." Extension, on the other hand, can only be undeniably attributed to a thing under investigation if we assume beforehand that the thing is extended. We must assume that "thing" means "extended thing" if the denial of"this thing has extension" is self-contradictory. Descartes, therefore, bases his judgement of what is true of the wax upon a pre-existent notion of the true make-up of entities in the world. Descartes, in investigating the quid of the wax, rejects its mutable characteristics, those that change when the wax is heated. It is the permanent aspect of the wax for which Descartes searches. It is assumed beforehand that intelligible in order to conform to a "form of instruction." The presence of the wax is the condition of its know ability. And because knowing a thing is equivalent to knowing what a thing is, the condition that allows a thing to be known must also be a condition of its being. In other words, the presence of an entity is an ontological as well as epistemic presence. How, then, are entities present to our analysis? How are entities present in their being? Ideas under mental scrutiny must fulfill certain criteria implicit in the task of analysis. Only then can they be considered clear and distinct, considered to correspond to actual entities. The work of analysis is to start with some given entity and from there to discover its underlying principle, its ontological make-up. "To start with an entity" means to isolate the items under scrutiny as entities. Isolation is a tactic central to the method. An entity is present, in isolation, and its ontological make-up is such that it is utterly transparent before "mental scrutiny." Such transparency itself entails that an entity is answerable to the quid question. Descartes calls the special sort of entity in the world that is thus isolated and transparent a "body." According to the sixth Meditation, any body that is "intimately present" to the mind "therefore exists." For an entity in the world to qualify as existent it must be "intimately present," meaning that it must be a body in Descartes' sense. The question ofbodies-"how are we to account for these bodies in their isolation and materiality?"-is a new ontological problem, the body problem. The body problem acts as Descartes' principle of judgement concerning entities in the world. When he asks "what is true of entities in the world?" Descartes in essence asks what is true of them insofar as they are bodies, i.e., insofar as their knowable and real constitution is accounted for by the sort of "presence" that bodies have. The question of the existence of entities in the world, and of the manner in which they exist, becomes more specifically a question of bodies. According to Descartes, the world presents itself in bodies to the subject, and the subject unveils the world, finds out the truth about the world, in terms of those bodies. The world is extension, and the phenomena of things-the totality of which make up our intimate experience of the world-are phenomena of extension. The world problem is reduced to a body problem. All entities in the world are taken to be bodies, and thus all entities are required to assume the conditions of body, viz. permanence and presence. All problems of experience are thought of in terms of extension. Hence the smell of wax is ultimately explained by the motion of extended substance, while the fundamental question of that experience"what is it about my being that underlies this experience called smell?"-is left unanswered. Under the dominion of the body problem, we account for the experience of smell completely in terms of extension, the object of experience, and not in terms of the subject. The Cartesian explanation of a pleasant smell, for instance, would read as follows: "I smell something this permanent aspect indicates what the wax is "really made of" Descartes' notion of permanence as that which characterizes the ontological make-up of a thing determines his judgement of what is "clear and distinct." This determination in turn determines what is true, and thus what things really are. In judging specifically of things in the world, Descartes combines with the notion of permanence a notion of space. The result of this combination is the notion of permanence in space. This permanence in space, this "materiality," is assumed as the condition underlying the existence of things in the world. Permanence in space, or "materiality," is precisely what Descartes "discovers" in the piece of wax that allows him to ascribe extension to it as its ontological condition. The piece of wax presents another condition of its knowability, another principle of judgement. This condition is that which first presents the wax to investigation. The form of investigation, as prescribed by the second plank of Descartes' doctrine of method, is analytic. According to Descartes' second set of Replies, analysis is "the best and ttuest form of instruction." The wax must present itself in such a way that it can be analyzed. This "presence" must in turn be 15 �nature. The investigation of this relation culminates in the "real distinction between mind and body" found in the sixth Meditation. the resulting picture is the anthropology of experience. This anthropology interprets the place of the "I" in the world according to the scientia commanded by the quid of bodies. The body problem determines the interpretation of all things, including the "I," insofar as it exists in the world. According to Cartesian analysis, the "essence of material things" is shown in the illustration with the piece of wax. The existence of material things follows easily: if I perceive the existence clearly and distinctly then they do, in fact, exist. Also, I perceive clearly and distinctly that I have a body, and I perceive clearly and distinctly that this body is distinct from my mind. Hence man's position in the world, his anthropology, comes to light. The physiological body supplies the subjective constitution that allows for the "intimate presence" of bodies before the consciousness of these bodies. Hence, the body is temporally prior to the mind in the order of the apprehension of objects. The mind, however, is necessarily prior to the body in the principles of knowledge, i.e., in the foundation of a scientia. It is in the mind that the possibility of an object as knowable is established. We have already seen how the true character of a·piece of wax is revealed not through sensation or imagination but through "mental scrutiny." This scrutiny also surveys the physiological body in terms of the body problem. The fact of the body's existence only enters a survey of the world through the scientia. The physiological body is, like the wax, an "intimately present" object, even though the physiological body obviously has a special attachment to the mind that the wax does not have. The physiological body, then, is itself seen in terms of the body problem. Experience is, in tum, seen in terms of the physiological body. Descartes, the physician who in his Discourse posits medicine as the end of the scientia, clears the way for an explication of the experience of phenomena in terms of the body problem. The practice of medicine must be raised to a scientia. This transition is made possible by the method. The unclear ideas surrounding the body, and the subjective experience of the body, give way in accordance with the method to the clear ideas, and in particular, to the overreaching idea of extension. A body's "presence" becomes the startingpointforthestudy of the body. Wedonotaskwhat a smell means, nor even what a smell indicates, but rather we ask what conditions, i.e., what bodies in extension, give rise to the physiological impression called "smell." Through an investigation of imagination Descartes offers an anthropological account of the "intimate presence" of bodies. Descartes in the sixth Meditation defines the imagination as "nothing else but the application of the cognitive faculty to a body that is intimately present to [the mind.]" This "presence" is the condition that makes imagination possible. "When [the mind] imagines," writes Descartes, "it turns to- pleasing when bodies in extension emanate from one body and affect my body in such a way that it benefits." The "I" that is not a body or my body or my brain but "me," is passed over in this account. The condition of entities that gives rise to analysis is made plain, but the condition of entities, including the "I," that gives rise to the phenomenon of consciousness is passed over. The world problem, which amounts to the fundamental question behind experience, is raised from the level of consciousness to the special question of God's existence, beyond the level of consciousness. The "I" and God are both discovered through the analysis of ideas, and these ideas are assumed to stand in relation to the world from a vantage point outside of the world. God is radically separated from the world and the understanding of God is cast in terms of verification. "Is God a deceiver?" becomes Descartes' most radical formulation of the world problem. The question, however, refers directly back to the body problem-"does my assessment of bodies reveal the truth of entities in the world?" The question of whether God is a deceiver does not stem from the usurpation of the world problem by the body problem. On the contrary, it is the body problem that initially determines the formulation of the question of whether God is a deceiver. The effect is that the world is thought of in terms of body, while the "I" and God are radically separate from the world. When the world problem is resolved into the body problem, the deeper question of what kind of being underlies the consciousness of entities is left unanswered, and indeed unquestioned. It may be argued, however, that extension does serve as an account of consciousness. Consciousness, it is said, originates in the brain. The passions, for instance, are specifically accounted for by the action of the pineal gland. This account is in one sense correct, but it is not complete. The theory behind the functioning of the pineal gland may admirably account for the appearances, but it cannot account for the "I." I am not a pineal gland or a brain or any bit of extension, no matter how important they are to how I carry on in the world. Following Descartes we regress into a labyrinth of extension looking for the point at which the "I" itself enters the world, but we never find it. Only in a world ontology that includes the fundamental "I'' are the real phenomena of the world capable of explication. Indeed, the possibility of these phenomena is itself inconceivable until the "I" is fully explained. Because Descartes passes over the question of the "I" in the world, any account of experience can only be made in terms of the body problem that is in terms of action and reaction in the world of extension. The quid of bodies as determined by ideas is now the universal quid of the essential and true being of bodies. In other words, the world is extension. The result of this assertion is that the question of experience is necessarily referred to a notion of extension. Man's relation to the world becomes fundamentally physiological in 16 ward the body and looks at something in the body that confo1ms to an idea understood by the mind or perceived by the senses." It is the "something" that is "present" which the imagination surveys, and this "something" in turn "conforms" to some idea. This something, then, must be a body that conforms to some idea. Such a body, insofar as it is imagined, must in tum be in contact at some point with the physiological body. In Descartes' anthropology "a body" (corpus) and "the body" (corpus) are such closely connected terms that in some passages of the sixth Meditation it is unclear which one is intended. The physiological body seen in this light is a sort of tabulation of information about bodies that is yielded up to the imagination (as tabulator) and the pure "I" (as judge) to build the scientia. The process of tabulation is easily explained: hard bodies are impressed upon soft membranes; nerves are pulled and severed; extension affects extension. Ultimately, ideas determine the whole view. To say that bodies are intimately present can mean nothing more "anthropologically" than that their essence is accessible to the mind via the body. An intimately present body can be unclear, but it cannot escape some sort of place on the tabulation. The imagination itself is a corporeal or semi-corporeal faculty. It is conspicuously absent from Descartes' roster of purely mental faculties featured in the third Meditation. Furthermore, it is of no avail in those metaphysical matters concerning God and the "I." The imagination is strictly "an application ... to a body." According to Descartes, any body is first accessible through the imagination. When Descartes turns to the wax, he pictures it in his mind and then reduces that picture to the underlying extension. This act of picturing is imagination. Hence, we see the significance of the imagination in the quid question. This significance is especially apparent when we remember that questions about the world are ultimately questions about bodies. The concerns with God and the "I," though central to the plan of the Meditations, are themselves not part of scientia proper. Problems beyond the scope of the imagination, i.e., metaphysical problems, are special ones relating to the foundation of the scientia while the problems of the imagination, i.e., physical ones, constitute the body proper of the scientia. Although mention of the imagination appears late in the Meditations, and is not considered explicitly until the fiftl1 Meditation, this faetµty is all important in the quid analysis of physical things. The imagination is of no avail, however, in the realm of the metaphysical, and the realm of the metaphysical is itself entirely out of the world. Thus tl1e imagination determines the boundary of the material world by indicating where the physical (imaginable) ends and the metaphysical (unimaginable) begins. Descartes' anthropology of method is therefore clear: the physiological body is referred to the body problem, and the "I" is refeffed through its physiological connection to the world. Man in physicality is interpreted according to his role in the resolution of the body problem. The pure "I," the one that accords most closely not with "my body" but with what I mean by "me," is not a concern of the anthropology, but rather, is a metaphysical concern, i.e., one outside of the world. In Descartes' method, the world problem becomes the body problem while the "I" and God are radically separate from the world. The consequence of these distinctions is that Descartes passes over the fundamental questions of the ontological basis for a coming together of the "I'' and entities in the world. Descartes replaces this question with a physical interpretation of worldly phenomena and a physiological interpretation of subjective experience. The ontology of consciousness, meanwhile, is neglected and relegated to an other-worldly sphere. Descartes depicts the "l" peering from a distance upon a world of bodies, explaining the phenomena of the objects in terms of bodies. his "I" does not, however, attempt to explain its own consciousness in terms of world ontology. This description is itself implied in the method insofar as the method assumes the body problem as a principle. Do we, then, reject Cartesian methodology? A defender of Descartes would say that such a rejection would be foolish. One does not, he says, dismiss the method and its body problem on the force of a vague desire for the resolution of some world problem that may not even be expressible, useful, or even existent. The Cartesian revolution of thinking consists largely in what Descartes (in the Discourses) proposes as the replacement of the "theoretical philosophy of the schools" with "practical philosophy." In common language, we say that the Cartesian revolution is motivated by the desire to disregard the world-problem thinking of the Scholastics and replace it with the body-problem thinking of the Method. Further, says the defender, any attempt to reject Descartes' method and its conditions seems to oppose rational thought. Our response to this would-be defender is that the critique of Descartes' rationalism is not one of the contents of that enterprise, but rather is an investigation of how that rationalism directs us in an interpretation of the world. If a rejection of Cartesian methodology carries with it a rejection of the findings of that methodology applied to the world, i.e. , the findings of natural science, then such a rejection would be unwarranted. Keeping our science, however, does not necessarily entail a compete dismantling of the world problem. Instead, the meaning of our science is called into question, as is our understanding of the world. It is that understanding that is here of interest. Our ability to formulate the world problem is enough to make that problem of importance. Our inability to conclusively resolve this problem may not be of any real significance. The question in its very open-endedness, in its very lack of resolution, carries with it meaning not provided by the body problem. To raise such a question is indeed within our rights, and is, perhaps, even our duty. 17 �~ Orion outside my window U Stacie Slotnick '94 And tonight I met my guardian angel. It is not enough to be kindone must be armed (at all times). It is not enough to pleadto plead for any reason beyond the stars. Plead to them. They see you, they know you, and they may answer. Now I know this. Now I understand. He is no Beatirice. He cannot save me. But he told me to stay on guard (at all times), to aim carefully when I shoot, and to stand up very straight when Ido. ("One must never slouch," he said.) Tonight I woke up and saw Orion outside my window. He smiled at me. He straightened his belt and inquired: "How are you?" And I asked him: "You know me?" He laughed. So I asked him to show me how to shoot straight. So, I have no guardian with white wings and a gauze gown. So he does not play a harp and gaze benevolently. But he's betterbecause his arrows move quickly and his eyes gleam with cunning held in check. An Investigation of Key Characters . (and Character's Keys) in Mozart's Don Giovanni Nancy Marcus '93 Opera is a creative combination of two expressive mediums, a happy union between literature and music. When an artist has a sufficient understanding of both realms, the dramatic and the musical, he can enhance one with the other, uniting music and drama into a single unified and aesthetic whole. Such a successful marriage of mediums is made in Mozart's opera, Don Giovanni. Don Giovanni, because of its operatic form, has advantages over both non-textual music and non-musical drama, in that it can use music to expand the drama and character development of an already powerful story. Mozart's music, by itself, can easily affect the moods and emotions of those who listen to it, without providing any literal ideas to accompany its effects. The drama provided by the plot of the opera, on the other hand, contributes an abundant supply of ideas and literary themes which correspond to Mozart's musical themes. While the theme and plot of Don Giovanni's story are complemented by Mozart's music, the opera's music is most crucial to dramatic progress in the area of character development and the portrayal of the characters' emotions and personalities. In the arias and vocal ensembles of Don Giovanni, the characters express their sentiments as much though their music as through their words. Music is able to suspend and expand their emotions, resulting in a deeper empathy in the outside audience toward the characters within the drama. Even when the characters are physically absent from the stage, their presence can be sensed through the music. This transposition first occurs in the overture of Don Giovanni. In Don Giovanni's overture, the music foreshadows future conflict between the characters of the Commandant and Don Giovanni. The opening chord of the opera, a powerful, tremulous D minor chord, embodies both the characters and their conflict: The conflict between the Commandant and the Don can be felt in this solid declaration of the key of D minor, which is to become their "key of conflict" throughout the course of the opera. The Commandant's foreboding presence can also be felt in this opening chord through the oscillating octaves in the lower voice of the orchestra. The same descending D octave heard here is later heard again with added significance, and will play an important role in the finale, when the two characters are reunited for their final, most horrific scene together. The first thirty measures of the overture continue to foreshadow the future conflict between the two characters, as several key themes are played: These motifs will not be heard again until the climactic scene in the finale. Direct parallels can be found between the first eighteen measures of the overture and the first eighteen measures of the Commandant's appearance in the finale. The overture's ominous beginning loses its grim tone after thirty measures: as the mode changes to major, the tempo picks up, and the strings and woodwinds engage in a frantically playful game of tag. One such game of tag occurs with the frequently appearing phrase: Lower Voices I" 19 18 �but they are also revealed to be deceptively final by their immediate succession by the aforementioned "stalker" phrase: Whenever this phrase occurs, it is either split between two different voices that chase one another with the same musical figure or conflicts with another musical phrase. Wind s St rin gs 1 - if f1ff~1 1 fn 1 r1 1F f1 2$#F n:r, 1 4~# F which resumes the musical chase each time. These unresolved dominants might suggest that the conflict between Don Giovanni and the Commandant is not easily resolvable. The overture itself is never quite resolved. Such a lack of resolution rarely appears in the overture of an opera. The overture starts in D minor, but ends on a C major chord, not the predominant key of the overture. Instead it segues directly into the F major key of the scene immediately following the overture. The modulation from D minor to D major to C major to F major (which is the relative major, and thus an extension of D minor) is incomplete until the eventual return to D minor. This completion of the modulation culminates at the moment of the Commandant's entrance in the first scene. With the Commandant's entrance, the cycle of modulations begun in the overture is completed, the "key of conflict" (D minor) returns, and the conflict between the Commandant and Don Giovanni becomes a musical reality. In this first scene of the opera, Leporello's entrance begins the action with a bit of comic relief, called for by brooding intensity of the overture. Leporello is portrayed, both literally and musically, as a shallow character, capable of only the simplest melodies. In this first scene he seems to hopscotch around with basic intervals, revealing no ("No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No!") dramatic or melodic substance. As is seen in his character throughout the opera, his simplicity shines through most brilliantly in the "Catalog Aria," a humorous depiction of Don Giovanni's amorous exploits, and also a revelation of Leporello's pathetic lack of melodic capability. But Leporello's character is not the focus of this first scene; his character is too weak to do anything more than introduce a scene. Leporello' s arietta, and the transitory key of F major with which he enters the scene, lasts only seventy measures. Don Giovanni and Dona Anna then enter the scene, bringing with them a key change to B flat major, the penultimate step of the series of modulations begun in the overture. The passionate but brief exchange between Donna Anna and Don Giovanni is the first glimpse we receive of the Don's romantic habits, and the only time we see him before his fatal confrontation with the Commandant. In this scene, we see a man and a woman engaged in a violent battle of wills: Donna Anna snuggles to unmask the man who has "attacked" her, and Don Giovanni to quiet the furious woman. Yet one hears something more than this battle in the music between the two, which may as well be a duet l e t c . 1 ~ndJ1333 I f tt U(!rrrtrrr nt t 1 This second musical conflict, one between the stem, condemning stalking motion of the descending octaves and the flightier, carefree tease of eighth notes again exemplifies the musically metaphoric representation of the Commandant (in the first phrase) and Don Giovanni (in the second). The overture is filled with images of a similar nature such as the unsettling occurrence of unresolved dominants, which may suggest another unresolved conflict that lies ahead. The first two of these unresolved dominants are especially striking, for not only do they sound like convincingly final cadences: 20 between lovers. The music here reveals a bond between Don Giovanni and Donna Anna which the libretto alone cannot elucidate, a bond which is revealed by Don Giovanni and Donna Anna' s musical distance from Leporello, the only other character present. Though all three characters sing simultaneously, Leporello is musically detached from Don Giovanni and Dona Anna. The latter two characters, oblivious to Leporello's eighth note ramblings beneath them, alternate between echoing one another's melodic phrases and singing together, rather romantically, in parallel thirds. IJonna IJon As the scene continues the two men duel and Don Giovanni mortally wounds the Commandant. An andante trio between the Commandant , Don Giovanni, and Leporello accompanies the Commandant's death. This trio further reveals the nature of the bizarre bond between Don Giovanni and the Commandant. Just as Leporello was musically detached from Donna Anna and Don Giovanni in this scene's earlier trio, he is similarly separated, musically and lyrically, from the Commandant and Don Giovanni in this later trio. A. G. Leporello's signing is typically hasty, rushing along with dotted eighth note-sixteenth note combinations beneath the slower rhythms of the Commandant and Don Giovanni, sun together at a mournful, pensive pace: Having thus introduced Don Giovanni's character to us through the characters of Donna Anna and Leporello, Mozart finally brings the Commandant onto the stage. With the Commandant's first physical entrance the D minor "key of conflict," anticipated since the overture, reappears. The fatal struggle between the Commandant and Don Giovanni that occurs in this opening scene results in the old man's death and eventually, in the Don's damnation. By killing the Commandant, Don Giovanni precipitates his own downfall; all the action in the remainder of the opera evolves from this fateful scene and brings Don Giovanni closer to his second fateful encounter with the Commandant. The first musical suggestion of this strange bond between them occms at the beginning of the battle scene, on "Misero !", the word sung by Don Giovanni to commence the duel. On " Misero" (miserable or wretched one) , aimed by Don Giovanni at the Commandant, Don Giovanni sings a descending octave on D. That musical figure, first heard in the overture, becomes the trademark address of the Commandant to Don Giovanni in the final scene between them. It is through descending octaves that the Commandant condemns Don Giovanni in the finale and it is upon the same descending D octave that Don Giovanni eventually falls to his damnation. lt is ironic, therefore, that the first time this descending D octave is heard, it is sung by Don Giovanni, and not by the Commandant. When Don Giovanni curses the Commandant with the falling D octave, he in effect curses himself, hastening his own descent into hell. The Commandant's later curse upon Don Giovanni with the same descending octave suggest that the two enemies have, like a pair of lovers , become as one. I Do n G. .. :; - I ;:: :.. ;:: r Com. l ep. ~ :.. :; -fft-· ..- 1 ~ ... - ,.. ~ ~ )" - . . ~ ~ ;;; r r == The libretto further separates Leporello from the other two characters. Don Giovanni and the Commandant's words in this scene are nearly the same. While the Commandant is singing, "I feel my life ebbing away from my throbbing breast," Don Giovanni is singing, "I see his life ebbing away from his throbbing breast." Leporello, however, is far removed from the sentiments of the other two men; he sings, "I can feel my heart pound with terror in my breast." The contrast between Leporello' s isolation from the other characters, and the intertwining of Don Giovanni ' s character and with the Commandant's is most vividly portrayed by the music in the last few measures preceding the Commandant' s 21 �aria is a fast-paced whirlwind of sensual indulgence, as Don Giovanni excitedly anticipates the party eh is to throw that evening, and all the new girls he will soon add to his list. The frenetic rhythm of this aria mirrors the restlessness in Don Giovanni's soul. While other characters, when given an aria, reflect upon themselves in a somewhat leisurely tempo, Don Giovanni is incapable of the inner stillness required for such reflection. The cause of his perpetual motion may be his unquenchable desire for pleasure. But, as Pascal might observe, it may also be seen as a desperate pursuit of distractions which might forestall the approach of any quiet moments during which he would be forced to confront the darkness within himself. Whatever the cause of Don Giovanni's restless presto pace, it contrasts greatly with the slow, deliberate pace of the Commandant, the ghost of whom, though not yet materialized, may well haunt the Don in all his actions, as the audience is haunted, unable to forget the dark, foreboding music of the overture and the first scene, despite all Giovanni's attempts at distraction. Don Giovanni's second aria, "Meta di voi qua vadano," is sung to deceive MaBetto and the other armed villagers set upon the Don's death that he is Leporello. This is an aria of deception in two respects: Don Giovanni lies to his pursuers by pretending to be Leporello, but he also lies to himself on a deeper level. Just as he sees everything else as a game, even his own destruction becomes a mater of humor to Don Giovanni, as he sings in this aria, "If you hear a man with a maid... making love beneath a window, then strike out hard." The fact that Don Giovanni takes nothing seriously, even his own life, becomes a matter of fatal consequence later in the opera. Both of these arias sung by Don Giovanni are devoid of the serious emotion which can be found in the arias of the other characters in the opera. Don Giovanni's arias, although musically adroit, are comparatively shallow in content. Don Ottavio' s "Dalla Sua Pace" is a slow, heartfelt song which concerns his love for Donna Anna. The aria's music, which wavers between major and minor, reflects Ottavio's love, a mixture of joy and suffering. Though Don Giovanni frequently sings about love, with seeming passion, he feels nothing but momentary flirtation and conquest, nothing nearly as substantial and pennanent as Don Ottavio' s love for Donna Anna. Donna Elvira's aria, "Mi tradi quell'alma ingrata," reveals not only Donna Anna's conflicting feelings for Don Giovanni, but also a profound understanding of the dangers of which he seems completely oblivious. The aria is preceded by a prayer-like recitative, in which Donna Anna accurately prophesies, "The wrath of Heaven must be at hand; its justice will not tarry. I see the deadly thunderbolt raised above his head! I see the fatal abyss open before him." Of her own feelings for the Don, she sings in the recitative, "Unhappy Elvira, what conflicting emotions strive in thy heart! Why death. Leporello is tonally static, maintaining one pitch per measure, but ascending slowly from one measure to the next: Meanwhile, Don Giovanni and the Commandant are both dying musically, singing descending chromatics: I :J= &'F D 11p I&~ ~ 1 ~ IF ' ~ F ' DIF F Veg-go l'a-ni-ma par-tir (Comm. )C ~ ~ I IC:J:&F nal l'F1le1 ~1 IE sen-------tola---n1-----ar-----t1r Di es) omm. This musical death shared by both characters emphasizes the transfonnation of Don Giovanni's curse on the Commandant to a fatal curse upon himself. Her it appears, at least musically, that by killing the Commandant, Don Giovanni kills some part of himself. Don Giovanni's tonal descent, or metaphorical "death" actually begins several measures before the Commandant's, and on the final note, Don Giovanni falls to an F, while the Commandant rises up to the same note. Though the Commandant physically dies on this note, he is not completely destroyed. His spiritual (or musical) presence lingers on through the course of the opera, and his physical presence is also resurrected at the end of the opera. The music relays the shadowy inconclusiveness of the Commandant's death in the four measures after he sings his final note. In these measures, the orchestral music continues its chromatic descent, which ends on a G major chord in its first inversion, results in a lack of resolution. In the dialogue that follows, Leporello' s comic question, "Who's dead? You or the old man?" echoes the musical confusion which characterizes the previous tragic scene. This crucial step adds an element of imbalance to the basic conflict between Don Giovanni and the Commandant, which proceeds from the questionable pennanence of the Commandant's death, and the foreshadowing of Don Giovanni's own self-propelled destruction, which has yet to be actualized. Don Giovanni's self-destructive nature is variously shown throughout the rest of the opera. Although Don Giovanni is the central figure in this opera, present in almost every scene, he is rarely seen alone with his thoughts. He has only two arias, both of which he sings for the entertainment or mockery of those around him; in both he reveals neither serious emotion nor introspection. The first one of his arias is the presto "Finch 'han dal vino calda la testa," better known as the "Champagne Aria." The 22 these sighs? Why this distress?" Her emotions, wavering between selfish hurt at his injustice toward her and selfless pity for his soul, are echoed in the music, which alternates between her sighs of pity- Even the threat from the apparition of his mortal enemy fails lo shake Don Giovanni's casual attitude; the statue's warning is to him just one more challenge in the game of life. As this scene concludes with Leporello' s aria, which Don Giovanni forces him to sing, in order to invite the statue to dinner, Don Giovanni's path to his inevitable damnation in the finale approaches its fatal end. Undaunted, Don Giovanni opens the finale in a spritely D major key, feasting and drinking in preparation for a dinner guest from Hell. Don Giovanni's humor is contagious; even Mozart cannot resist making fun of himself with a musical pun. and her angry cries to God about the wretchedness Don Giovanni has brought upon her. 1 Leporello That's a song ,.,~rchestr:a 0 Dio! mi fa, (theme from Moz11r~'s Figaro) , infelice I r o· r r r r 1 0 Dio! 1 etc. The sighs outweigh the angry outbursts in this aria, and Donna Elvira remains the one character, apart from the Commandant, concerned for the salvation of Don Giovanni's soul. It is appropriate that this aria is immediately followed by the "statue scene." The "statue scene" (Act II, Scene XII) again displays Don Giovanni's flippant attitude towards death. In this scene, his extreme tendency to laugh at everything, coupled with his inability to fear his soul (as Donna Elvira does for him in her aria), leads him to literally invite the form of his own damnation to dinner. This scene begins with Don Giovanni's laughter, which resounds throughout his duet withLeporello, as he recounts the trouble he's made, and the girls he's recently encountered. Leporello,w ho in earlier scenes occasionally expresses mild disapproval of his master's lifestyle, becomes truly offended in this scene, when Don Giovanni relates an amorous exploit he had with one of Leporello's own love interests. Under the shadow of the Commandant's moonlit statue, Leporello demands of Don Giovanni, "Supposing she had been my wife?" and then Don Giovanni callously laughs in response, "Better still!" At this moment, the statue of the Commandant comes to life, supported by the forceful harmony of a brass ensemble, and sings a warning to Don Giovanni: "Your jest will turn to woe ere it is morning!" The playful mood of the scene's opening is broken as Donna Elvira rushes in with one last attempt to convince Don Giovanni to change his ways. Don Giovanni's response is typically mocking, and Donna Elvira finally surrenders her hope for him, singing, "Monster! Then remain a horrible example in the stinking pit of your iniquity!" She sings this denunciation on a descending octave, the same musical figure (though in a different key) with which Don Giovanni curses the Commandant in the first scene, and which the Commandant repeats as he enters in the final scene. 23 �The orchestra ushers the Commandant's ghost to the stage with two dissonant chords of thunder, which the Commandant resolves into D minor in his address to Don Giovanni: Lepore/lo ~I Ort i w Ah! I 2: ~ uJ ron! ) With his entrance, the Commandant brings about a complete key change to D minor, the "key of conflict," sobering the tone from the relative F major that preceded his entrance. This entrance, as foreshadowed in the overture, begins the culmination of the conflict between the Commandant and Don Giovanni. The struggle between the characters in these first eighteen measures of the Commandant's entrance, which parallel the first eighteen measures of the overture, is depicted in their music more forcefully than in their words. The Commandant's forceful, regular rhythms and condemning descending octaves are engaged in a musical battle against the more agitated, syncopated rhythms shared by Don Giovanni and Leporello, which are confined to a span of five pitches , as if to escape the fearful octaves sung by the Commandant. The orchestra supports the Commandant with the rhythmic phrase, 1 @~ Ah! Padron! Pad- 'Ah! ~Padron! ~ Siam tutti ~~ ~ ~ q;§rn§mdn The source of the agitation which the two display musically differs in each of the two men. Don Giovanni is not (at least externally) afraid; he is rather beside himself with the excitement of playing host to such a tremendous dinner guest, singing in response to the Commandant's appearance, "Truly, I did not believe it, but I'll do what I can. Leporello, serve the table for my guest-bring another platter!" The source of LeporeHo's agitation, however, is his understandably extreme fear, which separates him from his master, and reveals him to be the wiser of the two. Voicing the fear which Don Giovanni mocks, Leporello exclaims, "Ah, master. ..we are all dead men!" Don Giovanni, having no patience for the cowardice of his servant, rebukes Leporello, singing, "Go, I say!" Vanne d1co in his address to Don Giovanni, and throughout the scene. The dotted rhythms beneath the Commandant emphasize the downbeats of his phrases, and further reinforce the adamance of his weighty half notes. The orchestral music which accompanies Don Giovanni andLeporello, is, in contrast, rhythmically syncopated, stressing the agitated response to the Commandant's appearance: Ferma un po' T (stay) In this brief moment of rebuke, Don Giovanni loses control, taking on that same musical phrase with which the Commandant addresses him upon his arrival. The Commandant does not miss the irony of Don Giovanni's unintentional musical slip; he repeats the descending D octave back to Don Giovanni, reclaiming his authority, and reversing Don Giovanni's order to Leporello: /Jon Giovanni 12=~ , p· ~ Vanne, 24 t This demanding invitation results in a musical struggle between the ghost's octaves and Don Giovanni's rising fornths, which, in conjunction, add up to the musical figure, The final musical battle of wills between the Commandant and Don Giovanni having now commenced, the ghost of the Commandant begins to explain his purpose in coming to dinner: "Earthly food he no longer desireth, who of heavenly food hath partaken! Another purpose more grave than this, another mission, brought me here." The orchestra's music accompanying this ominous statement is a powerful succession of chromatically rising scales, each one bringing increasing tension to the scene, while the Commandant's voice, unmoved by the turbulence he creates beneath him, remains stolid in his slow, deliberate composure of constant half notes and minimal tonal movement. I affectionately dub this the "tragic hero motif," for contained within it is the triumphant fourth representing the hero, and the falling octave which symbolizes his downfall. It is with this musical figure that the Commandant addresses Don Giovanni upon entering the finale, and with the same musical motif Don Giovanni finally falls to his damnation. In the musical struggle here presented, the motif is split between the descending octaves just heard in the Commandant's invitation and the rising fourths in Don Giovanni's proud, heroic-sounding response: m r 1r r ~ ) 14tj'gpl ~ QIJj J@1@j~!ij I Commandant Al-tre gra- pi~ cu-re, vi di que- . , ii 111J mpd I th n filste pD Dlq! rn p Irln p I A torto di viltate tacciato mai sa- The musical battle continues as the Commandant's deliberate rhythms and monotonic speech oppose the other two characters' agitated inte1Tuptions. WhileLeporello's interruptions fear, Don Giovanni's become bursts of increasing impatience with the presumption of his dinner guest. Don Giovanni's impatience soon begins to mirror the Commandant's own impatience; the speech of the two characters becomes increasingly similar, leaving poor Leporello behind in his trembling triplets. Don Giovanni continually repeats, "Parla, parla, ascoltando ti sto," ("Speak then, I am listening.") and the Commandant similarly repeats, "parlo, ascolta, piu tempo non ho,"(" speak, listen, my time is short.") The climactic moment of the finale begins when the Commandant sings his most forceful speech, a speech abundant with descending octaves, as he demands that Don Giovanni accept a reciprocal dinner invitation to Hell. The commandant responds to Don Giovanni's rising fourths with minor tenths, which suggest an even more demanding imperative than does the octave. In response to the Commandant's last question ("You'll come?"), Don Giovanni attempts a final musical moment of triumph, grandly singing, "My heart is firm within me, I have no fear, I'll come," before he takes the Commandant's hand. This moment of glory is short-lived; as soon as he takes the hand of the Commandant, he cries out in horror: him~! p I His fourth, no longer heroic, has become diminished! 111is is the first sign of a strange musical transition that begins to occur between Don Giovanni and the Commandant as they stand, bonded together by a deadly handshake. The di co 25 �by singing the pitch a mere halfstep below the tonic, a C#. In response to this near realization of the tonic, the Commandant sings, "Si! Si!" on an A and an F, which forms the top part of a D minor triad. Don Giovanni's completion of this triad is almost inevitable. Don Giovanni cannot, indeed, avoid singing the Don his next "No!", but he does so with a horrible scream an octave above the expected D, and without any verbal repentance. Though he tries to escape the D he is forced to sing by succeeding it immediately with an A, it is too late. He has sealed his doom by singing the tonic, as the Commandant makes clear, singing, "Ahl Your time has now come!" The Commandant ends this damning proclamation with a clear return to D minor, accompanied by the fires of hell and a chorus of demons, who sing, "No doom is too great for your sins! Worse torments await you below!" After bringing the hellfire and demons to the stage, and reintroducing the key of D minor, the Commandant departs the action of the opera. His purpose fulfilled, he leaves Don Giovanni surrounded by infernal wrath, the fires of Hell lapping hungrily at his soul. Don Giovanni finally confronts the darkness which surrounds him as he sings, "My soul is torn in agony, my body is in torture! What torment! What madness! Ah! What hell! What terror!" Just before the flames engulf Don Giovanni, bringing a most horrifying end to his earthly existence, he sings: Commandant, no longer accompanied by the dotted rhythms of the orchestra, loses the rhythmic regularity he possessed up until this point, and instead sings with the same rhythmic figures as Don Giovanni. The effect of this musical change is the Commandant is that he seems to take on some of Don Giovanni's agitation, losing his statuesque composure. The orchestra's tremulous forte music is also agitated in this incredible moment which embodies the musical suggestion made earlier in the opera of a bond between Don Giovanni and the Commandant. For the first time, Don Giovanni grows fearful, losing his ability to control the moment at hand, capable only of singing "No!" to each "Yes" sung by the Commandant.; the struggle between them becomes more fierce even as they become more unified musically. In this struggle for Don Giovanni's soul, during which the Commandant actually tries to save Don Giovanni by allowing him a last chance for repentance, the music metaphorically illustrates the conflict between them and the conflict between the characters' cries and the tonic D of the D minor key, the "key of conflict." Each of the Commandant's cries "Si" points diatonically to a resolution on D, the tonic, but each of Don Giovanni's "No" sidesteps the admittance of the resolving D. But each time he refuses to sing the D that the Commandant demands of him, he does so by an increasingly narrow margin. ....0... Ah! l -n~! This solid cadence concludes the saga of Don Giovanni in D major, not minor. This big change in no way mitigates the finality of his demise, but rather restores to the world the joy that Don Giovanni's existence detracted from it. The happy ending is further celebrated in the scene that follows Don Giovanni's fall. In the last scene of the opera, all the remaining essential characters come together to sing about living (more or less) happily ever after. While this opera might appear to some to be primarily about Don Giovanni's romantic adventures, I would argue that it is instead an opera about the conflict within a man who has no conscience. The conflict that occurs within Giovanni's soul may be metaphorically represented by his conflict with the Commandant. As the music reveals, in killing the Commandant, Don Giovanni kills a part of himself. It may well be that in the battle between them, Giovanni murders his own conscience. In some obscure part of his soul, Don Giovanni's conscience lingers on throughout the action of the opera, though as embodied by the Commandant, it is not physically present. Eventually, Don Giovanni is compelled to confront this part of himself one last time, hoping to destroy it completely (or, at least, to get it drunk). But the Commandant, the embodiment of his conscience, can never be destroyed, for he (it) is as much a part of Don Giovanni as the music he makes. Unwilling to part with his libertine lifestyle and unable to completely destroy his conscience, Don Giovanni can only destroy himself, and join his conscience-the Commandant-in Hell. It is highly significant that Don Giovanni's character falls to its damnation on this musical figure, the earlier mentioned "tragic hero motif;" this is the only time Don Giovanni embraces this phrase in reference to himself. There can hardly be any doubt that in this moment, when Don Giovanni sings the damning D octave, surrounded by the fires of Hell, his end is conclusive. Unlike the inconclusiveness of the music that follows the Commandant's death, the orchestra's cadence at the end of Don Giovanni's scene is deliberate and final. The first "Si" that the Commandant sings in on a C, in response to the B natural of Don Giovanni's "No" that precedes it. The natural response to this progression from B to C is the next successive pitch, the tonic D, but Don Giovanni avoids that resolution; his next "No" is on an F#. This F# is, however, closer to the impending tonic that the B natural of his earlier "No." The Commandant then proceeds to edge Don Giovanni even closer to D with his next "Si" which falls on a G, but again Don Giovanni sidesteps an easy resolution on D Music typesetting by John Allanbrook. 26 27 �~ The Reeve' s Tale by Geoffry Chaucer Lines 321-375 translated from Middle English and paraphrased in Native Rural Texan Kathleen Wilson GI '93 Up at Ingram, up the road from Kerrville at the Quinlan Creek crossing there's a low-water bridge. Back from the road a piece, right where the bridge runs by a thick cedar brake, there's a saw mill for cedar choppers, still work.in'. Now this is the truth of it. There was a ole chopper operatin' it years ago. May still be there. He was a big old boy, prouder of hisself than any chopper around those paits. Strutted like a fanned-out peacock, could bring down a deer with a bow and arrow on a foggy morning after a beer bust. Never got too drunk to fish , either, and wrastled for the joy of it. He was always decked out with knives. He'd stick one in his belt, one in a scabbard on the belt, and a ole Sheffield knife down in his sock. Them knives was honed sharp e,1ery day, ready for him to use. Didn't nobody mess with this chopper who didn't want to die. His face was big ai·ound as a big moon pie, with his nose flat in the middle of it. He was bald as a gorilla besides, and brought hisself into town pretty regular, swaggering and blustery. Didn't nobody want a thing to do with him, what with his being such a nuisance and mean to boot. People pretty much stayed clear of him, as they didn't want him toting a grudge against them. The truth of it is, he was nothing but a slick thief, and could cheat a rancher in a cedar deal by just looking and acting as dumb as any other old chopper. He was a sly one, all tight. He was used to turning a living that way. He was called Scornful Simon, and didn' t tolerate any foolishness about his name. Which everybody knowed, so Simon it was. When Simon got hisself a wife, it was a girl in the town. Her momma considered her fine , and she thought so herself. Even the preacher from the Holiness Church, who was the best preacher that Holiness crowd had seen in a coon's age, took an interest in helping the girl, sending her to the Holiness school on scholarship and such, and the family was proud about it., The fact of it was that the girl took her looks from the Holiness preacher. Which everybody knowed. Simon was a fine one for her. He had high aspirations that way; ai1d since it was time for her to get mai-ried and he was there and willing, the Holiness Church had a shower at the preacher's urging, and loaded her up with pot-, and pans and whatall, as a little enticement to get the wedding done. So Simon got hisself a suitable wife for a third-generation chopper, and a virgin to boot, what with the Holiness crowd watching out after her all that time. That girl was a cheeky thing, brazen as a jaybird, and she detennined to have a show of it. At the Holiness Church revivals, of which there was a few more than would suit most 28 folk, Simon marched right down to the front row of folding chairs under the tent, wearing a custom-creased Stetson. She was right behind, decked out in polyester chiffon, red of some kind as it was her color, al ways matched to the feather trim in Simon's hatband. Which everybody knowed was show, as snakeskin is enough for a hatband and a feather is painting the lily. It was "Yes, sir" and "yes, ma'am" to the two of them when they got with that Holiness crowd. The men of the church was a cautious lot around that pair. Nobody looked twice, passed the hymn book special, or talked over the goings-on with Miz Simon for her chopper was a jealous man, and he come prepared to exact a price from any who got out of line, what with his knives tucked around him. He was a dangerous man when his jealousy was roused. And even if he wasn't everybody thought he was. Which Miz Simon knowed, and was careful about it. She kept her nose in the air anyway. She was a stink with pride, bad as water in a ditch. She knowed who she was, special and all, with her special looks and special education. So she scorned 'most everybody in the town and in the Holiness Church. She was superior-like. That pair got themselves a daughter, and when she was about 20 there came another one, a fine looking boy laying in its cradle. the girl was a chubby one, with glass-grey eyes, fine pretty hair, but Simon's same flat nose parked in the middle of her face. She was a big-boned girl, and had a behind any quarter horse would take pride in, and a bodacious set of ta-ta's. As some people say. And that was the family. The Holiness preacher, who put much stock in family values, took a constant interest in Simon's girl, though he did it quiet-like. He intended to leave her all his worldly possessions since he had no offspring of a legitimate nature, and since he was interested in matching her up with someone of a like ancestry he wanted her undefiled. After all, his worldly possessions come from the Holiness Church, whether direct from salary or from more round-about ways, and he intended for his own blood (which would be considered holy if the Holiness Church ever inclined to think that way, which they wasn't as it was idolatrous) to be rewarded no matter how bad he had to bleed his congregation. Getting back to Simon and his business sense, he was shrewd about taking in juniper logs for fence posts, or sweet cedar for milling. He charged a heavy toll per load, but what was brought in at one end of the mill for preparing and selling was not always what come out at the other. Now one of his best customers was the college in town, which owned considerable land and which also was devoted to the education and 29 �where Simon strips the cedar logs. I don't know one thing about the lumber business. I believe I'll just st.and here and watch." Alan allowed as how that was such a good idea that he'd just stand at the foot of the mill and watch the sweet cedar come through as Simon sawed it into fine two by fours. Simon just smiled, and his brain was a-spinnin'. "So they want a honest deal," he thought to hisself. "I guess they got it all worked out in their college-educated brains. Well, I ain't the learned sort, but my mama didn't raise no fool. Let 'em try to keep a eye on me. Those two are going to haul h?me twisted-up juniper that wouldn't make a fence post and milled wood that ain't fit for nothin' but to fuel a fire. Simon was out the door fast as a hog on ice. He headed straight for the horse and wagon. He sidled up to that horse friendly-like, unhitched it, and eased off the bridle. He give it a little slap on the behind for encouragement, and off it run. Didn't take long for that horse to figger out they was. a herd of wild mares nearby. Bein' the horse of preachers, he had the appetites of preachers, and headed right toward 'em a mile a minute. The chopper headed back inside to his sawmill and did his jobs as good as he'd ever done, with Alan and John awatchin'. When the posts was bound together,and the lumber stacked John headed out to get the wagon, and he was pretty pleased with hisself. That is, until he saw he'd lost his horse and was well nigh stranded in the cedar brake. It was not a desirable place to be stranded, which everybody knowed. "Lord help us, Alan," he hollered. "We've gone and lost the horse! Get out here quick! We're done for!" "What? Lost? We got to find him! Which way was he headed?" Alan yelled. He ran outside and didn't think no more about the sorry enterprises of old Simon and how he was going to prevent 'em from occurring. "Where's our horse?" he wailed. Those fine ways of talkin' went out the window, and they both commenced to hopping up and down, they was so distressed. Out come Simon's fine wife, looking mournful and holding the bridle and reins. "Your horse has done gone past the cedar break and into the clearing. He's found the wild mares, and there's no getting him back now. What sorry soul tied him up so sloppy?" She stared at 'em accusing-like. Alan looked at John and John looked at Alan. Finally John spoke up. "Throw that knife down outen your belt, Alan. We look like regular fools here. I'm fast as a roadrunner and soareyou. We'regettin' ourhorseback." Andtheybothflung down their knives and headed into the cedar brake. Simon commenced to talking to hisself even as he waved goodbye to 'em. "They may be smart and scholarly enough to handle the High Church crowd, but they aint learned enough to trick the likes of me yet. Them two will be hauling home some cedar post not fit to wrap a wire around." and he swapped out their cedar for a pile he'd got thatnobody'd buy, what with it being so gnarled and twisted. training of future preachers of the Protestant persuasion. They was viewed as a High Church bunch to the Holiness crowd, and proved to be easy pickings for Simon's particular business practices. Especially the building and grounds man, who was on the simple side. He hauled in cleared cedar on a regular basis, bringing it by horse-drawn wagon since the roads was too rough for much else, transportation-wise. Which everybody knowed. When the building and grounds man took sick Simon was like a hog at the trough. His profits from the college doubled and doubled again. Where he once had held back a little, as one who believed in honor among thieves, now he turned hisselfloose. The director of the college made a fuss, writing letters and all, but that was nothing to Simon, who even took to bragging about his business sense, and allowed as how anybody who had serious complaints could settle them the Holiness way, with knives and such. Which nobody from the Protestant bunch much wanted to do. Two of them Protestant college boys, figuring theirselves to be pretty smart and being restless for a little adventure, got the school to send them out to the saw mill so as they could keep an eye on that cedar chopper when he took their fence posts in to the mill to get the bark stripped. They figured they'd easy catch him trying to cheat them by swapping their good straight posts and sweet cedar for old bent and wormy wood. They was named Alan and John, and they had charming High Church ways. They had a way of talking that was much admired, especially in a pulpit man. It also weighed a good bit as part of their skill for persuasion. They was allowed to go. Alan and John hitched the horse to the wagon and loaded it up with cedar for posts and cedar for sawing. They even stuck knives in their belts, figuring they was to have more advantage if they looked like they was used to dealing with all kinds. John took the reins and headed for that creek like a bee to honey, for he knew the way from secretly admiring those Holiness girls any chance he got. When they got there Alan took to hollering. "Hey, Simon, how y'all? How's the wife? Where's that girl of yours?" "Well, my Lord!" Simon was at his sociable best. "If it ain't Alan and John! What're y'all doin' here?" He lounged at the door to his mill grinnin' a big 'possum grin. "Our building and grounds man has took sick and we think he's ready to give up the ghost. That's how bad it is. So we can either do this job ourselves or get took for fools. We've got the finest straight cedar logs for you to peel for fence posts, and sweet cedar to go through the mill. You fix it and we'll carry it home again, as we can use it at the college. What we don't use we' ll sell in the town. Quick as you can get it done, we '11 be out of your hair," J oho spoke up. "You want it, you got it!" Simon crowed, for he had spotted a business opportunity for hisself. "What you boys want to do while I'm workin' fer you?" "Look here," said John, a'starin' into the mill. "Here's 30 Meanwhile, John and Alan was galloping after their horse, yelling "Whoa up!" and "Halt!" but they never caught him till nightfall, when they'd run him all the way back to the road and chased him into a borrow ditch. They was all three spent and had sweated a right lot besides. "I wish I'd never been homed," yelled John. "Look at the fix we're in. That old fool has for sure swapped out our good cedar posts, and the whole town will know soon enough we 're fools, not to think of the laugh the Holiness crowd will have on us." He dragged the horse by the reins, Alan bringing up the tail, till they got back to the cedar mill. There was old Simon, asitting by his fire and looking serene as a saint at the gate. Seein' as it was night, they appealed to Simon's Holiness trainin' to take 'em in. And with some cash thrown in to seal the deal, he did. "My house ain't much," Simon opined, "and you are educated folk, but you are welcome to a spot in it. Talk it bigger if it ain't grand enough." Alan andJ ohn began to soothe their host, taking his invitation as a great and clever joke, and saying that, after all, a man can have one of two things- such as he finds or such as he brings. They was willin' to settle for what they found. Hoping as they were for some meat, some home brew, and a bed, the two of 'em was happy to cough over a little cash money in return. Simon set to roasting a goose, and charged his daughter with rounding up the bread and brew, and the whole family saw to it that the horse was tied and hobbled so as not to get loose agai11 . That chopper made up a bed with sheets and quilts for the town boys, not twelve feet from his own bed. The daughter slept nearby, all of ' em light in the same room. They ate and talked, and took in all the ale they could hold and then some, what with needing to cheer themselves up. Around midnight the lot of them headed for bed. The miller had done oiled hisself up, and was white as a sheet from drinkin', havin' passed the red stage altogether. He belched a good bit, then pulled his wife over to the bed to lie beside him . She was stirred up as a cat stalking a jay, the ale having a opposite effect upon her, but settled in after tuckin' the wee one into his cradle at the foot of the bed. She needed to keep him handy, in case he needed rockin' or suckin' in the night. The daughter also headed to bed, but not until she'd used the last drop in the jug, and Alan and John went down also. A dead quiet fell over the room, for nobody needed a sleeping draught after all they'd pulled from the jug. Simon had done took in so much ale that he begun to snort and whinny in his sleep, workin' both ends as if they was musical instruments. The wife soon joined in with a powerful bass snore, and it was a blessing there were no near neighbors, for the sound would have kept the countryside awake. Alan poked John. "Are you asleep? Have you ever heard the like? They're singin' Wednesday night prayer service among 'em. It's a fire in their lungs. Well, that redneck may have our good logs, but they'll all have the worst of it in the end, for I'll not rest my eyes this long night; but no matter, for I'll have justice done us. For, John," he said," I intend to have that chopper's daughter. I'll swivel her proper before this night is done. It's the law, ain't it?" For he was forgettin' that fine coatin' of high church ways. "For the law says it clear that if a man's grieved on one point he's to be relieved on another, and by God I'm gettin' into that gold mine tonight." "Aw, hell, Alan!" hissed John in Alan's ear. "That chopper is a dangerous man. If you git that girl, he's like to wake up and then we're both done for." "He don't scare me," Alan hissed back. 'Tm as scared of him as I am of a house fly." And up he rose, and crept in like a coachwhip snake in the hen house, close beside her. By the time she woke up, it was too late to c1y out, and she soon found that she didn't want to give a warnin ', for he was artful as clergy are wont to be, and they was soon the same as one. And while Alan played, John lay still, thinking dark thoughts. "This is tumin' out to be a bad joke," he brooded, "with the laugh on me. I'm left over here lookin' like a regular ape, but Alan has got repayment for the harm done him. He's got that chopper's girl to lay with. He took the chance, but I lay like a log in my bed. When this joke gets spread 'round town I'll sound like the sissy and the fool. Well Iain 't havin' it. I can take a risk, too. They say a coward has no luck. Well, I'm beginnin' to feel lucky." And up he rose, got hold of the cradle, and carried it back to the foot of his own bed. Not long after, that wife left off snoring and woke up, for she needed to take a piss. She headed outside to the outhouse, and soon come back in, groping for the cradle in the dark and not finding it. "Lord God," she whispered to herself, "I like to got in bed with those two boys. Wouldn't that have ripped Simon's britches!" She felt around some more in the dark and finally took hold of the end of the cradle. She crawled up into the bed and laid herself down close beside young John, where she would have gone back to snoring but for John's sudden activity. He rolled right on top of her and took to showin' her a good time such as she hadn't had in many years (for that chopper carried his manhood more in his blades than in his trnusers, as tl1e size of his family attested to. Which nobody knowed but the wife, and she was wise not to mention it). John rogered her like a madman, and in fact those two young cocksmen kept at it till the cocks crowed at dawn. Alan was raw and weary by this time, for he had met his match on the mattress and had been at it all the night. "Farewell, Molly my sweet," he said. "Here comes the sun, and I'll be leaving. But wherever I go, remember that I am your own true man, and I do hope for your happiness." "Goodbye, sweetheart," she cried. "But before you go, know this one thing. As you head out, stop by the right of the sawmill. You'll find a pile of fine straight cedar post, peeled and ready, that is your very own load of cedar which I helped my daddy steal. Take it back, and God save you, my big fine man." And she commenced to weeping. 31 �n [Untitled] Alan rose up and headed back to the bed where he knew his friend was layin." But he put his hand on the cradle at the foot of the bed and thought, "Oh, Lord, my head is still spinnin' for I outdid myself this night. I've nearly got in the bed with Simon and his wife." So he crept 'round, with the devil's own luck, and got into bed with the chopper when he thought he was in with John. He grabbed that chopper by the neck and began to whisper soft to him. "Wake up, John, you hog's head, for the love of Christ, and hear a brave game. I swear on a stack of Bibles that I have three times this night had the chopper's daughter, and in ways that didn't occur to no missionaries. I'm a man and not afraid to prove it, while you lay abed scared." Up rose Simon, eyes buggin' out, screamin'. "You sorry bastard! Is that what you've done? You ain't fit to be a preacher, dishonoring my fine daughter and defiling her fine family tree!" And the cords bulged out on his neck as he screamed. He grabbed Alan by the throat, and Alan grabbed him right back and socked him on his flat nose. The blood flowed down like a river on Simon's chest. Down they rolled onto the floor, rollin' around like two hogs in a waller. Up they got, down they went, till finally Simon fell back onto the bed where his wife slept, exhausted from her own night-long workout with John. Jolted wide awake, she began to bray like an ass. "Lord, take me home! I'm ready to give up the ghost! Help, Simon! Wake up! These preacher fiends has started a fight and one has fallen on me!" John rose up quick and groped along the walls hoping to find a walking stick. She rose up at the same time, and knowing the walls better than the young preacher, latched right on to a stick. Seein' a little shimmer of light, she picked out the fighters. She honed in on what appeared to be a scrap of white cloth, which she took for the young preacher's nightcap, and took aim and smashed down with that stick. Down fell Simon, clutching his bald head and hollerin', "I'm done for!" Alan and John jumped on him as quick as they'd jumped on his women, and beat him soundly, and left him layin' there on the floor. They quick got their horse, hitched their wagon load of cedar post to him, and headed back to civilization as they knew it. And thus was the proud chopper well beaten, and poorer by one load of cedar post and enough groceries to feed a crowd at a church supper. His wife had been rogered, and his daughter too, and that is what happens to a dishonest chopper. He should have expected it, for he who does evil is repaid with good in the Bible but in the world it is a different story. The truth is, the lot of 'em - Holiness and High Church- was common as pig tracks. Which everybody had suspected and now everybody knows. by Jean Holman There in the half-light in the shadow of her brain they drank straight vodka from paper cups By candle light And he noticed that her eyes were more than blue "And what is in that head of yours," he said As the candle flickered across the starkness of her cheek Like a searchlight passing on an asylum wall "Constellations saclificed across the sky Virgins crucified in starlight," She said, "You will go to heaven when you 're dead But I shall live forever here in dim light With my stany lovers." 32 33 �An Introduction to Kant D Laurence Berns Most introductions to Kant begin with his modifications of the doctrines inherited from Descartes, Locke, Leibniz, Hume and others whose philosophies can be associated with modem mathematical physics. This procedure is certainly correct, but is it sufficient? We suggest that it is not, because it tends to obscure a part of the whole, if not the, fundamental stratum of Kant's thought. By emphasizing those modifications, the premises which those thinkers all share, in particular those premises formed in opposition to the classical PlatonicAristotelian approach, tend to be taken for granted, to be insufficiently questioned, and thereby to be insufficiently clarified. 1 Itis, nevertheless, generally acknowledged that the issues between the "modems" and the "ancients" were fundamental issues for Kant. The following inb·oduction was designed to approach the study of Kant in such a way as to clarify these issues and to see how dealing with them shaped his philosophy as a whole. The key to this approach is the articulation of the very close connection of Kant's thought with the thinking of Thomas Hobbes, for Hobbes seems to be unrivalled for the lucidity with which he stated his oppostion to classical thought while working out what have come to be called the foundations of modem thought. " ... whatsoever accidents or qualities our senses make us think there be in the world, they be not there, but are seeming and apparitions only." What we think are the characterisitics of things in themselves are rather the effects upon, or appearances in, ourselves of causes or things which are in themselves utterly unknown to us. As for intelligibles, the realm of ideas, Hobbes tells us that universals are not in rerum natura (Elements . .. , 5.6); "there being nothing in the world Universal but Names; for the things named, are every one of them Individual and Singular" (Leviathan, ch. 4 ). In his logical and methodological chapters he frequently criticizes Aristotelian philosophy for taking logical distinctions for metaphysical distinctions, for mistaking discourse about our thoughts and the ordering of our thoughts for discourse about things in themselves. Traditional metaphysics from this point of view is absorbed by logic, if not by psychology. Kant continued and developed this critique. According to him we can have no knowledge of things in themselves; science, the study of nature, is concerned only with what appears to us, with what lies in our experience and as far as we can know, lies only in our experience. We may be forced to think, but we have no way of knowing, that what lies in our experience exists outside of or beyond our experience. We can know only "phenomena," the Greek word for appearances. Sense intuition, furthermore, is the only intuition available to us, there is no such thing as intellectual intuition for man. To bring this point home Kant contrasts phenomena, which we can know, with "noumena," the Greek word which he knew meant objects of nous, objects of intellectual intuition. In his Critique of Pure Reason he defines noumena negatively, as a word to refer to that which we can in no way know, an unknowable "x," the unknowable thing in itself. Yet Kant differed from most of the earlier modems; he seemed to aim at restoring certain aspects of classical thought. He is often regarded as the man who reinstated thinking as the most authoritative element of experience. He insisted that to identify the source of our thoughts with the source of our sensations is "intolerable." He claims to have demonstrated that although we can know only phenomena, we can have objective, universal and necessary judgements about them. His famous phrase is "Concepts without intuitions are empty and intuitions without concepts are blind." Thought, the "concept," is what forms and makes meaningful the unorganized material of sense data. There is something like a "realm of ideas" in Kant, but it in no way exists outside of the human mind. Kant's substitute for "ideas," "concepts," have no special purely intellectual objects of their own; they are valid and meaningful theoretically only in application to human I On the supposition that genuine knowledge is attainable for human beings Plato, Aristotle and their followers argue that human beings are endowed by nature with two kinds of intuition or insight, two intuitive faculties, sensation, or sense intuition, and intellectual intuition, or intelligence (nous). These faculties when used correctly, according to Alistotle, enable us to understand and to know the sensible and intelligible characteristics of the things to which they are applied, that is to say, the characterisitics of the things themselves. While both faculties are indispensable for humans, the intelligence is most athoritative; to be in the fullest sense for Plato and Aristotle is to be intelligible, and, perhaps, intelligent. The ideas , intelligible forms, the universals, are the most stable elements in the world and in the most fundamental Vfay, shape the character of the world. The intelligibles come to be the primary objects of the highest kind of inquiry, tl1e study which came to be called metaphysics. The great modern opponents of the classical tradition, Bacon, Descartes, Hobbes, and Locke seemed to regard this presupposition of harmony between the mind of man and the nature of things as a kind of naive optimism. Nature is not a kind mother, she deceives us; the cognitive equipment she has endowed us with conceals rather than reveals the true character of things. In Hobbes' Elements of the Law, 2 2.10, we read, 35 34 �experience, meaning sense experience. Reason, the ultimate source of understanding, and its concepts, is not intuitve, but legislative; it provides rules for the meaningful organization of sense experience, these rules we call concepts. Thus Kant can say paradoxically that "Reason prescribes to nature its laws." Kant was probably thinking of how in Newton's Principia . .. mathematical reason prescribes to nature its laws. A consideration of Hobbes might help make this connection more clear. According to Hobbes, geometry, the model for all science and philosophy, is the ony well grounded body of knowledge we have recieved from the ancients. Geometry is, or mathematical hypotheses are, the demonstrable core of physics. He defines it broadly: "Geometry is the science of determining the quantity of anything, not measured, by comparing it with some other quantity or quantities measured" think scientifically we must think that the succession of appearances in our experience is connected necessarily, that is, that the prior is cause, the latter necessary effect. In other words, our scientific understanding imposes the law of cause and effect, the concept of the relation of necessary connection, upon the succession of appearances in experience. Kant spoke of his "critical philosophy" as part of the Copernican revolution of modem science. To take the most important example: we see the sun rise, move across the heavens and set each day. The Copernican hypothesis accounts for the apparent movement of the sun by the activity or the movement of the observer, by the rotation of the earth. Kant accounts for the meaningfulness of sense experience in terms of its conformity to the rules set by our own conceptual activity, just as physicists try to make sense out of physical phenomena by seeing whether they conform to the laws they have deduced about them from their mathematical representations. Hitherto, Kant says, it has been assumed that all our knowledge must conform to objects, but Kant reverses the priority by asking whether it is not rather that we attain knowledge of objects when those objects, sense objects, conform to the conditions that our concepts and understanding set for all objects of experience. The principle common to Kant and Hobbes might be said to be that we can know fully only what we make. 4 Sense intuition itself takes on a new meaning in the context of Kant's argument. Generally speaking, for Aristotelians intuition means an essentially passive reception by the soul, more or less adequately, of the things intuited. To maintain oneself in the proper state of openness for the reception of adequate intuition may be arduous, but the actual process of intuition itself is essentially passive. Intuition for Kant too is, in part, receptive, but for him that is the least interesting part of the process. The receptivity is merely the capacity of the subject to be affected, to be impressed, by objects. Mere sense impressions must be worked up into meaningful objects of sensible intuition by the synthesizing activity of the imagination and the understanding, the faculty of judgement, that is, in sum, by the synthesizing or composing activity of the thinking subject. Locke's words towards the end of his chapter on property come to mind, where, in discussing the value of property, he tells us that nature furnishes only "the almost worthless materials." We are indebted for the meaning we find in the world, not to a beneficient nature, according to Kant, but to our own cognitive activity. (Six Letters to the Professors of the Mathematics . . . , Molesworth ed., English Works, vii, p. 191). It includes the study of the quantity of time, of swiftness of motion, and weight, as well as the usual subjects. As it was for Newton and Kant, it is very important for Hobbes that the geometric entities be defined operationally, for "of true and evident definitions the best are those which declare the cause or generation of that subject, whereof the proper passions are to be demonstrated" 3 (Ibid. , p. 212). Emphasis supplied. Consider the beginning of Newton's article on "Quadrature of Curves" and Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, B740ff). Why should geometry, or mathematics, have this privileged status for Hobbes? Of arts, some are demonstrable, others indemonstrable; and demonstrable are those the construction of the subject whereof is in the power of the artist himself, who, in his demonstration, does no more but deduce the consequences of his own operation. The reason whereof is this, that the science of every subject is derived from a precognition of the causes, generation and construction of the same; and consequently where the causes are known, there is place for demonstration, but not where the causes are to seek for. Geometry therefore is demonstrable, for the lines and figures from which we reason are drawn and described by ourselves; and civil philosophy is demonstrable, because we make the commonwealth ourselves. But because of natural bodies we know not the construction, but seek it from the effects, there lies no demonstration of what the causes be we seek for, but only of that what they may be. (Op. cit., pp. 183-184). II Morality, as such, was hardly recognizable in most modem philosophy before Kant. The virtues appeared as passions in Hobbes and Descartes, as emotions in Spinoza, and as sentiments in smith and Hume. Once again, Kant seems to be restoring something that had been lost with ancient philosophy. But agian the differences are more striking than the similarities. The watchword of classical morality is virtue, the What geometry, or mathematics, does for the science of physics is very much like what, according to Kant, human reason in general does for our experience of the natural world. Let us take the concept of cause and effect as example. It is meaningless, according to Kant, to talk of things in themselves causing and being effected by each other. Yet when we 36 watchword of modem, or Kantian, morality is freedom, freedom understood as self-legislation. The older notion implies that we can discern a natural hierarchy of human desires, culminating in the desire for the highest happiness. This, in turn, presupposes a natural hierarchy of human achievements, or ends, correlated to a natural hierarchy of human faculties, or pwers. The modem notion, with one eye to non-teleological mathematical physics,5 presupposes no such fixed order of ends, ends that might allow for one man, who understands them, to decide what was better for another, who does not understand them. Human beings are subject to rules, but, as far as morality is concerned, only to those rules they impose upon themselves. Morality is self-determination, autonomy (the Greek word for self-legislation); it cannot, for Kant, be based on any form of heteronomy (the Greek word for legislation by another), whether that other be nature, God, or some other man, no matter how wise. Human beings, as moral beings, are subject to nothing, or to no one but themselves, or to the practical reason themselves. The first man to explicitly formulate the new defintion of freedom was Rousseau, and Kant has acknowledged his great debt to Rousseau, occasionally speaking of him as the Newton of the moral world. Once again, however, it would be best to begin with Hobbes. Why should we obey the sovereign, according to Hobbes? Because through the social contract we have covenanted to allow his will to represent our wills, to take his will for our wills; his legislation, through social contract, is legally considered, our own self-legislation. In obeying him, we are really obeying ourselves. This construction is necessitated by a more fundamental principle: as Hobbes says in the Leviathan, "there being no Obligation on any man which arise th not from some Act of his own; for all men equally, are by Nature Free" (ch. 21). All genuine legislation then becomes a form of self-legislation, and injUiy, or injustice, is like a self-contradiciton, willing to do that which one has already willed tlu·ough contract not to do. In the Social Contract (bk. I, ch. 6) Rousseau puts it as follows: will, having to express one's will in such form that it coincides with the wills of all others, moralizes the will, frees it from the irrationality and immorality of selfish desire. For example, I selfishly decide that I do not want to pay taxes. Then I generalize that desire and put it in the form of a law: No one ought to pay taxes. But then I consider that the police, public schools, etc. would disappear, and I become aware of the iffationality of my original inclinaiton. The form of general or universal law not only guarantees the freedom of the subjects, but guarantees that the will itself will be rational and moral. 6 The moral law sets down one fundamental imperative for Kant, the categmical imperative: so act that you can will that the maxim of your action can become a universal law. Another example: A man is hard pressed. Kant has him ask, May I not make a promise with the intention of not keeping it? But under the categorical imperative he asks again, Should I be content that my maxim of getting out of a difficulty by making a false promise should hold as a universal law? Should everyone make false promises when they can extricate theselves from difficulties in no other way? Kant goes on: I then become aware that I can indeed will to lie, but can in no way will a universal law of lying, for by such a law there could properly be no promises at all. No one would trust in any promises and my maxim, as soon as universalized, would contradict and annul itself. When seen in contrast to the naturalistic ethics of Plato and Aristotle, the legalism, egalitarianism, logical formalism and the emphasis on will common to the moral docttines of Hobbes and Kant can be understood as rooted in their common depreciation or rejection of purposive nature as the ultimate source of ethical standards. In Hobbes the goals and character of moral and political life are still determined by reference to naaaature, especially human nature, but in a way very different from the way of the classical n·adition. The "state of nature," according to Hobbes, is a state of war, a war of all against all; its only relieving feature is the possibility it holds out for leaving, and by means of the social contract, entering into the state of civil society. Instead of serving as a direct guide to human goodness, the idea fo the state of nature is meant to clarify what in human nature is to be overcome. It becomes a source of negative standards, part of a plan leading to the more general conquest of nature. For Kant, the student of Newton, nature is, or must be understood as, a mechanism. If morality is to be saved, it must be traced to a source, or sources, altogether independent of nature. This source Kant calls practical reason. Only as a moral being, acting in accord with practical reason, when one is, and can know oneself to be, the cause of what one does, can one see oneself (and therefore others) as a noumenon, as a thing in itslef, as outside the chain of mechanical causation, as free. Kant claims to have proved that practical or moral reason and theoretical reason, which sees everything, including human beings under the aegis of the concept of mehanical The problem is to find a form of association which will defend and protect with the whole common force the person and goods of each associate, and in which each, meanwhile uniting himself with all, may still obey himself alone, and remain as free as before. This .is the fundamental problem for which the social contract provides the solution. The solution is a society in which all are subject to the general will, to the law, and in which each contributes to the making of that law. All are subject to laws which each has in part imposed upon himself. Thus Rousseau could conclude that direct democracy is the only perfectly legitimate form of government. For Rosseau and for Kant this generalizing process of the 37 �nThe Visual Arts and the Liberal Arts Notes: cause and effect, do not contradict one another; they simply do not meet. This carefully elaborated solution, we can only note, leads in turn to one of the greatest difficulties with which Kant's philosophy as a whole is beset: the realm ofnature and the realm of freedom having been separated, how is one to understand how natural man and moral man come together. How do the realm of freedom and the realm of nature come together in one and the same world? These problems are among the chief concerns of his philosophy of religion and his reflections on history. However close the main argument of Kant's moral philosophy is to that of Hobbes, the moral earnestness that permeates this writings on morals and politics is far from the "impish" spirit we find in Hobbes. Though both seeme~ to share in the hope of the Enlightenment, that populanzed philosophy would supercede biblical religion, Kant's incorpration of Christian elements into his moral philosophy seems to do much less violence to the spirit of his sources. Yet however much he may have believed that philosophy can learn something from Christianity, it is clear that for him Christianity can never be more than a hand maid for practical reason. That the good will, or moral law, or practical reason exists in all men can be seen by considering what men say and do when others behave badly, or unjustly, toward themselves: the rules then spring easily to mind. The problem is, according to Kant, that under the pressure of their inclinations and desires men exempt themselves from those rules which they can so easily discover and apply to others. Acting on the basis of natural inclination, under the heteronomy of nature, has nothing to do with morality for Kant. Thus happiness, the goal of our natural inclinations, according to Kant, has nothing to do with morality. In fact, one can never be sure that one's motive is moral unless one acts contrary to inclination. An action may be moral and coincide with one's inclinaitons, but if that is the case one can never know whether one was acting on the basis of pure respect for the moral law itself, which would be moral, or on the basis of inclination, which would not be. The only subjective determinant, or feeling, that has anything to do with morality, according to Kant, is respect, or reverence, for the law itself. Duty is defined by Kant as the necessity to act out of respect, or reverence, for the law. Respect, however, is a very special feeling.7 For Kant, respect is the basis of all true love. Respect differs from all other feelings: it is not recieved from outside influences, but is · self-produced, he says, by a rational concept. Our respect for the moral law is complex: in so far as we are subject to it we have a feeling towards it analogous to fear; in so far as we produce it ourselves we have a feeling towards analogous to love. This combination of fear and love is not altogether unfamiliar. It is the combiantion of feelings that pious believers associate with the God of the Bible. 8 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 38 For example, the question, why did Kant reject intellectual intuition? Reprinted without epistle dedicatory in Thomas Hobbes, Body, Man, and Citizen, ed. Richard S. Peters, Collier Books, 1962. "Operation" here is meant to include mental operation: for example, Hobbes does not define line, like Euclid, as breadthless length, but as the way of a body moved, in which the magnitude, the dimensions of the body, are not considered. He emphasised the "considered," "not considered" means "not put to account in demonstration." Cf. Leo Strauss, Natural Right and History, (Chicago: U. of Chicago Press, 1953) pp. 169-177; Jacob Klein, Greek Mathematical Thought and The Origin of Algebra, (Cambridge, Mass.: M.I.T. Press, 1968); and David Lachterman, The Ethics of Geometry: A Genealogy of Modernity, (New York and London: Routledge, 1989): The other eye looks to the "ego cogito": cf. Swift's Laputans. Leo Strauss, "The Three Waves of Modernity," in An Introduction to Political Philosophy. Cf. H.J. Paton, The Categorical/mperative, ch. v. Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals, ch. 1, note 2. lJ Burt Blistein signified both the craftsman and the student of the liberal arts. The Renaissance inherited this view. Hence the numerous artists who were also mathematicians and scientists--Piero della Francesca, Leonardo, Alberti. They too assumed that the "work of art" was a work made by art, that is, in accord with rational principles. Our doctrine of "art for art's sake" would have been unintelligible to them. The fine art of painting and liberal art of poetry were long regarded as "sister" arts, sharing the same subject matter and objectives. 2 Their association can be traced, in Western civilization, at least as far back as Homer. It is suggested by the language. Grapho in Greek means "to draw" and "to write." Poetry in this tradition is characterized by clear and precise visual imagery, painting by narrative, didactic or symbolic subject matter (as a rule the three occur together) each of the arts in that respect borrowing from the other. Visual images serve the same function as poetic narrative. Poetic accounts of pictured events-such as Homer's description of the shield of Achilles-stress the imitation of continuing action, and explication of motive that we associate with poetry or drama. The visual image is made to move and speak. Carved or painted figures think and feel: I. History The arts designated as "liberal" by the ancient Greeks and Romans differed at different times. They included disciplines that we now number among the fine arts (drawing, painting, architecture) and disciplines that we now consider neither fine arts nor liberal arts (medicine). For long the classification was ambiguous and even when finally codified continued to be disputed. During the Renaissance many humanists and critics argued for the inclusion of the visual arts-excluded from the liberal arts in the Middle Ages-and it was at length generally acknowledged that the visual arts were liberal arts. We now study in colleges of the liberal arts disciplines that would have been excluded earlier-experimental science, for example. Many liberal disciplines-such as music-have been so transformed that, as presently studied, they would probably have been rejected by those who first proposed including them among the liberal arts. We find, moreover, that the liberally educated were often exceedingly well-versed in, and in fact practitioners of, the arts classified as "illiberal." The medieval clerics actively participated in the design of churches and cathedrals and determined the "program" or meaning of the sculptures and paintings which they contained. This history should make us wary of applying the current classification arbitrarily, and in particular of excluding certain disciplines, such as the visual arts, from liberal education simply because they once were excluded. We tend to think of the fine arts as the products of intuition, and the liberal arts and sciences as the products of reason. That distinction is often used to justify the exclusion of visual art from the liberal arts curriculum. It is argued that visual art lacks a logos, or rational component. The Greeks and Romans thought otherwise. Techne and ars-their nearest equivalents to our term "art"-signify" 'organized knowledge and procedure applied for the purpose of producing a specific preconceived result,' or simply 'rational production."' 1 Aristotle observes that "Art is identical with a state of capacity to make, involving a true course of reasoning" (Eth. Nie. 1140a 10). Such "reasoning" could be reduced to first principles and communicated. It was eminently "teachable," differing from other forms of knowledge only in that it was ordered to a practical or productive end. All art-not excepting the visual arts-was then a rational means to a predetermined end, (as in "the art of bricklaying"), not an end in itself; and that end could be a product, an activity, or a change of state. Poetry and music (our liberal arts), painting, sculpture, engineering, architecture, shoemaking and carpentry, horsetraining, dance and medicine were all equally arts; the sophists proposed to teach the art of virtue or excellence. Medieval man also assumed that ars sine scientia nihil: "without science art would be nothing." The term artista then They were leading the brides along the city from their maiden chambers Under the flaring of torches, and the loud bride song was arising. The young men followed the circle of the dance, and among them The flutes and lyres kept up their clamor as in the meantime The women standing each at the door of her court admired them. Iliad 18. 492-496 Rhetoric and the visual arts were once closely linked. Greek and Roman rhetoricians-notably Cicero and Quintilian-use the same terms to describe stylistic and formal characteristics of the visual arts and rhetoric, and emphasize parallels in their historical development. 3 Liberally educated citizens of Byzantium delighted in ekphrasis-elaborate descriptions of paintings and sculptures employing all the tricks of rhetoric. The results closely resemble our example from Homer. 4 Paintings and mosaics quicken with life; painted figures speculate, act and react. In Medieval Europe, the injunction to follow Christ or identify with Him, led to equally vivid verbal recreations of painted or sculpted images of biblical events. Such exercises assumed thorough familiarity with one's subject matter; the liberally educated rhetorician was of necessity a student of the visual arts. Not to be outdone, 39 �cated, skilful with the pencil, instructed in geometry, know much history, have followed the philosophers with attention, understand music, have some knowledge of medicine, know the opinions of the jurists, and be acquainted with astronomy and theory of the heavens" (De architectura I, 1.3). Such criteria reflect the belief-common not only in antiquity, but, as we shall observe, during the Middle Ages and Renaissance-that a building must image the mathematical relationships responsible for the beauty and stability of the cosmos if it is to be beautiful and enduring. The Greek architect did not supply the builders .197'with a plan and elevation (that did not become commonplace until the Hellenistic period) but with a mathematical schema8 incorporating the proportions thought to mirror macrocosmic relationships. The temple thus became a "model" of the cosmos. For similar reasons classical sculptors and painter-potters sought canons of proportion which would embody "the beautiful."9 The visual arts were then in effect the realization or embodiment of truths derived from the liberal arts. And the liberal arts borrowed from the visual arts, or from the same sources that visual artists exploited. Aeneid and Republic incorporate in the numerical division and grouping of words and lines the very proportions that determine the dimensions of certain temples. 10 The medieval belief in the unity of the visual arts and the liberal arts is exemplified by the cathedral which derived its form from the quadrivium-in particuJr,rlJ .,,,,;, lar mathematics and music which supplied the essential ratios that determined the proportions of the building-its expressive content from the trivium and from scripture. 11 For there is a "rhetoric" of architectural form just as there is of words. I la The Renaissance inherited and perpetuated belief in this unity. During the Renaissance, the painters enriched their works by incorporating gestures drawn from the repertoire of the rhetmicians.5 Belief in the unity of the arts was as durable as it was pervasive. Caesare Ripa (c. 1561-1623), writing nearly three thousand years after Homer, emphasizes the same unity:[ see illustration] The woman with the gag, who represents painting, rests her arm upon a symbolic portrait of poetry which she is in the process of completing. In the words of Ripa's editor, "the cloth bound over her mouth indicates that painting is a silent art, conveying its mess age by other means than CXCVll. words-it is mute poetry." 6 Painting, sculpture, architecture, poetry, drama, and rhetoric were then all thought to share the common end of rectifying or perfecting human character. Beauty of ornament and of form, whether visual or verbal, could awaken and nourish one's desire for the Good. IL is valued--0r, we are told repeatedly, ought to be valued-as a means to that end, not as an end in itself. This conviction deeply influenced medieval and Renaissance thought about the arts and indeed, persisted well into the eighteenth century. Such a system excluded in theory both "abstract" beauty or a rhetoric without content, and art that appealed primarily to the senses. These did not become completely respectable until the divorce of the visual arts from the liberal arts, and the isolation of the former from theology and philosophy. (Much early art that seems to us erotic is religious in intent; early "abstractions" frequently symbolize religious or philosoph- xi.rlthr. Jtl ical concepts.) We know that there were many classical texts dealing with sculpture and architecture regarded as "liberal" or mathematical arts. Vitrivius (first centwy B.C) lists twenty in his De architectura, twelve concerned specifically with "symmeteria" or proportion. (Unfortunately, none save the writings of Vitruvius have survived.) These treatises suggest that Greek architects were by and large liberally educated men. The fourth-century Greek architect Pytheos proposed that architects "should be all- round experts who beat the specialists in every field."7 Vitruvius requires that the architect be "edu- theorizing on literature and on arl coincided in many ways and on many levels ... the aesthetic problems which may be traced to antiquity and which interested the poet and painter alike were the same for each-art 40 vs. nature, instruction vs. delight, form vs. content, ancient vs. modern, imitation vs. invention. Such problems were debated in much the same terms in the literary academy and in the artistic atelier. Petrarchism and Neo-Platonism affected the imagery of the poet exactly as they did the iconography of the artist. Michelangelo as artist "imitated" Dante, Villani, and the Dies /me-whereas writers "imitated" plastic sources. Witness how Sadoletus strove to imitate the classic craftsmanship of the newly unearthed Laocoon in "elegant verse," even though, as Lessing pointed out, the marble group was already an imitation of a Virgilian passage. And Giovanbattista Zappi "translated" Michelangelo's Mose into a sonnet ... Unusual as it may seem, both poets and artists drew upon the same treatises of antiquity for their theoretical ideas about their crafts. The Poetics of Aristotle and theArs poetica of Horace, which were the archsources of Renaissance literary thinking, were also the primary influences upon the artistic thinking of the day... If in our time the bridge between belletristic and bellartistic aesthetics is not quite so easily crossed, the crossing was a much simpler matter in the sixteenth century. Not only were the issues similar, but even a single vocabulary served both types. 12 human figure, and would need to be familiar with the primary religious and historical texts for subject matter and iconography. (Pheidias remarked that his Zeus was suggested by Homer's description in the /Iliad. Quintillian observes that this figure "added something to traditional religion; to such an extent [was] the majesty of the work equal to the majesty of the god.") The complex systems of proportional relationships that Greek arhitects, painters, sculptors, and potters incorporated in their works derived from the study of what one might characterize as a mathematical physics. Unlike our physics, however, theirs comprehended the good and the beautiful, the organic as well as the inorganic. The physician Galen, who considered medicine a liberal art, is able to include discussion of the Canon of the Greek sculptor Polyclitus-a system of proportional relationships which reputedly enabled one to attain "the beautiful"-in a passage devoted to bodily health because he thought both sculptural beauty and health instances of symmetria, a certain harmony, equilibrium or proportionate relationship of contituent elements. Pliny the Elder (first century A.D.) tells in his Natural History of the painter Pamphilos (teacher of Apelles, the most famous of Greek painters), erudite in all branches of knowledge, especially arithmetic and geometry, without which, he held, an art could not be perfected .. . As a result of his prestige, it came about that, first in Sikyon and then in all Greece, free-born boys were given lessons in drawing on wooden tablets... and thus painting was received into the front rank of the liberal arts. And indeed it has always been an honorable feature of it, that it was practiced by free-born men, and subsequently by distinguished people, while there has been a standing prohibition against slaves being instructed in it. Hence neither in this art nor in the sculptural arts ... are there any renowned works done by someone who was a slave. 14 The artists of classical antiquity, of the Middle Ages, and of the Renaissance were either liberally educated or were directed by others who were. As the body serves the soul, and the hand obeys the mind, so the artist's activity was free or "liberal" to the extent that he was responsible for the idea of his work, and servile to the extent that he was responsible for its execution. Thus the artist could be both freeman and slave in the one person, or he could be merely an artisan who realized the ideas of others. In either case his art expressed or embodied the liberal arts. Hephaestus, artificer of the Shield of Achilleus which depicts the cosmos, Daedalus (whose statues were reputed to move of their own volition), and Odysseus are early examples of the first type, the liberal artist who is also a maker. They obviously reflect a tradition in which craft or skill in making, craft in the sense of "craftiness" or cunning, and craft as knowledge of the principles which order the cosmos are held to be one and the same. Diodorus Siculus (first century B.C.) observes that "because of his genius [Daedalus] was honored with great fame, and, after having made many discoveries, he attained honors equal to the gods. For on one of the islands of Memphis there exits even today a sanctuary of Daedalus, which is honored by the local inhabitants." 13 A master such as Pheidias, in charge of complex building programs requiring a multitude of skills ( v. Plutarch, "Life of Pericles") must have had what we would today call a liberal education. He would need knowledge of geometry and physics to insure that his structures would fit, would stand, and would embody the essential proportions responsible for the beauty of temple and cosmos. He would need knowledge of anatomy to render the The artifacts that survive from antiquity, despite all hazards, testify by their number to the profound interest of the liberally educated in the visual arts, and by their quality to the informed taste of those who commissioned them. The collaboration of Pericles-student of the philosopher Anaxagoras and paradigm of the liberally educated-with the sculptor Pheidias, to whom Pericles assigned the task of overseeing the rebuilding of the Acropolis-exemplifies what was probably a commonplace relationship of patron to artist. The Romans had what amounted to factories for the copy of Greek originals, produced outstanding visual art themselves, and wrote voluminously about the visual arts. In this connection it is noteworthy that architecture was included among the liberal arts by the Roman scholar Marcus Terentius Varro (c. 116 B.C.) and by Vitruvius, painting by Pliny and Galen, and drawing by Aristotle, who recommends it as a way to gain knowledge of "the beautiful" (Politics VIII. iii. l, 10, iv. 9; in 41 �Those "geometrical laws" had been decreed by God who had "ordered all things in measure and number and weight." They were manifest in His creation, and had been revealed to the Pythagoreans, to Plato, and to Augustine. All good artwhether visual, verbal, or audible-incorporated them: fact, drawing was for a long time part of the school curriculum in ancient Greece 14a): [F]irst the painter, then the sculptor. . . was recognized more and more as a privileged and blessed individual. Painting .. .. was expressly received into the liberal arts (i.e. art worthy of a freeborn person) , art connisseurship and art criticism began to flourish, the collector's instinct was aroused, and the favor of princes and the rich did more to raise the prestige of the arts .. . . Philostratus [3rd century A.D.] says in the introduction to his Eikones, ... "He who does not love painting, does an injustice to truth and does an injustice to wisdom." This statement shows that the higher valuation of the arts in all outward appearances was connected with a greater esteem for the internal values of art-that ever more general recognition was accorded to what Plato was inclined either to deny completely or to consider attainable only by a sacrifice of artistic freedom and originality: the autonomy of art in relation to deceptive and imperfect reality. 15 Boethius points out that the proportions of double and half, triple and third-those, in other words, that yield the perfect consonances on the monochord-are as readily perceived visually as they are acoustically, for, he continues, echoing Plato, "the ear is affected by sounds in quite the same way as the eye is by optical impressions." Boethius does not confine this doctrine of synesthesia only to proportions of line or surface; he discovers "geometrical harmony" in the cube, since the number of its surfaces, angles, and edges, 6:8: 12, contains the ratios of the octave, fifth, and fourth. But the Platonists of Chartres expounded not only the aesthetic excellence of these proportional relationships but their technical importance as well. . . they maintained, with the Timaeus, that the indissoluble stability of the cosmos is grounded in perfect proportion ... . Since art is an image of nature "Must not the ideal church be constructed according to the laws of the universe?" In other words, application of the "perfect proportions," determined by rigid geometrical means, became a technical necessity as well as an aesthetic postulate if the building was to be stable as well as beautiful. 17 The design of the medieval cathedral and the programs of sculpture, painting and stained-glass which it housed were often conceived by the clerics-who had of course studied the liberal arts preparatory to the study of philosphy and theology-in collaboration with the architect. The execution of that design was the responsibility of masons, sculptors, glaziers and the like. The artist was thus a composite creature. In his head reposed the liberal arts, in his hands the practical, the first directing the second: The liberally educated man of the thirteenth century could reduce the visual arts to first principles, relate the use of the builder's square and sculptor's compass to the constitution of the cosmos. Can that be said of his counterpart today? As then conceived, the liberal arts constituted a remark ably flexible system capable of unifying the most disparate expe1ience. Such a system had many points of contact with the visual arts. Music, for example, was not, as it is for us, the study of musical composition or compositions, but of "those 'numbers' which govern the temporal and spatial intervals of creation and reflect, ultimately, the supreme Equality." Such numbers could be expressed visually as well as audibly, and the use of the monochord, which represents intervals as lengths, encouraged this. Hugh of St. Victor (c. 1100) defined music as a "concord of dissimilar things reduced to one." Wherever he perceived the Divine Hamony he perceived music. Hence for Hugh music existed in the four elements, in the planets; in periods of tin1e; in weight, number, and measure; in the alternation of day and night; in the waxing and waning of the moon; in the changing seasons; in the humors of the body; in the spiritual virtues of justice, piety and temperance. "In short, the study of music was the study of those aesthetic principles which govern the universe and the activities of man": Quite apart from the writings of Vitruvius, kn own and respected since Carolingian times, it was Au gustine who kept alive the classical definition of the architect. His distinction betw een the mere practicioner and the true architect who deliberately applies scientific principles occurs in at least three differe nt treatises, all studied and admired throu ghout the Middle Ages. While this definition permitted the medieval application of the term "architect" to even the mere craftsman, it left no doubt that only the "scientist" who had mastered the liberal arts was truly entitled to it. Boethius, moreover, had illustrated the intellectu al dis tinction by a metaphor that was bound to have its effect upon the social status of the medieval artist. He had compared the practical execution of a work of art to a slave, the science th at should guide such work lo a ruler. This meant, of course, that what counted in a work of ar t was not the humble knowledge of the craft but the theoretical science that laid dow n the laws to which the craft had to conform. It is no wonder, therefore, that we find so many "architects" among medieval ecclesiastics: the "science" of architecture was a purely theoretical one-the development of a plan in accordance with geometrical laws-and the knowledge of the quadrivium that it required was for a long time and with relatively few exceptions the privilege of clerics. 16 A few illustrations may make the pervasive relevance of musical theory clear. The ratio 1:2, or the octave, is said by St. Au gustine to represent the concord 42 made possible by Christ between Himself and the inferior nature of man (On the Trinity, 4.3). Christ died once and was resurrected once. But we die two deaths: a death of the spirit and a death of the flesh. In the same way we undergo two resurrections: a resurrection at baptism and a final resurrection. Thus there is, in both instances, a ratio of 1:2 or an octave between Christ and man. So far as times are concerned, Sunday is not only the first day of the week, but, counting musically, it is also the octave, and here the octave again recalls the Resurrection, which took place on the Lord's Day. And this meaning is said to have been foreshadowed in the Old Law by the Circumcision, which took place on the eighth day. A numerical calculation also makes an octave of Pentecost. If we project our calculations on a larger scale, the eighth age of the world, following a seventh, which is sometimes made to stand for the age of purification in Purgatory, is eternity; and in general, seven, which represents temporal things, is followed by an eternal eight. Hence the inscription on the eighth tone as it is carved on a captal of the abbey church of Cluny reads, appropriately, "Octavos sanctos omnes docet esse beatos." Throughout the terza rima of Dante's Commedia, the ratio 1:2 keeps the underlying lesson of the poem always before our eyes. But the octave had more striking visual results. Octagonal baptismal fonts, symbolizing the harmony which they established between the faithful and Christ, stood in churches and cathedrals throughout Christian Europe during the Middle Ages . . . . Whether the eight sides of these fonts, or, for that matter, the eight sides of towers and lanterns which had a similar significance, were more appealing to the eye than five sides would have been a matter of small importance. It was important that a number be suggested which led the mind to contemplate a harmony established by an Artisan whose handiwork in the human heart transcends anything man may do in stone. 18 The close collaboration of the artist and of the liberally educa,ted theologian, philosopher, or patron is also characteristic of the Italian Renaissance. Consider, for example, the association of prominent artists with the Platonic Academy of Florence established by the philosopher Marsilio Ficino. The profound influence of Platonism and Neoplatonism upon visual art of the period has been amply documented and is indisputable.20 Widespread interest in the impresa or device-an enigmatic visual metaphor, combining image with text-reflects the same intimate association of fine and liberal arts. As this example suggests, the liberal artist frequently detennined subject matter and symbolism to which the fine artist or artisan gave concrete form. 21 However,itwasnotlong before the artist himself-perhaps as a result of the spread of secular institutions of learning-acquired a liberal education. Then, as in the case of Leonardo and Alberti, head and hand belonged to the same individual. Visual artists insisted upon, and received, recognition that their profession was a liberal art. Leonardo, paradigm of the learned artist, is not in that respect unique, but typical. He is the perfect embodiment of a tradition that has its roots in classical antiquity: What characterizes the period is not only the quality of the works of art but also the close links that were established between the visual arts, the sciences, and literature. The appearance of a distinguished artist who also was a humanist and writer of merit, such as Alberti, was no coincidence in a period in which literary and classical learning began, in addition to religion, to provide the subject matter for painters and sculptors. When a knowledge of perspective, anatomy, and geometrical proportions was considered necessary for the painter and sculptor, it was no wonder that several artists should have made important contributions to the various sciences. On the other hand, ever since Filippo Villani, the humanists, and their journalist successors in the sixteenth century, looked with favor upon the work of contemporary artists and would lend their pen to its praise. From the end of the fourteenth century through the sixteenth the writings of the artists and of authors sympathetic to the visual arts repeat the claim that painting should be considered as one of the liberal, not of the mechanical arts. 22 The system of seven liberal arts, first proposed by the African barrister Martianus Capella in the fifth century A.D. (whose heliocentric theory, described in the same work, may have inspired Copernicus), was accepted by the Church (whence it was transmitted to us) in part because there were seven arts. "[T]he Seven Arts recalled the Seven Petitions of theLord'sPrayer, the Seven Gifts of the Holy Ghost, the Seven Sacraments, the Seven Virtues, etc. The Seven Words· on the Cross, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom [Prov. ix, 1], the Seven Heavens might also suggest particular branches of learning." 19 Clearly neither mathematics nor music then meant quite what they mean to us; nor, for that matter did astronomy or the other liberal arts. It is also evident that the use of certain numbers and ratios in the dimensions of a building, altar, sculpture, or painting could convey profound meaning, and in fact be regarded as manifes tations and confinnations of the truths of the liberal arts, and of the disciplines which they served, philosophy and theology. Finally we should note that belief in a sacred mathematics constituted an essential link between the the liberal arts and the visual arts during the Renaissance, just as it did in classical antiquity and in the Middle Ages, The visual arts were thought to embody or give physical fonn to the proportional relationships that, according to the liberal arts, were responsible for the harmony and stability of the cosmos: The conviction that architecture is a science, and that each part of a building, inside as well as outside, has to be integrated into one and the same system of mathematical ratios, may be called the basic axiom of Renaissance architects . . . . the architect is by no means free 43 �depdved-in theory at least-of any function save that of giving pleasure. Lessing assumes this in his Laocoon (1776): to apply to a building a system of ratios of his own choosing, ... the ratios have to comply with conceptions of a higher order ... [the demand that] a building should mirror the proportions of the human body ... became universally accepted on Vitruvius' authority. As man is the image of God and the proportions of the body are produced by divine will, so the proportions in architecture have to embrace and express the cosmic order. But what are the laws of this cosmic order, what are the mathematical ratios that determine the harmony in macrocosm and microcosm? They had been revealed by Pythagoras and Plato ... 2 3 We laugh when we hear that with the ancients even the arts were subject to municipal laws. But we are not always right when we laugh. Unquestionably the laws must not usurp power over the sciences, for the ultimate purpose of the sciences is truth. Truth is a necessity of the soul; and it is nothing but tyranny to offer her the slightest violence in satisfying this essential need. The ultimate purpose of the arts, on the other hand, is pleasure, and pleasure can be dispensed with. So, of course, it may depend on the law-giver what kind of pleasure, and in what measure any kind of it, he will permit. Painting too was ordered mathematically, not only through application of the laws of linear perspective, but, like architecture, according to the ratios of the musical intervals. The transformation of audible into visual relations was "the great achievement of 15th century artists .... A familiarity with musical theory became a sine qua non of artistic education." This "was no mere theoretical speculation; it testifies to the solemn belief in the harmonic mathematical structure of all creation. "24 We can perceive from the foregoing how it was in the past possible for the liberally educated to have a profound interest in the visual arts, indeed to participate in their creation, yet to renounce the activity which we regard as essential, namely the manipulation of material substance, as not befitting a free man. All evidence suggests that during the periods W1der consideration knowledge of the visual arts by the liberally educated was assumed, whether or not training in those arts was required. The beautiful, the true, the intelligible, and the good were not neatly separated, but seen as one or as emanations of the One. Familiarity with the liberal arts necessadly implied familiarity with the visual arts. A science of aesthetics or sensation was not needed and so did not exist. The manner of representation or style, of which we make so much, was less important to artist and patron than what was represented, what was represented less important than meaning, and meaning less important than the connection that it established between becoming and Being. Not until the eighteenth century do we encounter the term "aestl1etic" (coined by the German philosopher Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten) in its modem signification. "It is also generally agreed that such dominating concepts of modem aesthetics as taste and sentiment, genius, originality and creative imagination did not assume their definite modem meaning before the eighteen th century." Then too, in all probability, originated "the term 'Art,' with a capital A and in its modern sense the related term 'Fine Arts' (Beaux Arts)."25 This development was coupled with the separation and isolation of the beautiful, the true, and the good. The beautiful became the domain of the new science of aesthetics, truth became the possession of science, and the good became the responsibility of moral philosophy. To each realm was assigned a separate faculty of the soul. Art was thereby Lessing eliminates from the realm of visual art the spiritual and "significant" as well, on the grounds that doctrinal requirements inhibit the artist and prevent the fulfillment of what should be his chief and highest aim, to give pleasure: If in individual cases we wish to compare the painter and the poet with one another, the first and most important point is to observe whether both of them have complete freedom, whether they have, in the absence of any outward compulsion, been able to aim at the highest effect of their art. Religion was often an outward compulsion of this kind for the ancient artist. His work, designed for reverence and worship, would not always be as perfect as if he had a single eye to the pleasure of the be holder. Superstition overloaded the gods with symbols, and the most beautiful of them were not everywhere worshipped for their beauty .... I should like the name of "works of art" to be reserved for those alone in which the artist could show himself actually as an artist, in which beauty has been his first and last object. All the rest in which too evident traces of religious ritual app~ar, are unworthy of the name, because Art here has not wrought on her own account, but has been an auxiliary of religion, looking in the material representations which she made of it more to the significant than to the beautiful. ... The extraordimnily rich and complex art of classical antiquity, of the Middle Ages, and of the Renaissance originated when there was no science of aesthetics as we understand that term, or a category known as the fine arts. When, in the eighteenth century, the "aesthetic" became of pdmary concern to artists, philosophers, and patrons, the quality of visual art-as measured by the profW1dity and scope of its subject-matter-began to decline. We can attribute this in large measure to the separation of the fine arts from the context that gave them meaning and substance, the liberal arts, philosophy and theology. The new categories were both symptom and cause of the movement of visual art from the center to the periphery of 44 human concerns.26 That movement did not cease until art became in the twentieth century "a thing of of no consequence," an entertainment or diversion merely. 27 Conditions were ripe for a visual art that aspired chiefly to please the senses, and that is what, in the main, visual art became. fixed and stable cosmos. He argues that we probably derive our notion of unchanging Being from vision. The belief that we receive visual impressions as soft wax receives a stamp has been proved false. Vision is not passive but active and inherently rational. We now know that the eyes, in conjunction with the mind, make of sensory input an orderly, coherent whole. The appearance of even a simple object metamorphoses continuously as our vantage point changes. Yet we see a relatively fixed, characteristic shape. Eye and brain simplify, abstract, and geometricize visual experience. We perceive discontinuity as unity, imposing upon fragmentary experience the visual form that is the simplest and the most regular. In the illustration below we see not three unrelated dots, but a triangle. Yet there is no triangle: II. Theory We have seen that in the past the liberal arts and the visual arts were closely allied-were in fact virtually one thing, as nearly W1ited as body and soul, the visual arts being the concrete embodiment and expression of the liberal arts. We have noted that the liberally educated were then thoroughly familiar with the visual arts and that study of the visual arts often formed a part of liberal education. The magnificent artifacts which survive confirm the educated sensibilities of those who commissioned them; for the artist was then not nearly as free as he is today. He was required to gratify the wishes of his patron, and elaborate contracts were drawn up to insure this. We have observed that the ancient unity of the visual and liberal arts was in our own time obscured by those who applied the cdteria of the present to the past, thinking the visual artist one person as he is now (and thereby confusing him with the artisan who may well have lacked a liberal education), whereas he was then often two or more beings-a liberal artist and a mechanical artist-acting in concert. But even allowing the traditional alliance of the visual and liberal arts, ought the visual arts be part of contemporary liberal education? Let us review a few of the arguments for and against this option. Visual art is frequently compared to music, whose status as a liberal art was never questioned. It is argued that music is more closely related to the other liberal arts than the visual arts and that consequently music should be the fine art included in liberal education. We will begin with consideration of the relative merits of the visual arts and music. I have put the arguments against in italics; my reponses follow: • • • All of the senses, share with intellect the task of ordering experience. They do not merely transmit experience, but, like the eyes, make it intelligible. Two phrases that we often use, but rarely appreciate, come to mind in this connection. We speak of "making sense of' something when we understand it, and say "I see" to signify that we understand. When the senses discover the order that they always seek we experience pleasure. When they fail to discover such order we experience discomfort, dissatisfaction, even pain. Certain objects possess in the highest degree the order that the senses always seek and thus are, potentially, capable of producing the greatest pleasure. We call such objects works of art. The ear takes pleasure in ordered, mathematically related sounds; the kinesthetic sense that tells us the position of our limbs in space takes pleasure in measured or rhythmic movement- tapping, swaying, and so on. Music satisfies both senses. Touch takes pleasure in surfaces that possess a certain order and intelligibilty, whether by nature or by design. The ability of the senses to order experience and the pleasure that they take in such order is deeply rooted in our evolutionary past. For survival depends upon the organism's ability to "make sense of' its environment. In the work of art sensual order is divorced from such urgent practical considerations. There is an element of freedom, of play, of pure pleasure. We experience simultaneously the order that implies limitation (for without constraint any order is impossible) and liberation or release from constraint. To constitute or perceive order eye and mind must be capable of numbering and measuring. And in fact we can immediately distinguish two objects from three, four from five; we can judge whether one line is twice or three times the length of another. We derive our concept of the fundamental constitutents of mathematics-number and mea- a. The ear is more intimately connected with intellect than the eye. The ear perceives number directly (it senses, for example, the frequency doubling that indicates the octave and the ratios of the musical intervals). The eye cannot perceive numerical relationships. The ancients regarded sight, not hearing, as "the most excellent of the senses. The noblest activity of the mind, theoria, is descdbed in metaphors mostly taken from the visual sphere. Plato, and Western philosophy after him, speaks of the 'eye of the soul' and the 'light of reason.' Aristotle, in the first line of the Metaphysics, relates the desire for knowledge inherent in the nature of all men to the common delight in perception, most of all in vision."28 The author of these lines attributes the Greek belief in the primacy of vision partly to the fact that all other senses convey the external world to us as process or flux. Only vision conveys a relatively 45 �sure-primarily from vision, not from audition. The Greeks quite logically identified the mathematical with the visual. They thought of numbers as points or lengths. Mathematics was for them in large measure the study of geometric or visual shapes. There was of course then no knowledge of the wavelike character of sound. The study of music was the study of quantity manifest as the visual ratios of the lengths of tensioned strings. Vision too conveys knowledge, but immediately rather than sequentially or discursively as words do. The ancients were well aware of this. Vision becomes for them a metaphor for the highest knowledge, surpassing and indeed of a different order than discursive reason, knowledge that must be grasped immediately in its entirety or not at all: Finally, we should note that vision not only orders and connects the information transmitted by our other senses but typically takes precedence over them. In moments of crisis sight usually guides us. If there is a conflict, that is, if different sensory inputs appear to require contradictory responses, we defer to sight. Vision is not only responsible for our conviction that we inhabit a (relatively) unified, orderly cosmos (compare the world as it seems to you with your eyes open and shut) but in large measure for our sense of our own wholeness. If you close your eyes and rub thumb and forefinger together, you will note that your fingers feel oddly detached, almost as if they belonged to someone else. Open your eyes and that sensation vanishes. Stopping our ears isolates us to a degree from the world, but not from our own bodies. b. Musical structures are mathematically ordered and therefore inherently rational; with the exception of linear perspective, the structure ofvisual art is neither mathematical nor rational. This image [of cave and upper world] we must apply as a whole to all that has been said, likening the region revealed through sight to the habitation of the prison, and the light of the fire in it to the power of the sun. And if you assume that the ascent and the contemplation of the things above is the soul's ascension to the intelligible region, you will not miss my surmise ... But God knows whether it is true. Republic 517a-b The ancient belief in the identity of the visual, the mathematical, the beautiful and the true led, as we have seen, to many attempts to embody in visual art the quintessential mathematical relationships. Hence the widespread interest of Greek artists in the Golden Section and other canons of proportion. Medieval and Renaissance visual artists, engaged upon essentially the same quest, also frequently had recourse to mathematical schema- indeed to the mathematics of music. The proportions of medieval and Renaissance churches were frequently based upon the ratios of the musical intervals. 29 The spatial organization of Leonardo's Last Supper is determined by the same intervals. 30 Linear perspective is but a special case of proportionately ordered space (space in linear perspective is in continued proportion). We can attribute its discovery largely to earlier interest in the mathematics of visual art. Our own century affords numerous examples of artists who incorporate mathematically determined relationships in their painting, sculpture and architecture. (Many were influenced by Jay Hambidge [1867-1924], who claimed-perhaps rightly-to have rediscovered the geometric schema employed by Greek polters and architects .31 ) Although we derive pleasure from such art, we are not in the habit of applying calipers and rule to it, and are therefore unaware of the source of much of that pleasure. 32 We are in that respect rather like the Greeks who lived before Pythagoras had discovered the roots of music in number: they enjoyed music but knew not why. The Western listener brings to music an innate sense of the periodic diatonic scale and the ability to locate tones on that scale. The spectator of visual art brings to painting, sculpture, and architecture an innate sense of the absolute vertical and horizontal, and the ability to locate forms with respect to these axes. In practice, this fixed frame of reference is bounded by the limits of the visual artifact, permitting For each manifestation of knowledge and wisdom is a distinct image, an object in itself, an immediate unity, not an aggregate of discursive reasoning and detailed willing. Later from this wisdom in unity there appears, in another form of being, a copy already less compact, which announces the original terms of discourse and unravels the causes by which things are such that the wonderrises how a generated world can be so excellent. (Plotinus, "On the Intellectual Beauty") I think from the keeness I endured of the living ray, that I should have been dazzled if my eyes had been turned from it; and I remember that for this cause I was the bolder to sustain it until I reached with my gaze the infinite Goodness. 0 abounding grace, by which I dared to fix my look on the Eternal Light so long that I spent all my sight upon it! In its depth I saw that it contained, bound by love in one volume, that which is scattered in leaves through the universe, substances and accidents and their relations as it were fused together in such a way that what I tell of is a simple light. Paradiso XXXIII. 76 ff. Compare a modern poet: I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. The Waste Land 11. 38 ff. precise distinctions of higher/lower, left/right, diagonal/vertical, centered, displaced and so on. The center of such structures corresponds to the musical tonic. It is the point of rest or equilibrium. We must wonder at the eye's ability to perceive this center. For it must measure a multitude of distances simultaneously, or instantaneously distinguish symmetric from asymmetric fields: Visual structures can be ordered hierarchically, much as words are in the topical outline. Primary structures control, limit, and define secondary; secondary structures control tertiary, and so on. The Gothic cathedral is perhaps the outstanding example of this, but all good visual art exhibits hierarchical organization. It is another source of unity.33 DD This is but the simplest case of a more complex phenomenon: any visible change at any point in the visual field immediately affects our perception of the all parts of that field: Gradations of value, or of degrees of light and dark, permit effects analagous to scaled musical tones. We can construct a scale of visual tones in which the intervals between values are equal or increase or decrease systematically and which is therefore apprehended by eye and brain as intelligible. We can then use either the entire scale, a portion of the scale, or values widely separate on the scale (e.g. the darkest and the lightest) to render values in the visual work.33a The possible effects of systematically applied color are exceedingly complex; we can only suggests a few. 34 The color wheel provides us with precisely related primary colors, secondary colors (constituted of primaries), and tertiary colors (constituted of secondaries). We can select from that wheel a palette of colors that are immediately adjacent, separated by one or more intervening colors, or on the same diameter. The last are the so-called complementary colors that intensify each other when juxtaposed. Complementarity is another instance of what we have termed field relationships. In actuality, we cannot change any color anywhere in the work without affecting all colors everywhere. We can divide the visual field in accord with any number of mathematical or geometric schema. The eye does not necessarily require certain schema-although it appears to prefer those that are mathematically ordered, such as the Golden Rectangle-but it does demand that the schema selected be internally consistent and to that extent intelligible. Inconsistency is read as disorder, imperfection. It prohibits many of the operations that give the work unity (motif and variation, hierarchical organization, scaled tonality, etc.). The introduction of a new color, line, or texture into an established design can be compared to the introduction of a metallic body into a magnetic field. The entire field is immediately distorted. Field relationships (which may have their own complex mathematics) are characteristic only of art that always confronts us in its totality, that is only of visual art. Sculpture and architecture, which have multiple views and introduce the element of temporal and spatial progression, will exhibit field relationships from any given view. Within such fields we can creat effects analagous to acceleration, retardation, tripartite ABA form, and so on: 0 0 0 0 Eye and mind perceive similar shapes as parts of a larger whole. This permits visual effects analagous to motµ and variation in music. We can combine two or more distinct visual motifs to produce a third possessing features of both yet identical to neither. The process can be continued indefinitely, resulting in a structure in which all parts are in some way related yet in which all are distinct and different. Unity and diversity develop simultaneously: 7 c. Visual art not only lacks a logos or rational schema comparable to the mathematical schema of music, but also lacks clearly defined "elements" such as we find in music. It 46 47 �practical representation. We rely upon vision to convey information too complex for words. Sound is much less useful in this respect. Surely these facts cast doubt upon the thesis that music is more nearly related to thought than is visual art. If classroom discussion were limited to the written word we would have to forgo discussion of the natural world. For it is inarticulate. But we do not find that an insuperable difficulty. We discuss what we observe when we dissect, perform experiments in the laboratory, and so on. Hence, even if visual art were altogether inarticulate it should still be possible to discuss it. But it is not inarticulate. Most visual artifacts embody meanings intended by the artist. Many depict figures from mythology or sacred text that convey specific meanings, and employ a symbolic visual language that is equally specific. The meaning of such visual art is clearly more accessible than the meaning of purely instrumental music. My own experience, and that of many other teachers, is that visual art is eminently discussable, given the right choice of subject-matter and an adequate curriculum. Those institutions that have seriously attempted discussion of visual art have found this to be the case and have successfully incorporated such discussions into their programs. is therefore nwre difficult to develop a program of instruction in the visual arts. Because music is inherently nwre rational it is inherently nwre teachable. We can see from b) that visual art is capable of formal elaboration possibly as complex as that of music. Elementry instruction in visual art traditionally emphasizes the elements that permit this: line, plane, shape, color, value, spatial organization, and so on. First exercises stress the development of visual structures using one or several of those elements. The study of visual art closely resembles the study of music in that respect. d. Music has a natural relation to the words that convey rational thought, whereas visual art, lacking a logos, or intelligible schema, excludes words. For that reason it is difficult or impossible to discuss visual artifacts as we discuss a written text. Those silent entities cannot contribute to the Great Conversation. They have little to say about the primary questions of interest to the liberal artist. It is not true that visual art excludes words, and thus the meanings that words convey, or that there is naturally a more intimate connection between music and the word than between word and image. Writing began with visual images. Chinese and Japanese calligraphy, Egyptian hieroglyphs, Islamic script, medieval illuminated manuscripts are all instances of the perfect fusion of the visual with the verbal. Early Chinese landscape paintings are frequently overwritten with poems that have become part of the painting and deepen the meaning. In these examples ikon and logos are as closely allied as music and word are in the opera, Passion or lied. Many visual works-the prints of Daumier, for example-are unintelligible without their titles. There is much evidence that the thinking mind utilizes images as well as words. Indeed, images may be primary. The organization of the brain's neural networks appears to resemble the interactive visual field more nearly than it does linearly ordered speech. Those points aside, there is no basis for assuming that music and thought are more closely related than visual art and thought. As the art historian Edgar Wind points out a chief purpose of visual art was, until quite recently, to convey thought. 35 Raphael's School of Athens is not exceptional in that respect, but typical. Painting and sculpture are of course quite capable of incorporating written words and often do. When we add to those words the meanings conveyed by symbolic images (as in Jan van Eyck's Annunciation, which contains symbolic images and painted words) the possible meanings become complex indeed. To be sure the meaning of a painting cannot be entirely expressed in words, but then neither can the meaning of a musical composition. Consider also the charts, graphs, and other visualizations that contemporary science cannot do without. The visual representation of significant relationships is often the only e. Visual art is mimetic, and,nwreover, imitates only the trwst superficial aspects of the sensible. For that reason it of limited significance. Why study a deceptive copy when one can study the original? Music is not mimetic; it is naturally related to the supra-sensible or to Being. This objection is best considered in the context of Socrates'arguments in The Republic, often used to justify the exclusion of the visual arts from the liberal arts curriculum, Socrates asserts that the painter's couch is but an imitation of the cabinetmakers, which is itself but an imitation of the Idea of Couch. He argues that the painter's couch is at a second remove from the Real, an imitation of an imitation, as it were. Visual art is held to be essentially re-presentative. These arguments obscure a crucial distinction: the cabinet maker's couch is made to be slept in, while the painter's is made to be looked at. The latter is not an imitation of an imitation, but a unique entity, whose final, formal, and material causes are very different from those that qualify the cabinetmaker's couch. So inadequate is Socrates' definition that it does not permit us to distinguish between the greatest painting and images that are clearly not visual art at all, such as a mediocre snapshot or a mere reflection (Republic X 596e). The latter could well exceed the painting as accurate representations of the visible, and hence would have to be regarded as more successful examples of visual art. In fact the excellences of painting qua painting have little or nothing to do with conformity to the visible. They are the result of formal and expressive qualities-some of which we have considered-not 48 tripartite being that represents the human soul (Republic 588b) and "moulds the model of a happy state" (Republic 420c); the new Homer who tells of the dangers that confront that City-for the embodied soul is besieged as surely as Troy was-and of the Odyssey that is the soul's thousand-year return from exile in this world to its true Homeland (Republic 621d). But much visual art also satisfies the Platonic criterion, and therefore cannot be rejected on that basis. To loosen the ties that bind soul to body was the chief purpose of the art of Byzantium and of medieval Europe. Those who should know tell us this. Consider the poem which the Abbot Suger (10811151) composed in praise of the golden portals of his church, St. Denis: found in nature, but made or brought into being by the artist. Space, for example, does not preexist in or on the canvas to be "filled" by the painter. The painter creates space. Spatial relations in a painting are analagous to the silences between musical tones. They are shaped, structured, to define and express certain relationships. The complexity of those relationships depends upon the skill and vision of the artist, not upon the intrinsic attributes of the space which we occupy and in which we move. It is more correct to say that the visual artist strives to make visible the invisible than it is to say that he imitates the visible. The artifacts actually produced verify this: the "abstract" art of so-called primitive peoples, such as the African tribes; the symbolically distorted art of our own Middle Ages; the deliberately elongated figures of Byzantine art which occupy a space that intentionally violates the rules of linear perspective; Chinese landscape painting which is "realistic" only in the sense that it expresses Reality; the geometric art of Islam; twentieth-century Impressionism, Expressionism, Cubism and the like; architecture, which is intrinsically abstract. While these art forms may imitate the principles or relations that order the cosmos, they clearly do not imitate visible appearances. If, notwithstanding, we accept Plato's criterion we must fault the philosopher equally. The painter has at least the material couch to imitate. Plato did not have the living Socrates before him, but merely the memory of Socrates-itself an image or imitation of the man. Hence the Socrates of The Republic is also an imitation of an imitation. As Plato himself insists, so are the personae of the dramatist and poet (Republic X 598e-599). Philosopher, dramatist, poet, and visual artist are all on an equal footing, in this respect. Plato's criticisms of the arts in Book X stem from his conviction that the images of the poet, dramatist, painter and sculptor corrupt and degrade the soul, strengthening and confirming its bondage to the body. He would have us forsake such images for others that can exhault, purify, and ultimately liberate the soul. The Socrates of The Republic is obviously such an image. It is likely therefore, that Plato's rejection of poetry, drama, and the visual arts in Book X, coming as it does at the conclusion of his own artistic masterpiece, is-notwithstanding its author's keen awareness of the limitations of any text that incorporates images- in fact an appeal to the reader to accept the art of which Plato has just given him an example-the art of The Republic composed of images that encourage ascent from becoming to Being-in place of the images of the Greek poets, sculptors and painters which, in Plato's opinion, lead to the abyss. This is also suggested by Plato's many allusions in The Republic to Illiad and Odyssey, and by his comparisons of Socrates to Odysseus, Heracles, Daedalus and the like. He would replace the ancient myths with his own, the ancient artists and heroes with his Socrates. Socrates becomes in The Republic the new Daedalus who sculpts the Bright is the noble work; but being nobly bright the work Should brighten the minds, so that they may travel, through the true lights, To the True Light where Christ is the true door. In what manner it be inherent in this world the golden door defines: The dull mind rises to truth through that which is material And, in seeing this light, is resurrected from its former submersion. There is much great visual art that even a confirmed Platonist might be hard put to reject. To be sure, in Plato's day Greek art was becoming increasingly concerned with appearances. He was certainly right to protest this through Socrates. But it makes no sense to apply his criticism to visual art as a whole, or to use it as a justification for denying the visual arts a place in the liberal arts curriculum. Finally we must note that if we accept the arguments of Book X we must exclude from the liberal arts not only visual art, but all imaginative literature (save the Platonic Dialogues) . Homer and the tragidians-whom Socrates specifically condemns- must of course go, but also, obviously, Shakespeare and Rabelais and Cervantes, and Dostoevski, and all of their kind. Moreover, it is by no means certain that Plato's criteria would admit much of the music currently studied by students of the liberal arts. Would Wagner survive, I wonder? f. Music affects the soul nwre directly and immediately than visual art and therefore can form character nwre effectively than visual art. The visual "impresses" our souls no less than the audible. Indeed, visual images evoke compassion, sexual desire, anger, fear and so on nwre readily than music. Witness the power of cinema and television to move us, to involve us, to appropriate thought and feeling. The traditional view (the view that prevailed through the eighteenth century) is that all 49 �i. The visual arts were excluded from the trivium and quadrivium during the Middle Ages when the seven liberal arts became the educational norm, whereas music was included and even emphasized. arts, not simply music, shape character. (Had Plato not thought so he would not have excluded the poets, the tragic dramatists, and the visual artists from his Republic.) In the case of visual art that was accomplished directly through depiction of exemplars such as Hercules or Christ, with whom the spectator was expected to identify and whom he was expected to emulate as best as he could, or indirectly through exposure to certain visual relationships that were thought to induce kindred relationships in the soul. It was long assumed that the parts of the "healthy" soul were symmetrically disposed, or in equilibrium, or related by a certain proportion. The symmetrical architecture of classical antiquity was expected to induce such inner symmetry or proportionality. The moralizing art of painters such as Hogarth and Goya is a late expression of that ancient tradition. Its purpose is, in part, to make us admire what we should admire and despise what we should despise. Seeing injustices can sometimes make us betterpersons--can, in fact, move an entire society to benevolant action. Would anyone seriously argue that music could have induced us to aid the starving thousands in Somalia? This objection, too, has been answered under "History." j. There simply is not room in a four-year curriculum/or the liberal arts and the visual arts. To include the visual arts would compell us to sacrifice something more essential. The traditional seven liberal arts provide a rational schema for a compact yet rich and comprehensive program. If we depart from that schema we abandon meaningful criteria for including or excluding subject-matter. Will we next be asked to add the social sciences? Or horticulture? As noted above, colleges that profess to offer a liberal education no longer adhere strictly to the traditional schema of the seven liberal arts. Hence one cannot argue again~t adding the visual arts on grounds that it would violate that schema. Among the criteria actually used to determine the disciplines included we frequently find the following : a) that the discipline promote the good of the individual by perfecting those faculties which distinguish man; b) that the discipline promote the good of society as a whole; c) that it be a primary discipline, that is one which cannot be reduced to more elementary disciplines (as engineering can be reduced to mathematics or medicine to biology); d) that it relate as nearly as possible to other parts of the liberal arts curriculum. Let us apply these criteria to the study of the visual arts. a)While vision per se does not distinguish man from other sentient beings, the kind of vision which he possesses does. His is a "thinking eye." That potential becomes manifest almost as soon as we gain some control of our bodies. All children delight in drawing. Their drawings are schematic or symbolic: a circle represents the head, two dots the eyes, a line the mouth and so on. Children 2-4 years of age "apparently make no attempt to translate their visual images into plastic equivalents (imitative or naturalistic representations), but are fully satisfied with certain graphic signs which they identify with their images." 36 Our ability to draw and to make three-dimensonal shapes is as fundamental and as universal as our ability to form intelligible sounds. It implies that we possess by virtue of our nature as rational beings not two major symbolic languagesspeech and mathematics-but at least three. If one of the purposes ofliberal education is to develop those faculties that distinguish mankind we should study all three languages. Our appreciation of visual beauty is also unique. As noted it possesses a rational component-we admire consistency, regularity, conformity to a schema which we think of as "ideal" and so on. It would appear then that if we are to promote the good of the individual, we should, as Aristotle recommends, seek to "develop an observant eye for beauty of g. Liberal education rightly emphasizes the use oforiginal texts. To study visual art we must employ reproductions. These are inherently innacurate and deceptive. Good reproductions of two-dimensional visual art can be quite accurate. Some are so precise that the naked eye is barely able to distinguish originals from copies (this is especially true of copies of prints). We can make exact copies of sculpture using moulds. Such reproductions are certainly preferable to the translations (which are after all interpretations) through which most students of the liberal arts gain access to the majority of the Great Books. Music always reaches us translated or interpreted-unless the performer is also the composer. And since few students of the liberal arts can reconstitute music by simply reading the written score, and live performances are few and far between, most use recordings or reproductions of performances, further increasing the distance between creator and auditor. Students can of course discuss original works of visual art in local museums and galleries. Unlike music and poetry, which reach us via symbolic notation, such works bear the mark of the maker's hand. They constitute permanently accessible "performances" by the artist. One might compare the experience they afford to hearing Beethoven play his Appassionata or Homer read his /Iliad. To be sure, one must look closely to appreciate this-at the brushstrokes that constitute forms and colors, at the scratchings and rubbings that constitute line and tone. h. The Greeks, who knew a great deal about the visual arts wisely excluded them from the liberal arts. We should follow their example. This objection has been answered under "History." 50 they constitute, alas, lacks a head; or perhaps we should say that it has, like Cerberus, fabled guardian of Hades, too many heads. For the liberal arts are now proposed as preparation for virtually any activity. Moreover, with the passage of time the intersecting ways have tended to become parallel, or even divergent. We note that as we move from study of the ancient texts to study of the modem. Even allowing this, the liberal arts constitute the nearest thing we have to a synoptic, unified educational program that has withstood the test of time. For that reason they have appealed and continue to appeal to educators troubled by the fragmentation of knowledge, the centrifugal forces loose in the modem world especially those who hoped and those who still hope that we might learn through immersion in the works and thoughts of a more coherent past ways to restore or at least to encourage coherence in our own culture. Any addition to, or modification of such a program of study should certainly take into account its original intent and the motives of those who sought to revive it. The visual arts satisfy those conditions. They naturally constitute a point of intersection for other disciplines traditionally among the liberal arts, or closely allied with those arts: mathematics (the form of the visual work, perspective, the golden section and other proportional schema); biology (theories of perception, the contribution of eye and brain, conditions that permit the illusion of reality on a two-dimensional surface, optical illusions); philosophy and theology (symbolic content of the visual work); music (formal analogies and structural parallels between the visual arts and music); mythology, sacred and secular history, and literature (narrative content of the visual work). A proper program of study would not be confined to portable easel painting (the earliest surviving examples of this art-form are relatively late; itisratherlike beginning the study of the Great Books with the Renaissance) but would include fresco and mosaic, architecture and sculpture. There would thus be opportunity to examine artifacts, such as the medieval cathedrals and Renaissance churches that were in their time foci for a multitude of disciplines, and in particular for the disciplines of the liberal arts. Mathematics, philosophy, theology, rhetoric, music, architecture, sculpture, painting all come together here to make one thing. Study of the the Greek temple and of its sculptures (supported by selections from Vitruvius, supplemented by study of the images and proportions of Greek pottery) would have similar advantages. To add such a program to the existing curriculum might require the . elimination or abridgement of certain texts. But that will be outweighed by the more complex and comprehensive whole that results. All of this becomes possible if to books and balances we add calipers and rule, thereby restoring the ancient unity of the visual arts and the liberal arts. form and figure." b) It is abundantly clear that the visual environment influences our moods, dispositions, and thoughts. The colorscheme of any dentist's office testifies to this. Deny people all view of the landscape and most will eventually cease to think about the relation of man to nature. Cage them up in drab high-rises constructed of indistinguishable cells and they will become mean-spirited. The ancients were right to assume that visual art shapes character. Lessing was wrong to assert that the pleasure which we derive from visual beauty "can be dispensed with"; it cannot. A responsible citizenry will promote the creation of a suitable visual environment by commissioning, by advising, by criticizing. We cannot depend upon our artists and architects to do that for us. As we have observed the visual arts and the liberal arts parted company some two-hundred years ago. With few exceptions, artists and architects are now specialists educated in specialized schools of art or architecture that for the most part exclude meaningful study of the liberal arts as rigorously as some liberal arts colleges exclude the visual arts. Architect, painter, and sculptor are not expected to have a liberal education, and are not usually directed by those who have such an education. We need only look about us to see the consequences. For the good of society the liberally educated should resume their historic role as knowledgable patrons of the visual arts. To do so they must be familiar with the visual arts. Liberal education can and should facilitate this. c) Visual art is the mature expression of a unique faculty that all men possess by nature and that distinguishes man from other sentient beings. It presents the perfect object of perception to the most complex of our senses and thereby perfectly exercises that sense. It satisfies the eye in the same way that music satisfies the ear. The field-like organization of the visual artifact is unique. For no other art-form confronts us immediately in its totality. The paleolithic sculptures and cave paintings indicate that mankind possessed from the beginning an impulse to make beautiful and expressive images. For all of these reasons I would argue that the study of visual art is a primary discipline, quite different in that respect from the social sciences, medicine, or any number of worthy studies. d) Trivium and quadrivium, meaning "the place where three (or four) ways meet" are tenns that originally described what we would call highway intersections. The terms emphasize that the disciplines each grouping includes all lead to the same destination. They interrelate, inform each other, and constitute a larger whole. During the Middle Ages, when the trivium and quadrivium first became the educational norm, the seven liberal arts were parts of a still more comprehensive unity. Study of the liberal arts prepared one for the study of philosophy. Philosophy was not then the independent discipline that it is today, but the handmaiden of theology. The seven "ways" crossed in God. We cannot say that of our liberal arts. The body which 51 �18. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. J.J. Pollitt, The Ancient View of Greek Ari (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974), p. 32. See Rensselaer W . Lee, Ut Pictura Poe sis: The Humanistic Theory of Painting (New York: W.W. Norton, 1967); Mario Praz, Mnemosyne: The Parallel Between Literature and the Visual Arts (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974); Jean H. Hagstrum, The Sister Arts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987). Pollitt, Ancient View, pp. 60-61 and ch. 7. See Henry Maguire, Art and Eloquence in Byzantium (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981). See M. Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators (Oxford, 1971). 14. The Catholic Encyclopedia (New York: Encyclopedia Press, 1914), vol. 1 p . 726. See Erwin Panofsky, Idea; "The Neoplatonic Movement in Florence and North Italy"; "The Neoplatonic Movement and Michelangelo" in Studies in Iconology (New York: Harper and Row, 1962). See E. H. Gombrich, Symbolic Images (Oxford: Phaidon, 1978), pp. 7-11. Paul Oskar Kris teller, "The Modem System of the Arts" in Renaissance Thought and the Arts (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), pp. 181-182. Rudolf Wittkower, Architectural Principles in the Age of Hurnanism (New York: Random House, 1965), pp. 101-102. Ibid. p. 117. Kristeller, pp. 163-164. Edgar Wind, Art and Anarchy (New York: Vintage, 1969). See esp. ch. IV, "The Fear of Knowledge." Jose Ortega Y Gasset, "The Dehumanization of Art" in The Dehumanization of Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), p . 49. Hans Jonas, "The Nobility of Sight: A Study in the Phenomenology of the Senses" in The Phenomenon of Life (New York: Harper and Row, 1966), p. 135. von Simson, pp. 22-41; Wittkower, IV, "The Problem of Hannonic Proportion in Architecture," pp. 101-154. Thomas Brachert, "A Musical Canon of Proportion in Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper," The Art Bulletin, Dec. 1971. Hambidge, Elements. See "Rectangles and Ratios: Proportion in Art and Architecture," unpublished essay by Frank Carr, 529 Powell Drive, Annapolis, Maryland 21401. See Erwin Panofsky, Gothic Architecture and Scholastic ism, (Cleveland: Meridian 1963). John F. Taylor, Design and Expression in the Visual Arts (New York: Dover, 1964), pp. 199-2 12. Ibid. pp. 159-192. Wind, pp. 56-59, 62-67. Herbert Read, Education Through Art (New York: Random House, 1956), p. 121. 20. 21. 22. 23. See Caesare Ripa, Jconologia in Baroque and Rococo Pictorial Imagery, ed. Edward A. Maser (New York: Dover, 1971), p. 197. J.J. Coulton, Greek Architects at Work (London: Elek, 1977), p . 25. Coulton, p. 53. See Vitruvius, The Ten Books of Architecture (New York: Dover, 1960), Book III . Jay Hambidge, The ElemenJs of Dynamic Symmetry (New York: Dover, 1967); Dynamic Symmetry: The Greek Vase (New Haven: Yale University Press,?); The Parthenon and Other Greek Temples: Their Dynamic Synunetry (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1924). Rhys Carpenter, The Esthetic Basis of Greek Art (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1959), pp. 120-130. P.H. Scholfield, The Theory of Proportion in Architecture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1958). Pollitt, Ancient View, pp. 14-22, 160-168. Howard Fisher, "Dynamic Symmetry, A Theory of Art and Nature," The St. John's Review, Winter 1985. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. See George Duckworth, Structural Patterns and Proportions In Vergil's Aeneid (Anne Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1962). On Plato's Polity, a lecture by John A. Bremer given at St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland, February 17, 1984 (tape no. 770). 33. 33a. See Otto von Simson, The Gothic Cathedral (New York: Harper and Row, 1962), pp. 3-58. 34. l la. See for example John Onians, Bearers of Meaning: The Classical Orders in Antiquity, the Middle Ages, and the Renaissance (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988). 12. R. J. Clements, Michelangelo' s Theory of Art (New York: New York University Press, 1961), pp. xxix-xxxi. 13. D. W. Robertson, Jr., A Preface to Chaucer (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1962), pp. 122-124. 19. Notes 35. 36. J.J. Pollitt, The Art of Greece 1400-31 B .C.: Sources and Documents (New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, 1965), p. 7. Ibid. pp. 162-163. 14a. Thomas Davidson, Aristotle and the Ancient Educalional Ideals (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1899), p. 240. 15. Erwin Panofsky, ldea, A Concept in Art Theory (New York: Harper and Row, 1968), pp. 13-14. 16. von Simson, pp. 30-31. 17. Ibid. p. 33 . 52 53 �I Her Hair [] by Charles Baudelaire Roberts '93 translated by Francie La Chevelure by Charles Baudelaire Oh tresses, curling down upon her neckline; Oh ringlets; Oh perfume thick and overflowing with nonchalance; Ecstacy ! This night how I desire, in order to populate this solemn alcove with the memories sleeping in her hair, to shake it in the air like a handkerchief! I will plunge my head so desirous of intoxication, into the black ocean where she is imprisoned, and my penetrating spirit caressed by rolling waves will rediscover you, oh abunant laziness; endless rockings of my perfumed leisure! Blue-black hair, lodging of taut night, you restore to me the azure of an immense, round sky; upon the soft borders of your tangled curls I become passionately intoxicated by the mingled scents of coconut oil, of musk and of tar. Listless Asia and burning Africa, all of a distant world, away from home, nearly lost, lives within your depths, aromatic forest! As other souls go sailing upon music, so does my soul, oh my love, swim upon your perfume. For a long while; Forever! my hand in your thick, heavy hair will scatter rubies, pearls, sapphires, that you may never be deaf to my desire! For, are you not the oasis where I dream, and the wineskin from whence I swallow in great gulps the wine of memory? I will go far away where tree and man, both full of sap, swoon for long stretches of time under the ardor of the climates; long tresses, be the oceanic surge which carries me off! You contain, sea of ebony, a shining dream of sails, of oarsmen, of flames and of masts: 0 toison, moutonnant jusque sur l'encolure! 0 boucles! 0 parfum charge de nonchaloir! Extase! Pour peupler ce soir l'alc6ve obscure Des souvenirs dormant dans cette chevelure, Je la veux agiter dans l'air comme un mouchoir! Je plongerai ma tete amoureuse d'i vresse Dans ce noir ocean ou l'autre est enferme; Et mon esprit subtil que le roulis caresse La langoureuse Asie et la bn1lante Afrique, Cheveux bleus, pavilion de tenebres rencluc s, Tout un monde lointain, absent, presque defunt, Yous me rendez l'azur du ciel immense Yit dans tes profondeurs, foret aromatique! Comme d 'autres esprits voguent sur la musique, Surles bords duvetes de VOS meches tordues Je m'enivre ardemment des senteurs con fondue Le mien, 6 mon amour! nage sur ton parfum. De l'huile de coco, du muse et du goudron. J'irai la-bas OU l'arbre et l'homme, pleins de seve, Longtemps! toujours! ma main dans ta criniere lourde Semera le rubis, la perle et la saphir, Se pament longuement sous l 'ardeur des climats; Fortes tresses, soyez la houle qui m'enleve! An echoing harbor where my soul can drink, in great waves, the perfume, the sound and the color; where ships, gliding through gold and through watered silk, open their vast arms to embrace the glory of a pure sky where shudders the eternal passion. Tu contiens, mer d'ebene, un eblouissant reve De voiles, de rameurs, de flammes et de mats: Saura vous retrnuver, 6 feconde paresse ! Infinis bercements du loisir embaume! t:l rumL Afin qu'a mon desir tune sois jamais sourde ! N'es-tu pas !'oasis OU je reve, et Ia gourde Ou je hume a longs traits le vin du souvenir? u n port retentissant OU mon ame peut boire A grands flats le parfum, le son et la couleur; OL1 les vaisseaux, glissant dans I'or et dans la moire, Ouvre nt le urs vastes bras pour embrasser la gloire D'un ciel pur ou fremit l'etemelle chaleur. 54 55 I �Choosing to Believe: . ree Choice and F the Know ledge of God in St. Thomas by Susanna Beiser '94 It is the intention of St. Thomas to exalt the intellect above every other human power. In this way he is like Aristotle and other ancient philosophers who believed that the acuity of reason would serve to explain every phenomena and solve any problem. Such philosophy preserves and celebrates the nobility of human reason. Aristotle, however, answered to himself alone in regard to the proper pursuit of his science. He answered to no God. Thomas' approach is different because he believes in a God who is a loving creator.a super-intelligent being with absolute governance of the world. We have responsibilities to this God, among which are love and humility. We are not meant to rejoice in our natural abilities while remaining oblivious to their origin and constant source of inspiration. On the contrary, to best love God and conform our actions to His will, we must try, to the best of our abilities, to understand Him and His effects. Thomas' sacred doctrine is established to serve this purpose. As a science, sacred doctrine has as its subject-matter both God and His creation. In the realm of human endeavor, practical guidelines are sought so that we might fulfill our duty to ourselves and to God on both thought and deed. This duty goes beyond belief in God's existence, beyond faith, to require of us our continuous attention to increasing our knowledge of God. This is not a burden, however, on the individual. For when a man has a will ready to believe, teaching based on natural reason (II-II, Q.1 A.7)." These are the premises on which the best human knowledge of God is founded, and only by reasoning from them can we gain, in any measure, knowledge that is beyond our reach. Thomas believes that man's reason is a participation in the perfect intellect that is God. God created man with reason as an essential part of his soul and in this sense the intellect is a natural, rather than accidental, part of us. Our reason is inferior to the divine intellect and comparatively incomplete, but it is the divinity in us. We are created in the image of God insofar as we can have knowledge. Since the human intellect resembles God's, what God knows perfectly through His infinite knowledge should not be inconsistent with the determinations of our own natural reason. In this way man was originally created with the ability to know truth. The fall of Adam altered the functioning of the human intellect. Since the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden, man has been in a state of corrupted nature. With Adam's assertion of his free will came disease, so that "since man' s reason is not entirely subject to God, the consequence is that many disorders occur in the acts itself of the reason (II-I, Q.109 A.8)." No longer is the human intellect infallible, even in reference to objects well within the bounds of the visible and the comprehensible. Lesser still is our ability to know anything about God through the natural process of reasoning. How, then, can we pursue this knowledge? Is it in our power to choose to increase our knowledge of God? What is the nature of this science which seems to grasp at know ledge beyond our reach, yet claims to reveal the sw-est truths? In order to answer these questions we must examine in detail the process described by Thomas as the path to knowledge. In explanation of the necessity of sacred doctrine, Thomas writes that "man is directed to God as to an end that surpasses the grasp of his reason ... (I, Q.1 A.1 )." From this description we are meant to understand the end of man to be a final cause, a result for the sake of which the means to this end are deliberately ordered. According to Christianity, man's true end is life after death in perfect happiness: beatitude. Since happiness is . man's experience of the good, it easily follows that perfect happiness must result from contact with God, who is perfectly good. The exact nature of this contact, however, must be further explored. The best part of man is necessarily what is created to be most like God, his most divine aspect. For Thomas, this is certainly the intellect, both because it resembles the power by which God governs the world and because it is a part of man he loves the truth he believes, he thinks out and takes to heart whatever reasons he can find in support thereof.... (Summa Theologica, II-II, Q.2 A.10) * * * The practice of scared doctrine, although it makes use of reason, does not entail thinking out reasonable explanations for the truths which are believed by faith. The articles of faith are truths about God that are unreachable by means of the reason with which man is naturally endowed. These are the basis of Christianity and include the existence of the Trinity and the mystery of Christ. Such truths are neither self-evident nor demonstrable and therefore require belief without the sure know ledge that arises from the practice of any other science. This does not mean, however, that articles of faith are absurd or inconsistent with reason. They are beyond reason but possess the nature of first principles in the practice of sacred doctrine. "The articles of faith stand in the same relation to the doctrine of faith, as self-evident principles to 56 57 �into different kinds according to its various effects: that seems to be incorporeal. The excellence of the intellect remains essentially unchanged, despite the corrupted state into which we have fallen. If, then, man is to attain the condition of the greatest possible happiness, the condition of experiencing the greatest good, he must do so by means of his most perfect faculty. It follows that "the ultimate beatitude of man consists in the use of his highest function, which is the operation of the intellect (I, Q.12 A.I)." Thomas makes a distinction between two aspects of the operation of the intellect. On the one hand there is the actuality of the faculty. Simply stated, this is the activity of thinking. On the other is the determination of the thinking to a particular object. In order tocontiibute to beatitude, man's intellect must be both active and focused on the greatest good. Beatitude, therefore, consists in thinking about God. Furthermore, perfect happiness requires the perfect operation of the intellect. For this reason a merely general or confused knowledge of God is insufficient. Man must know God as He truly is. Thomas describes the connection established by this contemplation as "the divine essence itself united to their intellect (I, Q.12 A.9) and the effect of this connection as 'deiformity' (I, Q.12 A.6)." The intellect is detennined to its proper object and so takes on, to some finite extent, the infinite goodness that is God. In this way man attains beatitude. This kind of knowledge, a vision of God in His essence, is possible only in the afterlife, for it is not granted that man, still encumbered with his body, may 1ise above his nature to comprehend the incorporeal Being. The human intellect is accustomed to understanding immaterial objects by abstracting from composites, combinations of matter and form. This is impossible when thinking about God because He is infinite and utterly immaterial. The best knowledge of God is beyond the reach of natural reason, for the human intellect cannot change its mode of operation. Therefore man needs assistance if he is ever to know the essence of God. Here enters the crucial factor in the pursuit of the divine science: the grace of God. Grace is the gift of God's assistance, bestowed on man to enable him to rise above his own nature, gain knowledge of God, and thereby attain beatitude. This blessing springs from the love that God, the creator, has for His creation. It is to be distinguished from the care that accompanied the original fashioning of man, whereby he was given the power of reason as a natural part of the soul. So it is said that grace indicates "a special love, whereby He draws the rational creature above the condition of its nature to a participation of the divine good... (I-II, Q.110 A.I)." Grace is in operation throughout man's journey toward knowledge of God, both before and after bodily death. Thomas often calls this power a light: "this increase of the intellectual powers is called the illumination of the intellect" and "By this light the blessed are made' deiform '-that is, like to God... (both from I, Q.12 A.5)." All grace stems from God's love and is essentially the same, but it can be divided Now there are five effects of grace in us. Of these, the first is, to heal the soul; the second, to desire good; the third, to carry into effect the good proposed; the fourth, to persevere in good; the fifth, to reach glory. (II-I, Q.111 A.3) The first four of these are needed to compensate for our corrupted nature. In the state of integral nature man's intellect functioned perfectly. It was originally a natural characteristic of man to tend toward apparent good in both his will and his actions. This aspect of human nature remains. What man has lost, however, is the unening ability to determine this tendency to an actual good, to enact the good, and to continue to do good works of his own inspiration. It is God' s grace, operating throughout his life, that is responsible for moving man to will or enact good. The fifth kind encompasses all the effects of grace that_ specifically pertain to man' s beatitude. In regard to knowl" edge of God that is beyond the reach of reason, grace bridges the gap between the relatively confused and general knowledge of God that man can gain by natural reason and the essential knowledge necessary for beatitude. It is only by faith that man can have this essential knowledge. Thomas describes the aspects of grace that allow a man to attain Christian faith and then to continue in the contemplation of God. The knowledge gained by faith is unlike knowledge that results from natural reason. Faith is a kind of knowledge, inasmuch as the intellect is determined by faith to some knowable object. But this determination to one object does not proceed from the vision of the believer, but from the vision of Him Who is believed. Thus, as far as faith falls short of vision, it falls short of the nature which knowledge has when it is science .... (I, Q.12 A.13) Faith does not permit man to reasonably understand its objects; rather it "signifies the assent of the intellect to that which is believed (II-I, Q.l A.4)."In the normal course of intellectual activity, a proposition that is believed is assented to by a process of reasoning. When a proposition cannot be reasonably understood, it cannot be believed in the usual manner. The propositions about God which constitute the articles of faith surpass human reason, and so cannot be believed without an assent being made possible by grace. God, therefore, grants that man may come to believe the truths of faith that are essential to beatitude. After grace initially acts to establish faith, its continuing presence allows man to increase his knowledge of God. We reason from the articles of faith, our natural intellectual power enhanced by the light of grace. Beatitude is insured by faith and the degree of happiness obtained is heightened as the share of grace increases. The question that now arises pertains not to these operations of grace, but to what precedes them. Grace appears to be the only addition to the soul's natural powers that is necessary for attaining faith. Not every man, however, is a Christian. Hence, it is apparent that some do not receive this grace. Considering that God intends man's happiness, what prior condition in the individual allows him to receive the grace that leads to faith and beatitude? It is reasonable to suspect that the absence of faith in an individual is due to some failing of his own rather than to the will of God. A lack of the proper preparation to receive grace accounts for man's failure to attain beatitude and absolves God of any responsibility for withholding it. The likely source of man's error is his reason because it is functionally corrupt and not necessarily attuned to the will of God. Man's fallible reason is also responsible for the misdirection of his free will. If reason is to have a decisive role in preparing for grace, the course of intellectual progress towards beatitude should include a point at which a free choice is made. This choice would allow each man to take responsibility for the condition of his soul and, by choosing correctly, to prepare himself to receive God's grace. An extension of the grace/light analogy is helpful in determining what must occur in man prior to having faith. Q.109 A.6)." Perhaps these men have a greater desire for God and therefore are more receptive to the initial gift of grace. This explanation, however, is insufficient. According to human nature, every man tends towards good as it appears to his mind. All men also tend toward God, although in a confused and indeterminate way. But no man, his nature corrupt and unaided by grace, can know the truths that would allow his reason, and thereby his desire, to rise above lesser goods to the greatest good, to direct him to God. Thus it is clear that man does not specifically desire or look to God before he first receives grace; "man cannot prepare himself to receive the light of grace except by the gratuitous help of God moving him inwardly (II-I, Q. I09 A.6)." All men, then, appear to be moved in the same way toward knowledge of God. By nature their minds tend to the good; by grace they are focused on God, enlightened, and raised above their natural abilities to assent to the articles of faith. None of these movements, however, appears to involve a choice on the part of the individual. Yet Thomas states that there is a form of cooperation between God and man concerning the gift of grace and that man's part consists in free choice: It is the part of man to prepare his soul, since he does this by his free choice. And yet he does not do this without the help of God moving him, and drawing him to Himself. ... (II-I, Q.109 A.6) Now to prepare oneself for grace is. as it were, to be turned to God; just as whoever has his eyes turned away from the light of the sun prepares himself to receive the sun's light, by turning his eyes towards the sun. (II-I, Q.109 A.6) Man's turning to God is by free choice, and thus man is bidden to turn himself only to God. But free choice can be turned to God only when God turns it. ... (II-I, Q.109 A.6) In one sense, man' s eyes are never turned completely away from God because of his natural tendency toward the good. The problem is that this general leaning is not specifically to God, but toward whatever object the intellect believes to be good. Due to the corruption of the intellect, this determination is often incmrect. This inability to positively identify God as the object of desire was not a part of the first man. In the state of integral nature the human intellect recognized its cause and creator, but "in the state of corrupted nature man falls short of this in the appetite of his rational, which, unless it be cured by God's grace, follows its private good... (II-I, Q.109 A.3)." Because true intellectual vision depends on sure belief and God desires man's beatitude, grace determines the mind to God; it turns man to Him so that he is prepared to receive the light of further grace that will lead him to faith. Since not all men receive grace, it remains to be said what kind of man is moved in this way. Again, we would like to understand how free choice plays a role in obtaining grace. Perhaps the solution is a sirnple form of cooperation: he who wishes to find God will be turned to Him by God. In this vein Thomas writes, "He directs just men to Himself as to a special end, which they seek and to which they wish to cling ... (II-I, In making this choice man has neither alternative objects from which to choose, nor the ability to actively direct his mind to the object of choice. In what sense, then, is the choice free? The solution to this problem is contained in Thomas' understanding of choice as an act of the will. As a power of the intellect, will is characterized by the two aspects mentioned earlier: the activity of the power and the determination of the power to an object. Thomas explains this division: Now the reason why it is possible not to choose, or to choose, may be gathered from a twofold power in man. For man can will and not will, act and not act; and again, he can will this or that, and do this or that. The reason for this is to be found in the very power of the reason. For the will can tend to whatever the reason can apprehend as good. (II-I, Q.13 A.6) These distinctions can be understood by examining our outward actions. For example, a man might read a book of his own choosing. In this case he is the active principle in two senses; he reads rather than not reading, and he determines the object of his action, this book rather than that one. A different 58 59 �case is illustrated by the man who obeys a particular law. It is by his own power that he acts in obeying the law, but the law itself is not of his determination. It has been framed by someone else and presented to him so that the range of his action is limited. Turning to God is an action of the second type. There is no need to determine the object of the action; God is a given. The only options, then, are to turn or not to turn. There appears to be a problem, however, because we know that man does not have the ability to tum to God on his own. he must be turned by God's grace. In the absence of the power to act there appears to be no place for choice. It seems impossible for man to choose to tum to God when, in fact, his role is passive. At this point we must remember that choice pertains not only to action, but also to willing or desiring. Because most of our actions are both willed and enacted by our own power, this distinction might seem unnecessary. It is essential, however, in the context of receiving grace, a situation in which we appear to have no active role. In this case man can choose neither the object of his desire, nor the means of attaining his end, for both are dependent on God. The only choice that remains to be made is to will or not to will. If a man cannot choose God as the object to which he is turned, and he cannot choose to turn himself, his choice consists in willing or not willing the turn. Why, though, would anyone choose not to be turned to God? As Thomas mentions, the explanation for this lies in the condition of man's reason. The will naturally tends toward good, even in our corrupted state. It must rely, however, on reason's frequently incorrect determinations of what is good. Although anyone with clear knowledge of God could not mistake his goodness, any less perfect vision is subject to this error. It is possible for a man who ·is without faith, not yet enlightened by grace, and lacking any clear intellectual vision of God to be blind to the goodness of grace and so to choose not to receive it. The first step towards enlightenment, then, is desire, not for God specifically, because His essence is unseen, but for what is greatest. It is the willful, and therefore intellectual, yearning for the highest knowledge, the first principle sought by the philosophers. Accompanying this desire is the understanding that what is highest is truly beyond our grasp if we attempt the search alone. We must rely on God to enhance our reason and raise our sights to a vision of the truth we seek. The source of our hope for divine assistance is reason itself. Thomas believes that some knowledge of God, known through the images of His effects, is within the reach of our natural faculties. Included is the knowledge that there is a creator and an intelligent being "by whom all natural things are directed to their end (I, Q.2 A.3)." The conect consideration of these truths compels the thinking man to submit his will to that of the creator and to look to the greater intelligence for guidance in his search for knowledge. In this way the lover of knowledge may prepare his soul for the assistance he needs to transcend his limited abilities and gain a vision of his true end. On the Relation of the Speech of Alcibiades to the Other Speeches of the Platonic Symposium by Friedrich Nietzsche (1864) Translated by Eva T. H. Brann [Nietzsche wrote this essay when he was twenty years old. I came on it while helping a senior with his essay on the Symposium. It seemed to me that I should translate it to serve as an encouragement to our students. The German text appears in Friedrich Nietzsche, Werke und Briefe: Historischkritische Gesammtausgabe, Vol. 2, Jugendschriften (18611864), edited by Hans Joachim Mette, Munich: C.H. Beck (1934).] All passages are quoted from Basic Writings of Saint Thomas Aquinas, Anton C. Pegis, ed., Random House, New York, 1945. 60 ladder to the highest eros that he erects I notice this peculiarity, that the different points of view of the speakers recur. Phaedrus is, to be sure, as elsewhere, only the "midwife" of the following speeches. But Pausanias, in whose speech one must never lose sight of his love for Agathon, shows the standpoint of a human being as long as he still loves one beautiful object, be it physical or spiritual. Eryximachus is a lover of all that is beatiful, as it is revealed in the whole of nature. Aristophanes has already advanced to the higher rung oflove for art and science, just as has Agathon, who, as a tragic poet, seems to me to have been awarded by Plato a higher place, above Aristophanes - a judgment with which we would not nowadays concur. The spiritually greater human being by far is Aristophanes. Finally Socrates himself reaches the rung that Diotima has designated as the highest, the love of the Arch-beautiful; we do not doubt that he has reached it, but Socrates himself does not and may not tell us this, true to his own character. What he does describe is how he was once caught in the same error as Agathon is now; that is the great insight he has gained. But how far it has carried over into life, whether it is even capable of being actualized - that has to remain uncertain for the reader of the dialogue. That is why Alcibiades appears, to represent the love for the Arch-beautiful in its effect on the practical life of human beings, that is, the effect of this love in a particular human being such as Socrates, and the countereffect a human being filled with such a love has on others, such as Socrates has on Alcibiades. Here is the reason why Plato chose precisely Alcibiades in order to depict this effect. If any disciple of Socrates had come on the scene to glorify Socrates, the effect would have been incomparably weaker. Alcibiades, on the other hand, is a youth completely apostate from Socrates and wholly alienated from philosophy. The influence of Socrates on such a one, a human being of such genius, is the most wonderful that Plato could have cited in proof of the above-mentioned countereffect. Furthermore, Alcibiades knows nothing of the preceding conversation. To the surprise of the audience he depicts the practical side of the human being consecrated to the Archbeautiful, while Socrates had drawn the theoretical side. Plato represents him as intoxicated in order to let him express himself more freely about things which had to be avoided in serious, measured conversation; their mention was, however, necessary, especially since they were historical facts. Then too the contrast between the speeches of Socrates and Alcidiades is worthy of notice, as is the contrast between their natures, while both are expressing their deepest feelings, the To come right out with how I conceive of the relation of the first five speeches to that of Socrates: It seems to me to be a completely erroneous claim that in those five speeches Plato collected only mistaken opinions about Eros in order to confront them with the only correct one, that of Socrates. Socrates himself does not deny them his applause; he comes back to all of them, assigning to each opinion its appropriate place. I rather believe that from the first to the last speech a definite progress takes place, insofar as each successive opinion substantially increases and broadens that of its predecessor; each speaker sees the concept of eros appear before him with growing clarity, until Socrates, far from overthrowing it, finally rounds off into a dome the edifice they have gradually erected. This holds of course only with respect to the basic opinions of each speaker. What the others add to their exegeses by way of ornament is often rejected by Socrates as unjustified. The speech of Phaedrus only sketches out the area within which the question is moved. He depicts Eros as the oldest god and the cause of the greatest goods. Of course, I here pass over the significance of each individual speech for characterizing the persons and emphasize only the basic thought. Pausanias explains the eros of the heavenly gods as love with the purpose of the active or passive ennobling of humankind. Eryximachus widens the meaning of eros to extend over the all-encompassing life of nature, while the two first speakers represent love only in its operation within the human being. Aristophanes says that eros is based on a necessity of nature, the law of elective affinity. Agathon, finally, calls eros the love of the beautiful, which begets everything good and great, in nature, in art, everywhere. In summary, the concept of eros according to these speeches would be: Eros is love for beauty as natural law, directed to the procreation of the good. Socrates' definition does not sound substantially different: Eros is love directed to the begetting and bearing on the beautiful, which he then characterizes as the instinct for immortality innate in spiritual and physical nature. In the 61 �Hope in Sophocles' Antigone D one through the mouth of the divinely inspired prophetess, the other under the inpiration of wine - their deepest and yet similar feelings for the Arch-beautiful, the one in the Idea, the other in a reference to reality: Socrates is the lover of the Arch-beautiful, but Alcibiades is also the lover of the Archbeautiful. And yet, what a difference of natures - the one as morally elevated as the other is morally fallen, the one as physically beautiful as the other is ugly, the one as sober and self-controlled as the other is intoxicated and excited. It is clear that these points of view are relevant as much to the philosophy as to the artistic conception of the dialogue. Here we should notice that with the entrance of Alcibiades a transformation of tone takes place; it is the most daring of artistic uicks that at the moment when the speech of Socrates has led the auditors as it were onto the high seas of the beautiful, the band of inebriates and revellers breaks in and yet does not undo the speech of Socrates but rather enhances it. The speech of Alcibiades is the work of eros, just as is the speech of Socrates. But the speech of Alcibiades works through facts, as that of Socrates does through ideas. And the facts work more forcefully and more compellingly than the articulated ideas. The speeches of Socrates and Alcibiades are related similarly to those of Agathon and Aristophanes, to those of Eryximachus and Pausanias, only in a higher sphere. Socrates, Agathon, E1yximachus are the greater thinkers; Alcibiades, Aristophanes, Pausanias work through facts and myths - in Pausanias especially we must note that he always keeps his own love for Agathon in view. The three thinkers elevate Eros to the widest circle of the arts and sciences peculiar to them: Eryximachus regards Eros as a physician, Agathon as a poet, Socrates as a philosopher. Through the contrast between Socrates and Alcibiades that demonic double nature of Eros himself finally comes before the imagination, that being-betwixt-and-between the divine and the human, the spiritual and the sensual; just so on the other side, the dialogue itself obtains through the appearance of Alcibiades that wonderful coloration, that oscillation between opposing tints that can be traced into the separate parts of the dialogue and that extends even to the language. Even the wondrous union of philosophical speeches with the enjoyment of wine reminds us of it. Thus the appearance of Alcibiades seems to be the turning point of the artful drama, and at the same time of philosophy, toward the side of actuality. And if I may be permitted to draw an analogy: Plato has pulled all the parts of the dialooue together in this nodal point, just as Zeus twisted 0 . . together the different sides and skins of the human bemg m the umbilibal cord and unified them in a knot. Nedalina Dineva '95 a 'YflP 01'\ 7tOAU7tAfl')'!CtOCT eAmcr n:oUotcr µev characters' actions or an omniscient power able to give a voiced expression of the characters' innermost thoughts and motives? Although this last version is a traditional interpretation of the role of the Greek chorus, it may oversimplify the way in which the play strives to render its meaning. I would much rather view the chorus as someone just like myself, uncertain and puzzled, struggling to unravel the mysteries of human life. The chorus may be seen as a group of aged men whom long experience has made wise but, perhaps, slightly senile. They proclaim truths striking in both the scope and depth of their perception. But a comprehension of eternal truths is not enough for the exercise of right judgment. One must also practically apply these truths to particular situations. The chorus lacks the ability to do so. The reader who would gain a true understanding of the play must bridge the gap between the universal and the particular. In this respect, the play is similar to a puzzle, all the parts of which are present but scattered and obscured so well that their assembly presents a problem, surmountable, we hope, with reason. Though not explicitly discussed, Hope is a constant thread woven throughout the texture of the play. An exposition of its role may provide considerable insight into the characters' development. While hope is a power that no human being can avoid, the volatility inherent in its nature is unsettling. According to the chorus Hope exhibits two contrary effects: ovacno avopcov 7tOAAota an:ma Kou<j>ovorov epCtYtmv et&>n o oou&v ep7ret, nptv 7tUpt Sepµro nooa ncr 7tp00'fl'\)0'1'\. (1.616-20) For indeed, wide-roaming hope is a benefit to many among men, but to many-a deceit for empty-minded passions; to one who knows nothing it creeps, until he bums his foot in the hot fire. As the opening stanza of one of the turning points (a'tpo<j>rt) in a chorus' speech, this passage typifies the generally sententious, truth-pondering character of the chorus' entrances. It appeares in a succession of generalizing statements which obviously bear upon the particular events in the tragedy-the far-reaching and contaminating power of evil and man's helplessness before Zeus' will (fate). Against this background, the appearance of the word "hope" and the optimism which it connotes seem quite striking and unfathomable. This is the first time that the concept of hope is treated as a potentially central concern in the play, and nowhere else does it receive so full a development. Haem on' s appearance on stage immediately after the chorus has finished speaking might lead one to believe that the reference to hope reflects his state of mind. Such an interpretation is emphasized by the connection between passion and hope in the passage quoted above. Hope is presented in an obscure causal relationship with Eros whose primary translation as physical love recalls Haemon's character. At this point the reader could easily understand the chorus' words as foreshadowing Haemon' s hope to save the Iife of his beloved. But this view is too limited in comparison with the broad scope of the other concepts articulated by the chorus. Besides, according to their own words, neither Haemon nor Antigone feels any passionate love for the other. Haemon himself, upon Creon's accusation of serving as "the woman's champion", claims in a guilessly passionate tone that his concern is more for his father than for his betrothed: "If thou art a woman; indeed, my care is for thee (1. 741 ;Jebb)." Such inconsistencies suggest that in the passage on hope the chorus addresses another, broader issue. In order to explore the significance of the chorus' treatment of hope we must first consider the chorus as we would any major character in the play. Is the chorus merely a group of bystanders offering their own subjective judgements on the 62 wide-roaming hope is a benefit to many among men, but to many-a deceit for empty-minded passions; In our experience we can distinguish between a general hope which manifests itself as an optimistic outlook towards the future, and a particular one which deals with the specifics of present situations. General optimism brings "benefit" to man, giving breadth to his horizon and vigour to his actions. The more restricted type of hope, however, is painfully insubstantial and unrealistic. It causes the person in whom it dwells to . forsake reason in his actions and to seek support from something outside of himself that he expects to emerge from the nebulous beyond at the moment of his greatest need. Such hope brings a "deceit for empty-minded passions", and, as it must by definition remain in the realm of the unfulfilled, it inevitably entails disaster. Ironically, the existence of this kind of hope in a person's mind is most clearly manifest by an abrupt change in his behaviour at the point when all hope is forsaken. 63 �We observe radical transformations in the views and actions of all the characters in the play. Antigone and Creon, the two central and mutually opposing figures, best illustrate this transformative process. Antigone, as she appears by the end of the play, is quite different from the strong-minded, resolute woman that we encounter in the beginning. In an earlier conversation with her sister she sees death as a beautiful end, an opportunity to "res t, a loved one with him whom I have loved (1.72-73; Jebb)." Even when confronted with Creon's threats she maintains a defiant attitude and presents death as an escape from her miserable existence: jus tice according to his rigid standards and heedless of any stance which opposes his own. His personality exemplifies yet another collapse of a man 's character after hope, his unsubstantial ally that was supposed to strengthen the belief in the correctness of his deeds, has stealthily departed. Upon the death of his son Creon is subject to the constrictions of a situation in which his hope can no longer thrive and support him. Without the internal instigation of hope he is suddenly humbled. A state of abjection is highly unexpected in a man who in his obstinacy is ready to rave even against the gods. He must doubt the beliefs which inspired his actions and realize the emptiness of his motives. Further evidence that Antigone and Creon are led to their tragic ends by Hope is the fact that they themselves realize, to a certain extent, the faultiness of their resolutions long before disaster strikes. Both characters admit that their decisions are not perfectly justified. Antigone indulgently calls this imperfection "her folly," Creon proudly names it "the power of the ruler." How can one admit the falsity of one's course of action and still follow it? Is the self-destructiveness which such willful blindness entails an intrinsic trait of human nature? It is unbelievable that a sane man could intentionally go towards his own doom. The only other impulse, besides madness, that can explain such behaviour is Hope. It baffles man with empty promises and inflates his pride and courage until the final moment when terror fills the hollow form that Hope has just forsaken. It is this attraction to self-destruction that leads people to great exploits and is often admired by outside observers. Is approval of such behaviour justified if it is not based on one's innate capacities but rather on something external? And should we not deem blind sacrifice a weakness and insecurity rather than strength, when it relies on empty hopes instead of reason? With regard to these questions it is helpful to consider the immediate context in which the "Hope" passage stands. It acts as the counter-movement, the avncnpoqn1, of another passage that treats of fate, represented by the inexorable might of Zeus, and ends with a proclamatory statement, "Nothing that is vast enters into the life of mortals without a curse (l.614615; Jebb)." At first sight, this line seems to refer directly to the extraordinary personalities of the two main characters in the play, condemned to disaster by their own respective natures. If, however, we are to take the following antistrophe as an answer to the vague universality of this statement, the "vast thing"-naµnoA'l)-that comes into life with a curse is in fact "wide-roaming hope"-noA.unA.a:)'K'tOO' £Amcr. A special emphasis needs to be put on the fact that naµnoA.u denotes a thing and not a person, an observation which lessens the immediacy of the application of the word to either Creon or Antigone. It is significant that the adjectives modifying "the thing" and "the hope" have similar connotations and even share a composite part, namely 7tOA1J. Moreover, the manner in which they enter, creeping into life and man respectively, But if I am to die before my time, I count that a gain: for if anyone lives, as I do, compassed about with evils, can such a one find aught but gain in death? (1.463-466;Jebb) At the very last moment, however, when directly faced with the prospect of dying, she mourns her fate and attempts to invoke pity for herself in others. We realize that her previous resignation to the inevitability of death was not securely grounded. Strong beliefs, based on rational thought, would not yield so readily to feelings; but passions, emerging from powerful impulses and obstinate self-righteousness, are easily overcome by like passions. Antigone, as she first appears, is moved by a violent, almost blind, determination to act. This determination is a likely manifestation of OL epffi't£CJ or "loves," "passions." Just as physical love is irrational and uncontrollable, so is any other inexplicably powerful attraction or drive. Antigone is resolved to bury her brother but refuses to consider the destructive consequences of her actions. Hope is what fosters such an attitude-hope in the correctness of one's decision, in the possibility of achieving one's goal, and in the relief which will ensue from its accomplishment. When this hope is not realized (the corpse is still unburied; no approval, divine or human, is granted her), Antigone behaves like a child irritated that events do not accord to her desires. She bewails her fate, the same fate which not long before she eulogized as leading to a most beautiful end in life. She stands uncertain, groundless; her hope is gone and with it, all the principles that have hitherto driven her actions: And what law of heaven have I transgressed? Why, hapless one, should I look to the gods any morewhat ally should I invokewhen by piety I have earned the name of impious? (1. 921-24, Jebb) Creon is also led by a "passion" that is stined by a deceitful hope. He hopes to establish justice in his city, but 64 is expressed by the same verb---epnffi. These two stanzas in ~h~~ juxtaposition, suggest much broader implications than imtially apparent. Vastness and its concomitant curse are at work not only in single, exceptional cases. They are intrinsic elements of the realm of hope of which we all partake. If our firs t impulse is to separate ourselves from the characters and ~he events in the tragedy, deeming them too extraordinary to m any way bear upon our own experience, we must now face the realization that the cause and driving force behind them is something common to all men, by whose disastrous effects we are all endangered. The application of Hope to human existence does not end here but is taken to an even higher level. Its central role within the pl.a~ is further enforced by its presence in the proverbially defm1tive passage, the "noAAcx 'ta Bf:iva" chorus. Once again we ar~ faced ~y an obscure expression and a passing mention of an ~<lea which, when fully explored, might yield important meanmgs: Wonders are many, but nothing is more wondrous than man. Having an ingenuity of art, and wisdom beyond hope, he creeps, now towards evil and now towards good. (1.332,362-363) He~e ~~ is p~esented as wise "beyond hope" (1J7tep ~A.mo) m his mgemous arts. This expression, mysterious in itself, stands in a peculiar relation to wisdom and arts Moreover, it is man this time, as opposed to hope, who. creeps (epmo~, now t~wards evil and now towards good. The commonality of t!ris action to both man and hope suggests a fundamen~ link between them. In the core of their relation stands vastn.ess, which they both share. Man, vastness, and ~ope mer~e mto one and spread over all the instances of tragic ~mpa~se m the play. Once understood, their inseparability illummates the tragedy in the context of human existence as a whole. Note: Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are mine. 65 �Human Nature and War in Thucydides' History of the Peloponnesian War by Janice Thompson '95 Individuals can oppose individuals, parties can oppose parties, states can oppose states, with impunity. But these levels are interdependent and the hostility in one cannot always be contained in the stratum in which it originated. When enough individuals form an alliance they become a city which can oppose other cities; likewise cities allied together become a state and can oppose other states, while states allied together become an empire. Thucydides begins his History at the end of the greatest state of possible unity in the Grecian world, when all people, cities, and states were united against Persia. He then describes the degeneration of that cohesion through all the strata of human society. Thucydides' views on human nature and the breakdown of law and order are most evident in his analysis of civil war and disunity, particularly in his presentation of the Athenian plague and the civil war in Corcyra. The plague in Athens was a natural disaster that so overwhelmed men that they came to ignore the old structures that had unified them as a city and governed their behavior. Such a removal of the accepted order seems to be the first step into lawlessness. In the new situation created by the plague there was no apparent evidence that the moral ties of virtue and honor that had once guided men's actions still had relevance to the suffering they then encountered. For example, those honorable enough to care for the sick received no reward; instead they usually became sick themselves. The disease struck randomly and relentlessly, inflicting suffering upon both the virtuous and the corrupt. Many of the living stopped caring for the sick or observing burial rites out of fear for their own health. Thus Thucydides describes men as becoming "indifferent" (II, 52) to rules of law and religion when they are no longer able to see the relevance of such rules to their present situation. Thucydides then describes how the state of "indifference" develops into one of fearlessness. He writes: "No fear of god or law of man had a restraining influence." (II, 53) As the disease continued to spread wildly, people lost hope and concern for the future. All were weak in the face of the plague, and no one expected to live long enough to be respected for virtuous acts or punished for crime. For similar reasons the laws of the state quickly followed the laws of morality into disrepair. The greatest value became the pleasure of the moment as they could be certain of nothing else. (II, 53) The citizens acted on this new value by becoming openly self-indulgent and unrestrained. The despair and fear felt by the Athenians when threatened by the plague, an enemy they Human nature is presented as inextricably entwined with history in Thucydides' History of the Peloponnesian War. Thucydides writes in the introduction that: It will be enough for me, however, if these words of mine are judged useful by those who want to understand clearly the events which happened in the past and which (human nature being what it is) will, at some time or other and in much the same ways, be repeated in the future. Thucydides presents the human motivation that directs the course of history. Throughout time human nature shows its effects in all the different strata of human interaction. Insight into the human spirit is, thus, integral to understanding of the past, and of the relations between nations and individuals. Thucydides' history concerns a time of war. In order to understand the state of war we must understand the human nature that causes it, the human nature that develops under its threat, and the effects of human nature in the political situation. War permeates all aspects and levels of human society, from the social to the moral, from the international to the individual. Human society is unified through "social" ties and "moral" ties. The social ties, necessitated by common interest and self-preservation, are a balancing of strength against strength in order to set up a system in which a society can function. They consist of agreements and rules designed to make aggression unprofitable. Examples of the social structures are such things as laws and alliances. Less obviously motivated by self-interest are the moral ties. These are not based on a position of strength but are a precaution against times of weakness. The benefit for the weak is immediately obvious: security in times of distress, when strength can not save them. The benefits for the strong are less apparent: a good reputation for their virtuous behavior, and the hope of receiving similar treatment in times of trouble. Justice, ethics, 'and friendship are examples of such ties. A state of war depends on the creation and maintenance of a fine balance of unity and disunity, understanding and blindness. A state must be internally unified in order to have the strength and stability with which to direct itself against another state. Such internal or domestic unity allows a state to take an opposing position to another, setting up a disunity on the external, or international, scale. Unity and disunity can develop in all levels of human relations, and their effects on one level spread to others. 66 67 �could not fight, undermined their respect for law. This led to a reckless disregard of their social structure of values. In the absence of such structures they came to observe new values of individual self-preservation and indulgence, values which threatened their ability to act as a society. The societal effects of the destruction and replacement of previously established systems of values are evide?t i.n Thucydides' description of the civil war in Corcyra and m his generalization of the nature of revolutions. The structures of society, in the case of revolutions, are purposely attacked by rival political factions, rather than deteriorating from neglect, as they were in Athens, during the plague. In Corcyra, both the democrats and the oligarchs were supposedly trying to save the city, but through opposite means. They were not interested in compromise and they soon came to act as enemies towards each other. Internal fighting destroyed Corcyra's ability to put forth an organized self-defense against outside forces. Even worse, it released internal forces that destroyed civil unity. At this point in his chronicles, Thucydides departs from his simple presentation of fact and analyzes the aspects of human nature that direct the course of revolution. He begins by describing how the change from attitudes of peace to attitudes of conflict and war come to permeate the whole structure of understanding: "To fit in with the change of events, words, too, had to change their usual meanings." (III, 82) Along with the logos of speech, the existing logos, or order, of human values was displaced. Aggression was now seen as courage, moderation as unmanliness, consideration prior to action as cowardly inaction, villainy as cleverness, and honesty as simple-mindedness. Thucydides further comments: "The simple way oflooking at things, which is so much the mark of a noble nature was regarded as a ridiculous quality and soon ceased to exist." (III, 83) In language, law, and national character the concepts of virtue were changed from those which benefitted the weak to those which benefitted the individual. It is necessary to understand why this change occurred and its influence in the generation of the resulting situation. The existing structures of understanding are purposely destroyed in times of revolution to allow for structures of hostility and conflict to be established. During the plague in Athens, a time of civil disunity but not revolution, the moral ties of law and religion were disregarded; human nature took advantage of such lawlessness. But in Corcyra and other revolutions, these laws were attacked and replaced in order to destroy the existing social order. A certain type of human behavior was encouraged rather than simply left unrestrained. Revolutions create hostilities and enemies while at the same time they remove the systems of justice that once mediated and restiicted such behavior. Thucydides explains that "Society had been divided into two ideologically hostile camps .. ." (II, 83), thus providing a structure in which indi- victual desires conflicted with another party or individual. People could no longer depend on any common standard or belief or behavior. There could be no confidence in others and so all energy was devoted to individual strength and quickness for self-preservation. Potential enemies were everywhere, and simple survival was so tenuous that to strike first became the best way to be secure. Vengeance and profit became the ideals governing man's behavior. Thucydides asserts that the emergence of the structures of conflict and revenge propel a state further into its own destruction for two reasons. First, the loss of unity permits the emergence of a dangerous form of human behavior: Then, with the ordinary conventions of civilized life thrown into confusion, human nature, always ready to offend even where laws exist, showed itself proudly in its true colors, as something incapable of controlling passion, insubordinate to the idea of justice, the enemy to anything superior to itself; for, if it had not been for the pernicious power of envy, men would not so have exalted vengeance above innocence and profit above justice. (ill, 84) And second, the lawlessness and hostility established by such behavior destroys the means of salvation from the disorder and suffering. Indeed, it is true that in these acts of revenge on others men take it upon themselves to begin the process of repealing those general laws of humanity which a.:e there to give a hope of salvation to all who are m distress, instead of leaving those laws in existence, remembering that there may come a time when they, too, will be in danger and will need their protection. (ill,84) In the revolutions, the "structures" of hostility that encouraged self-interest and revenge in order to dismantle the original unity ultimately could not be contained within an ordered system. The competition for power to further party interests that had corrupted the strata of national unity, eventually spread to individual competition for power, corrupting all strata of the once cohesive city. Thucydides claimed: "Love of power, operating through greed and through personal ambition, was the cause of all these evils." (III, 83) Party programs seemed admirable, but they appealed to public concerns only to gain the support necessary to empower those competing for leadership. Party attacked party and individual attacked individual. Public spirit became a guise for personal ambition; nothing was as it seemed. Hence violence erupted throughout the society. The only way to achieve one' s ends was quickly and forcefully. Other means, such as agreements and unions, could not be trusted as they were assumed to be motivated by aggression. The disorder, fear, and hostility that spread through all levels of organization caused terrible suffering, which could not be prevented as the structures of from weakness she thought she did not need to act with concern for the weak. Thus the other states came to realize that Athens' "justice" could be depended on only when it benefitted her self-interest. Athens also suspected such selfinterest in the actions of others states. Since true justice is difficult (ifnot impossible) to separate from bias, the appearance of justice can easily be used to veil self-interest. By upholding and displaying such attitudes Athens presented herself as superior to other states and to any rules governing dealings between states, such as justice, which could restrict her power. Similar to the early stages of rebellion within a city, initial disunity and a lack of a common structure had been established, this time on the international stratum. Policy had to be based on self-interest, acted out of strength, or avoided through fear. Power now ruled justice and law. Athens had thus begun to dismantle the moral order from the system in which she and other states has to interact. The Athenian speech is followed by King Archidamus' speech to the Spartans advising them on how to respond to the Athenian situation. Thucydides cites fear of the growth of Athenian power as the reason that motivated Sparta to finally declare war (I, 23). King Archidamus viewed the Athenians ' pride as excessive and dangerous. But, most significantly, he feared the effects of such an attitude on the internal unity of the state. He was concerned that the overriding self-interest set up by Athens on the international level might permeate the state level and destroy national unity. King Archidamus cautioned the Spartans against such behavior with the same arguments used by Thucydides in his analysis of human nature at the destruction of Corcyra. To maintain a powerful and unified state he called on them to uphold the social order: to be self-controlled and unified through honor and regard for law and custom. He also warned them not to remove the moral order; they must never become too confident in their own strength; they must realize that success is subject to chance and change. Athenian policy did not address such concerns. Athens saw her strength as the principle of her foundation that enabled her to act according to self-interest. The perpetuation of such strength required that she be unified. Pericles realized this and labored to encourage her confidence and solidarity. In his speech to the Athenian assembly after the Spartan ultimatum, he attempted to show that Athens truly was the stronger. He also argued the necessity that she demonstrate her power by refusing to make concessions to such trifling rewards as included in the Spartan ultimatum. Athens' refusal to concede to the conditions of the treaty was a display of strength to the world. Pericles, in his funeral oration, labored to ensure that Athens truly was strong by being internally unified. Pericles spent a great deal of time praising the special character of Athens as good and noble. In doing so he presented them with the ideal character for Athens and encouraged them, out of salvation had been removed. Civil war in Corcyra destroyed the society. Specific unities (under party lines) were set up to achieve certain ends through the creation of disunities in the city. The structures of justice were removed. But eventually the once directed hostility and disunity between parties grew beyond the control of its creators. Without the structures of justice to stop it, this destructive form of human behavior spread until the whole society collapsed. Such human behavior consists of a mixture of greed, power, hostility, and self-preservation; a combination that seems to be very similar to the attitudes of states on the international level. Athens attempted to avoid a declaration of war with Sparta by presenting Sparta with a justification for her actions. Thucydides first presents evidence of Athens' attitude of hostility in her statement of character to Sparta. Athens described herself as obtaining and maintaining her empire according to three powerful motives, namely "security, honor, and self-interest." (I, 76) Security upheld her social ties, honor her moral ties, but self-interest encouraged her to set up disunities that weakened such ties. Without the external threat of Persian aggression, Athens believed she was strong enough to rule others and no longer needed their cooperation and trust. She also claimed that "it has always been a rule that the weak should be subject to the strong" and that she was worthy of her power. All of these beliefs established specific "disunities." Security and self-interest imply that one state has personal interests that may conflict with those of other states. Each state recognizes the potential for enemies and, fearing for its own safety, acknowledges the need to protect itself. If alliances are made, they cannot be fully trusted, because any state may choose to break the terms of the agreement as soon as it seems more advantageous for them to do so. Thus Athens was forced to depend on her allies' fear of her power. Potential disunity was ever-present due to conflicting interests of states, but a specific enemy had not yet been recognized and an uneasy international unity remained. The formal structures of alliance and Grecian unity established as a result of the Persian conflict had not yet been dissolved. But since the original cause for unity, the Persian empire, was gone, the adherence of states to the alliance was much more tenuous as the faith in such a social order was dismantled. Athenians talked of paying" ... more attention to justice than they are compelled to do so by their situation." (I, 76) This attitude seems to undermine the importance of justice, as justice is presented not as something to which Athens was subject, but as something she chose to respect. honor was still cited as a controlling value in the Athenian character, as it was for the sake of honor that they continue to recognize justice insofar as it didn't compromise their strength. Athens was prepared to undermine the social order existing between states because she believed that she herself was not subject to any moral order. Because she was so strong and protected 69 68 �love for the state and all that is good, to emulate this ideal. He thus gave the citizens a sense of unity based in their own belief. He reinforced this sense of unity by praising and encouraging their respect for the laws. Internal moral structures were upheld, but so as to encourage the Athenian sense of national unity, Pe1icles was careful at the same time to depict Athens as having a very specific and superior charact~r. For example, Pericles claimed of Athens: "In her case, and m her case alone, no invading enemy is ashamed at being defeated, and no subject can complain of being governe? by people unfit for their responsibilities." (II, 41) Penc~es worked to unify Athens, and to give her a distinct and supenor self-image. In this way he tried to mold public attitude into the conditions he needed in order to maintain a strong state capable of successfully waging war. . As Thucydides and the Spartan King warned, strenglh is not infallible: it can be overturned by chance. The Athenian plague is the first illustration of the effects of c~anc~ in the History. Suffeiing from the hopelessness of the situation and desperate for an end to their suffering, the Athenian people began to lose confidence in the leadership, valu~s, and l~ws they had hitherto upheld. Pericles attempted to give meanmg to their suffeiing for them, prevailing upon them to recollect the ultimate benefits to be confeiTed upon all of Athens, for which they had all promised to fight. A hope for the fu~ure was necessary to make the people see beyond present difficulties and to deter them from exploiting the opportunity for lawlessness. Pericles was able to convince the Athenians to continue to follow his policy of war, though they still suffered and were angry because of it. Through such descriptions Thucydides shows how desperate people become to find an end to their suffering. Pericles was able to unify the Athenians despite their suffering because he was such an intelligent and well respected leader, dedicated to the glory of the state. Not all leaders, however, possess such qualities. Even worse, some leaders go so far as to exploit the volatility of human suffering for their own selfish ends. Disorder threatened to destroy civil society during the time of the plague, but strong leadership was ultimate~y able to maintain order. The stability of such order was agam threatened when disunity emerged in Athenian national leadership. Competition for leadership and support is strikingly evident in the debate between Cleon and Diodotus about whether to destroy the population of Mytilene, an ally that failed in its attempt to revolt. Cleon spoke first. He claimed t?at fear ~d conspiracy were permeating the empire, potential enemies were everywhere, and that the harsh treatment proposed for Mytilene would render the other subjects obedient by instilling them with fear. Cleon greatly expanded upon the sense. of superiority that Pericles had initially inspired in the Atheman citizenry. Unlike Pericles, he did so, not for the good of Athens, but for his own quest for power. He tried to frighten the Athenians by the dangers he described so that they would empower him with their trust to protect them through whatever means he claimed necessary. Cleon encouraged fear within the state and violent action against its adversaries. He was not interested in maintaining any" general laws of humanity," structures of justice, or any restrictions on conduct in adversarial relations with other states: As for compassion, it is proper to feel it in the case of people who are like ourselves and who will pity us in their tum, not in the case of those who, so far from having the same feelings towards us, must always and inevitably be our enemies. (Ill, 40) Cleon advocated an extreme structure of hostility, fear, and self-interest from which he removed any consideration for moral law. Both his opinions and his motivations seemed dangerous to the preservation of unity. Diodotu~ prese~ted an outlook in opposition to Cleon's recommendation. D~odo~us was opposed to putting the Mytilenians to death. As did King Archidamus at the debate at Sparta, Diodotus warned the people against acting out of haste and anger. But he also warned them of a new danger, namely that speakers and leaders could no longer be trusted or believed. Not only were moral acts rendered void of purpose and influence on the international level, but basic values such as honesty and oust ceased to function as a means to preserve order within the state. For now that self-interest had spread so far as to corrupt the balance of political power within the state, the citiz~ns h~d to suspect the motivations of every leader. This state of ~faus is strikingly reminiscent of the situation that resulted m the destruction of Corcyra. Good leadership dming the plague maintained among the people a hope of salvation fro°! t~e disorder. In Athens, however, there was no longer the fruth m leadership that might empower it to restore unity to the nation should it fall prey to disorder. Diodotus argued only according to the self-interest of the state, as this was the principle governing Athens' foreign and domestic affairs, but he argued insightfully as to the nature of such a system. He provided evidence that even the death penalty could not prevent men from b eaking laws. Fear of death is not enough to prevent crime if men are truly determined to break the law. Diodotus cited factors of human nature as the cause of this behavior: Hope and desire persist throughout and cause the gr~at­ est calamities-one leading and the other followmg, one conceiving the enterprise, and the other suggesting that it will be successful-invisible factors, but more powerful than the te1Tors that are obvious to our eyes. (Ill, 45) If Mytilenians are given nothing but hopelessness and a well defined enemy to blame, then shouldn't they do everything in their power to destroy their enemy since, at the very 70 were apparently intended to protect the weak, Athens would ultimately hurt herself, regardless of her present strength. The Melians warned Athens: "And this is a principle which affects you as much as anybody, since your own fall would be visited by the most terrible vengeance and would be an example to the world." They suggested to Athens that her attitude was needlessly creating enemies, but Athens was unconvinced. Athens remained confident of her own strength and security, and of the accuracy of her understanding of world affairs. Her attitudes were so ingrained that more dialogue could never convince her that her international relationships would bring about the eventual downfall of the Athenian empire. Despite Athens' assurance of her strength and justness in her international relations, her internal order had been dismantled and could no longer support her interests. Athens' allies came to trust Sparta more than Athens, her leaders manipulated state affairs for their own private interests, and the citizens followed whomever promised the easiest solution to their present difficulties. At the end of her empire Athens was too disorganized to fight her enemy, the Sicilians. Her internal disunity made her externally weak. The ultimate blow to the glory of her state was that she was finally betrayed to Sparta by one of her own leaders. Social ties were in sham bles throughout all levels of society. During the time of Pericles, Athens followed the same principles of strength and self-interest, but her ability to wield such weapons against other states was securely rooted in the internal strength and the unity of her state. Previously, when civil difficulties threatened moral order and national unity, good leadership could contain their spread and redirect the people toward law and unity. When self-interest, revenge, and the exercise of brute force replaced the moral structures which previously protected the weak, the principles of disunity eventually brought about the ruin of the entire society. Thucydides presents war as an establishment of specific unities and disunities in an otherwise stable system so that one state, party, or individual can put forth a unified attack against another. In order to do so, some of the moral and social ties of human interaction must be removed without destroying the whole delicate web of human affairs. Since these ties connect and guide society in all respects and on all levels, the effect of breaking one law, or of setting up hostility on one level of interacting, soon resounds throughout the entire sphere of human affairs. The human motivations of self-interest, power and revenge create and spread the disunity of war because they change the understanding of what is good or most beneficial. Such intentions thereby change the rules that govern all levels of human interaction. The good of the whole, the "common good," is no longer understood to be the good of every individual; individual "goods" are therefore bound to conflict. By removing the order determined by the common good that restricts individual goods, two things happen: hostilities are introduced, and the structures that guide and protect least, their fate could be no worse than if they had never tried at all? This seems to be a good explanation as to why the social conditions generated by suffering are so volatile. Diodotus claimed that once on a certain course human nature cannot be controlled through intimidation (III, 45); physical strength is unreliable as such a control. This comment is significant as it was through Athens' strength and the fear which she inspired that she maintained her empire. Diodotus suggested that Athens' security must not be based on force but on "good administration" (III, 46): maintaining friendships not yet based on fear and keeping a very close wat.ch on those which are based on fear. Diodotus cautioned Athens not to depend solely on her military might. In calling for strength in administration, he also advocated maintaining structure and unity in the empire. Diodotus did not ask Athens to be compassionate. He realized that there was no longer any place for moral considerations in Athenian policy. Athens set out to act according to her self-interests; she could not maintain such interests if she were to recognize the damaging effects of her actions upon others. Although the motion ofDiodotus was passed, the vote was close, indicating that a division was growing among the Athenian population. The national and civil interactions between Athenians began to reflect the disunity of Athenian aggression on international affairs. The Athenian attitude of unchecked self-interest is starkly apparent in the Melian Dialogue. This passage concerns the fate of Melos, an island state that wanted to remain neutral to the Athenian empire. The Athenians refused to recognize this neutrality, as they perceived other states only as enemies or subjugates. The Athenians claimed that justice is based on the distribution of power and that it is the "general and necessary law of nature to rule whatever one can." (V, 105) Moral justice was rendered valueless, weakness was ignored; opportunity and strength governed all. The Melians were told outright that the only arguments the Athenians would understand had to reflect the concerns of Athenian self-interest. Since their hostility was already assumed, it was useless to argue their neutrality or innocence. The Melians had to accept these limitations. They did, however, raise some important observations on human nature and self-interest. They tried to suggest to the Athenians that it would be useful to Athens not to destroy a principle that is to the "general good of all men": " ... in the case of all who fall into danger there should be such a thing as fair play and just dealing, and that such people should be allowed to use and to profit by arguments that fall short of a mathematical accuracy." (V, 90) The Melian speech is strikingly similar to the general laws of humanity which Thucydides himself describes earlier. The Melians further said that by repealing these laws, which 71 �an individual person or state are removed. The individual must face hostility with his own strnngth and intelligence without hope of protection. But Thucydides shows that strength cannot be relied on as the only bulwark against destrnction; chance and decay can undermine its protective value. Virtue, however, seems to guard against the extremes of fortune and time by directing men to the notions of common good and societal unity. In creating partial disunity, a state of war risks total disunity. Should suffering or destruction result-should the individual need help or protection, the structures of society can no longer assist him. The society has been destroyed; even the "general laws of humanity which are there to give a hope of salvation to all ... "(III, 84) are lost. 73 72 �Two swans D Morning at Midnight- for Mary Ruth Clance · D by J.H. Beall by J.H. Beall A pale blue seen wan across the pale water cries its swan song as the placid pair curve their white necks into the rush weeds near shore, near a tumble of rocks as the long shadows come, long toothed with winter, the occasional, ochre sedge of sea grass a line against the fm1her . burgundy ridge of trees. The other pair A midnight's fancy in its tones resolves a deeper chord and hues the shades would fit on evening lay like cats upon a purry clime. All resonate and thrust upon the tautest edge, would stop and trust to make the evening so. Thus violate, the sleeping lover lies, and in the carnal bed so troubled with repose, tranquility of ages in a breath of sighs eye not the pale blue jumble of the rocks but the darker ebb and current the wind asks where the yielding water sloughs up and is thrown back. Without comment, each wave awash demarking dreams all-literate, "Suppose." Yet here upon the dark incontinence of sleep, mass continents of thoughts the mind itself would not have dreamed, where toppling, high meridians with its own desire, draws weakly up. "Perhaps a will there," they say. Perhaps the pawn of spent breath the way is given to, words being that they are cold comfort under coming winter star. alone in keening silence fall, as should a great tree fall in dark and soundless wood. 74 75 �Non-Prof it Org. BULK RATE U.S. POSTAGE St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 PAID PERMIT No. 120 ANNAPOLIS, MD. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. 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For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Spring 1993 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Spring 1993. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1993 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Spring 1993 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Blistein, Rachel (Senior Editor) Belanger, Yvonne (Junior Editor) Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/df9347175e0d5ab88f39b68288dc6a93.pdf b174c44e3c7914bcfeba2c29b402a2bf PDF Text Text �( ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. 11 ... vou eVEp"y'Eta ~coll ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) Staff Hillary Fields Jennifer Swaim Nick Colton Senior Editor Yvonne Belanger Junior Editor Amy Thurston Faculty Advisor Abe Schoener Special Thanks To the St. John's College Print Shop: Marcia Baldwin Chris Colby Vernon Magee Don Smith Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis. The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community - essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. �r Table of Contents Judy Seeger Pastoral . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Julie Meadows Maxwell's Field: An Examination of the Role of Method in Science . 12 Dominic Crapuchettes Untitled [Photo] 18 Dominic Crapuchettes The Anger of Achillies [Poem] 19 Matthew Braithwaite Desire and Learning in the Symposium 20 Erin Martell Untitled [Photo] . . . . . . . . . 32 Heidi Francie Roberts In Our Fear We Make an Image . 33 Nathan James Humphrey "Cross" No. 3 [Photo] . . . . . 48 Carrie L. Sager The Beauty of Francesca da Rimini-Dante' s Divine Comedy 49 David F. Simpson Untitled [Photo] . . 53 Stacie Slotnick Insomniac [Poem] 54 Nathan James Humphrey Clytemnestra, A Sonnet [Poem] . 56 Cover Art Front: Craig Sirkin Back: David F. Simpson �Pastoral Judy Seeger Domingo HeITero was 80 years old, twice my age, when I met him in northern Spain in February 1985. He was a retired shepherd. I had left my husband to care for our two daughters and had come to Spain on a post-doctoral grant to collect oral traditional ballads. Although a less likely pair could scarcely have been imagined, Domingo and I later agreed that we both knew the day we met that we were going to get along just fine. The miracle was that we had met at all. I recall our first encounter very clearly. That morning when I opened the shutters of my hotel room in the small town of Almanza brilliant sunlight greeted me for the first time since my arrival in the province of Le6n. Colleagues in Madrid had suggested I search for traditional ballads in Almanza, but now, an endless week after I had arrived, my world seemed to have shrunk to that tiny, sparsely-furnished room. Chill, relentless, late winter rain had been falling since the first day. From my window I could see huddled shapes across the rain-slick highway, shepherds in dark slickers, keeping lonely company with their grazing sheep. I would turn from the window, turn on the light, and climb into bed with a Spanish novel. Knowing I would never find oral traditional ballads in a hotel, I forced myself to go out once a day, to knock on doors, to hear that the old times were gone. Then, having done what I regarded as my duty, I would retreat to my room. Not many people seemed to live in Almanza, and of those who did, few opened their doors to me. Why should they? What was I to them except an importunate stranger? With little else to guide me, I had begun seeking auguries in the weather, in faces, in the intricate linkage of words. It was by feeling my way along what I envisioned as a tenuous chain of signs that I had reached Almanza. But the burnished afternoon that had welcomed me there had proven false. I knew I would have to move on, and at last, that sunny Saturday morning, I had another lead. The local priest had assured me that he knew of no one in his depopulated parishes who could help me find what I was seeking. But if I went north into the mountains, he suggested, to a town called Prioro, I might find someone. The people of the mountains were srud to be more open than those of the plains, and to retain traditions longer. The priest in Prioro, he added, was a young man interested in old ways. He might be able to assist me. Here was another link for my fragile chain. So I put my tape recorder into the trunk of the small white car I had rented in Madrid and turned toward the glittering snowy peaks I could see for only the second time since my arrival. The crystalline sunshine faded as I entered the valley of the Cea River. The moist earth seemed to breathe, its misty exhalations 1ising from the river first in wisps then in billows, brimming over the banks of the road. Through gaps in the swirling white curtains I could see leafless poplars reaching for the sky, yellow fields, and, on the hillsides, oaks whose dry brown leaves clung thickly to their branches. As I drove, the valley narrowed. I passed towns that looked nearly deserted. Smoke rising from chimneys denounced occupants in a few whitewashed stone houses. Tightly closed shutters sealed the windows of most. Some, long since abandoned when their dwellers had died or moved to the cities to seek work, had tumbled into heaps of brownish stones. The mountains loomed rockier and steeper. I began to wonder if the priest had directed me to the end of the world. Then, after winding my way between nearly vertical green rock walls crowding so close that they hardly left room for both the river and the road, I suddenly was no longer in the narrow valley. It seemed to have widened into a bowl, though I had no more than an impression of light and openness, for the fog was so thick I could barely see the roadway. One of the small black-lettered signs that announce every Spanish town informed me, as I inched past it, that I had arrived in Prioro. Narrow muddy roads departed the highway on both sides, but I was afraid to follow them. They looked better suited to the cow-drawn carts so common in the region than to cars. As the highway climbed out of the valley, I saw on my right, half hidden in a cloud of mist, the bell tower of ' a stone church. I pulled into the square in front of the church, stopped, and pondered what to do next. The church doors were tightly closed. There was no one in sight. I left the car, sought out someone to ask directions, and was directed to the only inn in town - it looked like nothing more than an unusually large house- where I was told the priest, Don Francisco, was a boarder. "No, no," Don Francisco protested when I tried to show him the documents I had brought from the granting agency in Madrid, official indication that I was who I said I was. "That's all right. It's not necessary. Listen, I can'tdo anything for you myself. I have four parishes and I just don't have time. But if you would like to come with me I will take you to someone who can help you." He inserted his slippered feet into a pair of the three-pronged wooden shoes I had seen people wearing in the fields surrounding Almanza. The shoes were not worn near the capital of the province where he had been born, Don Francisco explained, but he had learned to appreciate them in the muddy roads of Prioro. Worn outdoors over felt slippers, they kept one's feet warm and dry, and, left at the door, they kept the mud outside where it belonged. Later, I, too, would learn to walk in that clumsy-looking but eminently sensible footgear. That day, though, tiptoeing into Prioro in my leather 1 �city boots, I hugged the flaking walls of old houses and tried to keep pace with Don Francisco, who strode with a speed and grace I would not have believed possible down the rutted and hoof-marked middle of the muddy street. Twisting and turning, following the narrow street and narrower alleys, cutting between houses attached to their stone barns, scattering hens and roosters, shooing curious goats and suspicious dogs, we made our tortuous way down the steep western side of the hill the church surveyed. In traveling I had cultivated the custom of looking closely at new surroundings so as not to get hopelessly lost. Yet I knew I never could have found my way into the town of Prioro without a guide, and I was not looking forward to having to retrace my steps alone. "I'm taking you to the house of the oldest woman born in Prioro," Don Francisco explained over his shoulder. "She's 93 years old, and she's blind, but she remembers a lot about life as it used to be here. She and her husband don't keep animals anymore, so they aren't busy with chores. They'll be able to help you find what you're looking for." He veered off the street into a muddy yard whose narrow boundaries were defined in the back and on the left by a stone wall and on our right by a small house which looked even older than those we had passed on our way. A few bedraggled flowers grew in a tiny flower bed beneath a blue-framed window, imprisoned behind a wire mesh fence whose purpose, I later learned, was to preserve the plants from the depredations of passing chickens, goats, and sheep. Across the yard from the house, beside another small fenced garden, stood a tile-roofed shelter which protected a stack of firewood and an aged two-wheeled cait from the worst of the elements. Leaving his wooden shoes on the flagstone at the entrance, the pliest pushed open the weathered wooden door of the house and entered the dark hallway calling, "Aunt Sabina! Aunt Sabina! Where are you?" He turned to me: "You may come in. She's a little deaf, but I'm sure she's here. She almost never goes out, not even to mass anymore, and she hasn't been well recently." There was a wide wooden staircase at the end of the hall, and an entryway on the left into a narrower and dai·ker hallway. Don Francisco without hesitating turned right, put his shoulder to a light blue door, and led me into the room called the kitchen, which, in the old dwellings of northern Leon, serves as living room and dining room as well. Uncomfortably awai·e of my muddy boots on the worn wooden floor, I saw to our left a closed door and an aged light blue breakfront which held plates and cups. Straight ahead under a window looking onto the street was a small sink with a single dripping faucet. The hearth, to the right of the sink, dominated the room. Something was boiling in two tall reddish pots pushed nearly into the flames of a brightly burning fire. On the white tile counter over the hearth stood a large, ornate, glass-encased figure of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and a television set. Wooden benches upholstered with tattered cushions ran along both the wall that met the hearth and the wall to the right of the doorway. Dark links of smoke-dried sausage and curls of dried orange peel hung from nails hammered into a beam. The priest approached a stooping figure dressed in black from her head.kerchief to her slippers. She was watering potted plants which stood on a tile shelf where the thick wall became a window overlooking the flower garden outside. Concentrating on feeling for the plants, she was oblivious to our arrival. "Aunt Sabina!" Don Francisco touched her shoulder and she turned. Her hair was white and her eyes a clear and striking blue. "I see two shapes," she said. "Who are you?" "It's Don Francisco, Aunt Sabina. I've brought you an American." "A what?" He repeated more slowly, and louder, "an American. A lady from the United States. She wants you to tell her some stories." "A lady from America in my house? Mother, Mother." "Yes. She's collecting songs and stories. I told her you were the oldest person born in Prioro and that you know a lot. She's looking for the old stories and verses, like the ones you told Fidel when he was recording last fall." "Does she have a tape recorder?" The priest looked at me and I nodded. "Yes." "Mother, Mother ... I never knew many songs, though I once knew a lot of stories. Everyone used to say 'nobody can keep up with Sabina.' Now I have no memory anymore. The years are many, and, as you know, I haven't been well. I didn't leave this house all January." "She' ll record you here, Aunt Sabina. You don'thave to go out. You'll remember the stories. All you need to do is think a little." Creaking noisily, the kitchen door opened. Don Francisco turned. "Uncle Domingo," he said, ''I've brought you an American." Domingo was a slight man, about half a head shorter thai1 I, with thick white hair and eyes of faded blue. He was wearing old clothes: a maroon turtleneck sweater, dark gray pants that bagged at the knees, a black beret of the sort worn by most Spanish men of his generation. Domingo's smile was broad, and as warm as the fire that burned in the hearth, yet he smiled with his mouth closed. I later discovered that he had no more teeth than Don Quixote after his unfortunate encounter with the shepherds. "Well, I leave you in their care." The priest shook my hand and left. Sabina and Domingo told me that morning that they had no children. Thell: only child, a boy who would have been fifty-two years old in 1985, had been stillborn after a long and 2 difficult labor. Another had "begun," as they said, but had miscarried, and then there had been no more. Resigned to God's will and yet longing for a child, Sabina and Domingo had taken in other people's offspring. They had reared a nephew whose mother had died two days after he was born. They had kept for four years (until his unmarried mother decided she wanted him back) a little boy who had come to their house one day wearing only underclothes and begging for food. They took the priest's injunction to care for me most seriously. He had brought me, like an orphan, to their door. They were determined to treat me well. Sabina offered that, given a little time to think, she could probably recall and recite a long story in verse. Domingo and I left to fetch the tape recorder from the trunk of the car. "Do you like things of the church?" he asked as we climbed the hill. And me a lapsed Lutheran who had first set foot in a Catholic church the week before ... My "yes," sounded faint and forced to me, but it was the best I could do. "Come in, then. I'll show you our church." He removed his beret at the doorway, and pushed open the heavy door. I vaguely remembered heruing that women should cover their heads in a Catholic church, so I pulled my scarf over my hair. Domingo crossed himself; I didn't. The old church was large and and airy in the lifting mist, the altar spare, the empty pews vanishing into the darkness at the rear of the nave. I looked around, and Domingo looked at me. "Shall we go?" he asked. "Yes." We emerged into the mist, through which patches of blue sky now shone with the hard brilliance of lacquer. "Is this your car?" "Yes. Well, it's not mine. I rented it in Madrid." I moved toward the trunk to get the recorder. Domingo contemplated the little car. "Wouldn't you like to go up to the pass? There is a beautiful view." The last thing I wanted to do was more driving. "Is it far?" "No. It's very close." "All right, then. Let's go." We rode as if alone in the world that misty morning, following the naffow road in ever tighter curves up the steep slope of the mountain. The sky cleared as we broke through the mist, and the view from the pass was indeed beautiful. Looking south toward Prioro we could see pasture land whose pale grass was still winter dry, then fenced greener fields (hayfields, Domingo told me) inigated by trickles diverted from streams. Below the fields clustered the red tile roofs of Prioro, still half hidden in mist. North of us lay another, deeper, valley, beyond which rose the Cai1tabriai1 Mountains, the distant glistening peaks I had seen from Almanza. On the forested northern side of the pass, dwindling patches of snow lingered in the shadows of trees and rocks. Domingo said, "If you continue on this road you get to a town called Riafio. We could go there to have coffee, but I didn't bring any money." Where is this old fellow talcing me, I wondered, and said, "I have enough money to pay for coffee. But your wife, won ' t she be worried? She's waiting for us to return with the tape recorder." "She won't worry." That seemed unlikely, but he was older than I and should know his own wife. So we followed the even more precipitous curves of the twisting road down the shaded side of the mountain and into Riafio. Once a regional capital, Riafio was destined to be submerged in a reservoir which would provide water for irrigating the fields of dry Castile. The dam across the Esla River, Domingo told me, had been in place for nearly twenty years, but the gates that would block the river's course and flood the valley could not be closed until the town of New Riafio, being constructed above the future water level, was complete. Work was proceeding slowly. "I won't see this reservoir," Domingo said. "But another day, if you would like, we could go to see the dam." Old Riafio, under sentence of death by drowning, had not succumbed quite yet. Though the narrow streets were lined with crumbling buildings abandoned to their fate, Riafio still supported a town hall, a school, a post office, a gas station, several stores, and plenty of the small bars typical of Spanish towns. We had coffee in one of them, and in high spirits and happy companionship returned to Prioro, where the sun was shining brightly and Sabina was as concerned as I had expected and as forgiving as Domingo had known she would be. That was the first of many trips Domingo and I took together. He had a vocation for traveling. Domingo had been a shepherd, a transhumant, who traveled with the Merino sheep. The delicate merinas, cherished for their fine wool, had for centuries spent the summers grazing in the high, cool mountain passes north of Prioro and had wintered in the warm western province of Extremadura, where their owners, most of them titled, owned vast expanses of pasture. Hired shepherds, almost all of them from northern Spain, accompanied the sheep throughout the year. Domingo told me that before the Spanish Civil War a friend and he had counted over one hundred shepherds from the town of Prioro alone. In 1985 there were only two. "No one wants to be a shepherd anymore. A shepherd today earns a very good wage, but these days no one wants to work as hard as we did then," he said. When Domingo was a boy, the men of the mountain towns - with the exception of a few tavern keepers, makers of wooden shoes, tailors, millers, and masters of other trades - chose from two professions. Boys inclined toward studies began attending boarding school in preparation for entering the priesthood. The others, future shepherds, fulfilled their apprenticeships by assisting the adult shepherds in the summer pastures. Domingo had begun spending his summers in the mountains when he was seven. In 1919, the year he turned fifteen, he left school and his family for the first time to make 3 �the trek to Extremadura. Beginning in September the shepherds would prepare their baggage. Into linen sacks, woven at home from homespun thread, they put their clothing, the hooks and needles they needed to dam the bags and socks they made themeslves, leather punches and beeswax to wax the heavy thread with which they sewed loose soles back onto their shoes. They filled other sacks with homemade sausages, hams, and cheese to eat on their journey, as well as knives, and spoons they had carved from ram's horn with which they cooked and ate. Onto pack horses, in addition to the rest of their belongings, they loaded the large iron pots in which one of the six or seven who · traveled together would prepare their communal meals over an open fire. By October the shepherds would be ready to begin the long walk from Leon, through the province of Castile, over the Guadarrama Mountains to grazing lands near Caceres, Badajoz, or smaller Extremaduran towns along the Guadiana River. "From here to Extremadura is about 700 kilometers," Domingo told me. "It would take us nearly a month to walk each way. And don't think we walked in a straight line. We had to walk back and forth taking care of the sheep, so really we walked much farther than that. I remember very well the first time I went to Extremadura. My father bought me a new pair of shoes. When I took them off that first night, pieces of skin came with them. There were little huts in the mountain passes and in Extremadura where we could eat and sleep when we weren 't in charge of watching thy sheep during the night, but on the way we ate and slept outside. I remember waking up more than once and realizing it was raining and I was sleeping in a puddle. How cold those nights were! I don't know how we did it. We were as hard as hailstones." Domingo had worked as a shepherd, except dUiing the Civil War, until he was forty years old: leaving home in October, retUining in June, taking only one year off, when he turned 21, for obligatory military service. His father managed through a friend in the army to have Domingo, who knew how to read and write, assigned as an orderly. His job was to clean offices. With a friend who was also a shepherd he would type letters on the officers' typewriters. "We wanted to show them we knew how to type," Domingo told me. "Of course, we didn't know anything about it. We would hunt all over the keyboard for the letter we wanted, then 'PLAS!' hit it and start looking for the next one." That day Domingo and I were on our way to a town north of Riafio, snacking on unconsecrated communion wafers I had swiped from the warm kitchen counter where Don Francisco had spread them to dry out before taking them to the church. I asked him to tell me about his Extremaduran girlfriend. "Who told you I had a girlfriend in Extremadura?" "No one told me. I just thought you might have had one." "Well, I did. She was very beautiful. I think I still have a picture of her. Her name was Jeroma. Her mother was very funny. When she saw me she would call, 'Jeroma, doggone it! Get out here! Here comes Domingo!' On the weekends some of the shepherds would come into town from the pastures to dance. We had good times together." "Why didn't you marry Jeroma?" "I thought about marrying her, but there was no way to make a living in Extremadura. A few people owned all the land, and the rest didn't have even the smallest plot. In Prioro we may not be rich, but everyone has a garden or two for planting potatoes and cabbage and garlic. Here we have orchards of fruit trees - apples, cherries, plums - and we have fields to plant hay and grain for the animals during the winter. The town owns all the land you can see looking south from the pass, and more, enough spring and summer grazing land for everyone's cattle and sheep and goats, and the burros we used to keep. In Extremadura there was nothing. "When the young women saw us coming in the fall they would shout, 'Here come the mountain men!' To make money they would sell us water when we were passing through long dry stretches, and wash our clothes in the river when we stopped. The shepherds ate little meat, only the sausage and ham we took with us, and lamb on Christmas and Easter, and sometimes when a lamb died and our employers would let us have it. In Extremadura I ate garlic soup with bread until I never wanted to see it again. But many of those from Extremadura never ate meat at all, just gazpacho. I didn't spend many years in school, but most of them had never studied anything. Only a few could read or write. When they saw us writing letters home they accused us of showing off the little learning we had. There was so much poverty. "My father visited me in Extremadura once. He told Jeroma' smother that if her daughter married me he would buy us a pasture there. That wasn't true. He wasn't going to buy us any pasture. He just said that to see what they would say. My father was a bit of a pfcaro, a rascal, like all of us from the north." "You, too?" Domingo shrugged. "When I went into the service, Jeroma sent me a letter. She asked me if I didn't love her anymore, and why I didn't write to he . But I didn't answer, and after my military service I worked for someone else, so I didn't go back there. Later they told me that she married well, to a man who owned a store, I think. Probably she did better by marrying him than she would have if she had married me. Shepherds' wives in those days led terrible lives, plowing the fields by themselves. Some of the fields, as you have seen, are very steep, so steep the carts would overturn. No wonder they prayed so much. They worked the animals, without a husband, eight months a year. Even when we were home, we spent only every other week with our families. It would be one week in the passes with the sheep and one week at home to help b1ing in the hay, then back to the sheep again, all summer. As Sabina says, that life was slavery." 4 Sabina dedicated her few moments of leisure to fine embroidery and crochet work, fashioning flowers and religious ornaments of cloth and paper, and constructing an elaborate and lovingly detailed Nativity scene which permanently occupied a small room of their home. To judge from her conversation, Sabina was uncommonly blessed with both intellect and wit. Yet, despite her viltues and talents, she had remained single long past the age at which women usually wed. Sabina was known for speaking her mind; perhaps her plain-spoken intelligence had deterred potential suitors. Her poverty certainly had. Sabina and her younger sister, Petra, had been orphaned while in their teens. Their father, like Domingo's, had kept a tavern in his house. Drafted during the Spanish-American war, he returned from Cuba stricken with a mysterious malady from which he never recovered. When he died, the girls were left with the house in which Sabina and Domingo were living when I met them, a few fields, and little else. They had been struggling for years to make a meager living when Domingo's older brother, Miguel, came courting. Sabina and Miguel had loved each other very much, she told me, but his parents refused to allow him to marry her. Sabina would bring nothing to tne family, they said. Miguel, like Domingo, was a shepherd anc( until he married, his income would go to his parents. "They didn't want to lose Miguel's money," Domingo said, "but they ended up losing him." Miguel, disgusted at being forbidden to marry at the age of 31, had moved to Barcelona, where he set up a photography business and married a woman Sabina and Domingo called Fat Mary. "I used to visit Sabina with Miguel," Domingo told me, "and when he left for Barcelona, we decided to get married. My parents didn't want me to marry her either, but they were afraid I would leave, as Miguel had, so there was nothing they could do." Domingo proposed in July. They were matTied the next month, and spent their week-long honeymoon in a mountain pass where Domingo was watching sheep. "We had to walk, of course. When I showed Sabina where we were going, way up there," Domingo told me, gesturing toward the rocky peaks that towered over Riafio, "she didn't believe me. Every day we left the sheep in the care of the boy who was helping me, and walked down to the towns to look around and to buy things." After their honeymoon, Domingo moved into the house Sabina shared with her sister. Petra, who never married, lived with them until her death in 1980, and helped Sabina work the fields while Domingo was away. The two women had little luck with their cows. "The animals never thrived until I came back to take care of them," Domingo said. "Sabina and Petra were so used to having nothing that they didn't feed them enough. Every grain in their house was counted, so of course the cows died." Domingo was working as a shepherd when the Civil War broke out. One year too old for military service, he was not drafted into General Franco's army. Nor did he join the Since most of the marriageable bachelors in Prioro were shepherds, the young women of the town had little say about the profession of their future husbands. Surely, though, they must have been at least ambivalent about marrying men who spent so much time away from home, and not only because their own lives were so hard. Shepherds lived most of their lives in the company of each other and of animals, at the margin of society. In songs, poems, plays, and stories they are occasionally portrayed as romantic figures, but more often (unless they are young noblemen in pastoral disguise), their role is that of ignorant rustic or bestial boor. Even in Prioro, some people who had more schooling looked down on the shepherds. Yet the women of Prioro defended their men, even as they lamented their own lot. One of the best-loved traditional songs in town included the verse, sung with much feeling: They say that shepherds smell of tallow; This little shepherd of mine smells of rosemary. Yet, tradition and necessity aside, I asked Domingo why any woman, knowing the difficult and lonely life in store for her, would really want to man-y a shepherd. "Why? Because in those days marrying a shepherd was like man-ying a king. We were the only ones who had any money." In the mountain towns, cows gave enough milk for the family that owned them, chickens provided eggs until they went into the stew pot, and pigs were raised to be slaughtered and eaten at home. A farmer might sell a calf to make enough money to buy a piglet or two, or a couple of pigs to buy a calf. Women, who worked in the fields most of the year ("so many hours we didn't have time to wash our clothes until after the harvest, and we would fall asleep in church ," Sabina told me), would spend the long winter evenings spinning flax and yarn or weaving their thread into cloth while men carved wooden shoes to be sold in the "land of fields," as they call the treeless plateau to the south. With the money earned from selling cloth and wooden shoes they would buy wheat and wine made from the grapes that cannot thrive in Prioro's chilly climate. Only the cash brought home by the shepherds was not destined for the plll·chase of basic needs. Domingo and Sabina were married in August of 1930. He had just turned 26; she would be 39 years old in October. When people wondered, as they had ever since the wedding, why a young man would choose to marry a woman so much . older, Domingo replied simply that he had grown to know and like Sabina when his older brother was courting her, and that when his brother did not m'my her, Domingo had decided he would. Sabina, when she married Domingo, was a poor and pious woman. She was also a capable weaver, an exceptionally gifted needleworker, and an artist. Until she lost her sight, 5 �Republicans. The fratticidal passions that fueled the war flared as high in Prioro as anywhere else in Spain; but Domingo, who claimed to understand nothing but the care and feeding of animals, remained aloof. He did not, however, remain unaffected. Domingo was captured one summer by the ..Reds," as the Republicans were called in Prioro. His captors were miners from the neighboring province of Asturias who invaded the mountain passes where the shepherds were guarding their employers' sheep. They killed the thousands of sheep that belonged to the titled owners, but spared those the shepherds were allowed to keep as part of their pay. "The Reds weren't so bad," Domingo told me one snowy afternoon as I sat in a chair drawn up to the kitchen hearth while he and Sabina sat on the bench, "but what a waste! They ate some of the sheep, but most of them they just killed. If they had sent them to people who could have eaten them, it would have been better. There was a lot of hunger in those days. They let all the shepherds leave except me. I was a good cook, and they wanted me to cook for them. There was one, a woman, who liked my hair. It was black then, of course. She would run her fingers through my hair and say, 'what a cute little Castilian.' I never knew whether she was serious or just teasing me. "I wasn't afraid of the Reds. What I was afraid of was the Nationalists. The Reds drank a lot, then they fell asleep right where they were, out in the open. We all slept outside on the ground without even a guard. I was afraid the Nationalists would come and kill us all. It would have been so easy. One day the Reds' leader took me into town in his car to buy supplies. As we were driving down the mountain, my knees began to shake. He said, 'Shepherd,' - they always called me 'Shepherd,' - 'what's happening to you? Why are you shaking like that?' I told him I couldn't help it, that I was frightened. They had let everyone go home but me. My family didn 'tknow where I was and would be worried. He was a good man. He said I could leave the next day, and he kept his word. The next morning he told the others, 'The shepherd wants to go home, so we're letting him go.' They wanted to know who was going to cook their meat for them. Since they had hardly ever eaten meat, they didn't know how to cook it. The leader told them they would have to learn to cook it for themselves. I had a bmm then. He let me take it, and I came home. I don't know what happened to them after that. I didn't return to the passes until the war was over." Domingo spent the remaining years of the Civil War at home, caring for his animals and fields. He and Sabina and Petra lived relatively well on the money he had saved. While men with large families struggled to feed their children, Domingo had plenty of milk for his calves, which grew sleek and fat. When the war ended, he returned to the sheep, working for a countess who had managed to rebuild her flocks. The modernization that swept Spain after the war had changed the shepherds' lives. They now traveled with the sheep in trains between the summer and winter pastures, instead of walking the old route. In Extremadura in 1944 Domingo suffered an attack of colic so severe that he was sent home. When a doctor warned him the pain might return at any time, he decided to retire. Since he and Sabina had no children to inherit, there was no reason to work hard to make money. Domingo said that without children there was no ilusion, a word which to him meant both hope and joy. He asked a friend to care for the mares and Merino sheep he had acquired over the years, and went home to stay. Two weeks after I met Sabina and Domingo I moved to the inn in Prioro, run by Basilia, whose husband, a tailor by trade, worked in a tire factory in the Netherlands. The inn filled with vacationers every August, but business during the winter months was slow, so Basilia had taken as long-term boarders all the single professionals in Prioro. The priest, who was about my age, had lived in the inn for two years. A paramedic, a woman in her twenties, had lived there for six, and a forest ranger, probably in his late thirties, for nine. We ate together at the long table in the kitchen, which, with its hearth, was the only room suitable for habitation in the unheated building. At night we would often play cards or watch television before retiring to our icy beds. My day now began with breakfast of bread and a bowl of coffee with milk, followed by mass at 9:30. After mass I would return to the inn to handwash and hang out a few clothes. Then, sitting at the kitchen table, since my room was unbearably cold, I would work at transc1ibing tapes and writing the letters home that also served as my journal. On week days after our 2 o'clock lunch I would leave the inn to record people who lived in Prioro or simply to visit those in the households where I was welcome. People told me I should have come in August, when the town was filled with young people, when tourists from the south fled to the mountains to escape the summer heat, and those born in Prioro who had left to find work returned with their children for a few weeks in their home town. Prioro's winter population was little more than three hundred, but during August, they claimed, it swelled to ten times that. All the shuttered houses were open. The town was alive. You could hardly walk in the streets for all the cars. Every night the young people would hold dances and parties, and in the daytime they would sunbathe and picnic in the mountains, feasting on what I was assured was the best food in the world: roast lamb eaten in the shade beside a cold spring. Many were openly astonished that someone had come from so far away to huddle by the fire while water dripped from the eaves or great moist snowflakes drifted like ragged bits of lace onto the mud. For me, though, the forbidding weather was a boon. People were bored, imprisoned in their kitchens. Those who on warmer, drier days would have been 6 leveled with a single stroke both social and generational barriers. Domingo actually related more than once, and nearly straight-faced, the scarcely credible story of the meeting of two cousins from different worlds who for so many years had not known of each other's existence. Listening impassively, or perhaps nodding in complicity, I began to wonder if I was discovering a hitherto untapped picaresque vein of my own. If his listeners didn't believe his tale (and many, of course, knew or at least strongly suspected that there was not a word of truth in it), we didn't really care. The fun, at first, was in the telling. Then we enjoyed telling how the story had arisen. And as we told it over and over, the magic of the tale almost transformed us into what we claimed to be. Even alone, we often called each other cousin. Domingo said, "Cousin, let them say what they want. If they complain that we spend too much time together it's because they're jealous." Spring came late to northern Spain that year. The "little shoes," yellow flowers of the ubiquitous broom plants, which should have gilded the hills in April, were slow in opening. As if availing themselves of this chance to display their splendor, thousands of other wildflowers bloomed, splashing the fields with demure white, pink, lavender, pale and gaudy yellow, showy purple. It was a good year for wild mushrooms. I learned to recognize the dark green crescents where they grew, and, parting the soft grass with my fingers, delighted in discovering a few of the light brown caps to be carried back to the inn and fried in butter. Domingo and I returned from our recording trips laden with armloads of delicately fragrant daffodils we gathered in the fields and forests, or drooping branches of sweet-scented lilacs we robbed from untended bushes, or bouquets of bright red poppies picked from the roadsides: flowers with which we decked Sabina's Sacred Heart, the Virgin Mary who stood prominent in the church throughout the month of May, the kitchen of the inn, and the bar newly opened by one of Basilia's sons. My husband and daughters were coming to Spain in early June. I was to meet them in Madrid and drive them to Prioro. My friends and acquaintances were delighted. They were eager to meet the girls and frankly curious about the man who was willing to assume responsibility for two small children so his wife could go so far away for so long. Domingo, when I told him my family was coming, appeared as pleased as anyone. "You must be glad your family is almost here," he said many times as we drnve through the mountains. "Of course," I would answer, wondering why he kept saying that. His insistence was revealing to me the uncomfortable truth that my delight in the prospect of seeing my family again was dimmed by the knowledge that our strange shared happiness was coming to an end. "When they come you won't have room for me in your car. You should take them to all the places we have been, so out working in the fields were delighted to have someone new with whom to sit at the hearth singing and discussing matters so well known that they aroused no one's interest but mine. Whatever else I did, I never let a day pass without visiting Sabina and Domingo. I knew that Sabina, whose health had improved enough for her to visit her niece up the street, did not leave the house during the hours she expected me to come, but I did not go out of a sense of obligation. I went because I felt at home there. Everything about the old house, from its well-worn furnishings to its odors of woodsmoke and age, was becoming dear to me. I brought Sabina news of the inn, the latest stories of the priest's doings, conversations and gossip from the other houses I visited. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons, Domingo and I would head for one of the nearby towns where he had friends whom he would convince - after an hour or so of reminiscences and a snack of homemade sausage, cheese, home-cured ham, bread, and wine or coffee - to sing and talk about old songs. Sabina, who suffered from carsickness, never went with us, but Domingo on his return would tell her of all we had seen and done. Occasionally the two of us would go to a weekly market in another town, and he would bring back the long soft loaves of bread Sabina preferred to the round rougher loaves available in Prioro, as well as oranges for his breakfast, fish and lamb for their midday meals, and the apples he baked every night in the ashes to accompany their supper of garlic soup with bread. It soon became clear to everyone in Prioro that Domingo and I prefetTed each other's company to that of anyone else, and as the town was small, people talked. They teased us about invented exploits, they asked Domingo if I wasn't paying him for his help, and they asked me if he wasn't buying the gasoline consumed on our trips. "Pilar asked me who was that foreign woman I have been spending so much time with," Domingo laughed one afternoon as we shared small sweet cakes around the hearth. "I told her you were a long-lost relative from California." I objected, but more from surprise than dismay, for the notion did have a certain appeal. Creating a kinship would enable us to avoid having to justify our improbable affection for each other. If we were to be relatives, though, I wondered how I should address him. As uncle? Great-uncle? "No," he said after a moment. "Let's be cousins. You already told me that you have no first cousins, right? Well, if I am your cousin, then you '11 have one: a Spanish cousin! And now, since we're cousins, you can call me tu." Sabina had been calling me by that familiar term since shortly after meeting me, pointing out that she was a lot older than I was. Domingo also had been calling me tu since I had asked him to do so, feeling, as I explained to him, that we had shared too many adventures for him to continue being so formal. As they were so much older, however, that I could not address them as anything but the formal Usted until Domingo's fiction that my mother was his mother's youngest sister gone to America 7 �they can see them." Domingo knew the girls were small and that all five of us would fit in the car. He was being polite, I assumed,formal, as he called it, offering to remove himself from my life to spare me the awkwardness of removing him. Instead of appreciating his gesture I found myself resenting it. I answered shortly that we wouldjusthave to see how much traveling they wanted to do. As the time approached for me to leave P1ioro to meet my family, Domingo, always proper and dignified, became stiff and distant. I suppose I reacted in kind. Conversation came easily, as it always had between us, but instead of making plans for future trips, which were, of course, not to be, we talked about the past. The day before I was to depart for Madrid we joined a pilgrimage Don Francisco's paiishes were making: four busloads to visit the ancient basilica of San Isidro in the city of Leon. Domingo and I sat together on the bus. On the way we all joked and sang (even Domingo, who, everyone assured me, had never sung a note in his life), but on the way back the two of us sat nearly silent, smiling only when we shared a pack of chocolate cigarettes I had brought because I knew he loved chocolate and hated cigarettes. We sat isolated in the pervasive gloom of that rainy evening. "It's as if everyone on the bus were sad," Domingo remarked. The next morning I went to bid Sabina and Domingo good-bye. I embraced Sabina, who promised to pray to the Sacred Heait for me and my family on our journey. Then I turned to Domingo, who was squatting, shepherd-fashion, to prepare their meal as he had done ever since Sabina had lost her sight, in a heavy iron pot over the fire. He was paying no attention to me. "Domingo," I said, "I'm leaving," and when he stood up, his eyes suddenly brimmed over with tears. "Leave me. This is nothing," he said, blowing his nose in one of the handkerchiefs he always carried. "I cry whenever anyone goes away. I'm ashamed, but I can't help it. All those years I was a shepherd I c1ied every time I left home." Sra Dfta Yudi Dear Cousin, This very day I received your post card, which filled us with happiness to know that you arrived well with your husband and your dear daughters. Well, we are fine, always remembering Yudi. Sabina asked the Heait of Jesus to help you arrive safely and to find your parents well. Everyone asks if you haven't written to me. Nothing more. A firm greeting from your cousins, Sabina and Domingo Herrero I had some pictures developed and sent copies to Domingo, some for him to keep, others to give to those in the pictures. He wrote: Prioro 5-8-85 Sra Dfta Judith Seegr; Esteemed cousin, You can't imagine the joy I felt when I received the photos, and the happiness with which everyone has received them. All tell me to thailk you; and, I don 't know, a million thanks ... I haven't forgotten the days and afternoons we spent in Valde6n, in Cain, Lario, Argovejo, Villacorta, Caminayo, Tejerina. I will never forget Leon. Everyone asks me about the American woman. It makes me sad to remember those times we spent. Well, Sabina is very content because everyone says she is the one who came out best in the pictures. I don't know what else to tell you. A million kisses for your daughters, and for your parents and parents-in-law a very firm greeting.You receive what you most want from your cousins, Domingo did accompany us on the few trips my family and I took around Prioro. Whether traveling with us or welcoming us into his house, he radiated joy. He loved listening to the girls talk, though he understood not a word they said. The gentlest of men, Domingo was one of the few in town who respected my nine-year-old's reluctai1ce to be grabbed and kissed by strangers. The more approachable six-year-old he courted most carefully, and was finally rewarded with a kiss on the cheek the day we left. When that day came, Domingo asked me not to forget to write and tell him and Sabina we had ai·rived safely. I sent him a post card from New York, and shortly afterwards received the following letter: Sabina and Domingo Send me pictures of your parents and parents-in-law, and tell them if they have a lot of money to come to Spain. I discovered that thanks to my frugal living and a strong dollar I could afford to return to Spain. My husband and I agreed that Christmas would be a good time. I would see Prioro during the season when the women and the few men who were not away used to gather nightly. There in the kitchen, while the women spun and the men carved wooden shoes, they would pass the long dark evenings singing, dancing, playing cai·ds and practical jokes, and telling tales. Those gatherings are gone, but the winter months are still the time Prioro 27-6-85 8 for slaughte1ing the pigs, another occasion for people to get together and celebrate with lavish meals as they have for centuries. I left New Yark on December 22nd, and arrived in Leon, by train, in the rainy dai·kness of the 23rd. The train had been packed with people going home to visit their families for the holidays. Cursing the weather and my heavy luggage, I made my slow and painful way ai·ound clusters of people hugging, kissing, effusively greeting one another. The streets of Le6n, strung with huge snowflakes crafted of small white lights, were thronged with Chlistmas shoppers. When the taxi driver I finally found to take me to the car rental agency wondered aloud why a lone woman from across the "pond" was aiTiving in n011hern Spain two days before Christmas, I replied with an ease that would have surprised me had I not already discovered that fiction and even certain truths flowed more fluently in a language that was not my own. The foreign language hung between me and my words like a fine veil, and, safely shielded behind it, without a second thought I told the taxi dtiver I was going to spend the holidays with some cousins who lived in the mountains. "They are quite elderly," I told him," and I am very much afraid that if I don't see them now I won't see them again." That last part was true, and the rest was close enough. The bone-chilling cold of that time stays with me now. Heavy snow fell almost every day of my three-week stay in Prioro, nearly isolating us from the rest of the world. The streets were deeply rutted and pitted with dirty and treacherous ice. The temperature of my bedroom hovered around freezing, and every morning I would awaken enveloped in the moist cloud of my own breath. I attended pig-killings and the feasts that accompany them, helped stuff blood sausages, went to masses in the unheated church so cold that my legs were numb to the knees when they were over, celebrated Christmas, the New Year and Epiphany in a town I remember as dark and chill, so different from the long, glowing, flowerfragrant days of May. I spent at least part of every afternoon with Domingo and Sabina in their kitchen by the fire, ai1d on the few fine days of my stay Domingo and I went as we had before to visit his friends in the small mountain towns. It was neai·ly the last day of my stay before we were able to drive over the snow-choked mountain pass to Riafto as we had the day we met. Our plan was to anive in a town called Laiio at lunchtime, where Domingo hoped that some of his old friends would offer us lunch. We had always been fortunate with impromptu invitations to meals, but we had never schemed to be invited, and that day our luck ran out. Leaving his friends' house we agreed that the sherry and homemade sugared cakes they had offered us had been very good. "But when she brought out the tray, I didn't like it at all," Domingo said, "because I knew they weren't going to ask us to lunch." Knowing he felt insulted, I defended his friends. There had, after all, been only one small pot on the stove for the three of them. "Maybe," he shrugged it off. Domingo believed that if unexpected guests showed up for lunch, all you had to do, if you could do no more, was add water to the soup. "But they were wrong. The food isn't important. The important thing is the company. Anything tastes good in good company." We began to look for a restaurant. "Listen, don't tell Sabina about this," Domingo warned. "Even though we have plenty of money, she will scold us if we tell her we ate in a restaurant instead of eating at home." Lario had no restaurant, so we drove north to the next town, Azevedo. There we found an inn, but it was serving nothing but fried eggs and sausage, which Domingo couldn't digest. It was nearly 4 o'clock, late for lunch even in Spain. Hungry and downcast, we were wandering the narrow snowpacked streets, when Domingo was suddenly inspired to look up the daughter of a woman he had known many years ago when he was summer apprentice to the shepherds in the mountains that rose in a solid wall west of Azevedo. "I haven't seen the daughter since she was a little girl," he said, "but her mother was very beautiful, and very cheerful. Since there weren't many young men in this town the young women used to come up into the mountains to visit the shepherds when we were here in the summer. They would come up to the passes and hide and watch us. What good times we had!" That particular young woman had given birth to three sons by unknown fathers (not the shepherds, Domingo assured me, and, seeing my skepticism, added that in any case he had been no more than a boy at the time) before marrying a shepherd from Prioro and having as the fruit of their long and happy union her fourth child and only girl. She and her husband had died, and her sons had gone to Mexico, but the daughter, Domingo felt sure, was still in her home town. We found Petra's house just as she was putting lunch on the table for her husband. Clearly, she had inherited her mother's good humor, for she invited us to join them in the warm kitchen, though she did not remember Domingo and of course had no idea who I was. The only problem, she told us, was that lunch that day was turnip stew. I couldn't help recalling the single time Basilia had tried to serve us turnips at the inn. Normally used for fodder, they had been stringy and tasteless, and all of us, like naughty children, had followed the priest's shocking example, balancing little pieces of turnip around the edges of our plates so we could enjoy the cabbage and bacon in which Basilia had tried to disguise them. "Well?" asked Domingo. He wasn't used to eating turnips either, but the day was waning and we were not likely to receive another invitation to lunch. The sky was still bright when we reluctantly turned south on the highway, but Azevedo already lay deep in the blue velvet shadow of the mountains. "You know, Domingo ... " I began. "What?" 9 �them, a potholder woven by the younger one, and a chocolate bar wrapped in a piece of paper she decorated with a picture of violets and the poem "Roses are red, violets are blue," which I translated. Domingo wrote and thanked us. But he did not reply to my next letter. Instead, I received a letter from a friend who wrote that he had suffered a stroke and was hospitalized in Le6n. Domingo and Sabina had no telephone, .so twice I called some friends only to be told he was still in the hospital. The third time I called he was waiting in their house, and told me he was feeling better but very bored, since he was too weak to go out. I began sending letters and small packages so he and Sabina would have something to look forward to each day, and in May I received a short letter from Domingo: "Those turnips were good. Really. I never ate such tasty tw·nips." "I liked them, too," he agreed. "You see, I was right. In good company even turnips taste good." By the time we reached the valley of Riafio the only trace of daylight was the glowing pink snow on the same lone faraway peak that had glistened like diamonds on my first day in Prioro. My little red Citroen was chilly, for if its heater was capable of doing any more than taking the edge off the cold, I had not figured out how to convince it to do so. We rode warmed by the shared euphoria of having eaten such wonderful turnips, and arrived in Plioro late that star-strewn night. As soon as I retumed home I wrote to Domingo, but more than a month passed and I heard nothing from him. He had told me that writing, which he used to enjoy, had become more difficult for him as he grew older; and since I knew by now that he expressed himself obliquely, I supposed he had been warning me not to expect many letters. Still, I couldn't help becoming concerned. My daughters had written thanking him and Sabina for gifts they had sent: scarves and an umbrella. Even if he did not feel like writing to me, surely he would have written to them. Finally a letter anived: Prioro 5-5-86 Sra Judith cousin: You will have to pardon me because every day the postman comes with your packages. Today I received two and already I have I don't know how many without answering. It is not that I don't remember, but I am very weary and don 't feel like eating, and Sabina is not very well. In the end it will be as God wills, but I have little hope. In another letter we will see if I can tell you anything. Have a good time with your parents-in-law. Kisses for the girls and for you a greeting from Plioro 14-2 year 86 Dear cousins: I have received the post card and the letter from the girls, which made me very happy, and also yours, Judith. Since it is time for me to write to you I will tell you that we had a very heavy snow storm and it has been very cold. I hardly see anyone. I go to mass, but few others do. Juana and her father don't leave the hearth. I will tell you that I had news from Azevedo and Lario, and they told me they had so much snow that the doors were blocked, so that in the morning they had to climb out by the balconies to open them. It has snowed a lot. For the girls I have already thought what I want to say. Elisa and yow- little sister: tell your daddy something, but he will tell you we didn't send him anything. Sabina said to me "and you didn't send anything to Antonio." Another time ... Elisa, your father who makes a lot of dollars, tell him to give you some so you can send me a little present which I would like to have from some American girls in Indiana, a small present from that dear land. Nothing more, girls. I await your answer. A firm greeting for all and thank you, have to come before mass," Domingo told me the night before. "I want to be sure to go to church tomorrow, so I can pray for your safe journey." The day dawned gray and dismal. I knew before opening my shutter that the temperature was below freezing, for I could not hear the icicles dripping outside my window. Quickly finishing my breakfast, I loaded the car with my suitcase and duffle, as heavy with gifts for the return as they had been coming, and drove slowly down the rutted road to Domingo and Sabina's house. The heavy door was barred against the night, but I knew how to unlatch its little window, then reach in and slide the bar back so I could open it. Domingo had seen me coming; I heard the "pasa" with which he always invited me into the kitchen. There was no time to chat. The air smelled of snow, and I feared being caught in a stonn. "So you're leaving." "Yes, I have to go." "One who has to depart must not be restrained. We will pray for you. Give our greetings to your family and wdte to us when you are safely at home." "I will." "Go, then." And, as he would have written it, "A Dias." Sabina and Domingo Herrero For Antonio a firm greeting Domingo I received only one more letter from Domingo, toward the end of June, in which he seemed to have recovered his health and spirits, asking me to come visit again. But my next letter from Spain came in August, from a friend who wrote that Domingo had returned to the hospital. An operation had revealed advanced cancer, and on the day she wrote they were sending him back to Prioro to die. I wrote to Domingo once more; but a second letter from a friend, which I received in September, told me he had died at home on August 13th, nine days after his eighty-second birthday. Sabina and Domingo Herrero My last day in Prioro, the previous January, I was faced with a long and daunting journey: by car to Leon then by train to Madrid, where I would catch a plane for New York the following morning. "If you want to say good-bye, you will The girls and I put together a package with a picture of 10 11 �Maxwell's Field: An Examination of the Role of Method in Science Julie Meadows James Clerk Maxwell's Treatise on Electricity and Magnetism was a milestone in the history of physics. His contri- the objects from which they proceed, nevertheless I see no reasoning that assures us that this is the case. (M, 13) butions were both mathematical and conceptual. He derived twelve equations which later made possible the connection of electromagnetic phenomena to the wave equations of light. He successfully placed a theory of the whole, the field theory, in opposition to the reigning conception of nature as composed of discrete parts. What kind of "whole" is this? Is the field a material whole, a body of matter with discrete boundaries? Does it necessitate the postulation of an ether? Is it an Aristotelian whole, a united product of matter and form? Is it, to the contrary, merely a whole for the purpose of investigation, its boundaries drawn arbitrarily to separate what will be examined from what will be disregarded? Is the wholeness of the field the end of Maxwell's inquiry, or is the field a whole in order to be a means to his true ends? I believe the nature of the field is a consequence of Maxwell's method. The method by which an investigator examines a problem shapes the meaning of the results. Before he can even begin a methodical study, he ~ust already possess an idea of Nature, and of the consequences of this relation for inquiry. The method determines the criteria for evidence, the role of expe1iment, and the direction toward which the research is aimed. I must admit to the hope that Maxwell's interest in electricity and magnetism extends beyond the mastery of them. I desire to know where electricity and magnetism fit into the larger scheme of things, where there place is in nature. To investigate this question I will compare Maxwell's method to one aimed directly at the mastery of nature. I will take the method of Descartes as a paradigm of inquiry for the sake of application, as set forth in the Rules for the Direction of the He extends the difficulty to touch and hearing, making it clear that no sensation is reliable evidence of the nature of any object. There is no reason to suppose that the qualities we perceive in objects have any actual connection to the objects. Descartes creates an "imaginary" world, but matter and nature as he describes them there are as much as he believes we can know of matter and nature here, in the world of our own expe1ience. Matter, then, is homogeneous and fills all space. Its primary characteristic is extension - "I conceive of its extension, or the property it has of occupying space, not as an accident, but as its true form and essence."(M,21) Bodies are not the result of matter assuming any distinguishing qualities or distinct boundaries. All matter is alike, arbitrarily distinguished into parts by being given diverse motions. Descartes seems to think that any true sep&ration of bodies would require space and void between them. But space or extension is the essential characteristic of matter, and does not exist separate from it. Weight is an effect of motion, not a quality of matter. In the difficult eleventh chapter of "Le Monde", Descartes says that the force that keeps the earth together consists in something like centrifugal force. The earth has weight because it and its atmosphere are in motion in a plenum. Nature is defined as the orderly alteration of matter. Alteration is local motion. Descartes specifically excludes "the Philosophers' motions" that they think can be accomplished without a body 's changing place, such as those they call motus ad formam, motus ad calorem, motus ad quantitatem... and myriad others." Nature, as Descartes understands it, is entirely knowable, meaning that it is subject to mathematical laws. The laws of nature that will enable us to use nature for our own ends are laws of motion. Though for Descartes nature is entirely knowable, our senses deceive us. They lead us to attribute qualities to matter of which they might be the creators. We must find a way to circumvent the deceptions of the senses and focus all of the mind's powers upon the problem at hand. These are the two purposes of method . It is difficult to see the application of Descartes' Rules to physical inquiries, for they are stated in general terms in order Mind. The need for a method is felt before the method is developed. While Descartes claims that his method is the starting point for investigation, he founds it upon his view of science and nature. Descartes believes that we are not capable of direct knowledge of objects which sunound us. In "Le Monde", he says that sight is interposed between the object and the mind, and .. even though everyone is commonly persuaded that the ideas that are the objects of our thought are wholly like 12 ... even if all that our senses have ever experienced in the true world seemed manifestly contrary to what is contained in these two laws [of motion], the reasoning that has taught them to me seems to me so strong that I would not cease to believe myself obliged to suppose them in the new world I am describing to you. (M, 25) to be applicable to any sort of problem. Descartes' understanding of nature must be taken into account. I will attempt to present the method in the form most immediately useful as a succession of steps. Recall that for Descartes a body is discrete only insofar as it has a different motion from those around it. Physical problems, consequently, do not have self-evident boundaries to which their qualities can attest. They must be circumscribed before they can be examined, a process Descartes describes in Rule XII: "But in order that the problem be perfectly understood, we with it to be completely determinate."(PE, 203) Again, in Rule XIII: The "new world" is the world of physics. It is the world as we can know it as distinguished from the exterior world made up of objects. It is a world where cause and effect can be known with certainty, unlike the world we walk in, where we cannot say what it is about a body that triggers our perception of certain qualities in it. To a remarkable extent, Maxwell's ideas regarding science, nature, and method correspond to Descartes. Maxwell ' s ideas are not as explicitly stated; we will hold pieces of his system up to Descartes ' for comparison. We will then have built up a context within which to examine the field. Like Descartes, Maxwell believes that we are separated from the physical world. Influenced by Kant, Maxwell believes this chasm to be far greater than Descartes did. If bodies possess unity, we cannot perceive it. To examine any particular thing, we must abstract it from its surroundings and give it unity by an act of the intellect. The mind separates out objects from the world of experience. Actually, although something must be unknown in every problem... nevertheless this unknown ought to be designated by conditions so certain that we are directed to the investigation of this one thing rather than any other. (PE,208) Here method begins to focus the powers of the mind. Descartes cautions that we must be careful to draw the bounds correctly, neither encompassing too little nor too much. He can guide us no further than to make careful use of our own judgment. Once the problem is clear, we must become familiar with its components. The person who wishes to understand magnetism" ... will first diligently collect all the information he can obtain about this stone ... "(PE,201) The problem is divided into the smallest possible parts, and the parts scrutinized. This analysis forms the basis for establishing some order in which the investigation which follows will be carried out. Before we can count any number of things we must pick them out of the universe, and give each of them a fictitious unity by definition. (SF, 241) What we call unity will depend on our vantage point; from different distances we will make different designations of things. In order to have any idea of the state of things, we must examine them from as many levels as possible. ... the order in which things are to be investigated frequently adm.its of variation, and depends upon the decision of each person. (PE, 172) The dimmed outlines of phenomenal things all merge into one another unless we put on the focusing glass of theory, and screw it up sometimes to one pitch of definition, and sometimes to another, so as to see down into different depths through the great millstone of the world (SF, 242) Once dissected, the problem is reformulated. To fully use our power of investigation, we must represent the problem to all of the mind's faculties. In addition to intellect, which will actually solve the problem, these are imagination, sensation, and memory. The third and final step is deduction. It is here that we build chains of simple reasonings which connect the unknown to the fully known, the tirings we perceive clearly and distinctly. The student of the magnet, at this stage, will "deduce the combination of simple truth that could produce these effects."(PE,201) The simple truths will be laws of nature, and the researcher's solution will relate the phenomena to laws of motion. These laws can be expressed mathematically. Once he understands the hidden order of things, the scientist will be able to use nature. The laws of nature discovered in this way will be true even when they contradict our senses. In "Le Monde", Descartes asserts that We cannot uncover know ledge of individual things. We must seek to know the relations between them, which will be relations of number. We will understand these relations by analogy to the order of thought. In "Are there Real Analogies in Nature?" Maxwell asks whether this analogy is actually drawn to nature, or whether we see nature as we do because the intellect orders our perceptions in the same manner as our thoughts. Maxwell gives one example of a "real analogy" in the essay. Space is a condition of thought; the question is whether there is a correspondence between the three dimensions it has in thought and the three dimensions we perceive in the physical universe. 13 �F enables us to see it morally as an act, and not merely physically as an event.( SF, 245) Now it appears to me that when we say that space has three dimensions, we not only express the impossibility of conceiving of a fourth dimension, co-ordinate with the tlu·ee known ones, but assert the objective truth t11at points may differ in position by tlu·ee independent variation of tlu·ee vaiiables. Here, therefore, we have a real analogy between the constitution of the intellect and that of the external world. (SF, 242) We have a moral idea of justice, of necessary retribution as the legitimate consequence of all moral action. Maxwell suggests a possible analogy between this idea in the realm of morality and one in the physical realm of cause and effect. I take this to be a reference to Newton's third law. As in morality every action has its approp1iate consequences, so in physics for every event (action) there is an equal and opposite event (reaction). The domain of physics is the relation between things. The whole enterprise "supposes that although pairs of things may differ widely from each other, the relation in the one pair may be the same as in the other."(SF,245) This is a supposition that Maxwell is willing to make; relation not only stays the same but can be perceived in mathematical terms. Thus there are real analogies in nature; we discover regularities there by analogy to our own thought. This is only possible, and only analogy, because the relations of thoughts to each other may be the same as the relations of objects or events to each other. The quantity of matter is its ability to preserve its state of motion or rest. Maxwell's Kantian views of space and time lead him to criticize specifically Descartes' definition of matter. It is absurd, he says, to think that if you remove the matter from a place the space it occupied will collapse, as if matter and space were inseparable. "The fundamental dynamical idea of matter" is of something that is "capable by its motion of becoming the recipient of momentum. "(TR2, 196) Maxwell rewrites Descartes' principle of order, and seems to admit differences in matter into physical science. The idea of cause in nature is an analogy. It comes from a relation between the workings of the mind and the order of nature, not solely from the observation of invariable sequences of events. Each of our thoughts is based upon reasons. By analogy, we consider physical events to depend upon reasons, and we name these reasons causes. In consequence, a cause can be no more in nature than a reason is in pure logic. Since "there can be no conflict of reasons"(SF, 243), it is only by misdefinition that we see any conflict of causes in nature. "Cause is a metaphysical word implying something unchangeable and always producing its effect."(SF, 243) Force is cause in the realm of physics. A force has a certain strength, in proportion to which it produces a certain effect. Unlike cause, a force is never seen in isolation. There are always opposing forces. Force, on the other hand, is a scientific word, something which always meets with opposition, and often with successful opposition, but yet never fails to do what it can in its own favor."(SF, 243) Maxwell asks whether there are real analogies in nature in order to test opposing theories. The first is that all the problems of nature, including human thought, are complex problems of motion. In this case, "the resemblances between the laws of phenomena should hardly be called analogies, as they are only transformed identities."(SF, 244) That is, both the laws of thought and the laws of nature would be laws of motion. The other option is that we impose the order of thought upon nature, without any necessary basis in the phenomena. This is not an analogy either, for there is no relationship in nature to correspond to the relationship in thought. Maxwell finds both alternatives unsatisfactory. He believes the laws of thought "which are found among the relations of necessary truths"(SF, 244) to be different in kind from the laws of motion. The rule of physical forces is that might makes right. Thought is supreme not by virtue of its strength "but in being right and true. "(SF, 244) Maxwell suggests that the interactions of physical bodies are only part of the picture. He seems to say that physical events do have some kind of meaning. The difference between one event and another does no l depend on the mere difference of the tin1es or the places at which they occur, but only ·on differences in the nature, configuration, or motion of t11e bodies concerned(MM, 13) While I have found no place where nature and configuration as qualities of matter are explained, Maxwell distinguishes two kinds. Gravitation depends upon the masses of bodies exclusively, "whatever be the nature of the material of which the masses consist."(MM,120) He distinguished matter that behaves this way, gross matter, from ether. The undulations of ether, rather than gross, transmit light and heat, even through spaces empty of gross matter (vacuums). Ether does not appear to have the property of gravitation, but there is no doubt that it is a second true form of matter. It is "capable of being set in motion; and of transmitting motion from one part to another ... ".(DT,35) It has density and mass and it is "certainly material."(MM,120) We will return to the ether later on, to examine how Maxwell employs these conceptions of it. · Motion is a change of the configuration of a system. The positions of bodies that comprise the system depend on our All that bystanders see, is the physical act, and some of i~s immediate consequences, but as a partial pencil of light, even when not adapted for distinct vision, may enable us to see an object, and not merely light, so the partial view we have of any act, though far from perfect, M~~well ' s vantage point, on the way that we focus the "dim outlines of phenomenal things". Once we have designated a system, motion is a change of the relative positions of the bodies within the system. In some cases, as when water freezes, we will know that motion has taken place, without having been able to discern it. The changes in configuration of a system are considered changes in quantity. When we assume that the changes are caused by matter in motion, rather than action at a distance, our theory will be a dynamical one. mathematical mind was sparked by Faraday's wnt:mgs. Faraday provided him with the concept upon which to found a new mathematical theory . Maxwell saw in Faraday's "lines of force" the means to understand the phenomena in a dynamical way. ...Faraday, in his mind's eye, saw lines of force traversing all space where the mathematicians saw centres of force attracting at a distance: Faraday saw a medium where they saw nothing but distance: Faraday sought the seat of the phenomena in real actions going on in the medium, they were satisfied that they had found it in a power of action at a distance impressed on the electric fluids.(TRl,ix) When the mutual action between bodies is taken into account, the science of motion is called Kinetics and when special attention is paid to force as the cau~e of motion, it is called Dynainics.(MM,26) Maxwell believes this conception to be essentially mathematical. Once Maxwell has adopted Faraday's conceptions of the phenomena, his task is to translate these conceptions into a new mathematics. · Maxwell sees mathematics as a language, one in which the terms which are manipulated are as important as the choice of words in a sentence. The mathematics that had already been developed expressed a view of the phenomena. Its variables were distance and charge or pole strength. At the very basis of this mathematical view of things is the abstraction of "material particles" from nature. Integral calculus sums up these parts to describe the properties of the whole. The field is abstracted from nature in the same way that material particles are. Maxwell usually refers to it as the finite field. He defines it as "that part of space which contains and surrounds bodies in electric or magnetic conditions."(DT,34) The great difference is that once we carve out the area to be called a field, we treat that area as a whole. We consider the phenomena as produced by imperceptible alterations of the configuration of the Configuration of the system . We do not abstract material particles within the field and observe their relative alterations. The mathematics attached to this system is the differential calculus. The equations are written in terms of potential and charge density, quantities measured in the field as a whole. We wish to understand the field in terms of quantities such as stress, to understand the condition of the spaces. Maxwell uses a methodical approach which is very like Descartes ' . As could be expected, some of the operations are more extreme, but in some ways there is more freedom. There is a place left to scientific vision that no method can guarantee. ~n ~axwe~l's theory of electricity and magnetism , this place 1s filled by Faraday. I will trace Maxwell' s method as applied to the problem of electricity and magnetism, as followed in the Treatise. The first step in exploring the phenomena is to amass as much data as possible and to translate this data into mathematical language. Maxwell revises rather than discard the work of earlier researchers that was based upon the theory of action at a distance: their work was necessary to his undertaking. He presents this first phase of research to the reader in careful descriptions of experiments and mathematical theory. Experiments are carefully selected to bring certain aspects of magnetic and electrical phenomena to mind; Maxwell refers to them as "illustrations". Their purpose is to make the key phenomena clearly present to the mind.(TRl ,vi) Surveying the mass of accumulated data, Maxwell sees that the mathematics is based upon a theory of action at a distance. While the theory was useful, it does not seem to lead to further discovery. ...the idea of lines of force throws great light on the results, and seems to afford the means of rising by a ~ontinuous process from the somewhat rigid conceptions of the old theory to notions which may be capable of greater expansion, so as to provide room for the increase of our knowledge by furth~r researches.(TR,182) It appears, therefore, that what we want is a knowledge of the forms of equipotential surfaces and lines of induction* in as many different cases as we can remember.(TRl, 178) Furthermore, action at a distance involves a process of abstraction by which the poles or charges are located within the system. This abstraction is contrary to nature, which is a whole first, and has parts only when the intellect imposes them. That is, nature is a whole for us "since all our perceptions are related to extended bodies, so that the idea of the all is in our consciousness at a given instant is perhaps as primitive an idea as that of any individual thing".(TR2,176) Searching for a more natural way to redefine the problem, The applications of this theory are less apparent than those of its predecessor. There we could locate charges and make measurements. Here we have to consider the condition of an invisible medium. One exciting product of the differential equations is Maxwell's ability to diagram fields, using a precisely calculated version of Faraday's lines. We have a visual representation of the configuration of the field. From fields whose 15 14 �diagrams we can calculate, we can learn to sketch approximate fields. Such sketches lead to mathematical solutions. The key equation is Laplace's equation: 82 v The results of this are astounding. Maxwell's hypothesis of the field led away from what was visible and quantifiable. It has now led to a visual representation of the stresses of the field. This representation adds enormously to the scientists' ability to control and utilize electric fields; it allows them to visualize and determine the distribution of electric force any· where on the surface of many shapes of conductors. 82 v 8 2 v -+-+-=0 8x2 8y 2 8z2 To generate equipotential lines, we begin with an arbitrary charge e. We substitute in values for the potential, V, and find the radii of the equipotential circles r, since r = eN. Potentials are additive, so we may also generate equipotential lines for groups of charges. Using a similar process, Faraday's lines of force may be precisely drawn for a particular field. We begin with a variable which describes the whole: field intensity. By assigning a series of values to this intensity as we did with potential, we can find the angles necessary to draw in lines of force at appropriate intervals. In both operations, we begin with a characteristic of the field as a whole. If the surface of a conductor is of the foim of the outer lobe, a roundish body having, like an apple, a conical dimple at one end of its axis, then, if this conductor be elecb.ified, we shall be able to determine the surfacedensity at any point. That at the bottom of the dimple will be zero.(TRl,180) I I :.-..i --- -------- -- - -- - - --- --- '~ r' I, A :\ ,, ' i ' ' I What I propose now to do is to examine the consequences of the assumption that the phenomena of the electric cmrnnt m·e those of a moving system, the motion being communicated from one part to another by forces, the nature and laws of which we do not yet even attempt to define, because we can eliminate these forces from the equations of motion by the methods given by Lagrange for any connected system.(TR2,198) \ I : T r . i I • ' ' . r '- \ I '\ iI \\ ' __.r-- The surface-density is represented in the diagram by the distances between the equipotential lines and corresponds to the distribution of the charge. How are we to understand this diagram of a field? I · believe that Maxwell would call this an analogy. The lines are not a representation of matter we are unable to see. They are not a picture of physical (material) reality, either. The relations of the lines in the diagram correspond to the relations of some unknown matter which comprises the field. Despite his earlier talk about ether, in the Treatise Maxwell is more interested in the stress between the particles than the nature or form of the particles themselves. It is possible to found a mathematical theory on the assumption that the phenomena can be explained through dynamics. It is not necessary to actually attempt a dynamical explanation. In Book Two, Maxwell comments on the role of supposing the field in developing a mathematics for the phenomena of current. --.,...__ by matter.(TR2,493) I believe that the medium is important only because it is necessary in supposing that a dynamical explanation is possible. It is the action of the matter, described by such terms as stress, which concern the investigator. The unimportance of matter is irrefutable evidence that the field is not an Aristotelian whole. Maxwell has not discovered a new body in nature. The identity of a whole for Aristotle is bound up with its form, which we observe and do not impose, and the nature of its matter. We could not be said to understand a body while ignoring one of these components. In the tradition of Descartes, however, we can learn to use nature without any understanding of her in the Aristotelian sense. For Descartes and Maxwell, such understanding is impossible, as their views of nature reveal. The field is a whole insofar as we abstract it from nature, and treat it as one body. That is, we do not further abstract parts of it, in order to explain it. To explain the phenomena, we say that there must be changes in the configuration of the system, but we do not seek to know what is in motion. We describe the state of the medium as one of tension or stress. Maxwell's emphasis on mathematics and the correspondence of his method to Descartes' give further evidence that his aim is utilitarian. The concept of the fields is not the end of an investigation, but a means to begin it anew. Its importance lies in its use rather than its identity. Maxwell's thoughts on morality suggest that his restriction of what nature and cause are may be a conscious one. He admits the possibility of another kind of reason for the phenomena, but moral reasons will not lead to mathematical equations and practical applications. His progress in physics depends on his being completely restricted to that realm. Though I have reservations about the exclusion of all causes except mechanistic ones, this method does indeed produce useful results. Maxwell's aim is to make nature useful to man, and his achievement is a great one. We cannot define the forces partly because we know so little about matter. In a later discussion of magnetic action on light, Maxwell says that our knowledge of matter is so slight even in the visible realm that hypotheses about the fields would be premature. The electromagnetic theory is all the more scientifically rigorous because it does not speculate on the nature of matter. Maxwell contrasts this with his own hypothesis of molecular vortices to explain certain phenomena of light. He cautions that this is a "merely provisional" (TR2,461) explanation. In the conclusion of the Treatise, however, Maxwell once more stresses the importance of the medium. Energy, as far as Maxwell understands it, must be contained and transmitted 16 17 �AngerSing now the anger, smoldering within the proud spirit of Peleus' son, Achilles, burning deep and bursting unexpected like wild fire . Sing the violence which shakes thousands of sturdy souls and hurls them to the hazy underworld, but leaves their lifeless bodies lying, a feast for half-starved scavengers. Sing that we may feel the burning ember trapped within our own spirit, that we may feel the conflict swelling within our hearts until it bursts forth into the bitter clash of bronze on fighting fields . How like raging fire it sweeps through the enemy, pouring forth its contagious black smoke until even the wielder is blinded, until everything is consumed, and all that remains, is ash. Untitled - Dominic Crapuchettes 18 19 �nDesire and Leaming in the Symposium lJ Matthew Braithwaite sition of virtue and happiness by human beings ...," (180b6) and though this statement is agreed upon by the speakers who follow him, each understands the reasons for its truth differently from the others. How, then, does Phaedrus mean that eras leads to happiness? When he discusses eros as a cause of good, we assume that happiness comes to men through good, as Socrates later says, (204e6) and good through virtue. But whatever sort of virtue comes of the shame and right ambition caused by eros is surely a transitory and inferior one, so the sort of happiness which comes from it must have a similar nature. This sort of happiness that results from affection, and from things done rightly through affection, is the happiness of the political friendship, the happiness brought about by honor; a somewhat immature conception and thus quite in keeping with Phaedrus' ideas of virtue. A substantially more sophisticated idea of how eros is a cause of happiness in men is not found until the speeches of Aristophanes and Socrates. ence he seems not to recognize: ... there is not one so bad that, once the god Eros had entered him, he would not be directed toward virtue-to the point where he is like one who is best by nature. (179a7) Preface I . Phaedrus This essay is in two parts, is about a number of related subjects, and has two major themes. It has no thesis as such; what points of view it presents come about as the result of the author's search for meaning in Plato's Symposium. The first part of the paper is investigatory, consisting of an attempt to determine what Plato might be saying through the work's various speakers, and terminating in an examination of Socrates' linkage of eros and wisdom. The second part is more speculative. It examines the Symposium's implications for learning and teaching, with reference to its dramatic context, and with reference to the nature of Socrates' speech and Plato's wiiting. One of the first points made by Phaedrus, the first eulogist and "Founder of the Feast," is that Eros is among the oldest of the gods, suggesting the later discussion by Socrates of the parentage of .Eros. Phaedrus' citation of Hesiod describes Chaos, Earth, and Eros as having been created in that order. Eros is the first of these which is proper to a living being, though not to a reasoning one (but Socrates later shows that there is an eras proper to man as well). And thus the first thing said about Eros is that he is prior to all life. In this case, as in Socrates' genealogy, we are meant to take Eros' position among gods as his place in the scheme of things, and so Eros' · priority to all life suggests that he represents one of the things which characterizes it. Socrates later agrees with this in saying that "the mortal nature seeks as far as possible to be forever and immortal," (207 dl) for to him that seeking after immortality is mortal eras. Phaedrus' next point also prefigures an aspect of Socrates' speech, though again in a limited and narrow sense. But the observation, that eras can impel men to do good (and also evil, which Phaedrus does not mention), is undeniable: Part One: Desiring Learning If it is true that nobody is ever entirely wrong about anything, it would be right to assume that each of the speakers at Agathon ' s drinking party has something to say about eros; that they are not there merely to make Socrates look good. Socrates' explanation, of course the most satisfactory and comprehensive, is also remarkable in that it is synthetic of those given before it. The speakers preceding Socrates lack complete understanding; they mistake their experience of eras for its entirety. Eros, like virtue in the Meno, is not given to us "whole and unbroken," (79c) but as its many facets, and it falls to Socrates to reveal the single gem to which they all belong. But Socrates does more than synthesize: his definition of eras both defines and ennobles the philosopher, and man as well, insofar as he is philosophical. Like Eros, men are between two worlds, and like him, we are creatures of desire. Socrates' genius is to link eros to our peculiarly human status as seekers after wisdom. As Plato speaks not only through Socrates, but through each character in the dialogue, it seems wise to view the speeches preceding Socrates' as also expressing parts of the dialogue's meaning. Plato had a unique dramatic opportunity in this dialogue, for its format permits all its characters to develop Plato's point of view while still allowing each to develop at length complete ideas of his own. One defining aspect of Socrates' speech is that he is always willing to begin with the thoughts of his companions; his is great speech because it is conversational, not lecturing. And so, as readers of the Symposium, we will profit from first examining Socrates' speech through an examination of those which precede it, and only then examining his speech on its own merits. ... we have [Eros] as the cause of the greatest goods, for I can hardly point to a greater good for someone to have from youth onward than a lover, and for a lover, a beloved For that which should guide human beings who are going to live fairly throughout their lives can be implanted by neither blood ties, nor honors, nor wealth, nor anything else as beautifully as by love. (178c2) Although Socrates would probably agree that as a motivation love surpasses wealth, he would do so for a reason other than the one Phaedrus gives. To Phaedrus, Eros is a cause of doing good because he induces "shame in the face of shameful things and honorable ambition in the face of beautiful things." (l 78dl) This is, of course, an excellent description of Alcibiades, for it is exactly (and unfortunately exclusively) his love for Socrates that causes him to feel shame, as he later says. (216b2) But Alcibiades' example makes the poverty of this conception of morality immediately obvious, for the implication of his feeling shame before Socrates alone is that he feels none before himself. Phaedrus' notion seems to be that right shame and right ambition are noble even when they come from without. Although he is right to say that to act rightly for love is nobler than to do so for money or honor, this is damning with faint praise, for right action by reason of any external motivation is manifestly inferior to right action through internal motivation, the magnitude of which differ- 20 Though the depth of Phaedrus' mistake is striking, his conttibution is a useful one because of how well it describes Alcibiades. What Phaedrus has done is to remind the reader that many things short of solid character (itself short of a reasoned morality) can impel men to right action, and that among these love incurs perhaps the least opprobrium in doing so because it seems to be inherently noble, whereas such impulsions to right action as love of honor or of wealth do not. This is the quality of love that makes it not only a guide to better action, as Phaedrus says, but also to bette1ment, an idea first brought up by Pausanias. Of all the wrong reasons for right action, it is only the shame and ambition brought about by love that can ever give rise to the right reason. The possibility of this is the great contribution of Phaedrus' speech, and the dashing of the reader's hopes that this might happen to Alcibiades is particularly painful because it so clearly exposes the limits of Socrates' power. Phaedrus next says that "lovers are the only ones who are willing to die for the sake of another," (179b4) which makes clear the important difference between acting rightly because of the shame or ambition caused by love, and acting nobly through the self-sacrifice which love inspires. Phaedrus seems to think that all right actions motivated by eros are generically equivalent, but in fact the noble action which love can inspire is generically different from the sort of right action that, say, Alcibiades may perform for his love of Socrates. Love is a powerful force for betterment, but where the latter sort of action is not noble because it is not nobly done (a distinction made by Pausanias), the former sort is not only noble, but divine, as Phaedrus says. The difference is between temporary "virtue" brought about by love, in the latter case, and virtue augmented and made divine by love, in the former. When Antigone bmies her brother in defiance of Creon' s order, or when Achilles girds himself to avenge Pat:roclus, these are actions of virtuous men impelled by love to greatness of spirit, and the magnificence and divinity of such actions has inspired wonder and admiration throughout the ages. Though Achilles and Alcibiades both perform admirable actions out of love, this is a di vine thing in the former and pitiable (even contemptible) in the latter, for in his case it is not nobly done. But why is such an action as Achilles ' divine? Socrates will later furnish the answer to this question suggested by Phaedrus's speech: such actions secure "an immortal remembering of [the actor's] virtue," (208d5) and insofar as an action makes someone immortal, it makes him divine. Phaedrus ends his speech with the statement that "Eros is the ... most competent of the gods with regard to the acqui- II. P ausanias As said above, Pausanias' speech corrects a flaw in Phaedrus' thought. He introduces the idea that the character of an action is in the manner in which it is done: Every action is of the following sort: When being done in terms of itself, it is neither noble nor base. For example, what we are now doing, either drinking, singing, or conversing, none of these things is in itself a noble thing, only in terms of how it is done in the doing of it does it tum out to be the sort of thing that it is. For if it is done nobly and correctly, it proves to be noble, and if incorrectly, base. (180e4) This distinction suggests the one above noted between the two ways thatlove can promote right action. So Pausanias' first great contribution is that eros can promote action both noble and base. Although Pausanias and Socrates both introduce a differentiation of the objects of eros, Pausanias' differentiation is far more confined than Socrates' , which expands the range of eros' objects beyond the human. Interestingly, it is Agathon's speech, vapid though it is, that makes the first small step in this direction by introducing an Eros of the beautiful, which is the jumping-off point from which Socrates proceeds to the intellectual eros. Having made this distinction, Pausanias makes the first try at identifying the noble and base eros. In saying that some "are in love with [others'] bodies rather than their souls," (181b3) Pausanias starts the consideration of eros' objects, which Socrates will resume and complete. But Pausanias' thought that proper love is of souls is not elaborated upon, and so one hearing Pausanias' speech has no idea what love of a soul would constitute; it is Socrates who will make this clear. Pausanias refers continually to the lover being "gratified" by the beloved, and to the beloved "granting favors", which makes his talk about loving souls, not bodies, amount to very 21 �one, asking nothing in return. As Alcibiades suggests, there is little one can offer Socrates, whose apparent attraction to beautiful young men is a ruse. In light of Socrates' love, Pausanias' conclusion that "for the sake of virtue alone it is noble to grant one's favors" (185b4) sounds like a self-deceiving attempt to ennoble an ignoble custom. Even so, his idea that one may become virtuous by devotion to a virtuous man is the diamond in this setting of brass. little; if anything, his message seems to be that a lover should seek sexual gratification only from good beloveds, which is a funny sort of "love of souls", and a far cry from the more mutual and intellectual relationship that Socrates describes. Pausanias' speech, which sounds like a defense of established custom, desc1ibes a relationship where an older man confers the benefits of his age upon a younger in exchange for sexual favors. This is the sort of relationship into which Alcibiades tried to ensnare Socrates: Really, my dear Alcibiades, you're no sucker if what you say about me is really true and there is some power in me through which you could become better. You must see, you know, an impossible beauty in me, a beauty very different from the fairness of form in yomself. So if, in observing my beauty, you are trying to get a share in it and to exchange beauty for beauty, you are intending to get far the better deal. For you are trying to acquire the truth of beautiful things in exchange for the seeming and opinion of beautiful things; and you really have in mind to exchange "gold for bronze." (218d7) III. Eryximachus Although Eryximachus' speech is somewhat silly in characterizing the world in te1ms of erotic duels, his description provides a powerful metaphor for the education of the soul, or the generation of virtue. He describes a possibility Pausanias missed: that good and bad eros can both exist in the same person. Eryximachus, the doctor, paints his profession as that having expertise in the "erotes" of the body: Now, there is one love that presides over the healthy state, and another over the sickly. Just as Pausanias was saying, it is a fine thing to gratify those who are good among human beings and disgraceful to gratify the intemperate, so too, in the case of men's bodies taken by themselves is it a fine and needful thing to gratify the good and healthy things of each body (this is what has the name 'the medical') ... (186b7) Socrates here describes what is wrong with Pausanias' love: it is absurdly unequal, and even somewhat crude. One wonders what sort of virtue a beloved would wish to acquire, or would in fact acquire, from such a lover as Pausanias describes. Socrates isn't saying that love is a business exchange, of course, but simply that there is something base about the exchange of real wisdom for gratification. The two parties in such a relationship would be making a sordid exchange on the basis of reciprocal need, not love, a fact reflected in the political character of Pausanias' speech. Nevertheless, Pausanias, in nrurnwing our discussion to noble ems of noble objects (that is, souls), develops a notion of eras as a means for betterment (as distinguished from merely better action) by introducing the idea of enslavement to virtue: If we were to transplant one metaphor into another, replacing the body with the soul in the above description, sickness and health would turn into virtue and the lack of it. The love presiding over the sickly state is the love of honor, money, and power, and that presiding over the healthy state is the love of knowledge, wisdom, and learning. The gratification of the right desires of the soul is the turning toward the philosophical, as Socrates will suggest, and so one skilled in the erotes of the soul, such as he, is a sort of doctor, or guide. By this extension,Eryximachus' speech also suggests another way of seeing Alcibiades: a man unhealthy in his soul, which is a description few would disagree with. So extended, the speech also names the reason for that illness: warring desires within his soul. "I have succumbed to the honor I get from the many," (216b5) says Alcibiades, and that sickly desire fights his healthy desire of what Socrates offers. History relates the unfortunate outcome of this conflict. Socrates' abilities as a doctor of the soul include prescription, but not surgery. He can give Alcibiades a healthy desire to oppose the unhealthy, but it is up to Alcibiades whether or "not his desire for change is equal to his need of it. Eryximachus' concept of the healthy state is revealed by his frequent use of the idea of harmony. Extending this idea of health to the soul furnishes us with a description of another aspect of Socrates' nature. What would it mean to achieve harmony among all the soul's desires--be they for learning, for wisdom, for honor, for money? Following Eryximachus, ...for it is customarily held by us that if anyone is willing to devote his care to someone in the belief that he will be better because of him, either in regard to some kind of wisdom or any other part of virtue whatsoever, this willing enslavement is not disgraceful nor is it flattery ... the [lover], in serving a beloved who has granted his favors, would justly serve in anything, and the [beloved], in assisting him who is making him wise and good, wouldjustly assist. (184c3) And here we have another description of Alcibiades' actions, or rather nearly so, for Socrates refused to allow him to "enslave himself." The reason for the difference in action bet ween Socrates and the lover Pausanias describes is that Pausanias has no concept of loving for really noble and selfless reasons , but only out of need. His lover betters the beloved in exchange for favors, but a really virtuous man would require nothing at all. Socrates, more virtuous than Pausanias' lover, confers his lover's gift of wisdom on every- 22 such harmony would be the right proportion of all these desires, such that they all agree in the pursuit of a happy and healthy life, under the direction of reason. Alcibiades' report of Socrates' conduct in the Potidaean campaign could hardly furnish a better description of how such a harmony would appear. In addition to ascribing to Socrates all the martial virtues, Alcibiades makes it clear that Socrates is supremely temperate (but not an ascetic!), never gets drunk, is calm under pressure, humble, uncomplaining in hardship, and so forth, all of which suggests a man who is at peace with himself, enjoys the benefits of every kind of virtue, and whose desires are well-trained and focused on the happy life. The Symposium is certainly shot through with a "Socrates-as-exemplar" motif, and it here becomes clear that one reason for his being such is that he is a virtuous man who understands his "erotes" and has completely mastered them. awesome in their strength and robustness, and they had great and proud thoughts ... " (190b5) Aristophanes, in looking backwards through time, looks not at men's surroundings as being then better, as one might expect, but at man himself. Man, that is to say, has fallen from a state of greatness, of which the seeking to regain is eros. This idea, not that of being separated from one's half, is Aristophanes' contribution to the evolving definition of eras, and it is an idea that Socrates does not directly touch on: to interpret Socrates in Aristophanes' terms, our search for beauty, by means of contemplation, is perceived by us as a search to regain. We recognize our need for wisdom (or we would not seek it, as Socrates says (204a3)), but in addition, the idea that its attainment is possible persists in us, driving our quest, despite the haunting thought that we may never succeed. This drive toward the attainment of what we constantly fall short of is, I think, an indication that on some level we have a potentiality for it. ls Aristophanes really saying that we seek perfect happiness in union with our other half? Of course not; Aristophanes' story is a myth, certainly a format to which Plato was no stranger, and a counterpoint to the more directly philosophical speech of the rest of the dialogue-but he is saying that belief in that potentiality is what moves us. In the same vein, Socrates will suggest that it is our potentiality to attain immortality, god-hood, and true know ledge (or at least our belief in that potentiality) that spurs us to strive for these impossible ends--and in this similarity we find that Aristophanes and Socrates both have hit directly on one of eras' most important aspects: the human potentiality to achieve a divine state. Because of the manner of his speech, it would be fruitless to try to pin Socrates down on whether he really believes that this potentiality may be actual in life; at worst, this belief is a "functional myth" or "noble lie". Plato has paid Aristophanes the very high compliment of allowing his character to introduce one of the major themes of the dialogue, for Aristophanes has presented the first argument for eras as a seeking after happiness that resists disproof and does not ring hollow. But Aristophanes' straightf01wardness and sincerity, even passion, should not encourage us to miss the inadequacy, according to Socrates' ideal, of what he says. Aristophanes and Socrates say similar things about the utility of eras (a guide to happiness), the means by which this happiness is sought (impetus to strive toward a state of greatness) , the human potential for that greatness, and ems having genuinely noble ends (as opposed to those discussed by Phaedrus and Pausanias). But Socrates has in mind an ems of intellectual things, not of human things, and describes a desire to be united with the former rather than the latter, and in this there is all the difference between these two speakers. Aristophanes comes across as a defender both staunch and eloquent of a humanistic idea of eros and of human purpose. By the time of the symposium, Aristophanes has written The Clouds, so the reader is expected to know where Aristophanes and Socrates IV. Aristophanes Aristophanes' is the first of the speeches which has any brilliance. It is genuinely funny, it is well-crafted, and it does not immediately strike the reader with its inadequacy. Although like the others, his speech does not attain the same level of depth and comprehensiveness as Socrates', unlike them it is a complete description of eros in and of itself, as . opposed to a right-thinking but frustratingly short-sighted account, as was, for example, Phaedrus'. Aristophanes proposes a reasonable idea of eros' object, and Socrates' criticism of his account seems to attack it rather superficially, apparently taking what Aristophanes says for what he means: ' 'And there is a certain account,'' she said, ''according to which those who seek their own halves are lovers. But my speech denies that eros is of a half or of a whole-unless, comrade, that half or whole can be presumed to be really good; for human beings are willing to have their own feet and hands cut off, if their opinion is that their own are no good." (205d10) Aristophanes_is also the first to develop a plausible idea of eros as a means to happiness, an idea which Socrates will later take up and advance: For Eros is the most philanthropic of gods, a helper of human beings as well as a physician dealing with an illness the healing of which would result in the greatest happiness for the human race. (189c8) The illness to which he refers is the ancient separation of men from their other halves, but the search for the one who can undo this damage resembles the seeking after the good which Socrates will describe. This is most obvious in that both accounts desctibe a seeking, but in addition, each also suggests happiness as the reward for attainment of the goal, and each intimates that this attainment may not be possible. The men of the past, according to Aristophanes, "were 23 �skmd in respect to each other: the argument implicit in their very similar but importantly different accounts of human desire is the great important debate of the dialogue, and it is over how one should seek happiness. Socrates defends the pursuit of happiness through pursuit of know ledge, a position of which the reader of The Clouds knows Aristophanes to be mistrustful at best, just as Socrates mistrusts the passions. With all the depth of feeling in his poetic soul, Aristophanes, it seems, warns Socrates not to renounce too much of the human in his taxonomy of desire. The close correspondence of many elements of their speeches suggests deeply held feelings over the essential point of difference: whether the pursuit of knowledge is a key to happiness. Aristophanes surely believes that there is meaning in such things as drama: human, earthy, passionate creations; and that a happiness founded only on pure intellectual contemplation would be hollow and cold. But Socrates' speech, if seen with care, does not advocate this; uncharacteristically, it is quite sympathetic to the poets, granting them their place in the sun; and Plato weaves themes of drama into this conversation set in the house of a playwright. Despite his sympathy to what Aristophanes is saying, however, Socrates does mistrust it-and Agathon's speech shows the reader why he does so. The significance of Agathon's speech is a counter-argument made by Plato, a warning against the dangers of an eros that stops at the human. Plato wishes to point out that Aristophanes, though right as far as he goes, does not go far enough. Agathon's speech, beautiful but devoid of content, reminds us why Socrates seeks humanity's purpose in the reahn of the intellect: there is less chance that reason will go awry than will passion. But Aristophanes is convincing despite the obvious danger posed by such as Agathon or Gorgias-and the debate between these two points of view is one which, we may see here, Plato was never able to resolve comfortably. Poetry is Plato's vice, the addiction he tiies to break: in this and other dialogues he alternately disparages it and flirts with it, never finding it within himself to advocate unreservedly pure, transcendent contemplation. In the Republic, Poetry is dismissed as mere imitation, but the Socrates who quotes Homer so freely must feel uneasy about denying it all claim to wisdom: Like much of Plato's work (which is itself dramatic), poetry can teach through metaphor and indirection; perhaps this is what Socrates meant. In view of this sympathy, it is hardly surprising that in the Symposium we find a treatment of the role of the poet which is, so far as I am aware, uncharacteristic in its lack of overt criticism, sympathetic, and perhaps even praising. Aristophanes says that he "shall try to initiate you into [Eros'] power; and you will be the teachers of everyone else," (189d3) mirroring the words with which Socrates closes, and highlighting the debate between these two conflicting teachings. The Symposium's presentation raises the question of whether, in theRepublic,Socrates exiled poetry more because it is dangerous than because it is intrinsically bad. V. Agathon Socrates' remark that he is afraid of Agathon's speech thus emerges in a double light, because Socrates knows that this minor contest for the better speech is paradigmatic of the greater battle for the hearts of men he sees between philosophy and rhetoric. So we must see Agathon' s speech as a parable about the dangerous power of the merely beautiful. The brief conversation with Socrates which precedes Agathon's speech serves to illustrate Plato's view of this danger: "What's this, Socrates?" Agathon said "You really do not believe that I am so wrapped up in the theater as not to know that to a man of sense a few who are sensible are more terrifying than many fools? (194b6) So Agathon knows his transgression: although he calls his audience ignorant, he does not walk the harsher path of trying to guide them to the truth, but displays instead the facile beauty that will bring him honor from fools--a defect of character similar to Alcibiades'. Socrates' charge against Agathon, subtly put but nonetheless an accusation of wronging the ignorant, is this: ... for I know very well that were you to meet any you believed wise, you would think more of them than of the many. But I suspect that we shall not prove to be of the wise, for we too were present there and were part of the many; but if you were to meet others who were indeed wise, then you might be ashamed before them-if you were perhaps to believe that you were doing something that is disgraceful. (194c2) "It must be told," I said. "And yet, a certain friendship for Homer, and shame before him, which has possessed me since childhood prevents me from speaking. For he seems to have been the first teacher and leader of all these fine tragic things. Still and all, a man must not be honored before the truth, but, as I say, it must be told." (595b) Though Agathon fears Socrates' scrutiny, and thinks his present audience more fearful than the previous day's, he nevertheless employs his beautiful rhetoric at the cost of thought. With the sole exception of Socrates, this new audience does not justify his trepidation, and his easy seduction of them with the beautiful but untrue wholly justifies the fear Socrates feels. He fears the outcome of what Aristophanes 24 described in The Clouds: the conflict between LiL Kmos A6yos and .A8LKos Aoyos for the souls of men.Just before show Agathon's speech for what it is: an arid desert of adjectives. But Socrates is not just using sophistical nicks to discredit Agathon; as in all his sophistical tricks there is a point, and here it is that truth and beauty are things sought (and, he here implies, not achieved). Agathon has suggested thatEros makes those he is with like himself. Though Socrates would agree with this, he looks on Eros more as a metaphor for man than as man's muse, and for this reason it is crucial for him that Eros be like what man already is, rather than like what man strives toward (as Diotima says to Socrates, "You believed ... that the beloved is Eros, and is not that which loves." (204cl)) As Agathon reveals when he says that "[Eros] is a poet of such wisdom that he can make poets of others too," (196el) he sees the relation between beauty and truth far differently than Socrates, for to Socrates a wise poet is a contradiction in terms. A wise poet would have true knowledge; and this recalls Socrates' critique of poetry in the Republic: Agathon begins his speech, Socrates asks him, "But you would not be ashamed before the many if you believed you were doing something disgraceful?" (194c9) But Phaedrus intervenes before Agathon can answer, leaving the reader to ponder the terrible implications of a negative answer. One need look no further than Alcibiades to see the effects of such a case . Agathon is not, however, unscrupulous, but simply young and foolish. He venerates the beautiful, but as he does not truly know what he venerates, he cannot do so properly. - In this he is like Phaedrus, for as Phaedrus does not recognize that the love he speaks of can impel men to the bad as well as the good, so too does Agathon fail to recognize that (in Socrates' terms) eras with an eye fixed on such an idea of beauty as his own can lead men astray from the truth as well as to it. Phaedrus' human eras and Agathon's eros of the beautiful take their power from the passions, and Socrates must leaven these powers with reason, that such erotes may lead to eras of truth. But all this is yet to come. In its content, Agathon's speech furthers the ongoing distancing of eras from the concrete and human in saying that "all good things have resulted for gods as well as for human beings from loving the beautiful things." (197b8) Agathon, as Socrates will do later, connects the good and the beautiful, and though this takes eros somewhat in Socrates' direction, Agathon proceeds without understanding. As Socrates admonishes him, "you leave no argument unturned and dedicate each and every argument to Eros." (198e4) Socrates, like Agathon, will give eras a role in wisdom, in the arts, in beauty, and so on down the list, but he does so in a reasoned way; his sophistical refutation of Agathon's sophistical argument is intended mostly to show that Agathon was speaking fluff, and not contemplating the object of his speech. Ag ath on' s speech suggests the similarities between the various descriptions of eros, the one describing, and the manner of description, and nowhere is funnier than in the contrast between the speeches of Agathon and Socrates: Agathon, young, and beautiful, beautifully describes a tender and beautiful Eros; while Socrates--older, crusty, shoeless, and unbeautiful, in a comic point-by-point opposition to Agathon describes an eros who is like himself in a manner that, also like himself, is beautiful in its content apart from its fmm. The fact that Alcibiades, who has every conceivable charm of youth, makes fun of Socrates' looks but despite them calls Socrates "the only deserving lover of [his]," (218c7) is a strong indication that content can render form unimportant. For it is necessary that the good poet, if he is going to make fair poems about the things his poetry concerns, be in possession of knowledge when he makes his poems or not be able to make them ... and do the good poets really know about the things that, in the opinion of the many, they say well? (598e3) This speech, in turn, points to a similar passage in the Symposium itself: 'Or don't you realize,' she said, 'that only here, in seeing in the way the beautiful is seeable, will he get to engender not phantom images of virtue-because he does not lay hold of a phantom-but true, because he lays hold of the tiue ... ? (212a2) These passages, in combination with what has already happened, make clearest of anything Socrates' belief about truth: only the true is both really beautiful and really virtuous (or excellent), but what appears to be virtuous or beautiful often seems to be true. Socrates' skill at dialectic is the skill of knowing the difference between these, and its guiding principle is a kind of suspicion, a systematic doubt of and searching for substance in attractive and seductive MyOL. The refutation of Agathon concludes with a clear idea of the object of eros, in the course of the argument changed by Socrates from "beautiful things" to "beauty". With the idea of the non-beautiful desiring the beautiful the stage is set for Socrates' speech. It is my hope that as a result of the preceding discussion , we aiTive with an understanding of how what he says is both a logical and literary continuation of what has come before. Although the dialogue seems to be a debate between points of view, it is also the evolution of a single one, the logical and dramatic culmination of which we are now prepared to examine. VI. Agathon and Socrates Once Agathon has been praised for his beautiful but empty speech, Socrates undoes the damage done to our evolving understanding. First, as mentioned above, he wishes to 25 �that makes the lack of understanding so difficult-that if a man is not beautiful and good, nor intelligent, he has the opinion that that is sufficient for him. Consequently, he who does not believe thathe is in need does not desire that which he does not believe he needs. (204a3) VII. Socrates When Socrates resumes his argument with Agathon by taking up Agathon's role and placing Diotima in his own, the example he chooses to illustrate the middle ground between ugliness and beauty sets the tone for the rest of his speech: " Don' t you know," she said, "that to opine correctly without being able to give an account is neither to know expertly (for how could expert know ledge be an unaccounted for matter?) nor lack ofunderstanding (for how could lack of understanding be that which has hit upon what is)? But surely con-ect opinion is like that, somewhere between intelligence and lack of understanding.'' So the metaphor of Eros for humanity is in actuality limited, but in potentiality, one would hope, limitless. That is to say, not everyone recognizes his need for wisdom, so not all are seekers after it, but, it seems, all may be made to see their need, so that all are seekers potentially. To philosophize is to actualize the inheritance of these two parents, to fully recognize our need for wisdom and to hone the resources needed for hunting it--to train the mind in thinking (and particularly in dialectic, though this is implied only by the nature of the conversation itself). To philosophize, in one way of looking at it, is to become fully human by recognizing what the nature of humanity is. Men are in the situation of Oedipus: inadequate self-knowledge condemns us to unhappiness. We cannot achieve our "erotic potential" (which is the same as our human potential, unless our resources should ever prove adequate to our needs) as seekers after wisdom unless we know ourselves for what we are: the sons of Resource and Need, born under Aphrodite's star. With that realization, we must become philosophers; lovers of wisdom, which "is one of the most beautiful things." (204b2) Socrates ' discussion of generation illustrates another aspect of our betweenness. "The mortal nature seeks as far as possible to be forever and immortal," (207dl) as he says, and it is thus another defining characteristic of man that we seek perpetuation through our "children," our creations. Everything made by man, intellectual or physical, is a means of his perpetuity. Although Socrates perhaps does not literally mean that all human creation has immortality as its aim, there can be no doubt that bringing forth out of ourselves is among the most necessary and definitive of human actions. As born ourselves, and as changing beings, ours is the realm of the born and the becoming. But our bringing forth takes place only in the presence of what partakes of the beautiful, and thus giving birth is best, and best achieves immortality, when it is performed under the beautiful itself. Behold the importance of seeking wisdom to the creator: knowledge of beauty is his muse, required for his "child" to be truly divine and immortal. And as Plato seems to say, (599a4) the one who has true know ledge of anything would not choose poetry as his child. His children are true virtue, brought about through " beautiful and magnificent speeches and thoughts." (210d4) Once eras is established as "engendering and bringing to birth in the beautiful," (206e5) Socrates shows how we, as humans, ascend the ladder of eros (which is the ladder of comprehension of our need) in order to attain the beautiful, that we may bring to birth in its presence that which will make us divine and immortal. But is Plato saying that we seek (202a5) It is part of what we know about knowledge that truth about human things is elusive. In the case of such things as justice or the beautiful, not just right opinion, but pretty much all human thought ranks somewhere below expert knowledge of what is. The first metaphor of Socrates' speech, then, is a ladder of belief, whose steps c01Tespond roughly with the ladder of eros discussed later. Perhaps the rungs of this ladder might tentatively be identified as ignorance, thought, right opinion, and expert know ledge; that is, true know ledge of the thing itself. It is om human quest to ascend this ladder, as Socrates later makes clear. It is only during a part of Socrates' speech that Eros is personified, and Socrates does this that he might better show what traits characterize the seeker: Eros is between the world of gods and the world of men, and the things he strives for are the things that belong to gods. The objects of our own lives are of course the same; and since Eros and man alike seek the things that belong to god-hood, Socrates presents the genealogy of Eros to show our composition through his. Our metaphorical father is T6pos, or "Resource", which also connotes "a means of doing" , or "a device"; and man has well deserved the name of the the Great Artificer. Supremely inventive in thought and action, the human race is, as Socrates describes Eros, always seeking knowledge and trying to trap lruth with every device available to its creative intellect. Resource himself is the son of M~ns, a word similar in meaning, but with more connotation of planning, advising, and even scheming, which lends additional shades to our existence as hunters. Our "mother", l1Evl,a (or "Poverty), could be seen as tarnishing and limiting the skill and cunning given us by Resource; but IT Ev la also means "Need" , and this brings her coupling with Resource out in a different light: IT6pos gave us the means of seeking, and 11Evla the desire to do so. Without her heritage, our nature would be different indeed, for we would have the machinery to seek wisdom, but it would lie idle in our ignorance of our want thereof. Socrates furnishes an accurate description of what this would be like: Nor, in tum, do those who lack understanding philosophize and desire to become wise; for it is precisely this 26 "speeches as will make the young better; in order that [the lover], on his part, may be compelled to behold the beautiful in pursuits and laws." (210cl) knowledge for the sake of creation? This hardly seems like him; rather, once one' s eros is in the presence of true know ledge, or pretty nearly, the means of pursuit and the thing engendered are one and the same. That is to say, when seeking wisdom, the MyoL engendered are the means of the seeking. This clarifies the nature of Socrates ' endless conversation. The idea of the ladder of love contributes the notion that there is a certain kind of virtue brought forth corresponding to each gradation of eros. Ho w close one is able to come to bringing forth tiue excellence depends on how far one has advanced one's idea of the beautiful. According to Socrates, the greatest thing to which one can give birth is moderation and justice, and by this he can only mean some Myos thereof. But here we have to be careful with equating creation to giving birth, for Socrates uses the language of "being pregnant" with virtue, which leaves open the question of who does the impregnating. Let it for now suffice to point out that Plato 's language does indeed leave open the possibility that the things given birth to, for which I have used the word "created," have an ambiguous point of genesis. This suggests the idea of learning as recollection in the Meno: that the things given birth to are within the creator potentially, and brought forth by him, rather than given their genesis within and by him. The ladder of eras is a curiously mixed metaphor. It is described in two separate passages; the first explains the natw·e of pregnancy in so ul, and the second describes the path one must walk to "be initiated into [the perfect revelations]." (209e5) In the firs t, someone pregnant with viltue is described as going to a beautiful person, and Or, to put it another way, one must investigate the causes and the nature of virtue in men through investigating the political (perhaps Pausanias' emphasis on laws places him at this point in Socrates' scheme), and this draws one further away from the superficial understanding of beauty which Agathon has. From there, the lover and beloved journey on to "the sciences" and give birth to speeches and thoughts, for (if one sees the political rightly) this naturally evolves from trying to understand virtue through the political. This investigation eventually leads one to seek the form of beauty, in which the engendering of true virtue is possible. And so we have Socrates' sketch of the human purpose. As humans, we are aware of our intermediate status, between gods and animals. We are aware of a better state, one of immortality and wisdom and perfection, but may be unable to achieve it. Caught between, we strive to give birth to something out of ourselves which seems to partake of the world above ourselves, so that we may partake of the di vine through procreation. When this striving for and not achieving immortality seems frustrating, we should remember that Plato's vision is really an affirmative one. This seeking is what is proper to us as mortal beings: since we are creatures of change, our joys come in part from mortal things, and in part from the divine. If we can make something which partakes of our nature and of the divine nature, such as the children Socrates describes, we have truly done the best thing possible for a man, and will move closer to happiness. This bringing to birth is the action which reveals our limits, certainly, but it also defines our potential for greatness . This is, I think, the significance of the process Socrates describes. But there is still much to be said about the process itself, for the ascent of this ladder cannot be made without help. ... to this human being he is at once fluent in speeches about virtue-of what sor t the good man must be and what he must practice. (209b7) And, as he goes on to say, one who sees the beautiful in a beautiful person gives biJ.·th to such children as did Homer or Lycurgus. This is appropriate, for one whose beauty is found in other men will create such children as are approp1iate to men: poetry or laws. But Socrates wishes to go further: he wishes to create children approp1iate to men not as they are, but to men he aspires to be. He wants children created under the beauty of true knowledge, and here describes how they too might be got. The first rung on the ladder to procreation in the true beautiful is to "love one beautiful body and there generate beautiful speeches." (210a7) This, in one interpretation, can be seen as desc1 ibing Agathon, for he is young and blinded . by beauty, and with his limited and superficial conception of beauty he creates what is appropriate to his character: merely beautiful speeches: one who loves with the passions creates what is appropriate to them. But as one climbs, and the attraction to bodies fades, ems turns toward the beauty of souls and the creation of the things appropriate to that beauty; that is , Part Two: L earning D esire The existence of Plato's dialogues , their content, and their structure all attest to his belief in the learnability of matters important to the virtuous life. Diotima ' s description of the ladder of eros makes it clear that the path to this knowledge is not trod alone. And so, much more immediate and real than the Symposium' s implications about our nature are its implications about the interactions between men by which knowledge is sought. As we know from the Meno, virtue cannot be taught, for nobody knows what it is, and this problem renders unteachable all other similarly noble objects of investigation. The distinctions between these objects are somewhat blurred, in fact, as Socrates suggests that virtue, knowledge of the beautiful, and knowledge of the good all progress in tandem . Where the Meno might leave the reader 27 �Training someone in desiring clearly means a number of related things. As is plain from the vaiious speakers, eros can be of many things. Clearly, the pedagogical role has as its first intent to help the one led (the lover) to climb the ladder. From what Diotima has said, it is clear that all men are lovers of some sort, but vary in the their ideas of what beauty is. From this it follows that the pedagogical role is not particular as to its subjects, and that it also accomplishes its aim by helping the lover see a higher form of beauty with reference to eros' objects. Few men know what the truly beautiful is; the role of the guide is to move the lover's eyes toward the successively greater sorts of beauty; that is, the guide must help the lover to see his need of a beauty beyond his limited conception of it. The guide must of necessity be a philosopher, and his role is to make philosophers out of others, as a sophist makes sophists of others. What, then, are the characteristics of a "guiding philosopher"? From the many things that Alcibiades says of S aerates, one inference is particularly relevant: it helps for the guide to be a virtuous man. Because Socrates is a virtuous _ man, Alcibiades is shamed by him (for he is a lover after Phaedrus' description), and whatever power for good Socrates has over Alcibiades comes from this. But it is clear that Socrates is unable to do much with Alcibiades, for he knows not how to teach virtue, but only the desire of it. In the Meno , Socrates says of virtuous men that despairing of ever coming to know virtue, the beautiful, or the good, the Symposium is not only more optimistic, but even prescribes a formula! However, Diotima's speech contains only the vaguest outline of the progression toward these things; it is full of ambiguous terms and incomplete descriptions. Fortunately, it is possible to fill in many of these gaps by interpolating from what Socrates does and how Plato writes. The ladder that Diotima describes is general in its scope. Although "the ladder of love" is a tempting name for it, it is a ladder of at least six things. When she switches from "the beautiful things" to "the good things'', (204el) Socrates can say that men seek the good things in order to become happy. The eros which has the name of the whole, which is a specific kind of aiming at happiness (that is, "engendering and bringing to birth in the beautiful" (206e5)), must aim also at understanding the beautiful. So since Socrates has said that the good things are beautiful, the reader is strongly inclined to suspect that the converse is true also, or at least that the distinction matters little. The understanding of the beautiful is for the sake of the begetting of virtue, and it would seem this requires being virtuous. And so the ladder of eros seems to be also a ladder of wisdom, of knowledge of the beautiful, of virtue, of knowledge of the good, of happiness, and possibly of age, though this is only hinted at. The ladder is thus nothing less than Plato's formula for living the good life, and a complete desc1iption of the philosopher's journey. Diotirna's desc1iption of the ladder of eros seems to describe both how one becomes a philosopher, and how one makes a philosopher of others. We are fortunate enough to have the examples of Socrates and Plato to refer to for explication of this passage, for though suggestive, Diotima's language is obscure. In the sense that she speaks of a lover and a beloved, her story vaguely resembles ordinary Greek pederasty, as described by Pausanias. But she also adds a third character, 6 ilyouµEvos-, "the one guiding," (210a7) whose role she does not elaborate on. So we are left to question what role the one guiding has in the ascension of the ladder. The beginning of Diotima's speech suggests one answer: This was the reason why they were unable to make others like themselves-because their virtue was not grounded on knowledge. (99b) Which echoes Agathon's words in the Symposium: ... for what one does not have and does not know, one could neither give to another nor teach to another. (196e5) Inarticulate virtue, that is, cannot perpetuate itself. From this, it seems that the one who reaches the top of the ladder of eros is the ultimate teacher, for ... [he will] get to engender not phantom images of virtue-because he does not lay hold of a phantom-but true, because he lays hold of the true ... (212a3) "Now perhaps, Socrates, you too might be initiated into these erotics; but as for the perfect revelations-for which the others are means, if one were to proceed correctly on the way- I do not know if you would be able to be initiated into them. Now I shall speak," she said. "I shall not falter in my zeal; do try to follow, if you are able." (209e5) That is-he is capable of teaching true virtue to others, not just the desire of it, and this is what every true philosopher strives for: to be a sophist worthy of the name. The philosopher, however, must be satisfied with helping others see their need of wisdom. His role is one of exposing ignorance, which raises a further question: how does he do this? One who has know ledge of his ignorance, in accordance with Agathon' s words, can certainly teach it to others, but by what means? Socrates' conversation with Meno will not tell one who hears it what virtue is, but one can hardly hear it without knowing more about virtue. The ignorance of the subject That is to say, she is "the one guiding" Socrates, and Socrates is the lover. From the occasional reference she makes to Socrates' sluggishness of thought and improper desires, we can infer the nature of her contribution. As Socrates said at the very beginning of the speech, Diotima taught him erotics, and it is clear now what this means: she trained him in desiring, along the path that she describes. 28 which Socrates proclaims is not feigned, but neither is it the sort of ignorance which Meno has at the start of the dialogue. Meno has a number of false ideas about virtue which lead him astray, and which Socrates removes . He has given Meno the "torpedo's touch", (84c) and when he does the same for Meno' s slave, Meno thinks the slave the better for it. Perplexity, that is, is better than false opinion (though both are called "ignorance"), most particularly because it sets one to desire knowledge where one did not before. Perplexity is prerequisite to the desire and pursuit of wisdom, and so the guiding philosopher must have the "torpedo's touch." Socrates' method of producing this perplexity is dialectic, and one would be hard-pressed to suggest a better or even another method of doing so. However, Socrates' arguments are seldom logically air-tight, nor are their aims frequently obvious. Socrates, thinker that he was, cannot have been unawai·e of the spuriosity of his arguments, and if he knew his conclusions not to follow logically, he must at least have thought them good. He must have thought that the conclusions drawn by his often spurious arguments would be useful if believed. It is not without reason that he describes Eros as a sophist. The failings in the logic ai·e an invitation to look deeper, to ask what may be underneath the argument and why Socrates thinks the conclusion useful. A reader of the Meno may ask why it is important that virtue be one, not many; or a reader of the Republic why Socrates argues that justice is a certain kind of "minding one's own business." This is a surprising (though inevitable) conclusion, for it implies that Socrates' professed ignorance is not as blank as that which he succeeds in producing in Meno; that he has some ideas under it. Socrates' many myths furnish a more obvious example of the same phenomenon: something he says is not strictly "true," but is somehow useful. It is wrong to call these things "p1inciples" or "beliefs," since Socrates seems in earnest about his ignorance. Rather, they are heuristics, and only as such, if at all, that Socrates can be said to "believe." The trouble about these heuristics is that they are never exposed to question; they are insulated by poor interlocutors who ai·e snowed by Socrates ' illogic. Neither are they ever stated explicitly, so inevitably one who would argue with Socrates must, in producing a "definitive" interpretation of him, impose his own ideas on what Socrates means. From these things it is clear that a Socratic conversation is only secondarily a subject of proof or disproof, and primarily something about which one should seek understanding. The hidden and indefinite "meaning" of a Socratic argument, coupled with its complexity and spurious logic have this as their intent: that Socrates is trying to avoid a presentation which encourages argument without understanding, and opts rather for one which encourages the hearer to question and investigate the subject himself, using his conversation as a guide. Socratic conversation is hence mai-velously capable of teaching from afar, as Alcibiades says: But whenever any one of us hears you [Socrates] or another speaking your speeches, even if the speaker is very poor, regardless of whether a woman, man, or lad hears them, we are thunderstruck and possessed ... When I heard Pericles and other good speakers, I thought they spoke well, but they could not affect me in any way like that, nor did my soul grow troubled and become distressed at my slavish condition. (215d3) Because it is open to interpretation and invites the reader to seek meaning by means of it, Socrates' conversation has the power to make men question. This is the hallmark of an ignorance which desires: it asks questions, and Socrates gives us a framework from which to begin to do so well, for his conversations suggest questions of the first importance. Even at two thousand years distance Socrates can make philosophers of others. Plato's contribution to this should not be underestimated. The manner in which Alcibiades describes Socrates' speeches applies equally well to Plato's presentation of them: For were one willing to hear Socrates' speeches, they would at first look altogether laughable. The words and phrases that they wrap around themselves on the outside are like that, the very hide of a hybristic satyr. For he talks of pack-asses, blacksmiths, shoemakers, and tanners, and it looks as if he is always saying the same things about the same things; and hence every inexperienced and foolish human being would laugh at his speeches. But if one sees them opened up and gets oneself inside them, one will find, first, that they alone of speeches have sense inside; and second, that they are the most divine and have ilie largest number of images of virtue in them; and that they apply to the largest area, indeed to the whole area that it is proper to examine for one who is going to become beautiful and good. (221el) Plato's literary genius allows him to present philosophical ideas in an uncommonly rich manner, augmenting the powers of Socrates' speech with those particular to his own unique format. The Symposium's very structure reinforces the idea that certain speeches have power. Socrates' words come to us as Plato's account of Apollodorus' rendition of Aristodemus' retelling of Socrates ' recollection of Diotima 's speech, and it should be noted that Apollodorus has an audience of more than one. (l 73e5) And though the speech has passed from Diotima through many retellings (the unreliability of which Plato seems to have made a point) it has always had an effect. When Apollodorus says As for me, whenever I make any speeches on my own about philosophy or listen to others--apart from my belief that I am benefitted--how I enjoy it! (173c2) it is strong testimony for the power such speeches can have if 29 �one simply hears them. In addition, where most of Plato's dialogues make one feel close to the action, the many veils over Diotima's speech emphasize the fact that the Symposium is a dialogue of listeners, not speakers. The role of the lover is spoken of by Diotima; that of the guide mostly implied. The Meno, too, ends in Socrates' exhortation to Meno to teach Anytus the same ignorance he himself has come to. It is hard indeed to see how a philosopher could fail to be a guide also. One who knows his ignorance wants to share it with the world. Gorgias' speeches (to which Socrates compares Agathon's), in being persuasive, may seem akin to Socrates', but Alcibiades' speech reveals the crucial difference between the two: the speeches of an orator depend on his oratorical proficiency for their power, but those of Socrates do not; the former derive power from their words, the latter from what their words represent. This suggests the differing mechanisms though which persuasion by Myo:; and persuasion by conviction operate: where conviction succeeds through a kind of flattery (as Socrates suggests in the Gorgias) and by inflaming the passions, persuasion in the manner of Socrates succeeds through different methods. Gorgias' persuasion and Socrates' aim at a different sort of object: Gorgias' at (incidentally false) opinion, or conviction, and Socrates' at producing ignorance. Where the argument of a sophist can be pulled apart by an acute observer, a Socratic "argument'' cannot be pulled apart so easily, for there is nothing definite to lay hold of and refute. As objects of investigation rather than logic, it is hard to meaningfully predicate "true" or "false" of anything Socrates says, unless, mistaking Socrates' logic for his meaning, one engages in the somewhat trivial exercise of trying to poke holes in it. Though this slippery speech here sounds ethereal, it proves solid enough in its effects, as in the case of provoking shame in Alcibiades, and in provoking thought and perplexity in its hearers. This is the genius of Socrates' dialogue: it is designed to withstand and promote sustained examination of its content, but is presented in such a way that it is difficult to argue the content away unless one knows precisely what is being said-and the confidence that one does is unwarranted. Socrates never goes so far as to present something that passes for true knowledge; rather his discourse has the aim of setting one on the path to thinking rightly about an object by clearing away false presuppositions about it.We must assume, though, that Socrates, knowing the false logic in many of his arguments, had in mind a hypothetical character for his heuristics. Socrates did not merely clear away false presupposition; his act of setting an interlocutor on the path also consists of a starting-point. This starting-point may have something of the character of the "noble lie" discussed in the Republic. In his arguments, Socrates's ideas come across with a logical certainty that he knows does not to belong to them, though perhaps they have another kind of certainty. Is he presenting what he does not know to be true in the guise of truth? This is an ugly light to put matters in; it would perhaps be better to say that his interlocutors have opinions which are manifestly wrong (or even harmful), and whatever Socrates replaces these notions with has not the same character. Socrates does not replace one incorrect certainty with another, but with uncertainty; the worse sort of ignorance with the better. The one is ignorance which pretends to know; the other is ignorance which knows it does not know and what it does not know. The first is the ignorance of the satisfied, the second of the seeking. And so if Socrates .does tell a "noble lie," if he does instill some hypothesis as a starting-point, it is for the sake of creating that ignorance which knows itself. Socrates does not put into anyone's head something pretending to be the truth of a thing, but only some hypotheses as to the thing's nature. The nature of putting someone on the path requires this; one cannot search for something without some such ideas to start with (Need must have some Resource), and it is best that these ideas have a hypothetical, not a dogmatic character: Socrates is no sophist, though he uses some of the tricks of that trade. This action is also validated by Socrates' virtue, for a man who is manifestly virtuous and knows he doesn't know what that means is likely to suggest the best possible hypotheses for beginning an investigation of virtue. If Socrates' state is as above described (self-aware ignorance with some hypotheses), one has to ask how this ignorance resembles knowledge so closely. It may be that what is possible in this sort of ignorance, namely, having some idea of the nature of a thing, is as close as earthly knowledge can come to truth. Socrates' hypotheses (for example, his definition of justice in the Republic) are like metaphors. True knowledge is not imaginable, but only thinkable. We don't know what kind of eyes one would have to have to avoid being blinded by the light. Socrates can speculate about what it would be like to have such knowledge, but the effects of having it would be so huge that one who knows only right opinion and perplexity cannot conceive what communion with the truth would be like, so much so that it may only be attainable when one is freed from earthly trappings. The truth illuminates this world, and perhaps we may know an approximation of truth from the physical approximations that surround us. Socrates' heuristics describe what the truth of a matter is like; they are similes for truth. Is simile like right opinion? Perhaps it is, for it seems that to try to describe the truth in similes is to acknowledge that one does not know it, but can only make a likeness of it. It may also be the case that, if true knowledge is inaccessible to the earth-bound, similes are a kind of "earthly truth", the closest one can come to truth before death-we cannot look at the light of the truth, but by observing the shadows it casts we can discern something of its nature. Socrates is therefore something between the virtuous man who cannot make others like himself, and the mythical 30 teacher of virtue (the virtuous man who can do so). The first sort of man has the ignorance of Meno or Glaucon, the ignorance which is satisfied with itself; and the second sort of man has the knowledge which is satisfied with itself. As Diotima says, neither those ignorant nor those wise desire to become wise. (204al) As a complacently ignorant man may impart his complacent ignorance to others, and as a wise man can impart his wisdom to others, so does Socrates impart what is appropriate to his non-complacent ignorance: perplexity and a starting-point from which to seek. Complacent ignorance is approp1iate to the sophist, and is perpetuated by dogmatism; desiring and questioning and dissatisfied ignorance to the philosopher, whose method is dialectic. At the base of all this, of course, is the fact that the philosopher is a lover not just of wisdom, but also of others, for climbing toward the top of the ladder does not preclude having one foot a rung down. The roles of lover and guide unavoidably mingle; the process of making someone better (which is the role of the lover) cannot help but turn into making that person into a philosopher (which is the role of the guide). The relationship between Socrates and Alcibiades, for example, is an erotic one, but each perceives it differently. Alcibiades wants to ensnare Socrates into a relationship such as Pausanias describes, but Socrates is willing to confer all the benefits of his wisdom for none of the benefits of Alcibiades' youth and beauty. Socrates is the greatest kind of lover of man there can be, precisely because he also loves something higher. Translations Benjamin Jowett, Meno (New York: MacMillan Publishing Company, 1949). Seth Bernardete, "Symposium" in The Dialogues of Plato, (New York: Bantam, 1986). (This edition does not contain line numbers; those that appear herein have been interpolated and so some may be incorrect.) Allan Bloom, The Republic of Plato, (New York: Basic Books Inc., 1968). 31 �created the film. I have put much effort into selecting, from the myriad of images in Bergman's film, those which are most crucial to the few themes that I have chosen to dwell upon in the essay. I have tried to order and describe these images to best facilitate a discussion of these topics and to encourage further thought and questioning by the reader. Without allowing the reader to sever any emotional ties to the film, I wish to help him see some of the subtleties, both visual and thematic, that he may have missed upon first, second, or even third viewing. It is a great desire of mine that the reader will finish this essay wishing to watch "The Seventh Seal" again and again. I hope to be able to bring out the richness of the movie's content, how impossible it would be to ever absorb all the meanings, and how rewarding it can be simply to attempt to do so. Preface Untitled - 32 Erin Martell After having spent four weeks watching and concentrating on Bergman's "The Seventh Seal," I have become continually haunted by the film's images. I close my eyes and see the quiet, pain-ridden face of the knight as he leans against a rock pondering his chess game with Death, or I awakep in the morning with the image of self-flagellating people unshakably clear in my mind. Bergman's moving images of mankind have become part of me, in such a way that I cannot escape them. I have become obsessed by a creation that is both enlightening and tormenting. In my essay I want to capture the humanity and intensity of emotion in this film. My ardor and belief in the film's importance are such that I have often felt unworthy to do so, but the need to convey the movie's beauty and meaning has also been rendered so great by my love and admiration for the film that it overwhelms these other feelings. My goal in this essay is to show that the artist and his image fulfill a unique and essential role in the quest for self-knowledge, which I believe to be the responsibility of all mankind. In order to achieve such a goal I must both explain and justify the emotion, intuition, and understanding of humanity that are present in all aspects of the film. For this reason I have gone out of my way to do much more scene description than I would normally allow myself. The reader will doubtless note that I quote large portions of dialogue. There is a script of "The Seventh Seal" published in book form, but this book is taken from the original script that often differs greatly from the dialogue and action in the film's final cut. Therefore I have tried to ignore the script as much as possible and have attempted to recreate a sense of only the final, completely edited film; and this often involves quoting large portions of dialogue. There is a wealth of emotional experience within me that is tied to this film. I want the reader to see what I see in order to love what I love, in order to understand what I have come to understand about this most magnificent of films. In order for this understanding to happen, there needs to be a bit of translation done. The visual images and the music must be put into words so that their significance can be understood without their more immediate emotional impact being lost. These sounds and images must also be explained in terms of the dialogue. Then, and only then, the camera of the mind must pull itself back for a long shot, in order to analyze the significance of all these images in terms of larger themes, some of which even Bergman may not have been aware of when he The Unique Beauty and Usefulness of the Image "In our fear we make an image," says the knight. "And that image we call God." Indeed, mankind has always been drawn toward the making of images, often in fear and often he knows not why. In Achilles, Homer created an image of man's stubborn pride, and Plato used the charioteer image to describe the human soul. I claim that the images we mak;e are not themselves gods, but that they reveal something of the nature of the one true God, of our innate knowledge of Him , and of ourselves. Furthermore, I claim that the making and interpreting of images is one of the greatest pursuits of all mankind. Bergman gives his viewer images of a very troubled and philosophic knight, an atheistic squire, and an acrobat who sees visions of the Virgin Mary, all living in the midst of plague-ridden Europe during an age of great faith and great despair, when the existence of Satan and the mercilessness of God are taken for granted by the masses, but where people believe that the devil can be warded off by "a mixture of blood and the bile of a big black dog." Each of these characters reflects a piece of every person so that taken together, all the characters form a sort of personification of the soul of man. From the minds and souls of his characters, from their interplay with one another, and from their reactions to the surroundings and circumstances with which they are presented, Bergman's images offer a profound commentary on the nature of mankind and what its true salvation might be. As something inside the knight forces him to ask and seek answers to the 33 �- most difficult questions, so does Bergman force his viewer to do the same, offeling insight into these questions through the words and actions of all his characters. An interviewer once commented to Ingmar Bergman that it seemed as if Max Von Sydow , who plays the knight in "The Seventh Seal," often seemed to play the character who speaks Bergman's own ideas and opinions in Bergman's movies. "Not really," replied Bergman; "all the characters are me." Bergman is one person creating a story with many characters, and because the story is born from his own imagination each character contains a piece of himself. Each is made of some fragment of Bergman' s personality and all are taken from his own mind. Therefore, an examination of all the characters together offers insight into the whole man, the whole mind and soul of Bergman. Furthermore, just as each character can be seen as a fragment of Bergman , so can each character be taken as a fragment of humanity in general, Bergman himself being one small example of the general state of mankind. Considered in this fashion, each character is a sort of snapshot of the human condition and all the charac ters taken together form a flipbook, a moving image, albeit a primitive one, of the human soul. They therefore prompt one to search one' s own soul. Within the film, Bergman offers a short commentary on the act of image-making which includes a partial explanation of why he chose to create this film, why he chose to use this particular medium as an o utlet for his soul-searching. In this scene the squire Jons enters a small stone room where an artist is painting a mural depicting tales of the plague. The painter stands on a scaffold as he paints, his brushes and other matelials strewn about on the scaffold. For a moment, Jons quietly surveys the artist's work. "Why do you paint such nonsense?", Jons asks the painter, suddenly and bluntly. "I thought it would serve to remind people that they must die," says he. The painter encourages thought. "Well, it's not going to make them feel any happier," replies Jons. "Why should one always make people happy? It might not be a bad idea to scare them a little once in a while," answers the painter, meaning that from painful thought real benefit often arises. Beyond this blief insight, it is unlikely that even Bergman, if he were asked, could explain why he feels compelled to create this film. There is present in man a deep-seated need to create images of himself, of God, of death, and of every other thing that is at all in the realm of experience or imagination. Man's own ineptitude to explain or even define the soul is overshadowed by a deep-seated longing to obtain some sort of self-understanding. If man is indeed the rational animal, as Aristotle defines him, then it is a torment greater than any other that the one special trait, this rationality, allows him to gain nothing, not even an understanding of himself. No real know ledge can be grasped through rational thought. Instead, one reaches only the dead end encountered by Hume, who found himself doubting the existence of absolutely everything. Even Hume acknowledged that he could notlive in such a way; he might sit all day philosophizing and doubting the existence of everything, but at night he sat and played backgammon with his friends, assuming the existence of his friends, the backgammon board, and the so-called tangible world in general. Bergman would have each viewer revel in his humanity, not deny his own existence. Emotion, passion, and intuition must not be overwhelmed by the purely rational. If one is ever to discover anything about oneself, no facet of human existence can afford to have its significance denied. With logic alone one becomes as unfortunate as Hume, the rational self admitting to a complete lack of knowledge, but the very soul crying out just the opposite and yearning for something completely different. Bergman offers an image of the way that he believes things are and leaves the interpretation up to the viewer. He does not deny contradictions but blings them to the forefront so that each audience member is forced to face them individually, just like the painter who, by painting the mural of the plague, forces his viewers to think about death. The painter is not a philosopher; but based on what he perceives of the world, he creates an image that forces his viewers to ponder difficult questions, questioning being the first necessary step toward to acquisition of self-knowledge. The painter paints an image of what he perceives both in the world that surrounds him and within his own mind. The viewer is then led to ponder the image. Questioning the perceptions of the painter may eventually lead the viewer to question his own perceptions, which, in turn, may lead him to seek after truth. " I only paint things as they are. Others can do as they like," the painter says. Others may come and read into his work, but he merely records what he fi nds within his own soul. Similarly, Bergman ' s fil m making is both a record of the state of his own soul, and a quest to understand this soul and the universe which surrounds him via the act of working out the image. The knight's confessional scene affords an excellent example of Bergman' s soul-searching through the film; it is furthermore an excellent illustration of how successful this method of soul-searching can be. Interestingly enough, the confessional scene is framed by the two scenes with Jons and the painter, blinging the issue of imaging to the forefront in this scene of beautiful images. The confessional scene is one of only four scenes where the knight reveals himself to another character and the one scene in which he most articulates his inner tmment. It is also the one scene where all the main theological and philosophical questions of the film are raised. The images of this scene are not themselves answers, but they are a road that leads to further questioning and possibly, eventually, to some answers. 34 pleasure that most people seek. For the knight his own pleasure is definitely secondary to truth. He kneels down in front of the confessional. The shadows from the bai·s make an odd blackness on either side of him; the corner that he faces as he kneels is completely blackened by shadow so that his blonde hair stands out by contrast, not altogether unlike a halo. The dark emptiness seems about to swallow him . Again the cainera focuses upon the face of Christ. His face is a straight diagonal across the screen; his mouth is agape, but he is only an image and can give no direct answers. "What is going to happen to those of us who want to believe but aren't able? And what is to become of those who neither want to nor ai·e capable of believing? Why can' t I kill God within me?", exclaims the knight, his voice louder, more vehement, tormented, almost angry. As he speaks, he stares straight ahead, his eyes expressionless, in the manner of one who has so much deep-seated pain that he cannot even bear to feel his own emotions. Why does the knight want to kill God? The Christ-filled cross is ever present in torment, and even so the knight desires to commit again the greatest sin of all mankind. To deny the existence of God is to take up the whip with those who denied the possibility of truth in the claims that Chlist made about his oligins. If it is true that God' s presence is made manifest within this world, as is claimed by Paul in the first chapter of Romans , then to deny God's existence, which he himself has made manifest, is to call God himself a blasphemer and to attempt to murder his existence by a sheer arrogant act of human will. Paul says this in Romans 1: 18-20, "The wrath of God is everywhere upon man, for since the creation of the world, God's invisible qualities - his eternal power and divine nature - have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse." Yet if what Paul writes is true, then how can the knight's questions have validity? Bergman certainly portrays the knight's questions and torments as if they ai·e meant to be taken seliously. Why then, if God has made himself manifest since the beginning of time, does the knight speak of those "who want to believe but aren 't able?" and those " who neither want to nor are capable of believing?" What are the barriers that so prohibit faith? To acknowledge the existence of God is to acknowledge the existence of a power higher than oneself, a power higher than hwnan intellect, human passions, and human will. It is to accept one's own inability to achieve perfection, because it is to assert a power more perfect than ai1y human power. The knight is a man who wants to attain knowledge. Paradoxically, to assert the existence of God is to assert that there exists a power capable of granting or denying knowledge to man; in other words, asserting that man himself cannot attain knowledge, which only God can give knowledge to man. For the knight acquiring faith would mean completely altering his method of searching for truth and the value he places on that The knight enters a small, square, dai·k room .·The walls and floors ai·e empty and grey, but beyond the feeling of emptiness there is something haunting about the room . It looks like a face. We see the knight's back as he walks toward the altar. Two small windows on either side of the far wall, the only light sources in the darkness , stare out of the screen, like two eyes. The nose is a giant crucifix hanging between the two windows; the arch of the doorway both forms the hairline and frames the face . The altar is the mouth. One cannot be sure whose face it is that is mirrored upon the screen. It might very well be Death's. The knight walks straight up to the mouth. The only noise is of the bells tinging somewhere outside. Outside seems that much farther away; the room seems all the more silent. The crucifix is an image of God, but it is also an image of Death. The camera closes in on the form of Christ, his arm stretched out unnaturally and his face tilted diagonally across the screen. (The diagonal is the most disturbing compositional line in painting, often used in paintings that depict some great torment.) The crown of thorns is pushed down upon the figure ' s head, a dark line of blood stains the forehead , the eyes and eyebrows are slanted down with a look of sorrow and pain. In the crucifix, we see the mairiage of God and death. There is no greater sin or torment in all the history of man than the killing of God Himself. The knight walks up to the confessional, and the bars that separate him from his confessor are like a black prison that separates him from God. They cast a dark shadow and forbid easy sight. The knight does not realize that he confesses to no priest a t all but to Death himself. Only the viewer sees Death' s face: its pale, distinctive shape, cleft chin, and round, dark eyes. The knight stands before the confessional, the palm of his hand curved against the edge of the wall as if he were trying to use his sense of touch to keep some contact with the tangible world. The dai·k.ness mirrors his despair; the emptiness in the room mirrors his sense of emptiness and unfulfillment. The agonized face of Chlist stares down at him but says nothing as he wrenches open the doubts of his soul not to God, not to any member of humanity, but to Death. He says, "I want to confess as openly as I can, but my heait is empty. The emptiness is a minor turned toward my own face. I see myself in it and am filled with fear and disgust." Death asks the knight what he is seeking, why he is not ready to die, and the knight replies that he wants knowledge. "You want guarantees," replies Death, as the camera again dwells upon the sad effigy of Christ. This Chlist seems to be · in such severe pain of his own that he could certainly not guarantee anything. "Call it whatever you like," replies the knight, a stern look of recognition upon his face. He will not be brought down by what is, in some ways, a base interpretation of his motivations. He wai.1ts truth, not pleasure, at least not the sort of immediate 35 �me do W( it: Se Bt "l' Bi ar d fr O' tc al b t~ b c 0 f, t c them. Instead he has only felt more thoroughly his lack_ of fulfillment. All these external things amount to only Pascalian diversion. He has also seen Death face to face and is therefore less able to deny the existence of death than those w~o hav~ not encountered him on such an intimate level. Obvm~sly it would be difficult to play chess with Death and not think of one's own mortality and relationship to the su~ernatural. "In our fear we make an image and that image we call God" laments the knight. Again we are confronted with the word "image." The emptiness is a mirror~ which one sees one's own face and is filled with fear and disgust. In fear he makes an image and calls that image God. Through Bergman's genius the fear, the disgust, and the images are all miITored back to us via the images made by the camera. In other words, Bergman, who suffers the same fear and disgust as the knight, creates an image and throws it onto the screen to be watched by an audience of people who also fear and also create images. But Bergman's image of God is not complete. His image does not assert the existence of_God, but me~ely raises fundamental questions just as the kmght never clauns the existence of God but merely questions. The assertion of God's existence or nonexistence is left up to the interpreter of the film. . If Bergman were creating an image in his fear and calling that image God, then why would he bother questioning Go~' s existence? Perhaps Bergman and the knight are both unlike the general population in that they val~e ~ogic .and kno~ledge over happiness and are therefore unsat1sfI.ed w~th ~ere imagemaking. Instead, they question their own unagmat10ns and ~e filled not with an ignorant and false contentment bu~ with torment and agonized shame at the awareness o~ th~ madequate nature of their own minds. Berg~an does. give m to the intuitive by allowing himself to create images 111 the f01m of this film, but he goes on to question the image he has c~·eated. Because Bergman questions the validity of the imagemaking process, as opposed to merely making ~ image and calling it God, his imagination does not make him h~ppy. If anything he is in even greater torment, because h_e realizes that due to his restless and questioning nature, no image that he creates can ever fulfill him. Like the knight, he wants knowledge, not false happiness, not guarantees. And yet ~e does create an image. One might do well to ask why. Like the painter he perceives some sort of truth in the images that he creates; he paints things as he believes that they ar~. In one sense these are false images, idols of the human mmd, only fanciful creations born from an inadequate mind; in another they are embodiments of the most verifiable sort of truth that mankind has. They are an expression of one man's perceptions of the world played out in a way that, when viewed. from a distance, helps both the creator of the image and the viewer to consider life in a slightly different light. In other words, from meditating upon the image itself some sort of ~wareness can be derived. Furtheimore, if any truth can be obtamed from can never have real knowledge of God's existence, in the sense of having logical certainty, and he is too proud to give in. In some ways it seems that God reaching out his hand would be breaking the rules of the game, but the chess player always moves pieces with his own hand. "I call out to Him in the dark but no one seems to be there," says the knight. "Perhaps no one is there." Not even Death has proof of the existence of God. "Then life is an outrageous horror. No one can live in the face of Death knowing that all is nothingness." Here is the cry of a man who gazes into the abyss of which Pascal speaks but who doubts even the existence of the abyss. He feels so deeply a God whom he can neither touch nor comprehend and is filled with the sense of his own inadequacy and life's bitter futility; hut he does not know whether the God whom he feels even exists, much less whether he can obtain any sort of salvation or discover any sort of meaning during his brief time upon the Earth. And so he sees his emptiness as a mirror and is filled with "fear and disgust." What is it that the knight sees when he gazes into the darkness? Is it his own face, is it "emptiness under the moon" as his squire will later claim? Is it God, or death, or nothingness? .Even he does not know, and yet the -image of the face remains. The mirror reflects emptiness, the room looks like a face, Christ's face hangs on the wall, and Death's whitened face is half-hidden but present. These are four faces staring out at the knight. Is any of these God, or are they all only images of Death and/or nothingness? Do we see through a glass darkly, or do we only gaze through an empty world into a mirror that reflects nothing but our own emptiness? When his rationality can only lead him to a dead end, what is the great use of all the greatness of man without some other meaning beyond what little he finds in himself? Man's greatness is drowned in his own inadequacy and his life is mere futility amounting to nothing but dust and ashes, an outrageous horror. "Most people never reflect about either death or the futility of life," notes Death, a truth that is reflected in the behavior of most of Bergman's characters. Pascal, in Pensees 166 and 168 observed the following: "Death is easier to bear without thinking of it than is the thought of death without peril," and "As men are not able to fight against death, misery, ignorance, they have taken it into their heads, in order to be happy, not to think of it all." And yet the knight is an exception to this rule. Something forces him to think about both God and his own mortality. There are several possible reasons as to why this is so. One is that he has seen much death and has not been satisfied. Another is that he is an educated man, a chess player, who has just returned from the Crusades. He is a nobleman, not poverty-stricken but rather well-off. He has seen many things that most people think of as bringing glory, honor, happiness, and fame, and has not felt at all fulfilled by method, as well as completely rearranging all his perceptions as to what the very nature of truth might be. It is not a task of which he is technically incapable, but it is one of which he currently believes himself to be incapable, so weak is his will, so strong is his pride. Thus, he longs to "kill God within" himself, being tormented on the one hand by a great desire to know God coupled with the awareness of his manifest presence and on the other hand by his stubborn unwillingness to forsake his own power, logic, and will in the pursuit of the know ledge of God. The camera shifts so that we see Death standing behind the bars to the left of the knight. Death gazes wordlessly at the knight. He too is unable to give any answers. Even he does not know how to reply to such questions. "Why does he live on in this painful and humiliating way even though I curse him and want to tear him out of my heart? Why in spite of all is he a baffling reality that I cannot shake off?" Again there is the reminder of God's presence in his creation. Later in the film this will become crucial, as the knight comes to experience this presence of God in the lives of other people, being moved to action by their childlike faith and manifest love. The camera focuses in on Death, who gazes down at the knight. There is a light source behind him, and the crisscross of the bars, like a mask, shields his whitened face from full view. The expression in Death's eyes makes it seem as if he were vaguely troubled, but his mouth is expressionless and resolute. Behind him on the left there hangs a crucifix. Is this an insinuation that God is. also watching Death, or is it a reinforcement that they are actually the sa~e thing? As the knight pulls himself up to the bars, Death turns himself so that we see only his profile. The camera is now inside the bars, and it is Death whose face we see without bars. He seems to be quietly calculating, as if he were checking all his pieces to plan his next move in a game of chess. Are men only chess pieces from his point of view? Is life no more serious than a game? Chess is the most serious and rational of games, but it is a game nonetheless. The pieces are images of people trapped by their places on the board that is their world, unable to move any differently than they were made to move. Their movements are limited to a certain type, and they are constantly in danger of being taken. Only the chess player could save them, and even he is not omnipotent, unless he breaks the rules of the game. The knight's blonde-crowned face is shielded by bars. Christ does not answer. Death does not answer. The knight has closed himself off to all types of belief except pure rationality, logical certainty. Therefore, he has reached the same dead end that Hume reached. He doubts absolutely everything, including his own most basic intuitions. And yet he cannot shake off these intuitions. He feels the presence of God everywhere, tugging away at his heart in a way that he cannot deny, and yet he will not give in to belief, because he watching Bergman's film, then it has been proven that th~re is some important use of the intuition and the image-creatmg faculty. . . As for the knight, either in fear his mmd has created an image so deep-seated that he cannot dispel it, or there really is a God that he is simply too afraid to reach out and accept, being neither willing nor capable of d.eserting his p~oud, willful and deep-seated belief that certam knowledge is t~e one true God. In this latter case, the image that he creates m his fear and calls God is the god of logic, and the other ~od is the God who really exists. There is, indeed, somethmg comforting about relying on logic for those who hav.e been long used to doing so. It is hard to give up ~hat the mm.d has long exalted in favor of an untried uncertamty, but logic too can become an idol. And yet, even in the midst of this crisis of lo~ic, the knight's real goal does not cent~r ~n t?e rational. In this se?se he is like Hume, forced to live his life ma way thatcontradic~s his greatest understanding of what that life 1!1e.ans, wh~t IS important in it. He says,"My life has been a fu_ile pursmt, a t wandering, a great deal of talk without meanmg. I feel no bitterness or self-reproach, because the lives of most people are very much like this. But I will use t~s resp~te ~or one meaningful deed." Despite the depths of his questiomng ~d his need to find God, he portrays his goal as more practical than one might think. He does not merely want answers f~r the sake of answers, or guarantees for the sake of comfort. His goal is far more noble. He wants to do good. . Yet what are the knight's motivations for domg_ the~e good deeds? He wants to do one meaningful deed with his own human knowledge and power. In some sense th~ search for logical certainty is a ruse. What he really wants is to be worthy of respect, self-respect. Perhaps he believ~s that by accomplishing one good deed he will earn for hi~sel~ the ability to look into the mirror of his soul without ~mg filled with fear and disgust. Perhaps, in some part of himself, he believes that in this manner he can save himself from the torment that he feels, without the aid of God. Again the knight is guilty of the sin of pride. . No real answers have been given, and yet all the agomzed questions of the knight's tormented soul have been _voiced to a treacherous Death; all of Bergman's gut-wrenching questions have been voiced to the blank stare of the camera as well as to the audience that is to come later. Death di~appears_ from sight, leaving this scene uncomfortably cradled m the mmd of the viewer. The Image Played Out Bergman has made the viewer feel the knight's emptiness from the very opening of the film, and he play_s o~t t_hese questions and images to the end of the film, offenng msights 37 36 D:n �getting up and getting ready to leave. In this action lies an illustration of two things. The first is the squire' s comic disrespect of his master, which is later shown to be the attitude he maintains toward humanity in general; the second is the lack of conversation between the knight and his squire. That is to say, the knight neither asks the squire to get up nor speaks to him when he does; he just kicks the squire with his foot and then turns his back on him. The two understand one another's actions well enough: the knight does not seem to doubt that the squire will get up and prepare the horses when he is kicked, and indeed the squire does do what the knight wanted. Essentially their relationship seems almost to be a business relationship. They travel together but are really not much more than two individuals traveling alone. Their conversation is generally limited to a practical discussion of what needs to be done; yet there does seem to be a real affection between them. They are like an old married couple who do not need to talk much. The relationship between the two is largely a result of the knight's personality, but it is as much a result of the squire's. The knight is a tormented man in search of higher know ledge, the Pascalian aspect of the human soul. The squire, on the other hand, represents the denying, unbelieving element. He does not believe in God or truth. The image that he creates in fear is an image of himself as a man who does not fear, a blunt and coarse singer of bawdy songs of revels in the tangible world and expects nothing after death, who laughs at everything including himself, because he expects no good from anyone, including himself, and therefore assumes that amusement is his best hope. Perhaps the best example of the squire's denial is found in the first of the two scenes with the painter. In this scene, Jons refuses to admit thathe is scared by a description of what the plague does to its victims. When asked if this description scares him, he replies, "Scare? Me? You don't know me," and avoids the subject by pointing at a section of the mural and asking,"What are those horrors you've painted over there?" , as if to say , "I'm not frightened at all; I can take even more of this." The painter describes that section of the mural as the camera focuses on the simply drawn yet horrifying figures that are painted upon the wall, a processional of hunched bleeding people, some wearing crowns of thorns, some whipping others, others simply being whipped. He tells Jons, "Mobs of people, who call themselves Slaves of Sin, are swarming over the country, flagellating themselves and others, all for the glory of God." The camera gives a full frontal view of the squire from the chest up. He looks absolutely horrified, and he swallows hard and uncomfortably, but he still refuses to admit his fear. He refuses to admit that he really does care about humanity and that he is both terrified and horrified by man's inhumanity to man, to himself. Instead he asks for some brandy. Later, when the camera comes back to Jons and the and possible answers through images. He purposefully sets a tone of uneasy desperation to pull us into the torments of the knight, making us feel as he feels and question as he questions. The film ' s opening shot is of an uncomfortably black sky. A burst of light smacks into the upper left comer of the screen accompanied by a short and almost violent outburst of choral music. Suddenly, a bird soars up against the darkness. All this has the effect of being quite disturbing and dismal. Neither the light nor the music nor the flying of the bird are in themselves unpleasant; it is the immediacy and violence with which they are all thrown onto the screen that achieves the effect of making one start, almost jump or shudder, when one watches the film for the first time. After the vaguely too still, too dark screen, the feeling achieved by the sudden and unexpected light-burst combined with the music is somewhat equivalent to standing alone in a completely dark room when, without any prior warning, someone simultaneously turns the lights on and slaps you across the cheek. The effect is followed again by a profound stillness. A soothing, rather captivating voice reads from the book of Revelation. The surroundings remind one of the stillness in Heaven of which the voice reads. The camera changes to a shot of a rocky beach under a desolate sky underscored by the solemn and repetitive, almost calming and mesmerizing sound of the waves. There are neither trees nor life-forms anywhere in sight, nothing moves but the ocean. A short distance from the shore the ruins of a castle are repeatedly washed over by the waves. The camera then closes in on the sleeping form of the knight. His jaw square, his face and hair a sharp contrast against the dark and craggy rocks upon which he lies, he appears to be dead and not merely sleeping. One has to concentrate just to be sure that he is breathing. One is reminded that the stillness in Heaven mentioned in Revelation is a stillness that directly precedes Armageddon. With these eerily gloomy images the film begins, as Bergman creates an impression of quiet desperation to introduce his audience to the unfolding of his tale. Bergman brings his viewer straight to the edge of the abyss and forces him to stare down into it, his eyes glued to the screen. The knight' s character is most developed through his relationship to other characters, and it is in these relationships that answers to many of the most difficult questions of the film are found. The relationship between the squire and the knight is particularly interesting, because it is the squire with whom the knight spends the most time. They have been together since before they left for the Crusades some ten years earlier, and they have endured everything together since that time. Considering this fact, their relationship seems incredibly distant and silent. They are never openly hostile to one another, but they are not particularly friendly either. The first human interaction in the film takes place when the knight puts his foot on the squire's back to wake him up. The squire rolls over and hisses at the knight's back before 38 muralist, they are quite tipsy, and Jons is telling the painter that he and his master have just returned from the Crusades. He paints a figure on a small, rectangular stone slab. This image is meant to represent himself. He holds up the slab so that both the painter and the camera have a good view of the comically painted figure, its head jutting forward, shoulders hunched. He says, "This is squire Jons. He grins at Death, mocks the Lord, laughs at himself, and leers at the girls. His world is a Jons-world, believable only to himself, ridiculous to all including himself, meaningless in Heaven, indifferent in Hell." Here is the essential illustration of the fact that Jons has no real faith in anything; he does not feel certain of anything, not even himself. Therefore, he mocks everything, shielding all his passions within the guise of a joke. The knight walks in as Jons is speaking. For a moment he stands and listens, then he walks up, grabs the slab from Jons' hands, looks at it, throws it down, and pushes Jons' shoulder with this hand, signifying for him to get up so they can leave. He walks out of the room. The squire puts down his paintbrush and once more hisses at his master's back before rising, grabs his bag, gestures goodbye to the painter, and follows the knight out the door. It is no wonder that these two so very different personalities do not talk more openly. That part of the soul that seeks knowledge and yearns incessantly for God is diametrically opposed to that part that believes nothing and mocks everytlting. In action the knight and squire get along fine; in fact, they al ways seem to agree about what ought to be done in any given situation, without any discussion. A good example of this is found in the scene with the girl who is about to be burned in the forest. They do not stop to discuss her situation, but both desire to free her, although doing so goes completely against what their society deems acceptable. Yet their perspectives are so opposed that they have difficulty relating on a truly intimate, personal level. The one person to whom the knight does reveal himself is Mia, the juggler' s wife. She and her family are the only characters who help the knight forget his torments even for a moment, the only ones who help him find any solace. Just as the lack of interaction between knight and squire is due to their individual personalities and ways of perceiving the world, so is the ease with which the knight opens up to Mia due to both his personality and to hers and her husband's, as well as to the presence of their son, Mikael. We are introduced to Jof and Mia relatively early in the film; in fact, they are the third and fourth living human beings introduced. Like the introduction of the knight and squire, the first shot of Mia and Jof is of them sleeping. Unlike the knight and squire, they certainly do not seem to be dead. They lie sa.-etched out inside a wagon with a third person, Skat, the leader of their little acting troupe. All three lie straight out with their heads touching at the center of the wagon, Skat's snoring making it completely unmistakable that they are sleeping and .. not dead. Jof awakens and smacks a fly that lands on his forehead. It leaves a mark there. He bears a happy, even goofy, grin upon his face. He crawls out of the wagon carefully so as not to wake the others. With the rest of his body outside the wagon, he stretches out a leg and shakes it. Once outside the wagon he does a forward somersault, jumps to his feet, and executes a few more gymnastic moves. All the while the silly, joyous smile remains on his face. It is hard to watch this scene without smiling yourself. The sun shines full in the sky, and the leaves of the trees make shadows on the ground; in the air light sparkles between the leaves, creating an alm ost magical effect. It is as if nature were mirroring the beautiful simplicity of this man. Jof walks over to where a flask of water hangs from a low tree branch. He talks a large swig of water, gargles, spits, then scratches himself on the head. He steps over to his horse and pats its neck and flank. In a cheery conversational tone, with the same smile still on his face, he says, "Good morning. Have you had your breakfast yet? It's a pity you can't teach me to eat grass. Can't you show me how? We're a little hard up. People aren't very interested in juggling in this part of the country." He says this not with anger at his condition, or sorrow, or self-pity. He speaks matter-of-factly, even contentedly. He sits on a fallen tree branch and begins to j uggle, the camera watching his profile. It is as if this man were in a completely differently world from the one that contains both the dismal sky and the rocky seashore of the first scene and the soul tormented by death. He is like a child playing with his toys, who reminds us not of death but of the joy and newness of life. The sky is full of light, dancing between the trees. Jof seems startled by something, but not frightened so much as pleasantly surprised. He stops juggling and turns very slowly toward the camera, his whole body bathed in light. Upon his face there is a look of bliss that is warming and just short of being comical. He gazes out at something. There is beautiful music, like woodwinds an d chimes, reminiscent of birds singing. The light, the music, and Jof's facial expression convey a feeling of spiritual bliss, especially when compared to the scenes of death that both precede and follow this moment. The camera shifts its view to show us exactly what Jof is watching. Off in the distance, between two patches of trees, is a woman dressed as a noblewoman of late medieval times. In her hands she holds the hands of a small, naked male child, helping him to walk along his toes . The can1era reverts to a shot of Jof sitting upon the fallen tree branch, the light playing gently against his face. He raises his palms and slowly rnbs his eyes. Suddenly, the music stops. After looking up once more, Jof turns and runs over to the wagon, jumps inside, and attempts to shake his sleeping wife awake. Jof tells Mia of his vision, and her entire face erupts into a smile. She sits up next to her already seated husband. 39 �Jof has obviously been waiting for her to ask to hear the stmy. As he talks animately, Mia leans forward, smiling and listening lo his words. He says, "She was so close to me that I could have touched her. She had a gold crown and a blue robe with flowers." As Jof speaks, Mia gazes at him with a look of obvious love and devotion. Meanwhile, Jof is completely absorbed in the rapture of both his story and the act of telling it. He continues, caught up in a feeling of awe that transforms his face. "She was teaching the child to walk by holding him with a small brown hand. She saw me watching her. .. and she smiled at me. My eyes filled with tears ... and when I wiped them away, she was gone. And everything was so still in the sky and on the earth. Do you understand?" Jof speaks of a stillness just as Revelation 5 does, but unlike the earlier stillness on the beach, this stillness is joyful. "You don't believe me," says Jof, turning his head and beginning to put on his shoes. "But it was real, I tell you, not the kind of reality you see everyday but a different kind." Jof is like a small child who has just been told that Santa Claus is not real, but who believes no matter what he is told since he once sat on Santa's lap at the mall. Unlike a small child, however, Jof knows that what he believes goes directly against what others call "reality." As a character, Jof, with his visions, goes against everything logical and every form of normal human experience. He has neither the.knowledge that the knight searches for nor the sarcastic and witty sense of humor of the squire. Somehow, he seems better off than either of these two, despite having what modem psychologists might call psychotic hallucinations. Why is this? Jof, with his daydreaming and childlike nature, is willing to accept ideas that other people would not be open to. This openness is the nature that Christ refers to in Mark 10:14-15 when he tells his disciples, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." Here is a complete contrast to the torment of the knight; here is the sort of belief that the knight claims he cannot have. Jof is not a man who feels that God is "hiding himself in a mist of half-spoken promises and unseen miracles"; he is a man who sees miracles with his own two eyes. What the knight cannot grasp with his intellect, the juggler achieves through a simple, childlike faith. The knight worries, but the juggler spends his days bathing in the light of the sun. The first always strives to be rational but laments that he is "imprisoned in [his] dreams and fantasies." The second has visions of the Virgin Mary but calls them "reality" and is content. Mia smooths over her long, blonde hair with the palm of her hand. "Perhaps it was the kind of reality you told us about when you saw the Devil paint the wagon wheels red, using his tail as a brush." Jof turns his head and mumbles, "Why must you always bring that up?" whom he sees is the Child; the song that he sings 1s joy. At this point the camera show us Skat crawling out of the wagon wearing a Death mask, which looks remarkably like a cross between Death's face and the face of the dead peasant whom Jons and the knight encountered along the road. There are two eye socket holes and a pale, expressionless face. As Skat jumps out of the wagon he complains, "Is this supposed to be a mask for an actor? If the priests didn't pay us so well, I'd say, 'No thanks.'" Skat is that part of man's soul that, even in the face of the most gruesome death, thinks only of material and sensual gratification. He is definitely not the contemplative man. While the knight is tormented by a conflicting sense of logic and yearning for God, the squire chooses to deny that truth exists in anything and yet places value on life, and Mia and Jof share in a simple domestic faith, Skat seeks only sensual gratification and considers neither philosophy, logic, nor faith. His face is scruffy, and he wears an earring. Skat puts on the Death mask and dramatically recites a monologue in an overly dramatic voice that is meant to be the voice of death. After he has finished reciting, he raises the mask onto his forehead using both hands, turns toward Mia and Jof, and says in his usual voice, "Will the women love me in this get-up? Will I make a hit?" Jof shrugs. Again the image of Death is tied to the most basic sensual aspect of life. Through Skat's offhand comment, the image of Death is rendered comic by the actor. The image that Skat makes is one of Death, but Death as a comic, sensual, even ridiculous figure. Skat slumps back over to the wagon. On his way inside he hangs the mask upon a tree branch, so that a stick pokes straight through one of the eye sockets, and the comic is again transcended by the gruesome. Mia and J oflook at each other and laugh good-naturedly. They turn around smiling and Jof begins to juggle again. Mia stands behindJof, leaning against the fallen branch and watching her husband juggle. "Jof! " she says suddenly, a look of profound contentment resting upon her face. "What is it?" "Sit still ... don't move." "What do you mean?" asks Jof, still juggling. Mia leans forward and says softly, "I love you." In the background is playing the same music as when Jof saw the vision of Mary, making this moment out to be just as spiritual, blissful, and important as the first. God's love for humanity is mirrored in the love that Mia and J of have for each other. A profound smile crosses J of' s face; he stops juggling and turns to gaze at his wife. The scene fades away, and the music is gone. In this moment we are given the first major insight into the nature of man's salvation. Happiness and spiritual bliss are embodied in the simplicity of love. Mia and Jof's love is not a complicated love tormented by jealousy or guilt, or a love wrenched apart by a bizarre need to articulate and define its nature. It is an emotion that fills and then overflows into a smile of admiration, of devotion, of joy. Mia and Jof have a "And then you discovered that you had red paint under your nails." "Well, perhaps that time I did make it up, but that was just so you would believe my other visions. The real ones, the ones I didn't make up." The irony here is that Jof, with his simple faith, is not exempt from human folly. He is no prim and proper saint, but is given to lying about the most saintly thing about himself, his visions. Furthermore, he not only lies, but he also does it poorly enough that he is discovered. He is more like a child than what most would consider a saint to be. Mia and Jof go outside the wagon. Mia sets Mikael down on the grass, and the camera focuses on him until he crawls out of its view. They talk of Mikael's future. One of the greatest differences between Mia and Jof and the other characters in the film is that they have a child. To have a son is to have both a legacy and hope for the future. Furthermore, to raise a child one has to be other-centered to a large degree. The members of a family must consider, in everything they do, what is best for the entire family; therefore, they have less time to worry about themselves, to be self-indulgent or self-pitying. In addition, a husband and a wife can discuss their problems with each other. One of the knight's greatest torments is that he is withdrawn into himself and has no one to bring him out of his miserable and agonized state. One of the squire's greatest problems is that he thinks about himself too much and has no one to chastise him or point out the inconsistencies in his behavior. The man who spends his life within his own mind winds up with a warped view of reality; the man who lives life for his family may not be wise in a philosophical sense, but he is certainly more in touch with the world than the first man. Mia lays her head against his chest, places her hand against his left shoulder, and closes her eyes. There is something splendid in a way that seems even enchanted about Mia's personality, which allows her to accept and even admire (despite her chastising) Jof's faithful nature. Although she claims not to believe Jof's visions, she listens to them quite eagerly, even with a certain amount of obvious joy and admiration. She too is in some ways like a child who lets another person's joy become her own; she lets his ardor overwhelm her. Jof gently begins to sing a song that is similar in mood and tone, but not identical to, the music that played when he saw his vision of the Virgin. The melody conveys the same spiritual joy, although to a lesser degree. The similarity of the music ties the beauty of the vision to the beauty of Jof's created image: his song to God is tied to the vision which is God's song to him. The words to Jof's song are, "On a lily branch a dove is perched/ Against the Summer Sky/ She sings a wondrous song of Christ/ And there's great joy on high." Jof's Christ is very different from the tormented crucifix of the confessional scene; Jof' s is a joyous God. The Christ love that is unconditional in nature, in the sense that one loves the other despite their actions. The unconditional love that they share is reminiscent of agape, God's love for man. They have a childlike faith in each other. They are a living metaphor, a God-created image of His love for man. Whereas God's love is mirrored in the unconditional marital love of Mia and Jof, the most selfish, unloving character presented in the film is the one most closely associated with the Church. This is perhaps an illustration that the search for faith must happen on an individual level; no help can be expected from society or the Church as an organization. Although there is no hope given that the knight, or the viewer, may be capable of obtaining the faithful simplicity that Mia and Jof personify, there is an indication - in the play of light, the choice of music, the camera angles - that Mia and Jof ought to be admired and thought of as blessed. Quite different is the introduction tq Raval. Jons steps into a barn in a seemingly dese1ted little village to refill his water flask. A peasant woman lies dead, face down upon the floor, her arms outstretched. There is a noise from up in the loft and Jons hides behind the door as a man holding a large satchel backs down the stepladder. The man walks into the front room, bends down before the corpse, slides an armlet off her right wrist, and places it in his bag. He is startled by a noise and looks to see a young woman who has , at just that moment, stepped into the doorway. The girl says nothing and makes no noise. He walks over to her and, standing so close to her that their noses nearly touch, tells her not to scream. He pushes her away from the doorway as Jons steps out from behind the door and stands facing Raval. "I recognize you," says Jons. "Your name is Raval, from the theological college at Roskilde. You are Dr. Mirabilis, Coelestis et Diabilis. Am I not right? You were the one who, ten years ago , convinced my master of the necessity to join a better-class crusade to the Holy Land." Jons slams the barn door shot as Raval looks away. "You look uncomfortable," says the squire to Raval. "Do you have a stomachache?" Here is a man who steals from the dead, who would kill an innocent young woman to ensure not getting caught, and is also a doctor at a seminary. It is especially significant that this is the man who convinced the knight to go on the Crusades. People like Mia and Jof, who feel real love and experience love daily, would not likely advise anyone to go to war. A man who steals from the dead could easily condone killing. He is the complete hypocrite, who says that he is the messenger of God, but who really is only the messenger of hypocrisy, deceit, and Death. Raval represents the most evil and corrupt aspects of the human soul, the inclination to lie, steal, and cheat for the sake of one's own greedy ulterior motives present in all men, although more evidently in some than others. Jons pulls Raval around by his clothes and throws him up against a chopping block for wood. He pulls out a knife and 41 40 • �face of Death, which allows humanity to survive without going insane; that is the ability to have fun, to be entertained. The ability to play, to daydream, and to make up stories is beautiful: it makes us artists; it makes us human beings. It is certainly not surprising that the two people who are happiest and together partake in a sort of salvation are jugglers and actors. Their whole life centers around entertainment and play. Even their portrayals of Death are playful. puts it to Raval's throat. The girl in the doorway raises her hands to her face and screams. Jons looks up at her and then back down at Raval. "By all means. I'm not bloodthirsty," he says glancing at the girl, and lets Raval go. The young woman is quite the opposite of Raval. This man, who was stealing jewelry from a dead woman who she had most likely known, was about to kill her, and yet she screamed when he was about to die a few moments later. This scream is particularly significant because it is one of only two occasions in the entire movie when she makes any sound at all. Later in the film, she attempts to give water to Raval as he is about to die, although she knows that by doing so she risks catching the plague from him. The girl represents the inarticulate instinct that man has to help his fellow creatures. Unfortunately, this trait, like Raval's hypocdsy, is more regularly seen in some people than in others. In some, like Raval, it seems totally crushed, forgotten, or ignored. Raval is part of the Church as an institution, and he is a personification of a part of the soul, but he is also an individual. For Bergman, the individual is more important than the situation or the institution. The primary illustration of this is that he makes plot secondary to character; the plot is dependant on character and not vice versa. Even the camera is obsessed with close-ups of faces, the face being the signature of individuality. Bergman is not against individual faith so much as he is against the institutional aspects of the church, especially its tendency toward encouraging self-persecution. Into Mia's mouth he puts the statement, "I don't see why people have to torture themselves as often as they can." And he makes the most obviously gruesome scene in the film one that involves both the church and self-persecution, causing it to appear even more macabre by following what is probably the funniest scene in the whole film. In a village, Mia, Jof, and Skat have set up their wagon, folding the back area out into a small, makeshift stage. Mia and Jof begin to sing a song, with Mia accompanying on drum and J of on the lyre. The melody is an upbeat one, but the words are all about death and are reminiscent of the book of Revelation. The first verse is "The horse is up the tree crowing. The road is wide but the gate is narrow. The Black One lands on the shore." Each time an animal noise is mentioned, Mia and Jof make that noise. At the end of the verse Mia bangs the drum twice. The bawdy and comical behavior of people is natural; juxtaposed with the macabre and unnatural act of self-flagellation, it is seen as a positive and important part of man's existence. Bergman focuses heavily on laughter and portrays it as a good. Self-persecution, on the other hand, is unnatural, even evil. A similar juxtaposition of the bawdy and comical with the horrific and macabre was seen earlier in the songs of the squire and the scene with Skat and the Death mask. Again it is seen in the songs of Mia and Jof. There is something in man that perseveres even in the Perhaps the difference between Mia and Jof and others (Skat or Jons, for example) is that although Mia and Jof are given to frivolity, they do not deny the existence of God or Death, but accept them. Part of what is so beautiful about Jof is that he has the ability to daydream well and is not ashamed of it. The reason we are so compelled by his vision is that he is so drawn into it and his recounting of it. His description of his vision is very beautiful and poetic. In contrast, much of the knight's agony is derived from his inability to accept his own imaginations and intuitions . Mia and Jof, smiling, finish their song with the words, "The sow lays eggs and the cat grunts. The night is soot and the dark remains. The Black One stays and stays upon the shore." The last few words fade into the deep Latin chants of an approaching processional. It is the people who call themselves the Slaves of Sin, the horrific figures of which the painter spoke, the image come to life. They are even more horrid, more macabre, than the painter hinted. Mia and Jof stand close together upon the stage with looks of great shock upon their faces. This self-persecution is beyond their comprehension. The processional of people includes men and women in rags, children, a man missing one leg, a monk carrying a cross upon his back, the sound of wailing, crowns of thorns upon bleeding heads, and a man who whips his own forearm. Some of the people are whipped by others. Some can hardly walk any longer. All the people who had just been watching the performance now stand or kneel before this spectacle. Some have expressions of disbelief upon their faces, others of shock, sadness, fear, and some register no emotion at all. There are nothing but faces, so many close-ups of faces. Soldiers kneel, the crosses of their swords pressed closely before them; a woman falls on the ground weeping, her hands clutched desperately in prayer. The sound of moaning, weeping, and wailing rises into the air like the smells of smoke and rotting refuse rising into the air above a burning trash heap. The very same crucifix seen during the confessional scene rests diagonally against the stage. A flat-nosed monk begins to speak. It is none other than Raval, the seminarist. He shouts at the crowd, pointing accusing fingers at various people, proclaiming that they are all doomed and that their deaths may come at any moment. The presence of the crucifix 42 from the knight's confessional scene links together the knight's mental torture and the people's unholy self-mutilation. The diagonal composition once more echoes the pain. And in the mouth of the only truly evil character in the film Bergman puts the words, "Do you know, you ins(m'Sible fools, that you shall die today or tommrnw, or the next, because you have all been doomed? Do you hear what I say? Do you hear the word? You have been doomed, doomed, doomed!" In the background, behind the crucifix and still standing upon the stage are Mia and Jof, still standing very close together with looks of shock upon their faces . The fact that Bergman places these words in Rava.l's mouth illustrates that he thinks it an evil of mankind that a man is prone to torture himself over the prospect of his own impending damnation, worse yet to torture other members of his species with the threat of it. The crucifix behind Raval is symbolic of two things: a wordless God and the spiritual torment and seeking of the knight, being symbolic of the knight because it is associated with the scene where his character is most directly revealed. Both the silence of God in his wounded state and the desperate searching of a man such as the knight are steeped in pain and are linked to the horrible evils of self-flagellation in which these wretched people engage themselves. And yet the crucifixion forms a path, albeit a pain-filled one, to the two people who are closest to any sort of real salvation. As Mia and Jof stand upon the stage, the cross forms a path at their feet. It is a visual image that takes the search for self-knowledge and the eyes of a wordless God and makes itself a link between pointless self-flagellation and unconditional love. After praying loudly with much crying while lying or kneeling upon the ground, the "Slaves of Sin" rise slowly, turn, and begin to walk away. The camera watches them as they exit the screen from the lower left to the upper right-hand comer. Soon only a few are left, then none. The camera lingers uncomfortably for a moment, focusing on nothing but the dry, sunbaked grass upon which these people so recently stumbled. Bergman wants us to be uncomfortable; he does not want us to forget this scene easily. He therefore gives us a moment to reflect before he continues on with the story, a moment to rest. There are so many scenes of torment within the film that one is likely to consider the whole world a bleak arid desolate place if he forgets the few scenes of hope. Indeed, upon a first viewing, the scenes of the processional and of the deaths of the characters are the most memorable. Upon the third or fourth viewing these scenes are equally memorable, but other scenes begin to take on even greater significance. Although it is a quiet, peaceful, subtle, and even easily forgotten scene, the scene in which Mia, Jof, the knight, the squire, and the young woman share a humble meal of wild strawberries and fresh milk is quite possibly one of the most important scenes in the film. Mia, Jof, and Skat's wagon sit on a flat spot of a long, sharply-sloping hill. Mia sits alone playing with Mikael. A short distance away the knight sits leaning against a rock, apparently lost in thought until he looks up and sees Mia and the baby. As he watches these two a smile crosses his face for the first time in the entire film. The knight is moved to speak, and asks Mia her son's age. They chat pleasantly, Mia smiling and displaying a modest but obvious pride in her son. It is the presence of the child which begins to draw the knight out of his revery. The presence of a child reminds him of simplicity, innocence, and familial love. In this boy there is a reminder of the future, the fact that mankind survives, in spite of the plague. If all of Bergman's characters represent fragments of the soul, then Mikael represents the youth, innocence, and hope for the future that are important to the lives of all men. The knight is especially drawn to this, because he has lost touch with his hope, his innocence, his faith in the future. His struggles with God stem largely from his inability to assume a childlike state, and yet it is the power of the presence of children that makes one's own sorrows seem trivial. Jof returns, and upon his suggestion, Mia goes into the wagon and comes back with two shallow wooden bowls, one filled with wild strawberries, the other with fresh milk. These she places before her husband and the knight who are already seated on the ground; she spreads a light colored sheet in lieu of a table. Jons and the young woman approach on a horse and Mia invites them to join them . The sun is bright but somewhat low in the evening sky. Mia lays down upon the ground and smiles her warm, enchanted smile. Her hair is pulled back except for one small strand which curls a bit at the end. The camera, close-up, sighs and smiles down upon her. She articulates her beautiful and simple view of life, saying, "One day is like another. There is nothing strange about that. The Summer, of course, is better than the Winter, because in Summer you don't have to be cold. But Sp1ing is best of all." As she says these last words she moves her head from side to side with pleasure. A short while later J of retrieves his lyre. He plays the song of Spring and of Christ that he sang earlier to Mia, musically transferring the spiritual beauty of that scene to this scene. Once again music is used to reveal the interconnectedness between the two scenes. Behind J of, the Death mask hangs from a pole stuck in the ground. And yet, next to Jof' s face, the mask does not look so gruesome. There is such a comic look of bliss upon his face as he plays that the death mask looks quite harmless. As he plays, Mia chats with the knight. She asks him if he has a "beloved." A pensive look and far-off sort of smile come over the knight's face. He begins to tell Mia of his wife, whom he has not seen since he left for the Crusades. In his eyes there is a look of love but also of loneliness, sorrow that this period of his life has past. For once his words are not logical or tormented by lyrical. Although his speech is usually limited and 43 �"Of course," replies Death, and then bows his head down to look at the board, his chin resting against his hand. A few moments later he looks up and then back down at the board again as he makes his move. "I take your knight," he tells his opponent. "As you were meant to," comes the reply. "Have you tricked me?" "Of course." The knight, with his new sense of purpose, has perhaps begun to win the chess game. He has tricked Death, proving that even Death is far from omniscient. This knowledge will be important very soon. "Are you going to escort the juggler and his wife through the forest? " asks Death. "Those whose names are Jof and Mia and who have a small son." The knight's smile disappears. "Why do you ask?" he says suspiciously, accusingly. "Oh no reason at all," replies Death, once more looking down at the chess board. There is a burst of foreboding music and the scene fades away into the next. The little band of characters forms a processional through the forest. The knight rides first, then the squire with the young woman sitting behind him on his horse. Mia and Jof follow behind in the wagon with their baby. Plog, the husband of the woman who ran off with Jonas Skat, also comes along, having told Jons that he is lonely and doesn't want to go home because everyone will make fun of him . He is quite drunk and carries a sledgehammer. A smith by trade, he is neither particularly handsome nor intelligent, but he is as well-meaning as possible. He represents the well-intentioned but foolish part of the soul, easily deceived and easily appeased. In the eerie night there is a sense of foreboding . Jof and Mia lean up against a tree somewhat away from the others, Mia with Mikael in her arms. Nearby the knight sits, staring down at his chessboard. Death approaches him to finish their game. Jof looks up and sees them playing. He awakens his wife and tells her what he has seen. Despite the fact that her own eyes show her only the knight, Mia believes that Jof sees something more, and that what he sees is real. She believes in her husband even though she sees nothing at all. She has faith in this faith even after the incident with the painted wagon wheels. Her good trusting nature and love for her husband allow her to have faith in him. Furthermore, her long association with Jof has taught her that despite his eccentricities, he is well-meaning and always acts for what he believes to be her own good. Faith must come through love and through the trust which develops over time as the object of faith proves to be constant and worthy of trust. In this sense, faith in God is no different from faith in one's spouse. This is another way in which Mia and Jof, as a couple, are an image of God's love for man. Jof tells Mia that they must attempt an escape, and she agrees to try. He rises and tiptoes toward the wagon. Mia reveals little about himself, to Mia he tells a story complete with poetic details. Her loving nature brings him back to the love which he had himself forgotten. "We were newly married," he muses. "And we played together. We laughed a great deal. I wrote songs to her eyes, to her nose, to her beautiful little ears. We went hunting together and at night we danced." With love comes joy, laughter, play. This one little paragraph reveals nearly as much about the knight as does the confessional scene. He too is capable of happiness, of laughter, and of image-making in writing poetry. Perhaps it is the pain which he felt after leaving his love which caused him to shut out this aspect of his personality. To love is to risk pain. The act of sun-ende1ing to emotion, intuition, or childlike faith requires the ability and willingness to risk pain. "Faith is a torment," he tells Mia. "It is like loving someone who is out there in the darkness but never appears, no matter how loudly you call." Mia does not understand but looks honestly concerned. The knight looks down at her, the first person in the film who really seems to be listening to him, and he shakes his head as if shaking away a mirage, then smiles. "Everything I've said seems meaningless and unreal while I sit here with you and your husband. How unimportant it all becomes suddenly," he says. He takes the strawberries from Mia's extended hand and eats them, as if he were finally accepting the gift of love which she is offering. It is not unlike the Christian symbol of Communion. Perhaps this moment is the closest we see the knight come to achieving salvation. He does not believe that he could ever achieve the childlike faith and unconditional love which Mia and Jof display, but he is willing to try and content himself with the knowledge that this kind of faith does exist. Mia and Jof are a sign that there is divinity among men, an image of the love of God. The knight cannot make himself become like Mia and Jof, but he can enjoy and protect what they are. As a knight in the Crusades, as a nobleman and as an intellectual, he found no real nobility or fulfillment. Finally, in the presence of a family, he discovers a purpose for his chivalry, a reason for being a knight. He picks up the bowl of milk carefully in both hands so as not to spill a drop. His voice is soft and calm as he speaks. The camera focuses on him quietly, as the sun sets behind him with a soft burst of color against the horizon. His words are soothing. " I shall remember this moment. The silence, the twilight, the bowl of strawberries and milk, your faces in the evening light. Mikael sleeping, Jof with his lyre. I'll try to remember what we have talked about. I'll carry this memory between my hands as carefully as if it were a bowl of fresh milk. And it will be an adequate sign - it will be enough for me." He rises, turns, and goes to keep his chess appointment with Death. "Why do you look so satisfied?" asks Death, as they sit over the chess board. "That's my secret," replies the knight. 44 stands staring at the knight for a moment, then turns and humes over to Jof, cradling the sleeping child in her arms. At just that moment the knight looks up from the chessboard and sees Mia and Jof sneaking away. He turns and knocks over several pieces with his cloak, pretending that he wants Death to think it was an accident. He looks down at the board and then up at Death again. "I've forgotten how the pieces stood," he tells Death. "But I have not," replies Death with a little laugh. "You can't get off that easily." As Death sets the pieces back up on the board, the knight continues to watch Mia and Jof over Death's shoulder. Their wagon begins to pull away, slowly and quietly. Death, absorbed in fixing the pieces, takes no notice whatsoever. He sets the last figure upright, glances at the board for a moment, and then looks up at the knight. "Now I see something interesting," he says. "What do you see?" stammers the knight quickly, obviously worried that Death has seen Mia andJofattempting their escape. "You are mated on the next move," replies Death. ''That's true," says the knight softly, his voice filled with relief that the juggler and his wife and son have not been caught and hindered in their escape. He may die, but Mia and Jof will get away. Yet the significance of the knight's noble deed does not lie in the deed itself. Rather it lies in the motivation behind it. The knight's association with the unconditional love and simple domestic faith of Mia, J of, and their son, has filled him with love and remembrance that beauty does exist in people, in God' s creatures on Earth. The light of Mia and her family has seeped into his life and has given him the proper motivation for completing his "one meaningful deed." However, helping Mia and Jof escape is a truly great act not because it was done and done successfully , but because it was done from selfless love. Soon it is morning. The knight, the squire, the young woman, the smith, and the smith's wife all walk slowly up a rocky incline toward the knight's castle in single file. The sun shines in the sky, and the waves of the sea ebb and flow far below at their backs. The film has come full circle. Despite all the changes and developments which have occurred, the viewer finds himself once more upon a rocky, somewhat desolate seashore. Of course, there are several differences. The film began with ruins of a castle in the sea and the knight and Jons riding through the ruins of a castle. The castle here is nearly as empty, nearly as dreary, but it is not nearly so inhospitable; the walls still stand firmly and it looks well-kept. This is meant to be the opposite shore, but one cannot really tell that from the looks of the ten-ain. The sea is constant and looks the same no matter where one goes. In time the water will wash away this castle as well. It is a symbol of the constancy of nature and how fleeting the life of man is in comparison. All the characters go inside and are greeted by the knight's wife. Only she has stayed behind to welcome the knight home; everyone else has fled from the plague. She prepares a small meal and reads from th'e book of Revelation as they eat. "And when the Lamb broke the seventh seal, there was silence in Heaven for about the space of half an hour. And I saw seven angels which stood before God, and to them were given seven trumpets." All are completely silent as she reads, eating or gazing down at the table; all reflect this silence. Only the silent young woman looks up and out the window, where a ray shines into the darkness. She alone sees the light that is symbolic of God's presence, Jesus often being referred to as the "light of the world" in the New Testament. Again there is a sense of coming full circle, because the words that the knight's wife reads are the same words read by the voice at the beginning. It is reminiscent of, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." What began with a quote from Revelation and the mesmerizing waves of the sea goes back to the sea, quoting exactly the same passage. Three booming knocks sound downstairs at the door. Jons lights a torch and goes out into the corridor and downstairs to see who it is. Meanwhile the knight's wife continues to read. Jons returns alone and throws his torch into the fire before sitting down again, a very severe look upon his face. The earlier chess scene when the knight sacrificed his knight in order to put Death's king in check has proven to be prophetic. The knight has sacrificed himself in order to trick Death and aid Mia and Jof in their escape; he has finally accomplished a deed which is worthy of the title "knight." In those who are of faith he has found a purpose, which allows him to defeat Death, although in a different way than he may have originally intended. The decision to help Mia, Jof, and Mikael escape is not a logical one but an emotional and intuitive one; however, the escape is aided by logic. In knocking over the pieces, the knight has broken the logical rules of the game, but in so doing he has made the best use of his intellect and has really won the game. His life will soon end, but his goal has been accomplished; he has found some fulfillment in a decision made through love and executed through the intellect. He has finally utilized the capacity of his whole soul. "Did you enjoy your reprieve?" asks Death. "Yes, I did" replies theknight in a resolute tone. Although he is still tormented by the question of God's existence and the awareness of his own wretchedness, he is satisfied in having achieved his one important goal. With the escape of Mia and Jof, and especially Mikael, comes the guarantee of the survival of the best sort of humanity. Despite spiritual turbulence and plague, the personification of love, fidelity, childlike fmth, youth, and hope for the future will always survive, for they are beautiful, enchanted, and will always be protected by those who truly seek to do good. 45 �A melancholy music is added to the silence. The young woman turns in her chair to face a figure who approaches from out of the corridor. It is Death. All the characters rise to face him. The knight stands behind the others, praying feverishly, his hands covering his face in sorrow. Even now, despite the sense of purpose and achievement he found with Mia and Jof and his noble deed, he is tormented, lacks a sense of completeness, and feels his own wretchedness. Yet, in his final prayer, he uses the words "us" and "we", showing that Mia and Jof have taught him something of love. Perhaps the expe1ience of unconditional love combined with the sense of his own confused wretchedness has placed him , at the moment of his death, closer to God than at any other moment in his life. As a young married man he experienced love; as a world-weary knight he felt his own wretchedness, but only at the end of life does he experience both simultaneously. This places him at last in a position to begin to comprehend the unique marriage of unconditional love and intense suffering that is found in Christ on the cross. It is this which allows him, finally, to pray in utter humility. Does he achieve salvation? Whether he does or not, he is certainly closer to God at the moment of his death than he was the day before. The squire stares straight ahead and tells the knight not to worry about eternity, in denial even to the end. Plog and his wife stand together; she curtsies. The knight's wife looks determined and keeps a brave face. The young woman kneels, a look of thankful bliss upon her face. The camera lingers on her face. "It is the end," she says, quoting the crucifixion scene from Matthew. Of all the characters left after Mia and Jofs escape, she is the one who is most in tune with the instinct to help others, and she is the one who most welcomes Death. In the morning, the sun is shining brightly, glistening off the sea. On the beach there is a wagon from which Jof and Mia, with Mikael in her anns, have emerged. Jof gazes into the distance and sees the knight, Skat, Plog, Jons, and the others dancing off in the distance, led away by Death as they shed bitter tears. The viewer sees them as well, upon a hilltop, following Death in a line. Are they really dancing or only being led away like a prison gang? We cannot see their faces in order to look for tears. It is a beautiful but uncertain image. Mia chides Jof gently and they both gaze at their son briefly, before turning and leading the wagon away, walking toward the sunlight - Mia and Jof, like Mary and Joseph escaping to Egypt with the Light of the World. With this image the film ends. Our humanity, and its most important aspects, are revealed in the images we create. Furthermore, there is something of God's nature that comes across in the images we make. Just as people can be seen as images of God, so can the images people create mirror God's image. Reflecting upon the images, we gain much insight into our own natures and a tiny glimpse into God's. We add ow· perceptions to those of others and are encourages to ponder the topics that most concern us, to consider the nature of God and our relationship to him, to wonder how we might best come to achieve salvation. The consideration of Bergman's film involves all aspects of our nature. The emotional and intuitive react to the images of the film and are then analyzed by the rational. The tormented seeker, the mocking doubter, the loving, childlike faith, hope for the future, instinct to help others and do good, the materialist and the sensualist, the evil hypocrite, and dumb well-meaningness - all parts of the soul are confronted and engaged by the film. "In our fear we make an image," says the knight, and this is what Bergman himself has done. Bergman, involved in the search for his own sense of purpose, has created an image which makes its viewer ask the same questions and seek answers to them. In bringing my own perceptions and experiences to the understanding and interpretation of Bergman' s, I have found answers to many questions and more questions to the answers which I already had. The question of Goo's existence is never answered by the film; the knight dies filled with spiritual uncertainty. Even his one meaningful deed does not absolve him from his sense of wretchedness, or allow him to subdue God within himself. The glimpses of God which are seen in the film are veiled with doubt Mia and Jof are a pale image of God's love, but they are an image nonetheless and one in which the knight finds some fulfillment. Perhaps he never achieves real salvation; yet he finds purpose in the love and protection of them, of their faith, and their future. Bergman offers no insight into how one achieves such faith; in fact he seems to believe that it may be impossible, but his portrayal of Mia and Jof reveals and exalts their spirituality and the spiritual aspect of their love. In the church as an organization there is no salvation. In self-persecution and man's inhumanity to man are found the greatest, basest and most macabre evils. In the bawdy and comic there is joy but not a lasting salvation. To help another human being in a selfless act of love is the greatest act of which man is capable. In this there lies a pale image of God's selfless sacrifice for the sake of mankind. Ingmar Bergman, in making "The Seventh Seal" has created a series of images which encourage questioning, which leads to the self-examination, and possibly to a new understanding of God and man.By encouraging this questioning, Bergman is benefitting mankind in a very different way from the knight, but in an equally important and powerful one. With each viewing of the film, the questioning is renewed, more answers are found, and more questions are discovered. With "The Seventh Seal" Bergman has created a legacy of timeless questions embedded in a legacy of timeless imagery. He has created a film to be adored and meditated upon by the entire soul, and to be watched again and again. 46 Bibliography The Holy Bible, New International Version. Colorado Springs, CO: International Bible Society, 1984. Bergman, Ingmar. Four Screenplays oflngma.r Bergman. New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1960. Bergman, Ingmar. The Magic Lantern. New York: Penguin Books, 1988. Bergman, Ingmar. "The Seventh Seal". Svenskfilmindustri/Janus Films, Inc. , 1956. Pascal, Blaise. Pensees. London: J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd., 1943. 47 �nThe Beauty of Francesca da Rimini-Dante' s Divine Comedy LJ Carrie L. Sager Dante's l nferno is the home of eternal sin.Inside its walls the "people who have lost the good of the intellect," and all hope, endure forever.Their unrepentant lives on earth have earned them eternal damnation.Dante takes great care in making their punishment fitting for their sin - the punishment is the sin.Sometimes the appearance of these sinners is enough to portray the essence of their sin.At other times, the cmrnption of these souls lies deeper than the mere distortion of their flesh.For Dante to experience the true nature of their sin, he must speak with these damned souls. Dante gives special recognition to every sin:each sinner has a specific place in the Inferno.He divides sin into three categories: Incontinence, Violence, and Fraud.Furthermore, there is a hierarchy of sin.While all sin dooms the soul, in the Divine Comedy there is a gradation.The Inferno is structured by this ranking of sin.Fraud - the deliberate misuse of the intellect - is the worst sin for Dante.Consequently, the Fraudulent are sunk into the nethermost depths of Hell.Violence finds its place in a region above Fraud, and Incontinence, the least damnable of these three sins, is punished in the uppermost regions of Hell. In Inferno V, Dante begins his descent into Hell proper.He is immediately thrown into a confrontation with Minos, the maitre d' of Hell.As if through the eyes of an unrepentant sinner, Dante sees Minos as the malicious, bestial, relentless judgment of Hell itself.But Dante is a repentant sinner, and by the grace of God he passes unscathed beyond Minos to the second circle.Once inside, he receives his first impression of Hell: the circle of the Lustful. Before Dante beholds this spectacle, however, he is at first overwhelmed by "the notes of pain."This music gives rise to a scene in his mind's eye: "Cross" No.3 - Nathan James Humphrey peaceful, but Dante's meeting with Francesca is particularly perplexing.Before Dante sees Francesca, he sees a band of illustrious shades.He describes them as the "knights and ladies of old times," and is disturbed to find them here in Hell.Upon seeing them, he stands bewildered and overcome with pity .Instead of choosing to speak to one of those great shades, of whom there are more than a thousand, Dante is instead drawn to Francesca.None of the most renowned lovers of antiquity can wrest Dante's attention for more than a brief momentnot Dido, Semiramis, Achilles, Helen, Paris, Tristan, nor Cleopatra.Yet Francesca, whose name is buried in anonymity by the collage of illustrious sinners, captures Dante's attention and freezes the pilgrim in his tracks.While Dante compares all of the famous shades to a flock of cranes, Francesca alone is described as a dove.In the midst of the darkness that consumes the other sinners, Francesca strangely emerges as the sole ray of light. Dante has not stopped merely to admire the dove-like image of Francesca.He "would gladly speak to the two that go together and seem so light upon the wind." And when he wants to speak to Francesca, he must call her "by the love that leads" her.Although Francesca is a carnal sinner in the circle of the Lustful, she has an air of nobility about her.She will not answer to a beastly mating call; she will only respond to the "loving" call of Dante.Finally, when she is called, the wind does not restrain her: she comes "with wings poised and motionless" to the nest of Dante. This description of Francesca as seeming "so light upon the wind" adds to her unexpected magnetism.While the malignant air "scourges" the illustrious shads, Francesca is neither beaten nor driven by the wind, but floats peacefully.Yet this hardly appears to be the "eternal pain" promised at the gate of Hell.Whey is it that Francesca appears to avoid the punishment meted to her fellow sinners?This discrepancy becomes increasingly visible when the punishment afforded to the Lustful is considered.This requires an examination of the metaphor that Dante employs to describe the condition of the Lustful: birds and the wind. At first, the comparison between the birds and the Lustful seems oddly inappropriate.After all, what other animal seems as innocent and carefree in its natural habitat as does the bird that gracefully floats upon the winds and expresses its freedom with each beat of its wings? How is it possible that these lofty creatures are the analogues of the Lustful who languish in eternal punishment? Dante provides an answer. The wind, nominally the bird's ally in lifting it above all earthy constraints, is the source of The hellish stom1, never resting, seizes and drives the spirits before it; smiting and whirling them about, it torments them.When they come before its fw-y there are shrieks, weeping and lamentation ... (31-35) Dante compares these carnal sinners "who subject reason to desire" to birds receiving eternal punishment from the wind.In a violent whirlwind of fury, the storm feeds upon the spirits in the circle of the Lustful.But there are two birds who are presented as floating above this furious whirlwind: Paolo and Francesca da Rimini, two lovers who are bound together for all eternity.While the other sinners are driven by the whirlwind of restlessness, this pair appears to float peacefully on the wind. When Dante meets the lovers, he focuses almost exclu- eternal punishment for the Lustful.Consider how Dante de- sively on Francesca.Not only is her punishment unexpectedly scribes these birds as thrown into eternal submission: 49 48 �presents love as a grand, undeniable passion that conquers both her and Paolo.Francesca's interpretation is this:great lovers become great through being conquered by love, the most magnificent of passions.For Francesca, Lancelot and Guinevere embodied this greatness.She believes that themark of their greatness was captured in their kiss.Here then is the root of Francesca's submission: she emulated that" great" kiss in order to be immortalized as a great lover. As an unrepentant sinner, what Francesca desired in her earthy life-immortal greatness-she continues to lust after, though she is in Hell.Francesca assumes that Dante, the pilgrim, has "pity for her evil plight (93)."She therefore designs her speeches to glorify herself in the pilgrim's pitying eyes.She models her story from the story of Lancelot and Guinevere: she enshrouds her submission in the poetic depiction of a love story.At the same time, Francesca's carefully contrived rhetoric unmasks her sinful character: Francesca's selfish pride is betrayed by her own words. For instance, when Francesca shamelessly claims "love. .. absolves no one beloved from loving (104)," she is clearly wrapped in vanity .Not only does she honestly envision herself as a glorious victim of love, she even names her own lover, Paolo, as love's accomplice.When Paolo was "seized" by love, she was forced into the role of the beloved, in which she was committed to reciprocating his love.Thus she pridefully, albeit naively, denies all responsibility for her actions.In fact, Francesca's conclusion that "Caina waits for him who quenched our life (107)" is her final exclamation of pride.She assumes that their death for the most noble cause, namely love, will receive its due vengeance. While her pride pervades her words, it is also at the heart of her actions.In her lust for greatness, Francesca claims she submitted herself wholly to love: not as an erotic, carnal desire, but the most magnificent of passions.Dante, moreover, must call her by this love "that leads her," for Francesca only hears the call of love.Yet Dante is not the only person who must bow to Francesca's pride: her own lover Paolo must bow also.While both Francesca and Dante allude to his presence, not once in the entire canto is Paolo actually named.Without formal acknowledgment, Paolo is simply the eternal lover of Francesca.More to the point, as Francesca attempts to glorify herself, Paolo can only stand by her side pitifully and weep. While Francesca assumes that she has earned both greatness of soul and justification for her actions, all that she has trnly earned is a place in Dante's Inferno.For her selfish pride and naive submission, Francesca is eternally punished in the circle of the Lustful.As the Lustful submitted themselves to sexual wantonness, they are eternally punished by lust's fmious whirlwind.Similarly, Francesca's punishment fits her submission and is equally as severe. Francesca is enslaved, like the other shades, by the wind.For instance, Dante could only call Francesca and Paolo after "the wind bent their course" toward him.Although Fran- Enshrouded in this mesmerizing speech is Francesca's testimony to her submission.Yet her speech remarkably does not betray even the slightest hint of resentment.Although the wind in the circle of the Lustful personifies lust as a formidable, malicious force that seemingly drives the spirits into eternal submission, there is a great discrepancy in Francesca' s account: she is most unlike the defenseless bird whose only words are the agonizing "notes of pain. ''Rather than ignore her submission, Francesca recalls it fondly .Francesca presents love as a great, unconquerable passion that nestled itself in her "fair form" with "his charm" gripped both the lovers in a forceful embrace.While she claims that both she and her lover were indeed "seized" by love, they were not stricken with fear.In this embrace, theirs was one life and "one death." Although they languish in Hell, this unconquerable love continues to bind the two lovers together for all eternity. The root of this union is made clear in Francesca's second speech: Hither, thither, downward, upward, it drives them; no hope ever comforts them, not to say of rest, but of less pain (40-45). Thus, in Dante's analogy, these birds are forever beaten by the unending, merciless winds.The "notes of pain" that Dante first heard are sung by these birds as they are continually brutalized by the fury of the wind.And while the wind is their punishment, its fury never rests.In the circle of the Lustful, Dante presents the carnal sinners as these birds who are eternal slaves to the wind.Now the analogy is less cryptic: for Dante, the birds represent the Lustful, and lust is the wind that torments them.In Dante's Hell, Lust is a violent, bestial desire that provides an eternity of relentless agony.The submission to lust imprisons the carnal sinner as does the relentless wind that tortures the birds. Dante describes this submission with a single word: Incontinence.The Incontinents thatDante finds in the second circle of Hell, moreover, have committed the particular sin of lasciviousness.However, the Lustful are not "seized" by the fury of their desires like defenseless birds.On the contrary, theirs is a willing submission as they "subject reason to desire."The eternal punishment of the Lustful is self-imposed damnation.They willingly abandon their humanity and surrender themselves as eternal slaves to their desires. Hence in the Inferno these sinners are punished with their sin- an eternity of submission.The names of Dante's lustful - sinners speak for themselves: incestuous Semiramis, unfaithful Dido, and wanton Cleopatra.For their unjust actions, spurred by their lustfulness, they receive their just punishment.Francesca, however, presents an unexpected irony:a beautiful sinner.How can an eternity of floating peacefully with her lover be an eternal nightmare for Francesca?Why does Dante depict this wanton soul with such tender language, and more to the point, what role does Francesca's beauty play in Dante's pilgrimage? Despite the confusion engendered by her seeming beauty, Francesca is undeniably a sinner.She fits Dante's description perfectly, for Francesca submitted herself wholly to her desires.But while Francesca is guilty of a willful submission, as are her illustrious companions, her sinfulness is not readily discernible.For instance, Semiramis was "so corrupted by licentious vice that she made lust lawful" to restore her virtue.In contrast, Francesca's actions do not appear to have been driven by such sexual wantonness.This is evident in her two speeches.Francesca's first speech is an exposition of her views on the nature of love: We read one day for pastime of Lancelot, how love constrained him.We were alone and had no misgiving.Many times that reading drew our eyes together and changed the color in our faces, but one point alone it was that mastered us; when we read that the longed-for smile was kissed by so great a lover, he who shall never be parted from me, all trembling, kissed my mouth.A Galeotto was the book and he that wrote it; that day we read in it no farther. (127-138) This speech is not the story of two lovers driven by sexual wantonness into mad, furious love.In declaring that "we read one day for pastime," Francesca brings a casual air to her ill-fated meeting with her lover.While theirs was an adulterous affair, the meeting was not the result of elaborate schemes designed to satisfy their sexual desires.Francesca is more concerned with their reading - for pastime - the story of Lancelot and Guinevere and their fated kiss than her own story.In fact, the love story of Paolo and Francesca bears a striking resemblance to the story they read that afternoon. Their union was supposedly inspired by the union of Lancelot and Guinevere.What Francesca saw in these two lovers was their greatness.As great lovers, they received poetic immortality; through their story, they would not only live forever, but also be revered for their greatness. Francesca envied them for their greatness.As she read their story, she was impassioned by it: "that reading drew our eyes together and changed the color in our faces."In other words, Francesca was spurred by this magnificence, as Lancelot was "constrained" by love.This constraint reached its culmination " when the longed-for smile was kissed by so great a lover. "This moment captured, for Francesca, the greatness of Lancelot and Guinevere.She was inspired to emulate this "great" kiss: she wanted to capture this greatness for herself. In her first speech, Francesca defines this greatness.She Love, which is quickly kindled in the gentle heart, seized this man for the fair form that was taken from me, and the manner that afflicts me still.Love, which absolves no one beloved from loving, seized me so strongly with his chann that, as thou seest, it does not leave me yet.Love brought us to one death (100-106). cesca was willing to speak, she was not free to linger.She tells Dante that as "the wind is quiet, as here it is" may she speak with him.As a bird, she is a prisoner to the wind. Her floating itself is eternal punishment for Francesca.Since the wind never rests, Francesca, a prisoner to this unending wind, has no respite from floating.U nlike the river Po, which "descends to rest" at the shores of her city Ravenna, Francesca can never rest. Moreover, as Dante's sinners determine their own punishment, consider one last time Francesca's submission. While some of the Lustful are characterized by their fwious sexual desires, like Semiramis, Francesca's motivation did not arise from an uncontrollable desire for sex.Francesca believed that love was the vessel that would carry her to greatness.For this reason, and not for carnal indulgence, she submitted herself to love. Francesca also believed that she could a cc omplish this by emulating the kiss of Lancelot and Guinevere.As the culmination of their greatness, she envisioned the kiss as the ultimate joining of their two souls: two great lovers made into one great soul by love.As Francesca believed this to be love's final victory, she imagined love lifting them from mere mortality to greatness, as the wind lifts a bird from all earthly restraints. Yet what Francesca saw as a great consummation - the kiss-is, for Dante, a grotesque injustice against God.Again, recall Dante's analogy of the birds in the circle of the Lustful: When they come before its fury there are sln·ieks, weeping, and lamentation, and there they blaspheme the power of God (34-36). As a carnal sinner, Francesca willingly submitted herself to love's power rather than humbling herself before God.When she abandoned the power of God's grace, she abandoned any hope she might have had of greatness.As Dante knows, without God's grace, Francesca will never achieve the ultimate greatness of Divine Love. Hence, as Francesca condemned herself to eternal damnation, she also determined her own punishment.Though she assumed that falling in love meant being conquered by love, she is now an eternal prisoner to love.As love is personified by the wind, she is imprisoned like a bird.In face, as she imagined love lifting her as a bird, she has received just that: as the wind carries her, she will float, helplessly, forever.As she envisioned the kiss as joining their two souls, Francesca is physically bound to Paolo- for eternity.This is clearly an eternal nightmare for Francesca:she will never be at rest from her "affliction," whether it be her desire for greatness, Paolo, or love. While Francesca's lust for greatness explains her sinfulness, much is still left unanswered.For instance, why is Francesca, a sinner, compared to a dove?Why is her sinful submission enshrouded in the poetic depiction of a love 51 50 • �story?Why is her eternal punishment described with such gentle language?ln sum, why does Dante take such care to preserve the beauty of Francesca, and what role does her beauty play in his pilgrimage? The pilgrimage is, above all else, Dante's quest for salvation.As Dante "came to himself in a dark wood," he began his journey .Although he stood at the food of "the delectable mountain which is the beginning and cause of all happiness," Dante could not make the ascent.Three fearful beasts blocked his path.Unable to conquer his fear, Dante was forced to take "another road" - the descent into Hell. Dante's inspiration for his pilgrimage is Beatrice, "the Sun of his eyes (Paradiso, XXX)."She is also the cause of Dante's salvation:she descended into Hell to summon Virgil to be his guide and deliver him from his fears ~The thought of her love restored, in Dante, his courage and freed him from all his doubts and fears (Inferno II, 131-137).Without Beatrice, there would be no pilgrimage. Beatrice is the embodiment of God's grace.As the light of Divine Love shines through her, she is beauty in its purest form.Through her eyes, "which shine brighter than the stars," and her smile, "the second beauty," Beatrice reflects the grace of God.Moreover, her beautiful features serve to captivate Dante as he is raised through all of the heavenly spheres to the Empyrean.In this way, Beatrice uplifts Dante from "servitude to liberty," and makes his soul whole (Paradiso, XXXI).At the same time, she prepares Dante for his final vision, the vision of God, through which his desire and will are united in perfect harmony.In short, Beatrice is Dante's way to salvation. The beauty of Francesca da Rimini mirrors the beauty of Beatrice.As Francesca is compared to a dove, she is both an image of pwity and a messenger of peace.Her courteous words to Dante, Purgatory, she chides Dante for his weakness: So soon as I was on the threshold of my second age, and had changed life, he took himself from me, and gave himself to others. When I had risen from flesh to spirit, and beauty and virtue were increased in me, I was less dear and less pleasing to him, and he turned his steps along a way not true, following false images of good which pay no promise in full (Purgatory XXX, 124-132) This rebuke makes clear the difference between Francesca and Beatrice.Francesca is a false image of Beatrice, just as she offers a false image of paradise.Whereas Beatrice is Dante's way to salvation, Francesca is his way to eternal damnation.Francesca will lead Dante from liberty to servitude: as the carnal sinner "subjects reason to desire," he abandons his will and his freedom.Hence Dante will only be free when his will is preserved and united with his desire. Dante overcomes the temptation of Francesca; he is not deceived by the beauty that enshrouds her sinfulness.In so doing, Dante is able to complete his journey and thus reunite himself with Beatrice.With her, he finds the greatness of Divine Love and the ultimate fulfilment of his desire. Meanwhile, although Francesca's desire only earns her a place in Hell, ironically, she receives the greatness for which she longed.Before Dante journeyed into Hell, Francesca's name was buried in anonymity.However, her meeting with Dante is her initiation into poetic immortality.By telling her story to Dante, she is no longer an anonymous shade: she is Francesca da Rimini, one of the most unforgettable sinners in Dante's Inferno. 0 living creature gracious and friendly ... if the King of the universe were our friend we would pray to him for thy peace ... (880-92) are spoken with the sweetness of Beatrice's angelic voice.And the dove image of Francesca, lightly "floating upon the wind," intrigues Dante and draws him away from all of the illustrious souls. The source of Francesca's beauty, however, is not the Divine Light.As a sinner, she is the product of her sinful desires.In other words, she is the incarnation of ·Sin.More to the point, Francesca is the temptress of Hell.Her beauty does not at all reflect the fearful spirit of the leopard.On the contrary, as a temptress she appeals to Dante's greatest desire, love.She presents an everlasting love that uplifts the soul and allows it to fly like a bird.By submitting himself wholly to her desire, Dante can achieve what Francesca considers to be the highest good - immortal greatness. Hence Francesca makes submission look beautiful.And Beatrice is witness to this deception.At the top of mount Untitled - 52 David F. Simpson 53 �nInsomniac lJ I don't have the time for this time for myself. I'm not interested in the quiet, In the damned solitude of silence, In this perfect atmosphere for rumination. I'm not looking for enlightenmentAll that I want Is the map that will lead me out of these interstices between night and day. Stacie Slotnick '94 Not being awake is different from being asleep. Mind glowing emptily, Numb but wide awake, Wide awake. There is a twelve-tone symphony of night that no one hears. It has a recuni.ng theme of car doors, creaking floorboards, and his breath whistling shrilly. The bass note of night: a continuo of engines and airplanes. The intermittent ripieno choir of drunk, cackling women. The flapping awnings applaud: Congratulations, congratulations. In London they're waking, In California they' re going to sleep right now but not you, not you. You've done it again, gotten yourself stuck in the place with no time, with no place, where there's no one, nothing, but the disemboclied numbers ofthe bloodshot red clockfaceBloody streetsign leading nowhere. Congratulations, congratulations. Earlier, I'd had five minutes of being tired but didn't catch them. Untitled - Dominic Crapuchettes They flashed by like an idea I couldn't grasp: What is sleep? 55 54 �Clytemnestra, A Sonnet Nathan James Humphrey "KAYTAl MHITP A: OL yw TEK01JO"U TOV8 o¢w E8pfljJaµT}V. OPE:z:;THZ:: T} KUpTa µavns ouc OVELpUTUlV cpo~OS' . 11 -928-9, Aeschylus, The Libation Bearers Suckle the serpent, give him restLet him exchange venom for milk. 0 what a fire lies near thy breast What pang of tooth on fleshly silk. Suffer the serpent to slowly slither Over thy sacred, supple feature; His bite dothy cause thy breast to whither For evil is ever in that creature. Like Clytemnestra live and do-Who drempt a death wrought by her son, And not allowing the dream to woo, The serpent with her letting slyly won. The fangs by moonlight now are glistening; When then dost thou despise, not listening? 56 �Non-Profit Org . BULK RATE U.S. POSTAGE St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 PAID PERMIT No. 120 ANNAPOLIS, MD. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper (bound book) Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 56 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Winter 1994 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Winter 1994. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Belanger, Yvonne (Senior Editor) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1994 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Winter 1994 Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/fb54f048ec0b34207b429b5734167b8a.pdf 46ea272814e33cf4d9f839f983d57bca PDF Text Text �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. n... voO £v{ p y£~a Cover: GYROSCOPE by Robert Vickrey, tempera on masonite. Photo courtesy of New Orleans Museum of Art, New Orleans, Louisiana. Gift in memory of Samuel Weis. 'w~ ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, The contents of this issue have been chosen and produced by the Energeia staff from student work which the Annapolis and Santa Fe Prize Committees selected. Annapolis Prize Committee Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 1072b ) William Mullen Jon Lenkowski Winfree Smith Edward Sparrow Curtis W ilson Santa Fe Prize Committee - Chairperson - Sharon Garvey Robert Bart Nancy Buchenauer Michael Dink Peter Pesic Staff Editor - Ann Burlein Maura Brady Kathy Buckler Michael Crawford Gabrielle Fink Christine Gowdy-Jaehnig Faculty Advisor - Maria Kowalczyk Mark 'Streeter Jason Walsh Steve Werlin Jonathan Tuck Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis and Santa je. Published three times a year , the Fall issue contains a sampling of the .student work from the previous school year which the prize committees of both campuses have selected for public recognition. For the Winter and Sp ring issues, the Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community - essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and . the like . Note: A brief description of the author accompanies all work not by current St. John's students. Please include some such statement along with your subnission. Thank you. �-- CONTENTS PRECEPTORIAL PAPER, GRADUATE INSTITUTE (SANTA FE) "DO YOU LOVE ME?" Kristi Ragan ANNUAL SENIOR ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS) REMEMBERING JERUSALEM Christian Holland ANNUAL SENIOR ESSAY (SANTA FE) PURPOSIVENESS IN KANT'S CRITIQUE OF JUDGMENT Alistair Morrison ANNUAL SOPHOMORE ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS) MEMORY AND PERSONAL IDENTITY IN SHAKESPEARE'S TEMPEST 1 13 59 Arny McManus 71 Bruce Johnson 81 SOLUTION TO Tiffi JUNIOR SENIOR MATH PROBLEM (ANNAPOLIS) Martin Marklin 88 TRANSLATION OF A FRENCH TEXT (ANNAPOLIS) Nancy Mease 91 *ANNUAL SOPHOMORE ESSAY (SANTA FE) FOR MY SOUL IS FILLED WITH TROUBLES *'I}Us essay has been edited. Complete copies can be found in the library. �"Do You Love Me?" Kristi Ragan Many of us see a contradiction in any attempt to seriously examine the dynamics of love as commitment. While we publicly insist upon love's importance, we privately bemoan the fragility and lassitude which characterize it as unable to withstand the rigors of a serious philosophical critique . We take pains to remind ourselves of love's stature as mere emotion and though we might make concessions for its elevated position in our lives, love nevertheless carries that blemish which distinguishes all emotions: lack of rationality . We see this charge in remarks like "Love is blind" , and "I will never understand a woman" - or if your prefer Mortimer's version: "O I am ignorance itself in this" (H.4,P. l,III,i.210). In the back of their minds, many young and not so young girls believe the t eachings from Hollywood which claim that if it is love, bells will ring and fireworks will fill the sky. Equally misguided is the advice given by family and friends to simply not worry, because "when the time comes, you'll just know . " Such answers make us comfortable with the idea that our feelings are not an area in which we can employ reason to gain understanding. Yet if knowledge and understanding are necessary for living, then by accepting this view of love and the o t h er emotions we place a huge portion of life beyond our control. But since we tire of pulling petals from daisies and twisting stems from apples, we eventually come to undertake a less superficial search in order to understand what is behind love. "How in the world could he possibly love me?" Yet oftentimes our search ends prematurely. We sense that too earnest a searc~must surely bring with it love's demise. To have continued seeking would have led us to the difficult position of having to accept our own worth and its accompanying responsibilities. When we deign to reflect on love at all we often do so with an overdose of sentimentality or with a crudely pragmatic view of economics, appearances and sexual performance. Yet I remain convinced that thoughtful reflection upon what love is and why a person loves is not only possible but.necessary . Throughout Shakespeare's historical plays we rarely see men with their wives. Di d t h e auth or mean t o s uggest by t he i nfrequency with which men discuss t hings with women that marriage and commitment hold little importance for the larger human community? I think not. For when Shakespeare does allow us to view the life of a married couple, he chooses his occas.ion and characters with care. In Henry the Fourth, Part One Shakespeare reserves the illumination of the commitment of love for his most honorable and heroic of characters, Hotspur and his lady, Kate . We have already met and been won over by Hotspur before the third scene of Act II, in which we first see husband and wife together. Though Hotspur has sided against the king in the upcoming battle , we have been moved to concern for him by his total dedication to honor, his disregard for pain and danger, as well as the certainty of his commitment t o things ove r and above life itself. It is with such a man that Shakespeare has chosen to lay bare the dynamics of love as commitment. Kristi Ragan Tanzania . (M.A. at Santa Fe , '84) is currently serving in the Peace Corps in 1 �In Henry the Sixth, Part Two Shakespeare speaks again of commitment, this time through the wise and noble Gloucester and Eleanor, his misdirected wife. That Shakespeare arranged the discussions between husband and wife to take place between two of his most magnificent characters suggests the importance of their words. r hope that what Shakespeare felt significant enough to merit such prominent spokesmen will become clear through a close examination of these scenes. The private life of a man and woman should never be a time for excluding or becoming indifferent to the larger human community of which they form a part. They cannot set the private wholly apart from the public. They must allow the public admission to the private-and not only negatively, as the necessary foil whereby two people unite in a posture of "us against the world." When the private admits the public only in this negative way the private can become little more than a time for scheming and plotting strategies by which the two might hope to get the better of the world. I think it is important to bear in mind this brief reminder of what private life is ~ot as we examine Hotspur in Act II, scene III of Henry the Fourth, Part One, since this scene occurs exclusively between Hotspur and his wife, except for a servant's interruption. The scene opens with Hotspur all alone, reading a letter whose contents forbode his defeat in the upcoming battle with King Henry. The author's refusal to fight incenses Hotspur and he tries to defend their plot as "a good plot as ever was laid" . But Hotspur's defense becomes overly boisterous and repetitious: " . . . our friends true and constant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends" (II,iii,16). Such repetition belies Hotspur's trust ib the plot and in his friends. Hotspur's reservations run deep and cause him even greater worry because of the possible betrayal of their plan to the king. He broods incessantly and longs for the chance to be underway, past the point of decision, past weighing and reweighing the variables. Hotspur cries that he will set forward that very night and in the next instant Lady Hotspur enters. Her entrance is perfectly timed to coincide with the end of Hotspur's soliloquy. Is this chance, or was Lady Hotspur watching over him as she has these last two weeks, though banished from his bed? Hotspur's uneasiness continues and he wastes no time in blurting out to K~te that he must leave. No doubt he wants to spare her the details of the campaign as well as the anxiety that accompanies such details. Yet when Lady Hotspur begins to speak she makes no reference to his imminent departure. Instead, she begins to ask a series of questions which are not really questions at all. Their purpose is to show her husband that she already shares with him the burden of his worrying despite his intention to spare her. Not only do her questions spare Hotspur the pain of having to explain his intended actions to her , but they reinforce our impression that Hotspur's anxiety is strange and unusual. Lady Hotspur's pressing concern indicates that his doubts about the campaign spring from something more than the nervousness usual before battle. Lady Hotspur has been banished from her husband's bed for two weeks, yet she shows by her questions that "I by thee have watched" (II,iii,44). She has observed him sitting alone, noticed when he refused to eat, and remained with him throughout the night as he cried out in his dreams. She has always stood close by him-so close she could watch his uneven breathing and the sweat which formed upon his troubled brow. By revealing her watchful caring she reminds him that she stands neither indifferent to nor apart from the suffering of his world. She has not used their time apart to distance herself from her husband or to pity herself for this exclusion from his world. True commitment does not allow you to stand apart from someone you love, nor to judge them across a distance. You must always stand within the relationship of yourself to that other and it is into that intimate sharing that you step when you silently watch over them. Love is a sharing, a desire to be together and to make Such sharing turns Lady Hotspur' s attention outward, .another's welfare your own. 2 away from her own suffering over the very real possibility of her husband's death in the upcoming battle. Her love for Hotspur provides her with the proper external object toward which she may be turned and out of which she may form a constant relationship to the world around her. Lady Hotspur ends her first speech by asking her husband his reason for leaving. She correctly places the question in the context of their relationship: "And I must know it, else he loves me not" (II,iii,61). Hotspur tries to distract her from the question by interrupting with commands to the servant. Kate however, is a very patient woman. She waited two weeks just to speak with her husband; another interruption does not upset her, and she simply resumes with her question upon the servant's exit. Harry continues to distract Kate with playful teasing. This forces her to answer her own question. She knows that part of the reason Harry is going to fight is the responsibility to her brother that their marriage has placed upon him . "I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir about his title and hath sent for you to line his enterprise" (II ,iii, 78). Kate doesn't bring this up in order to try to dissuade her husband from going. She respects Hotspur's decision and her respectful acceptance shows us that we needn't always see commitment as disruptive of purposeful act ion in the larger human community . Kate, by mentioning her brother, shows Hotspur that she recognizes and appreciates the sacrifice he is making for her and her family. The Tempest depicts a similar situation, in which Miranda's response recognizes and appreciates the sacrifice of Ferdinand's dignity through his demeaning labor of hauling logs . "My sweet mistress weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness had never like executor" (III,i,12). The rec ognition of true sacrifice by another on your behalf causes within you a desire to join it. Just as Miranda is moved to beg Ferdinand to stop and le t her take over his odious task, so Kate has kept sleepless watch through Harry's sleepless nights. I have tried to show that serious and important things are at issue in the dialogue between Kate and Hotspur . However , such lines as "Out you mad-headed ape" and "Come, come you paraquito" seem to throw in question this interpretation of their exchange (II,iii,74 & 82). We should be careful not to judge this playful banter as nothing more than nervous laughter designed either to avoid what's really at stake or as their peculiar means to avoid uncomfortable good-byes. Instead, we must make an attempt to see such lighthearted jesting as the means by which these two provide the necessary, constructive tension through which they are able to call attention to each other without violating the intimate and private. The question "Do you love me?" is being forever asked and answered by such lively ribbing. Their laughter is reaffirming rather than insensitive; it highlights the importance of each to the other. In addition, it allows each to call attention to themselves as an individual which the other does not totally subsume. Such teasing can only be shared between two people for whom life still holds a vital freshness. Such jesting becomes even more important when two people stand in the larger public community. Standing among so many others, people in love must reaffirm publicly that they do not take each other for granted. Unfortunately , they accomplish this all too often by making the boudoir ("a place for pouting") public. Shakespeare illustrates the imprudence of such an attempt when Glendower's daughter, before a large group, speaks of such embarrassing things that Mortimer will not rep ly except to say, " . . and, but for shame, in such a parley should I answer thee" (III,i,200). Hotspur, on the other hand, realizes that it is the fault of women to tend toward pouting and ungoverned emotionalism (III ,i,2-38). His teasing allows Kate the chance to be different . He encourages her to believe that a good mouth-filling oath which places one's honor on the line becomes a lady more than the singing of Welsh ditties (III, i, 251). Hot spur realizes that a quick tongue is a more feeling disputation than a lot of sulking and teary-eyed kissing (III,i,202). 3 �Yet since both are inappropriate for their final good-by, Hotspur makes no mention of his departure in public except to say to Kate, in a very low-keyed voice, "come in when ye will" (III,i,259). He rightly sees that the place for such a parting is private, with neither pomp nor sentimental staging. Shakespeare himself recognizes the inappropriateness of presenting their final good-by before an audience. We trust Hotspur and his wife alone know what needs to be said. To complete the examination of their first scene together we must return to Kate .and Harry and their bantering. Their teasing continues until Harry says "Love? I love thee not" (II,iii,86). Is Harry here just responding to Kate's statement some thirty lines before when she said, "Some heavy business hath my lord in hand, and I must know it, else he loves me not"? (II,iii,60). Or does he intend this teasing good-by to serve as a reaffirmation? Harry wants to make sure their love does not go unsaid, so much so that he playfully steers their conversation to the question of love. Although Harry calls for his horse, the next two questions which he puts in rapid sequence to Kate suggest an unwillingness to leave until she has asked the question "Do you love me?" - the question Hotspur so wants a chance to answer. Kate, with an understanding of what needs to be asked, asks and asks again "Do you not love me?" (II,iii,92). We are immediately reminded both of Miranda's persistence in asking Ferdinand the very same question as he hauls logs, and of her reluctance to let him squirm out of answering her in any way other than with the commitment of marriage (III,i,80-90). What significance does asking this question hold both for the one asked as well as for the one asking? In Lady Hotspur' s watchfulness she has seen her husband under extreme external pressures. Only in dreams of war do his doubts regarding the battle rise to the very surface. He doesn't consciously consider his reservations or his anger. We have all allowed ourselves at some time to be determined by the external demands which others or the situation itself places upon us. At such times, when we seem unable to be reached, it becomes the responsibility of those who love us most to open up and re-establish before us the private sphere in which our commitment is most illuminated. Lady Hotspur and Miranda do just that by their question "Do you love me?" Without commitment, we can only react to external pressure. But by re-establishing commitment, we can overcome that temptation. We are then freed for conscious activity. External pressures need no longer determine us, for we can see them as necessary obstacles to be overcome in the pursuit of goals grounded in commitment. An example of this restructuring also occurs in The Tempest. Ferdinand comes to see his odious task as an opportunity to express both his love for Miranda and his willingness to sacrifice himself for her. In the same way , Kate's question requires an action rather than a reaction from Hotspur. What he had previously sought to spare Kate he now actively strives to share with her through his request that she follow him to battle. Recognizing that the fullest action within a commitment is sharing, Harry says to Kate, "Whither I go, thither shall you go too" (II,iii,109). At that moment he stands before her as free and self-determining. Hotspur is no longer pushed by externals alone; having been reminded of his connnitment, he becomes once again able to choose. Her question has helped both of them recognize the importance of his going and of her going with him. It takes great courage for Lady Hotspur to ask her husband "Do you love me?" because this question calls for th an action from each of them. She must examine closely her love for Hotspur and the place that love may hold in the public world. Such difficult self-examination requires an even more basic courage-the courage we all need to sustain the believe that we can understand the feelings of another and that we do not live a life completely isolated from everyone else in the world. Questions such as these call forth from us the courage necessary for believing the world has meaning. 4 We have yet to answer the question, why a question. The use of such a part of speech is essential to the dynamics of commitment. For only a question can illuminate something which is before both the one asking and the one answering. Illumination differs from direct giving. It does not aim to place an object or idea directly into another's hand or to provide an answer in a statement. Rather, it aims to provide a shared direction in which you alone can decide to move. The question provides the direction and acceptance commits you to a course of action. It clears out a space in which you may stand to answer yes or no, an answering through which you begin to change your world. This role, which only a question can fulfill, makes evident once again the dynamic nature of commitment as something which stands open to reflection and has a necessary structure. · The playful insistence with which Kate follows her question reinforces this notion of a necessary structuring within commitment: "Well do not then; for since you love me not, I will not love myself" (II,iii,93). The admiration of something outside ourselves which provides the structural foundation upon which we build a commitment must of necessity be matched with a corresponding assurance within ourselves. Should Hotspur withdraw his love he knows that he withdraws the source of Kate's confidence. Reading Kate's retort again shows why love is so bound up with admiration. "Since you love me not, I will not l.ove myself" should now be read as "If you are not going to love me, be assured no one, not even I, will be able to step in and fill your place in the same way as you do." When you are loved you realize that something is offered to you which is offered to no other person in the world in the same way. Love, when bestowed, calls attention to our special place as the beloved. Harry mounts his horse and once upon it is able to swear how deeply he loves Kate.. The good-by is a painful one for him. If Kate were to force him into questioning his actions further, he might easily be detained or fail to go altogether-as the songs of Glendower's daughter lull Mortimer to sleep ( III,i,211). Harry asks that she simply accept his decision and she does. Then Hotspur, with no manipulation on Kate's part, suddenly says the one thing most present in both their minds: "Whither I go, thither shall you go too" (II,iii,109). For two people who have lived together and suffered together i t is important that their life and, i f possible, .their death be shared. Ovid writes of Jupiter coming to earth disguised as a beggar. Only a poor elderly couple with little enough for themselves are willing to take him in and feed him. In gratitude Jupiter offers them the fulfillment of one wish. They ask to die together. Having shared life through their love they wish to share death the same way. Separation, not death, saddens them most. And so one day, barely before the old man has time to thank his wife for loving him all these years, they grow bark and Jupiter keeps his promise by changing them into the oak and the linden. They went on loving right up until the very end and that ability to care made them most alive and their life complete. Hotspur and Kate do not differ from the elderly couple because they, too, need to be sustained through their love. Sharing that which sustains one is the true necessity under which commitment places you. Such sharing does not rest upon uniformity of action, bu t rather upon having the same goal guide all activities. They do not need to be in the same place at the same time doing the same thing. Their sharing comes in how they see the world around them and their place within it. The end toward which they move unites them. Sharing is the means by which two people create their world, a building which takes place from the inside out, with a concern for how the world ought to be as its starting point and not how the world is. The sharing of love makes possible a belief in the transformation of the world and the people in it. This belief is hardly different from the "Esperance" of the Percy battle cry. This hope leads one not to deny the world, but to act in such a way that the world is given back to you anew. Without a belief that the world can be 5 �-transformed you must remain apart from it. To interact with the world requires a relationship with it, out of which true acceptance is possible. A shared commitment and desire for what's best can bring about such hope. Commitment brings with it the recognition and pursuit of what is highest and so provides the proper soil in which to nurture proper pride, personal dignity and honor. Such further growing shows that commitment can never make you blind or indifferent to the larger human community. Instead, it will move you to concern for the moral and ethical questions which you must consider whenever you act within the world in an effort to transform it. Through the dialogue of Hotspur and his lady Kate, Shakespeare has shown us some important ingredients for a sound marriage. Through Gloucester and Eleanor in Henry the Sixth, Part Two, he continues the theme, this time revealing what a marriage must avoid. Eleanor begins scene two of Act I in the same questioning manner that Kate employed. A closer look at the questions, however, will reveal their difference. Neither vigilant watching nor true concern for her husband's worried state produce Eleanor's qu~stions. Nor do they demand any action in the form of an answer. They try instead to replace the interests of her husband, which she considers of no value; with her own ambitions. Eleanor views the ambitions of men as naive whenever they fail to give prime importance to the favors and honors of the world. Her questions contain no wondering about the world, but rather express a desire to look away from the sullen earth and the people of it (I, ii, 5). Her wish to "never more abase our sight so low as to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground" reveals her ambition as a weapon she wields to gain superiority rather than dignity. Eleanor is not unlike the vast numbers of people who go through life concerned only with accumulating status, wealth or some other external standard of measurement. Such people are the true usurpers of the common and public world. Eleanor dedicates herself solely to the task of making Gloucester become someone he does not wish to be. To accomplish this she must dominate her husband, make him a slave to her ambition. Such usurpation denies a place to sharing. Eleanor's only commitment is to fully apply her energies to her own genius. As a result, the criterion by which she guides her actions becomes pleasure. Gloucester is not unaware of this: "Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command above the reach or compass of thy thought?" (I,ii,45). Eleanor seeks to attain that public eminence and status reserved only for the King and Queen, confident she can fill both positions by herself. Thus she sees actions only as the means to further her ambition. For whenever the criterion for action lies outside the act, the act itself must be seen as a means. Eleanor's criterion lies outside her actions since it fies only in the public reaction to them. But when you look away from the structure of the act and its underlying principles you easily become prey to ambition, ambition in the low sense of desire for status only . No longer do you possess any limits for your action. Whatever it takes to attain the end you accept. Eleanor herself tells Gloucester that if grovelling on his face will win him the crown he must by all means grovel (I,ii,9). ' Gloucester sees that his wife's reasoning "is not based on principles" and he tries to show her such principles are necessary for guiding right action. "O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy Lord, banish the· canker of ambitious thoughts. And may that thought, when I imagine ill against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry, be my last breathing in this mortal world. (I,ii,17) Obedience and duty to the king guide \all Glucester's actions. He has realized that right action according to a principle obligates a man to act in this way, even at the risk of death. For Gloucester, individual man does not stand on the highest r ung of' the l adder; his actions are important, but only because they allow him to participate 6 in something higher and outside himself. Gloucester understands that only this participation constitutes excellence, not the elevation of an individual to a position of social superiority. Although the latter path seems all too frequently chosen as the means to excellence, it can nevertheless lead one to nowhere but greed . Greed is the very place in which Eleanor stands. Here she stands alone, above the reach or compass of her own thought, since she can never know when she has had enough. Greed's inability to harbor satisfaction forces you, as taker and usuper, to stand always in opposition to the world; this position isolates. And if you adhere to it to long enough, it can place you forever outside the reach and help of others, outside hope, outside love, outside commitment. You allow and encourage yourself to be totally defined through nothing but yourself. Simply stated, the sum of you and your world is nothing more than the singular "I". Eleanor has never allow her husband to define or determine her. She has never accepted Gloucester's interests as her own, has never looked at the world through eyes other than her own and has never accepted herself as a part of something outside herself. She refuses to become the "we" that Gloucester holds out to her. For Eleanor there is no common expression or uniting of strengths between her and Gloucester . "Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold. What, is' t too short? I'll lengthen it with mine." (I,ii,11) By ascribing to Gloucester a crown which he expressly rejects, she makes him appear to fall short of his proper goal and therefore need her assistance in order to extend his reach. Such a view does not suggest any journeying forth t ogether or sharing of a common base. In fact, an extension can be added in such a way that it completely undoes the original intention because it sets off in a new direction all its own. Such extension implies no commitment, no sharing, no "we". The ac t ion of their hands extending together is only a means toward the end of glorious gold. It has no true value for Eleanor and will be unable to move her in any way toward either Gloucester or a life of thoughtful right action. Eleanor's hand might just as well be an extension of lead pipe for all the sharing it does. Ferdinand and Miranda in The Tempest provide a helpful contrast to Eleanor's vision of herself as an extension. Miranda prays to Ferdinand: "If you'll sit down, I' 11 bear your logs the while. Pray give me that. I' 11 carry it to the pile" (III,i,28). She prays to make the task of the one she loves her own. She extends quite a different off er from that which endeavors to take up only when ·the loved one falls short so that both will be made better through the completion of the task. . This passage suggests a role for Eleanor which differs greatly from that of Lady Hotspur. Eleanor's reply "Follow I must" to Gloucester's invitation to ride with him (I ,ii, 6 ) exp re ss e s a sentiment worlds apart from Kate's reply "It must of fo r ce" to Hotspur's similar invitation (II,iii,110). For Eleanor there is no necessity to provide the important boundaries for freedom and personal self-determination. Freedom for her consists in the lack of all restraint. She wishes to smooth her way upon headless necks (I,ii,65) . Her reference to necessity is sarcastic and she no more welcomes it than she does her public penance. Necessity and principles for guiding right action share similar places among all she holds most worthless. Rather, the attainment of pleasure and position in an important-that is, vainglorious-cause is more in keeping with Eleanor's opinion of herself. Eleanor echoes this position in her advice to Hume: "Make merry, man, with thy confederates in this weighty cause. " (I,ii,85) Eleanor would like nothing better than to close her eyes, utter the magic words and presto! have before her the crown for her very own. Magic contains the only glimmer of hope in her life . It provides her with a knowledge of the future that becomes her cornerstone for action. The present moment serves only as a means toward an end which magic guarantees. She wishes "this world's eternity" (II, iv, 90) and uses magic to carry her toward it. This banishment of necessity leaves Eleanor 7 �unable to call forth true courage and determination from within he.rself. She can act boldly only when witches and conjurers assure the outcome. Magic enables her to believe in herself and in her own capabilities in a way which has no connection with who she really is, or what she actually is capable of accomplishing. Magic blocks any opportunity in which she might see herself with all her insufficiencies. Such dependence upon magic reinforces the dangerous . tendency within Eleanor to decide and act without the reflection and thoughtful examination which should accompany decisions and actions. Without such an inward looking and self-critical stance, Eleanor need not be confronted by her own insufficiencies and impotencies. Love and the commitment which must accompany it can off er the path to such a necessary seeing within. Miranda comes to such a seeing when Ferdinand's love moves her to thankfully weep before him: "I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer what I desire to give, and much less take what I shall die to want" (III,i,88 & 93). Love. is like nothing else; it lays bare our unworthiness and at the same time moves us to see that not only do we have something important to give, but we are a person worthy of being given to as well. Does not Gloucester try to remind Eleanor of this by his continued devotion and constant declarations of love? Whenever Gloucester entreats Eleanor to change, he is careful to make her understand that he makes such a request for the sake of their love and not outside of it. "O Nell, sweet Nell, i f thou dost love thy lord, Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts." (I, ii, 17) This is not an extravagant request on Gloucester's part. He correctly sees that commitment involves accepting another's guidance in one's growth. This acceptance requires the giving and receiving of knowledge about right conduct. Even today, though both men and women take pains to insure the opposite, a commitment in marriage necessarily involves the molding of one person's character by another. What possible sense does a marriage make in which all the energies of both members go into preserving their own autonomies? Their concerns gradually become turned t oward t~e maintenance of such things a s sepa r a te bedrooms, separate ambitions, separate checkbooks and separate names. In such cases marriage provides little more than the necessary negative fixture against which the partners may define and measure themselves. This puts marriage in a position simila r to the one parents and church served for most of us during our rebellious adolescence. What does Gloucester off er to Nell that is so different from this? What place does he hold before her when he asks, "Art thou not the second woman in the realm, and the Protector's wife, beloved of him?" (I,ii,43). This question is the same as Lady Hot spur's and Miranda's "Do you love me?" because it offers an illumination of commitment . He lays out a proper direction in which commitment may steer their lives. Gloucester does this both by reminding Eleanor of her place in the world as an object worthy of his love, and by reminding her that as the wife of an honest Protector, she already shares "the top of honor" (I,ii,49) and should be satisfied with such a place. In his question Gloucester attempts to provide a proper focus by urging Eleanor to remember his position as Protector. He does so not simply to remind . her of the status such a title carries, but also to make an important statement regarding the crucial place that the role of protection plays within a commitment of love. Gloucester rightly tries to direct Nell's attention to the honor and significance of a person who is able to provide support and nurture for a ruler. Nell is "ill-nurtured" (I, 11, 42) because she cannot provide such nurture for another. She shows her refusal to recognize need in others by her disdain for the position of protector. Though worry deeply marks her husband's demeanor, she remains indifferent to his suffering. Gloucester seeks support and comfort from Nell. He is trying to steer her away from preoccupation with her own ambitions and back to himself and her responsibility to care for him. Thus he states suddenly and with no apparent reason, 8 "My troublous dreams this night.doth make me sad" (I,ii,22). But Nell has interest in Gloucester 's dream only as an occasion for the telling of her own dream of the diadem. Eleanor can provide no comfort for Gloucester. He is forced himself to ask the significance of bis dream, a scene directly at odds with Lady Hotspur's urgent inquiry into the troubled dreams of her husband. Perhaps wise counsel from Eleanor about the future could have helped things go differently for Gloucester. But Eleanor continues in her refusal to share, to give and receive support, until the very end. Time after time she proves herself unable to accept Gloucester's advice or obey his commands. When she declares how she would act if she were a man, she rails not so much against a woman's place as she does against second place (I,ii,63). Gloucester's supporting and obedient role to the king shows that sex does not restrict the role of protector, second place. Eleanor has as much trouble accepting Gloucester playing the good wife to Henry, as she does accepting herself as like support to Gloucester. Only one role stands open for Eleanor, that of the lord and ruler who can act freely because he recognizes obligations to no one. She fails to see the strength or courage which the care and nurture of another human being require. Self- sufficiency is the sole resting place for strength in her opinion. By refusing the position of protector she has refused to provide any outside, supportive force through which her husband might reflect upon his relationship to her and the world. Eleanor has declined to extend to Gloucester an off er of friendship through which he may know that there is another who see the world as he does. Through her own ambitions, Eleanor has excluded herself completely from the world of her husband. She has fortified herself against ever having to unders t and him, believe him, and believe in him. Eleanor stubbornly persists in excluding and isolating herself . She continues to stand alone as the single uncommitted "I" throughout the ordeal of her public penance and banishment. Even in the face of such tenacious self - absorption Gloucester never completely abandons his wife . He refuses to pass judgement upon her in public when she is not present , saying , "And for my wife , I know not how it stands . " (II,i,186) At her tr ial he adds no personal condemnation to that of the law: "Eleanor, the law, thou seest, hath judged thee. I cannot justify whom the law condemns." (II,iii,15) Once again Gloucester turns to his responsibilities as Protector to provide the guiding principle by which to govern his actions. A protector's main concern must always be to obey the law and so he urges Eleanor . He believes that as long as he remains loyal, true and innocent he remains beyond the reach of his enemies. When Eleanor pushes him to interfere on her behalf he urges her to understand the danger she would place him in, and counsels her to display the patience of a Lady Hotspur. Yet Eleanor cannot tolerate Gloucester's stance , which she sees as timid and weak . While her punishment is bad , it would not be so bad if Gloucest e r would only use it as an occasion to reaffirm by violence or dispensation her special status as "Duke Humphrey's wife and he a prince and ruler of the land . " (II,iv,42) In the long speech which begins around line 27 in scene iv of Act II, Eleanor finally recognizes that she and Gloucester live in different worlds. Faced wi t h the fact that she will never know her husband, she counsels him with the defeatist attitude of sarcasm "to stir at nothing until the axe of death hang over thee" and "to fear not thou until thy foot be snared nor never seek prevention of thy fo e s . " III , i v, 49& 56) Such bit ter i r ony r eveals the comple te lack of hop e i n Eleanor's life . Because her dignity depends entirely upon the opinions of others, Eleanor stands alone and is easily crushed . We are not surprised that a woman with a spirit completely dependent on public postur e has no capacity for enduring the humiliation of open penance . Eleanor can welcome her banishment and death, but never can she abide her shame before the giddy multitude t hat only yester day followed h e r chariot wheels as she rode in triumph through the s t reets . (II,iv,21) She has declined the love of her 9 �husband and in doing so has declined the necessary private sphere which could sustain· her through her ordeal. ·She does not understand why Gloucester must increase her punishment by coming to stand in the street alongside her (II, iv, 19). To Eleanor such an action proclaims only ignorance. She cannot understand her husband's willingness to risk public humiliation so that he can be with her. She would be 'perfectly happy if Gloucester agreed to love her from a distance. She asks only that he close himself up within his private room and nurture hatred toward her enemies (II, iv, 24). Eleanor does not see how such hating might well banish all love from Gloucester's heart. She does not properly value her marriage to Gloucester - exile, with its. imminent separation, does not disturb her. Historically, men have often perferred death to banishment, expatriation or disinheritance. This suggests the tremendous importance which personal relationships play in life. "Man liveth not by Self alone but in his brother's face". When you forfeit your relationship to the people who share your world you in effect forfeit your world, a loss greater by far than your life. Gloucester is unwilling to let go or distance himself from Eleanor. Though she walks bare-footed through the streets, to Gloucester she is still "~ punishe·d duchess" (II, iv, 7-emphasis my own) . He tries his hardest to let Nell know that in the commitment of marriage you are never cut-off, alone and exiled. Marriage is a covenant which binds two souls together. In that enjoining lies an affirmation which makes possible the fullest of lives. Gloucester can find no proper words t o end his life with Nell, for none exist. Tears are all he has to offer. They are all anyone has to off er when caught between the eternity of commitment and the finality of separation. Eleanor remains, embracing her shame - the only thing still with her. Since she has lost her ambition and with it her world, she puts her remaining energy into hanging onto her grief. · She creates a 'negative world' , a world that inverts all that has gone before. She clings now to shame as she did once to pride. Thus she does not need to establish a new place for herself, since both emotions center totally upon herself. Thinking of herself as nothing but reproach ( II,iv,96), she continues to live in total self-absorption, since both shame aii.d pride arise from judgements of a person's worth. The dynamics and focus of these two emotions do not differ from one another, except in so far as shame changes pride's approval into disapprova l . When Eleanor claims to be nothing more than reproach she does so without any trace of repentance. She has, in fact, changed little from the Eleanor we knew before. She remains unable to l ove or be comforted as beloved. She cries after Gloucester, "All comfort go with thee! " ( I I ,iv,87). She refuses both to forgive though the sheriff has asked outright for her pardon (II,iv,102), and to be forgiven by herself or others - "My shame will not shifted with my sheet" (II, iv, 107). She carries her shame upon her richest robes without an ounce of humility (II,iv,10 7). She stands in need of nothing outside herself which might serve as the starting point for such humbleness. She can extend no offer of gratitude to the sheriff for the gentle execution of his office, since she lacks an understanding of the duties and responsibilities which accompany any position. She continues to believe mistakenly that the individual is all and can determine himself totally. Since she lacks vision of s omething larger than the individual, she does not see how a person can be anything more than those things at which he succeeds or fails. Men are neither easily undone nor moved to vanity when they realize that their worth does not hang upon external deeds alone. Shakespeare forces us to accept the fact that Eleanor has not been redeemed t hr ough her shame. Gloucester, no doubt, had the possibility of such a change in mind when he placed Eleanor under the law and counselled the tolerant abiding of her public penance. He had hoped that the loss of her privileged status would turn her i n t he proper direction. His good-by to Eleanor is made more painful because he 10 knows that she has not been transformed. She has not accepted the possibility that the loss of her "Eden of gratified desire" could bring with it "covenants of redemption and the off er of a higher, more significant life" (L. Trilling). And so, perhaps, it is ' fitting that Eleanor, unable to but command, commands Sir John Stanley in her final lines, "Go, lead the way; I long to see my prison" (II,iv,110). This prison does not differ very much from the one of her own making in which she has always been and always will be confined. Such hopeless words do not mean that our examination of the dynamics of commitment has nowhere else to go. This examination of the importance of the question "Do you love me?" has left us with yet another important question: What can a person who cares do when he faces another who has through self - will alone placed himself beyond the reach of commitment? Gloucester entreats Sir John Stanley, "I pray you use her well" (II, iv, 82). He does not pray for change, but for acceptance: Gloucester accepts Eleanor as another human being who, no matter what, is entitled to be used well. Prospero displays this same recognition in his treatment of Caliban. Caliban's attempt to rape his daughter forces him to accept the fact that Caliban is beyond his help . Yet Prosperso continues to use Caliban well by providing him with the important life- sustaining tasks of carrying water and fetch~ng firewood. For Gloucester and Prospero such good use allows them to respond to those outside their help with something other than pity . Gloucester's refusal to condemn himself along with Eleanor reveals another important response to our second question. Commitment encompasses suffering, but it does not require one member to take on the guilt of the other. Gloucester refuses to share the guilt for Eleanor's punishment which Eleanor herself charges him with ; no r does he allow the members of King Henry's court to saddle him with the guilt of his wife's crime . Even the Queen implies that he may be to blame: "Gloucester , see here the tincture of thy nest, and look thyself be faultless, thou we rt best" (II, i, 182) . He responds by appealing to his love for king and country, and the commitment both car r y . "Madam , for myself to heaven I do appeal, how I have loved my king and commonweal." (II, i, 184) Gloucester def ends his innocence not by claiming to be perfect, but by claiming to be right intentioned. Just as he uses his love of country t o defend himself from this charge, so his love of Eleanor binds him to shar e her shame. When faced with the fact that Eleanor remains beyond his reach, Gloucester not only refuses to condemn himself but, equally important, he refuses to condemn Eleanor any further than the law requires . She is guilty, to be sure, but the acceptance of necessity in man's life entails the acceptance of ·error in man . Man was not meant to be come dependent on perfection as the only world suitable for him . To wish for such things above everything else leaves you forever isolated and disappointed . You will never be capable of seeing the importance of actions which attempt to make the world , not faultless, but only better . Gloucester's answer to the Queen shows that a man's personal dignity cannot hinge on living a life free f r om error . We all make mistakes ; ver y little of life goes on wi t hout them, but we should r emember that one act does not define a person . Lt is this which Eleanor forgets along with hono r and virtue (II,i , 188) . The accep t ance of man's imperfection is a necessary foundation fo r commitment, ye t such an acceptance does not carry with it a condoning of wrongdoing . Gloucester ' s commitment to Eleanor never rested on the perfection of the beloved . Serious commitments can withstand many errors , disagreements and abuses. Such things do not irr econcilably defile commitment , but rather form part and parcel of it . The wondrous nature of love is that we can love another even in his or h er impe r fections . Because Eleano r stands beyond Gloucester 's reach , his love is impo t ent . He can only hope that the natural cycle of t hings may heal her . Recognizing our limited 11 �It knowledge of the future, Gloucester's final counsel to Eleanor and to us is to stand firm against despair over what is to come. Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud, And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter with his wrathful nipping cold; So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. (II,iv,1) Longing for eternal perfection in this life ignores the necessity of the mixture of cares and joys which life brings. Winter must always follow summer, as clouds must sooner or later mar the perfect sky. Cares and joys form a part of life. Commitment's task lies not in eliminating or predicting them, but in accepting them. But we, as mortal men, have no summer to follow our barren winter. It is only with the possibility of a renewed commitment that for us the world may laugh again (II,iv,82). Remembering Jerusalem Christian Holland Fyodor Mikhailovi tch Dostoevsky, at Omsk in the Siberian wilderness, devoted four long years of his young life to hard labor and meditation upon the gospels and epistles of the early saints. Imprisoned with thieves and murderers, the persecuted and the outcast , Dostoevsky prayerfully read sacred tales telling of God's fatherly concern for the well-being of His forgetful, wayward, and covetous children, His forgiveness of our sins despite our fiendish desire to kill Him, and His splendid gift to us of salvation in the person of Jesus the Jew from Nazareth. Dostoevsky especially took to heart St. John's story about the wedding party in Cana, of Galilee, by the Lake of Genesareth, where Jesus changed water into wine so that every person present might be festive and happy. At first with trouble and at last with gladness Dostoevsky responded to God's messenger's voice cordially inviting him to sit down at the seat always reserved uniquely for him, Fyodor Mikhailovitch's place at the banquet table in the temple of the holy city of Jerusalem. Dostoevsky, like Don Quixote, a very special reader, by way of imaginative trust in God's saving word, came to seize upon opportunities for joy among his comrades even in the mines underground . The writer bore his cross beautifully. Hurrah for Dostoevsky! The Brothers Karamazov bears witness to the truth of the words which Dostoevsky read and lived in his cell, the cheerful tidings of Jesus the son of Mary . The Brothers Karamazov tells how a person's right relation to God, piety (eusebeia), alone determines his right relation to himself and his fellows in human conununity, righteousness (dikaiosune) . The Brothers Karamazov is a vast staging of the great drama of the human will which shows trust in God's promise rising up against denial of His mercy, acceptance of God's invitation holding sway over rejection of His ways, and openness to change standing strong beside hardness of heart . The Brothers Karamazov acknowledges the presence of Satan's destroying temptation and God's saving redemption of human beings in Skotoprignyevsk, Russia . The Karamazov brothers are true - to - life people, and I shall attend to their failings, struggles, and triumphs, which all have to do in one way or another with Jesus Christ. I hope and pray that nothing I shall say will make you take offense at him, "the bread of life, the well-spring of holiness, the giver of good gifts "(Prayer, St. Basil the Great). i. Apostasy Ivan Fyodorovitch Karamazov at the tender age of twenty four has already published numerous newspaper articles on street incidents under the pseudonym "Eye-Witness" and as many book reviews on a wide range of special topics under his own name . Ivan prides himself on his detachment and learning, his sticking to the facts and relating events just as they happen, his seeing things in focus from a Christian Holland, '.84, is currently living in a monastic community at Chevetogne, Belgium, studying the music , art, liturgy and theology of the Catholic Church, Orthodox and Roman . Christian is a pilgrim on his way to Jerusalem . u 13 �cannot run away from or deny his conscience without allying himself with Satan's entourage, without turning into a monster . Ivan's anger, grief, and despair come out into the open when he relates his collection of anecdotes on the suffering of innocents to his younger brother in the Metropolis Tavern. Our piling up of suffering upon suffering, adults murdering infants, parents inflicting abuse on their own children, is reason enough, according to Ivan, to re ject God's creation and tender of final peace and joy . How could God, whose fullness of being is self-giving love, create our world knowing that harmless and vulnerable children would be mercilessly tortured? How can He prepare for a feast of song and dance in eternity when even a single innocent child is to be beaten in time? Ivan accepts that God alone could have brought life into being, but he rejects His mysterious plan of salvation on the basis of its apparent utter absurdity. we have been created as a mockery. We are creatures with an inborn need to untangle the perplexing knots present in the world and in our nature, and we have not been granted the capacity to accomplish what is uniquely our task. Our limited, euclidean intellect yearns above all for justice and order yet at every turn meets only with violence and chaos. What shall we say? Are we going to cling to fairness, the source and center of human right, and still forgive the child- murderer? Ivan : "I don't want the mother to embrace the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! ... the suffering of her tortured child she has no right to forgive; she dare not forgive the torturer, even if the child were to forgive him! And if that is so, if they dare not forgive, what becomes of harmony? Is there in the whole world a being who would have the right to forgive and who would forgive? I don't want harmony . For the love of humanity I don't want it ... I would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation even if I were wrong." Instead of looking for guidance from his elders and betters, people with more wisdom and toughness, Ivan stubbornly regards with repulsion the glaring ugliness of newspaper clippings. He won't begin to comprehend God's will and way until he moves right up close to and touches the child's and the mother's anguish, until he enters into it but this he refuses to do. Ivan wrongly believes that he must abide alone and rern~in aloof in order to gain some knowledge of the truth; he mistakenly thinks that facts of themselves fall · miraculously together to. reveal the way things are· Yet it is not the falsity of his position that demands our attention so much as his unwillingness to feel what wretches feel. St. Paul: "I delight in the law of God, in my inmost self, but I see in my members another law at war with the law of my heart and making me captive to the law of sin which dwells in my members . Wretched man that r am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!" (Rom. 7:23-25). Sadly, Ivan does not turn to the psalmists in his sorrow. They are struggling with a concern which goes even deeper than the suffering of innocents: the suffering of the righteous, passio iusti: "Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all" (Ps. 34: 19) . Ivan speaks as though anyone who does approach and touch an abused child's pain will end up sharing his beliefs. He knows nothing of what it ~eans to be a person who endures persecution and still trusts that she is safely in the hands of the living God. The poor young girl whose parents beat her and bind her feels God with her even in the midst of her di.stress . Ivan does not have the ears to hear her prayers from the outhouse; he is only embittered by them. If Ivan would ·give his heart to a careful reading of certain Psalms alongside the event at Golgotha -- "O my God, I cry by day, but thou dost not answer; and by night, but find no rest" (Ps .22: 2) -- he might learn something about graciously bearing suffering even when faced with God-forsakenness. Jesus is the only person who has led a perfectly innocent and fully righteous life and in his anguish to the point of death, Alyosha finds a ready-to-hand answer ' . to Ivan's outc ry. Jesus the Son of God can "forgive everything, all and for all, because he gave his innocent blood for all and everything." This somewhat groping, distance. Although his own discipline is natural science, Ivan is quite well known and much talked about among literary groups, and to everyone's surprise he has even published a piece in one of the leading journals on the question of the ecclesiastical courts. Ivan would have the church gain total control over the judicial system. With clergymen presiding over secular as well as ecclesiastical cases, the criminal would no longer be able to appease his conscience by looking upon his wrongdoing as a transgression against men but not against Christ. Instead, he would have to face the horror of being accursed by church officials: 'anathema' • Ivan supports the transformation of the state into the church as a way to bring about "the honest adoption ..• of the idea of the regeneration of the criminal, of his reformation and salvation." He is desperately serious about liberating not only criminals but all human beings from affliction and oppression, from the weakness and sinfulness of our past, from the unspeakable miseries, injustices, and calamities which date back to Eve's and Adam's fall from God's grace. The narrator calls Ivan's article "an impudent, satirical burlesque," and there is some truth to that claim, but it does not take account of his grave concern for people's well-being. Although Ivan writes in direct opposition to the views of a le~rned churchman, he cleverly manages to find favor in the eyes of certain monks. Father Paissy and Father Iosif applaud Ivan's salvific plan without challenging him to be less abstract and showy. Only Father Zossima properly remarks that the church never rightly refuses a criminal the blessed sacrament, for his spiritual health depends upon the abiding presence in him of Jesus the healer and forgiver. St. Simeon Metaphrastes, a sinner, prays: "Enter into my members, into every part of me, into my very heart and soul. Burn up the thorns of all my sinning; cleanse my soul, sanctify my imagination; bind firmly togethe r my joints and my bones; illumine the five senses of my body; fix my entire being in the fear of You." (P rayer, St. Simon Metaphrastes) In response to Ivan's wrongheaded belief that the criminal's conscience can be easily manipulated and assuaged Father Zossima tells a story about a man named Mihail who once confessed to the holy listener a terrible crime. Fourteen years prior to his turnabout Mihail murderered the woman whom he loved shortly before her proposed marriage to a nobleman serving as an officer in the army. Mihail carried out the act with cunning and audacity enough to escape notice and direct the blame toward an unlucky servant, Pyotr. Being a man of strong will, Mihail almost succeeds in forgetting his act. He tries to avoid the past by marrying another woman. The opposite happens. The beauty of his wife and the innocence of his children continually remind him of his own vileness and unworthiness . The more others respect him, the more he detests himself . Mihail, haunted by blood, resolves that only confession will bring healing and peace to his soul, but he is afraid of the evil memory he will plant in his children's hearts. Zossima assures him that God will care for the children and that he must accept responsibility for his crime. Mihail finally admits to his guilt at his birthday celebration . Everyone thinks him mad, and no one believes him. Soon after he dies reconciled to God, to himself, and to his family and friends. Zossima was sent to cite St. Paul at the crucial moment : "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God" (Heb. 10:31). St. John Chrysostom's choir sings: "Blessed are they that suffer persecution for conscience' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven" (Thi rd Antiphon, Mass of the Cat_echumens.; Divine Liturgy). Some day close at hand Ivan will have to endure fierce punishment inflicted by his conscience's recognition of his sin, but for the time being he refuses to allow. that conscience wields such power, that a person who perpetrates a crime against an innocent will perhaps never forgive himself until he becomes aware that God has taken him into His gentle embrace. Ivan does not see that after a criminal act the evildoer needs to be forgiven quite as much as the victim needs to be wept over. The worst punishment a person can undergo com.es from within . The sinful human being 14 11 15 �II inadequate, and unhelpful response to Ivan's down-to-earth pain sounds ·like a parody of Father Zossima's dictum: "all are responsible to all for all and everything." A novice-like, jwnbled theological line is all that Alyosha can come up with. It is the only option left open to him by Ivan's obnoxiously argumentative speech. Ivan's story entitled "The Grand }:_~q'l!isi tor", which is intended partly to cast scorn on the saving efficacy of Jesus' self-sacrifice, instead reminds Alyosha of the Christ he knows and cares for, the Christ who is close to his heart, the Christ who walks through the pages of the gospels doing nothing but good things for whoever puts their trust in him and his Father. Ivan's grandiose and motionless poem in prose (the Grand Inquisitor ) has as its deepest concern a question quite simple and close to the human heart: why and how are we supposed to go about showing care and love for our friends and neighbors? Ivan presents Alyosha with a Cardinal of the Roman church in sixteenth century Seville during the Spanish Inquisition. The Cardinal claims to know what love is all about and to endure great hardships while carrying out heroic acts of virtue for the benefit of mankind. He burns heretics at the stake for the same devilish reason Stalin wiped out the faithful, to obliterate any imposition or opposi ton to hi·s salvific plan. The questions are always the same: Why should human beings have to suffer and go hungry?· Are there not a few powerful and ingenious enough to bring order, peace, and happiness to humankind? Force the masses to forget their empty prayers and foolish songs of praise and won't we be on the r oad to blessedness? Look around! What could be more certain than God's lack of concern fo r us? Why not curse Him, call Him a fantasy, and set to the more urgent work of saving ourselves? Why wait around for God's kingly rule in heaven when we can have our own blissful reign on earth? St. Paul announces that God's glory will be fully made manifest only after the coming of the great Gainsayer , the Anti- Christ, whose favorite disciple is the Grand Inquisitor: "Let no one deceive you in any way; for the day will not come, unless the rebellion comes first, and the man of lawlessness is revealed, the son of perdition who opposes and exhalts himself against every so - called god or object of worship, so that he takes his seat in the temple of God, proclaiming himself to be God" (2 Thess. 2: 3-4 ) . The Roman Cardinal claims to be an almighty knower: one who knows what is best for the rabble who are too weak and ignorant to take care of themselves. Bringing light into the pitch-black dungeon in which he has imprisoned Jesus, "the true light that enlightens every man" (Jn. l: 9 ) , the Inquisitor speaks "openly of what he has thought in silence for ninety years." He is convinced that his power and experience are indubitable signs of wisdom far beyond what ordinary men possess. With assumed authority he argues for his so-called right to control totally their lives and their destiny. Having lived the better part of his life as a monk in the wilderness, after the example set by John the Baptist and the early desert Fathers, the Inquisitor has given prolonged meditation to the sayings and doings of Jesus and his disciples as they are related to us in the writings of the early saints. The Cardinal understands the salvific scheme which is at the core of Jesus' message and the apostles' ministry, and he knows it's all wrong. Evagrius, a fourth century writer on the experiences of pious men in the desert, talks abo ut the temptatio ns and tribulations which a monk must pass thro ugh on his way to spiritual wholeness. Living apart from the noises and dist r actions of public life so that he may better attend to the whisperings of his heart, the hermit's long-suffering and arduous task is to grow to discern which voices are God's angels and which voices are Satan's demons . When the devil comes to test him he respo nds with a passage from Holy Scripture especially chosen to combat that temptation. This practice has as its theological foundation Christ's citation of Deuteronomy in response to Satan's wilderness temptations (Matt. 4:1-11; Lk. 4:1-13). After receiving the gift for discerning voices and after repeatedly citing the appropriate responses in order to resist those that are evil, the hermit is near enough to God to 16 become almost invulnerable to the dark whisperings of his heart . The Father being with him and the Holy Spirit dwelling in him, the monk is set free from sin and made a slave to righteousness (Rom . 8:12). For: "Where the Spirit of the Lo rd is, there is freedom" ( 2 Cor . 3 : 17) • Ivan refers to this desert tradition when he asks the devil of his nightmare: " ..• did you ever tempt the holy men who ate locusts and prayed seventeen years in the wilderness ... ?" The devil : "My dear fellow, I've done nothing else . One forgets the whole world and all the world, and sticks to one such saint, for he is a very precious diamond . " The Grand Inquisitor's term in the desert was a good deal longer than seventeen year s , yet he confuses questions with temptations and he cannot discern good from evil voices . The Cardinal reveals the fruits of his prolonged meditation in the context of Christ's desert temptations : "For in those three questions the whole subsequent history of mankind is, as it were, brought together into one whole, and fo r etold, and in them are unified all the unsolved historical contradictions of human nature . " The Inquisitor does not find in the gospels truthful stories which offer him new possibilities for living and being glad among his fellows; instead, he finds a g r and scheme which sums up in a closed and compact formula the subterranean ways of human beings . The fishermen and tax- collecters who wrote the gospels astoundingly surpass the eldest sages and most renowned philosophers with their ability to embody in a single chapter the great riddle of human being. Sadly , the Inquisitor cannot open his heart to simple story- telling, an activity which seeks to enliven mysteries in all their depth and does not anxiously strive to explain away hidden things with an easy, clear and distinct category . The Cardinal's condemnation of Jesus is based on his conviction that Jesus truly loves only the elect, those fit for the eremitical life, the proud and strong, leav i ng the humble and weak to fend for themselves and endure an eternity of sorr ows . Je s us refuses to give up heavenly bread -- "every word that proceeds from the mouth of God" (Dt . 8 : 3) -- in order to provide all people with sufficient earthly bread by way of s ome spectacular marvel . Jesus allows simple, troubled folk -- you and me -freely to cho o se him as our spiritual nourishment -- "he who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him" (Jn . 6 : 56) -- rather than stomping on our wills by giving us an indubitable sign of his divinity, feeding us like a herd of cattle . The Inquisitor has no patience with Jesus' way of going about doing things . How indeed can downcast and downtrodden human beings who are in no position to feed themselves and their children, the poor who are always with us and the hungry who are dying every minute of every hour of every •.• how can such destitute and despondent people receive the benefits of the words which God has spoken through His prophets and holy men? How can Jesus in all fairness expect a mother on the verge of starvation, looking despairingly upon her children's bloated stomachs, to turn aside from wrongdoing and seek after righteousness? We might answer by saying that God has provided us with earthly bread in abundance, and only due to our inability to get along with one another is the wheat grown in one country held back from the needy in other parts of the world . But a brief story hits closer to the mark. Mother Teresa of Calcutta tells how she was once pa's sing through a remote region of India when she suddenly came upon a village filled with starving families. Immediately she sent trucks out for food and medical supplies. While her helpers were away she sat and talked with a mother of four children in her broken-down shanty . The trucks returned and came directly to Mother Teresa . She set out food for this family before moving on to the others . But something peculiar happened. The mother told her children to wait· and not to eat . She left the hut . She was away for a short while and came back with the other members of the village. Only when they were gathered together in conununity, after offe r ing up prayers of thanksgiving, only then did they begin to eat . The Cardinal accuses Jesus of evildoing by treating ordinary people as if they we r e strong enough to hold fast to thei r faith and obey the law written on thei r 17 �The Inquisitor condemns Jesus also on the grounds that he refuses to establish himself as the supreme authority at whose feet all people can knowingly bow down with reverence: "The craving for community of worship is the chief misery of every man individually and of all humanity from the beginning of time." Religious wars and persecutions come to be on account of our lack of a common figure upon whom we can all agree as being worthy of adoration. Jesus had the opportunity to relieve our chief misery by throwing himself down from the pinnacle of the temple, by being saved by God's angels, in order to prove beyond doubt that he alone is the Son and that he alone sits at the Father's right hand. In response to Satan's test Jesus says simply: "You shall not tempt the Lord your God" (Dt. 6:10). Jesus does not withstand Satan's temptation as a sign for men to worship whatever or whomever they please. Jesus believes that there is no living being worthy of our praise and adoration except He who alone is good (Jn . 17:25-26), the Father. Being without concern for his own identity, for recognition as a person in his own right apart from his Father, Jesus is never anxious about asserting who he is so that others may behold him with wonder and amazement: "I have come in my Father's name" (Jn . 5:42); "I am in the Father and the Father is in me" (Jn . 14:11;10:38). The Inquisitor bitterly rebukes Jesus for never performing a miracle on demand in order to legitimate his mission on earth. St. Mark tells how Jesus is asked for a miracle from heaven not for the sake of doing good for someone immediately in need, bu.t in order to place people in awe of his power, so that God might be understood as the One who is undeniably and vividly present supporting Jesus' activity, the One who confirms and endorses his ministry (Mk. 8:11-12 ) . Everyone around to witness some wonder-working sign might think for sure that this person Jesus has been sent by God as His special agent. Without any other criteria by which to judge -- his teachings or his holiness -- all could knowingly fall down at his feet and worship him as the Most High. st. Mark is careful to show that Jesus declines all such offers to prove himself before men. Jesus knows that people without faith in his father's abiding presence might just as easily conclude from a miracle-sign that he is Beelzebub's agent (Mk . 3: 22) • During his lifetime Jesus remains decidedly inconspicuous. He wishes us to accept him for who he is on the basis of trust alone, "the free verdict of the heart." The cardinal is greatly dismayed that Jesus did not come down from the cross at Golgotha when the crowd reviled and mocked him, saying: "He saves others; he cannot save himself" (Mk . 16:31). Jesus has the dignity of the two thieves at heart. Both have the capacity freely to accept and acknowledge Jesus' saving presence, but only one is good: "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom" (Lk . 23:42). The good thief is the only person of whom we can assuredly say: 'Truly, that man is in paradise' (Lk . 23:43). The Cardinal does not recognize the dignity of the thieves' wills. He boasts that a person who can endure years in the wilderness need not witness miracles, but the ordinary person longs for them with all his soul. The Inquisitor deceives himself in believing that he can endure Christ on the cross. Just as ordinary looks of ordinary people do not drive home an outright worthiness, or show evidence of love freely given through faith, so Christ looks nothing like God on the crG>ss. The Inquisitor is taken in by looks on both accounts. Al though he would be the last to admit it, he desperately wants Jesus to descend and show himself as God. The Cardinal cannot bear the burden of his own freedom, the free verdict of his own heart. There are signs that Ivan also needs Christ to come down from the cross. When he abruptly takes leave of his brother outside the tavern, Alyosha notices that he walks with a sway and that his left shoulder is raised higher than his right. On the Byzantine Cross the footrest is slanted so that the raised right side symbolizes the thief who affirms Jesus and the lowered left side the thief who denies him. Ivan belongs to the crowd of those who say: "Are you not the Christ? save yourself and us" (Lk . 23 :3 9). But there is hope. When Alyosha takes note of hearts even when faced with death. The saints and martyrs showed themselves able to follow Jesus out of fear and to serve him out of love, despite being persecuted and tortured, but the common man, according to the Inquisitor, is "weak, vicious, worthless, and rebellious ••• ever sinful and ignoble." It may be true that a Russian soldier in Asia "refused to deny his faith, and was tortured, flayed alive, and died, praising and glorifying Christ," but the rest of us won't stand for deprivation and affliction. We shall do everything in our power to avoid a confrontation with pain. If need be, we shall abandon Jesus for sausage and vodka. Suffering must be held at a distance. Full of anger and spite, the Inquisitor accuses Jesus of misunderstanding human beings in a profound way, considering us capable of imitating him when we cannot even keep from destroying curse 1ves and one another. "By showing him so much respect, thou didst, as it were, cease to feel for him, for thou didst ask far too much from him -- thou who hast loved him more than thyself." This is the wickedest and wretchedest fact that history gives us: Jesus did not know how to love ordinary people. He must therefore be of the devil. The Cardinal suggests that Jesus is himself the great Gainsayer who thrives on nefarious practices: "And so unrest, confusion, and unhappiness -- that is the present lot of men after thou didst bear so much for their freedom!" We only grudgingly persuade ourselves of our responsibility for our sins; we allow our wrongdoing to pass by unacknowledged; we go about idly pretending that our actions have no influence on our fellows. In short, we forget Jerusalem. Why in God's name does Jesus command us to be perfect as our Father in heaven is perfect, and to love others as He loves us (Jn.15 :1 2)? The Inquisitor accuses Jesus of being a criminal: "I shall condemn Thee and burn Thee at the stake as the worst of heretics." The Cardinal's strength and pride led him as a young man to make great demands on himself, living in poverty and solitude, hoping that wilderness prayer would bring him close to God and lead him to do His will. But the Inquisitor strayed from God, opposing His will by attending dutifully to evil voices, saying: 'You are holy and upright; you kneel and fast by seasons and years; you see the light; why isn't everyone else just like you, a model of saintliness?' In the desert the Inquisitor became convinced that only mighty heroes can endure the sight of Christ's saving agony at Golgotha . Father Ferapont's heavy chains, fierce discipline, lengthy fasts, battles with devils, and proud self-righteousness make him one of the Cardinal's chosen. Attending mass, partaking in the eucharistic celebration, the central life-receiving activity of the monk, is too commonplace for Father Ferapont. He must be always on the watch for demons, granting no one forgiveness and accusing everyone of sin. Regarding Ferapont as a foolish, crazy, religious idiot, who cannot do anyone harm, is a shade misguided. His hatred of Father Zossima and his desire to bring about the saintly man's downfall are significant threats to others' proper understanding of righteousness. People are inclined to bow down before Ferapont -"This is the one who is a saint! This is the one who is a holy man!" -- and turn away from Father Zossima. When Ferapont falls to the earth and waters it with his tears, he is not embracing God's creation and he will not rise to bring forth good fruit for the gladness of others. He is instead passing judgement on the Elder's premature corruption: "My God has conquered! Christ has conquered the setting sun!" Father Ferapont yields to the most challenging temptation facing the hermit yearning for wholeness of being and purity of heart. After achieving a full command of worldly voices, this ascetic comes to see himself as a strongman who has truly fulfilled Christ's wish for him to be perfect. Exhal ting himself and casting despising glances at those among us who grasp needily for basic comforts, Ferapont is in danger of being like the Inquisitor, a misanthrope, one who expects from ·others more than they can accomplish and so ends by hating them. The Cardinal's complaints against Jesus all recoil back on himself. 18 II 19 �his disfigured brother, Ivan has his back turned, so that his shoulders and the footrest look identical. If Ivan bears his cross well, he may some day find himself in the hands of the living God. Jesus by upholding freedom has paved the way for rebellion, for the clever people in league with Satan who know what is just and best for all, for the Inquisitor and his mighty co-workers who will finish building the Tower of Babel which the weak have begun but cannot complete. These master builders have yielded to Satan's last temptation of Christ in the desert by falling down and worshipping Beelzebub, the Dragon, the great Gainsayer, who first caused the angels to defect, then Adam, and finally the whole people of God (Schillebeeckx' Jesus: An Experiment in Christology, pg. 277). The Cardinal and his brethren are setting out to rule the kingdoms of the earth "with all power and pretended signs and wonders, and with all wicked deception" (2 Thess. 2:9). Both Satan and the Inquisitor wish above all for mankind's earthly happiness and will pay any price to achieve it, including the annihilation of all that is sacred. The heroic proclamation of the Cardinal and the ecclesiastical rulers is that they are doing God's work, so that the weak can rest assured in their conviction of an afterlife filled with t he beatific vision. The strongmen will suffer greatly knowing that it is all a lie, but the ignorant masses will be blessed with a life which is "a child's game, with children's songs and innocent dance." The rulers will bear the burden of people's sins, taking God's place in the temple and acting proudly as saviors of one and all. Accepting without question this clear division among human beings between the few mighty heroes and the many weak sinners, the Inquisitor believes that he and his cohorts can take full possession of men's freedom and force them to be obedient to "a mystery which they must follow blindly, even against their conscience". Earthly bread, salved consciences, and Caesar·' s sword are the conditions necessary for the fulfillment of Ivan's dream of a church-governed state . The progressive establishment of paradise on earth has been going on, according to our young intellectual, ever since Pope Stephen III accepted the ownership of vast property from King Pepin the Short of the Franks in 756 shortly before the last ecumenical council recognized by the Orthodox church in 787. Father Zossima, who keeps an ivory Roman Catholic cross among his ikons , would say that by perverting the representation of the true God and by pretending to be his faithful servant the Inquisitor is in fact establishing hell on earth. If human beings are deprived of their ability to offer up their love freely, they are right away placed in the burning pit. The Cardinal will set the world afire by laying down laws to which submission is absolute and which provide a concrete foundation for totalitarian order.· In all his wisdom the Cardinal naively dreams of determining how the weak ought to live, what they ought to be and to do and to say, how many children they ought to bear, and what kind of clothes they ought to wear. By returning to the strictness of the law the great Tyrant hopes to contrive a way of correcting Jesus' mistaken work, a way of offering salvation to people not at the end of the ages in the celestial land of Jerusalem, but here and now in this life . The remarkable boldness of the Inquisitor's salvific plan consists in his claim that he can justify his action before God on the day of the Lord. His apparent love for human beings is of such heroic stature he is willing to sacrifice himself, to undergo the torments of hellfire, s o that t he wea k c a n liv e in blissf ul i llusion , t a king no responsibility for their evildoing and being deceptively self-satisfied. The Grand Inquisitor will never succeed in hoarding all human beings into one heap under one law by denying us the dictates of our consciences . God has written His law on our hearts and given each of us a conscience uniquely created to bear witness to that law (Rom . 2:15): "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might; and you shall love your neighbor as yourself" (Dt. 6:4; Lev . 19:18; Mk. 12:29; Lk. 10:27; Rom. 13:18; Gal. 5:14). My 20 conscience may lead me to follow God's law in a way different from yours, and your conscience may lead you to follow His law in a way different from mine. I might sing holy songs and you might work in a soup kitchen, or I might dig ditches and you might lead the union . But as long as we are giving testimony to the law, our ways are good. we shall never condemn or damn one another because we shall trust one another. I shall never feel compelled to pry into your heart if I trust that you are bearing witness to God's law as well as you are able according to the dictates of your conscience, and fo r the same reason you shall never .feel compel~ed to. pry i~to mine . God loves each of us in our particularity and the gift of conscience is a sign of that love . His love for me is different from His love for you because the drama of my will is different from the drama of your will •. My dou?ts, anxie~ies, and fea:s are not yours , and yours are not mine. We both require special attention, but not in the same way. The Inquisitor's hardness of heart will not allow him to b~ op~n to the possibility that God bears a special relation to each and every person in his or her particularity . He denies that with our capacity to accept God's saving help e a ch and every human being possesses an unshakable dignity. Ivan Joins in partnership with the Cardinal when in his other poe~, "The Geological cataclysm", he rejects God and takes up the theme of the exhaltation and autonomy of certain powerful and brilliant people. Ivan i~ obsessed with the. noti~n of standing alone apart from God and his fellows. He thinks that by asserting his independence he is being fully himself, but he ends up showing everyone with ~yes to see that he is desperately lonely and needy. When he sees Alyosha outside the Metropolis Tavern, Ivan yells out that he is upstairs in a room of his own, isolated from the lowlife. It turns out that Ivan is in the same room with the other people in the tavern, with drunkards and billiard-ball players; he is only separated from them by a screen. Ivan tries to persuade himself that he is removed . from and elevated above others in an absolute and definitive way. In truth he is merely setting up a precarious screen between himself and others which can easily be ~n?cked ove r . Ivan must learn the hard way that being a person does not mean attainin~ a divine state through the human intellect . Being a person means first acknowledging his dependence on God for being and for all good things and then acknowledging his necessary relation to others in human community, recognizing them for who they are and being eager to be recognized by them for who he is, Ivan Fyodorovitch Karamazov, not some false . and imaginary superman. Ivan's writings reveal a good deal about him but it would be wrong to judge him on this basis alone . It is almost always the case that what a person feels most pressed to say or to write is what is closest to his heart. "The Gra~d I.n:ru~sitor'!and "The Geol ogical c at ac l ysm"depictivan's v i sion of a n apocalypse , an end t i me ~hen ~11 contradictions will be untangled, all absurdities will make sense, all confusion will be clarified, all sorrow will turn to joy, all suffering will be fruitful. Paradoxically, the apocalypse brought about by Ivan's god-like heroes conceals the truth from people instead of revealing it to _ them. Ivan has spent hour after hour poring over the gospels and Paul's letters, the book of ?aniel and. Revelatio~, but as in his reading of Christ's temptations he seems to miss the point by anxiously searching for categories. Ivan wants keys to ~nlock the riddles of the cosmos so that he can know just how everything fits together, just where everything belongs, just who people are, what human nature is, what our destiny is, what. our s~ffering accomplishes. He cannot hold back and patiently wait to see how things will turn out. we ought not make Ivan's mistake when we try to understand him. We have a nasty tendency to put him into the box of intellectual pride, and leave him there, as if we know who he is and what he is all about. Yet are we not, like Ivan, repulsed by suffering? And do we not share his dream to make suffering go away once and for all? Isn't this repulsion and this dream a major source of Ivan's willfulness and pushiness and impatience? The nagging dilemma facing such a one as Ivan, the 21 �intellectual par exellence, is: Can my grandiose, brilliant , p r osaic thoughts be made consistent with a healthy way of going about living? If what I believe to be true does not make sense in practice, why on earth do I believe what I believe? ii. Satanic Drama Through their eloquent flow of words both speakers wish to be recognized -- the Inquisitor by Jesus and Ivan by Alyosha -- as simple human beings who are in anguish, not as sophisticated intellectuals who offer a convincing argument. That the speakers themselves would refuse to admit this is, sadly, only further evidence of its truth . Wherever the devil is at work, appearances deceive and complexities abound . Ivan desperately wants to befriend his brother and even to be healed by him, yet he goes out of his way to hurt Alyosha by uttering blasphemous words whose effect could be to turn him away from Christ . Ivan plays the r ole of tempter while the Cardinal plays the role of accuser. Providentially , Alyosha and Jesus both know that the speakers need more attention than what is being spoken about. They are pres~nt to help heal the wounds deep in the speakers' hearts, not to argue in a trifling manner about high-sounding topics in order to get the better of their rivals. Even in our most ordinary conversations , those far less passionate than Ivan's and the Inquisitor's, do we not say things that we do not mean to say but feel compelled to say on account of a similar wound deep in our hearts? This testifies to our fallen condition, to the activity of Satan and his entourage in our midst, whose whole purpose is to capture slyly or violently holy Jerusalem . How crucial it is on these all -too-frequent occasions, when the black whisperings of our hearts find an angry voice , to have on hand a listener who recognizes that this is what is happening: someone imaginative enough to put himself in our place: someone insightful enough to ignore the content of our harsh , stupid words in order to attend to the true speech of a gesture of our hand, a tone of our voice, or a glance of our eyes. Do we not treat one another too often as machines which speak false words instead of persons who say what is not meant? And do we not judge one another on the basis of such treatment? Ivan and the Cardinal are favored to have listeners with places in their hearts for others' griefs . Ivan acknowledges the presence of grace in his midst, saying: "If I am really able to care for the sticky little leaves I shall only love them, remembering you, Alyosha." Ivan's yearning for the sticky green leaves, springtime, and the blue sky show that God has blessed him with love of life and joyfulness . Yet on account of his ongoing frantic search for fonnulas , for a neat ittle box in which he might lay to rest the horrors and calamities of the world, Ivan tends to deny his thirst, the source and center of his human being . Alyosha's awareness of the importance of loving "with one's inside, with one's stomach" leads him to command Ivan to relax his struggle with the meaning of life and to "love life, regardless of logic .•. it must be regardless of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it." Alyosha's simple words hit closer to home than Ivan's grand words. Truly, we enter into the mystery of being alive by going about doing things with freshness and gladness: hiking in the woods, cooking for friends, playing Mozart sonatas, greeting strangers, spreading hope, in short, doing God's will . Ivan's difficulty is that he has to observe coldly the meaning, he has to factualize it, before he can enter into the act of living . He stubbornly refuses to believe that acceptance of grace, bowing to God's creative saving activity, must go hand in hand with belonging to any mystery. We cannot solve life's mystery. It is not a puzzle. we can, however, belong to it, leap into it by singing and dancing, and suffering. God being the source of life, a person can peaceably let things be by trusting in His goodness. Pathetically, Ivan is prevented from recognizing God's heedfulness because of His 22 hiddenness, and so he recklessly goes around imposing his own will on others and his own categories on the world, dead to hope and charity. Dmitri is referring to more than Ivan's closedness when he call him "a tomb." Ivan: "I want to travel in Europe ••. yet I know I am only going to a graveyard ••• precious are the dead that lie buried there .•• ! know I shall fall on the ground and kiss those stones and weep over them ••• I shall steep my soul in emotion." Jesus tells a parable about a sower who goes about sowing his seeds in abundance. He sows his seeds all around regardless of the ground they fall upon, so that some farmer standing nearby might laugh at him for his apparent carelessness. Some seeds fall on rocky ground, others among thorns: some fall on dry, infertile soil, others on rich, moist soil. Ivan will fall as a seed on rocky European ground, watering the stones with his tears. It is scarcely possible for such a seed to bring forth fruit. Ivan is himself the stony ground who does not nurture the growth of the seeds of grace that are implanted in him time and time again. He betrays his native Russian soil by setting himself apart from and against God, the Holy Trinity. Instead of striving to be like the Russian peasant woman who with simple faith lights candles at church in remembrance of Christ's sacrifice and in acknowledgement of His Spirit's divine presence, Ivan wishes to steep himself in the memory of European geniuses, some of whom tried to kill God with their bludgeonous words and to enforce their salvific rule on men with their satanic wills. The Russian peasant woman's emotion is wholesome; her tears bring life to the goodness of her heart. Ivan's emotion is troublesome; his tears inflict injury on the goodness of his heart and seek to bring about its death. Trapped in the pit of self-laceration -- our hideous tendency to destroy ourselves just to feel something vibrant -- Ivan is burdened by a "great grief". He sways between belief and disbelief, hope and despair, love and hate, life and death: he is torn between God and Satan, pious humility and titanic pride. Ivan cannot decide whether he is going to head for Europe to join the ranks of the almighty knowers, Satan's crowd correcting Jesus' work, or whether he is going to remain in his homeland and yield to the simple cheerfulness of his native soil . Father Zossima, the great reader of souls, addresses Ivan's unhappy uncertainty and indecision: "You know that is the peculiarity of your own heart and all its suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator who has given you a lofty heart capable of such suffering; of thinking and seeking higher things, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant that your heart will attain the answer on earth, and may God bless your path." Ivan, aware of the presence of grace and holiness in the person of Father Zossima, "rose from his seat, went up to him, received his blessing and kissing his hand went back to his place in silence." The "finn and earnest" look which comes on Ivan's face after this his most open-hearted gesture, is a sign that he may some day gain "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" (Heb . 11: 1) . Ivan may never fully accept God's saving help, but he most certainly will never reject it out of hand. Pe,rhaps he will gaze upon the beauty of repentance, will raise up his dead, his peasant simplicity and gladness, in the future, but for the time being all that he sees is ugliness and degradation. The image of his father's vileness and buffoonery is always present to · Ivan as a warning not to thirst too strongly for too long. He will dash his cup to the ground at age thirty for fear that his quest will no longer be urgent and his passion will degenerate into mere sensuality. Loathing his father's reckless debauchery, Ivan condemns him as a man who has no attachment to higher things. The portraits of the bishop and the prince which hang on his father's living-room wall are a farce and a mockery. The old man lacks all nobility. Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov's words and deeds attest to the activity of Satan's disciples in our world, those uproariously hideous beings who wreak havoc at every opportunity, who give free play to their insatiable desire for devastation, who seek to destroy all that is good and noble and all that makes people cheerful and happy, 23 �all that is beau tiful, ail that is God 's doing, f o r the v ery reason t h at it is s uch . Fyodor was devilishly drawn t o I v an's mo t her b y her yout h ful b eauty a n d i nnoce nt piety . An orphaned girl of sixteen , t o rme nted b y her benefactre ss, Sophia looked t o Fyodor f o r affection and stability when he rescued her from the general's widow a nd e loped with her. Instead, after Ivan 's birth a year later, Fy odo r, with t otal disregard f o r family life, began to act out the part of a "le c herous fien d" a nd "vicious prof l igate." Under the influence of lustful demons Fyodor h o sted o r g ies and c arnivals, b rin ging whores and clowns into the home o f the timid and g ent le So phia, who at the time still had Ivan at her breast. Having been "kept in terror from her c hildhood" by the steady work o f Satan's demo ns, Sophia, exhausted a nd frighte n ed, breaks under their destroying power. They enter ' into her and show themselve s in her "terrible fits of hysterics." Fyodo r's grotesq ue revelry, his unwillingness t o offer kindness and love to his own wife, finally drives her to her grave at the t e n d er age o f twenty-four. The inhabitan ts of Skotoprigny evsk are at a l o ss as to why I v an h as retu r ned t o his h ometown i nste ad o f going o ff to Europe t o swear an oath of allegiance to Satan's salvific plan. One hidden reason might . be Ivan's remembering that at his a ge h is mother died in this village. Ivan may hav e a subterranean desire t o take ve ngeance o n his father. He is filled with h o rrib le memo r i es dating b ack to his i n fancy, which, unbeknowst to him, smear hatred in his s o ul and find a bitter voice in his insulting name for Fyodor and Dmitri: "reptiles." Ivan lashes out at the suffering o f inno cents from afar. Now he is righ t up clo se t o one of the t o rturers. What will h e do? Allow his brother t o devour his father? Ivan sees an angel in Father Zossima and a devil in Fyodor, and like Ferapont, he chooses to concern himself with the fiend i n stead o f the seraph . Fyodor is called by the narrator a Roma n o f the decadent perio d. At t h at time it was customary to stage the shameful actions of the pagan gods as a form o f dramatic worship. The plays showing the gods raping and pillaging, killing and stealing , were, sur prisingly , not an offence but a propitiation . The devils' own crimes were used as material for celebrating their praises . Satan's followers "used their influence even to sow and cherish profligacy, by appointing that deeds truly or f a lsely ascribe d to them b e published to the people by means o f theatrical exhibitions, and by gratuitous ly fanning the flame of human lust with the breath of seemingly divine approbation" (St. Augustine's City of God, III) . Taking delight in their evildoing, these malignant and deceitful spirits---even today whisper tempting words which tickle our ears and bring pleasure to our imaginations. Fyodo r pays homage to this crowd of demons by going about playing r idiculous parts, telling stor ies of his own humiliation, reveling in his own disgr ace , and parading "his woes with embellishments . " When a comic role is up fo r grabs, Fyodor, desperately t r ying to make · himself agreeable, is always prepared to make himself the object of laugh ter. Miusov nicknames Fyodor 'Aesop' in response to his fables and 'Pierrot' in respo nse to his clownishness. Father Zossima says that Fyodor plays the buffoon because he is deeply ashamed of himself and because he wishes to fulfill other people's expectations o f who he is, as if he were fixed and immovable with no capacity for change, as if making dumb jokes at rich men's tables were all he could do . Miusov anticipates that Fyodor will do o r say something scandalous and repul s ive at the monastery. He blushe s when he is associated with Fyodor and refuses to admit that Fyodor is his relation. M u s ov is i frightfully anxious about looking bad in the eyes of other s. Yet his perverse need to witness Fyodor being the buffoon he has sized him up to be takes precedence, so that he plays the fall guy for Fyodor j ust to confirm his own convictio ns about Fyodor's sottishn~ss, and ends by looking bad, which is what he wanted most t o avo id. Dev ils play cruel tricks aiding people in self-destruction. Father Zossima sternly ~omrnands Fyodor to stop lying t o himself about himself 24 because in so doing he b r ings violence upon himself . Devils s mile upon the fantastic s pectacle of a ma n g iving and r eceiving abuse with the utmost pleasure . Fyodor want s and needs a cceptance, affir ma t i on , and love, but he does not know how to communicate h is wan t s and needs to othe rs. He t r ies to get othe r s to join i n ·h i s sensuality so t hat everyone may e n ter into the dar kness toge t her . He tries to offe r to others the bene fit s o f h i s yea rs o f p r ofligacy because that is all he has to o ff e r. Fyodor h a s done n o t h i ng els e with his time . Now that he wishes to share his age- earned wi s dom with other s , what else can he do? When Father Zossima rep r imands him fo r lying , he is sever e, but all the same he has a soft gleam i n his eyes . He knows somethi ng Ivan does not : a pe rs on cannot r ightly be judged by his deeds alone . Be s ides being a dis r u ptive sot who a r ouse s contempt and loathing in other s , Fyodor i s a human b e ing with a c a pacity to wor k out his difficultie s and change h is ways . His mo st dest r uctive lie con s ists in pers uading himself that he is not f r e e, that h e is a buf f oon and the r e is no getting a r ound i t . Soon a f te r Father zossima rebukes Fyodor h e is conf r onted by anothe r per son engaged in the elabor a t e activity o f self - deceit , Mme . Hohlakov . She s peaks of he r l a ck of faith , oligopistis , a s king fo r tangible p r oof that the soul is by n ature immor ta l; for her anguish and mise r y , she claims , are a consequence o f this uncertainty , the te r rible thought that the grave might be the end , nothingness . Fathe r zossima sees that the woman 's suffer ing is genuine , but not for a moment does he believe that what she says is the cause is the cause . A per son can no more be judged on the bas i s of wo r ds alone than on the basis of works alone . Mme . Hohlakov has to lear n that concer n with what happens to the soul after death can be idle a nd can p r event a human being from living fully in the present . She is not tormented by anything so removed and abstract as the state of the soul apart from the body . If she wer e , s he would worry more about the scalding pit than about eternal sleep . Yet even here the difficult thing t o face is not hellfi r e , but the awful fact that the life we lived was untr ue , that we did not r ightly understand anyone or anything, that we were b a d to othe rs and bad for others because we were just plain wrong about how to go about being good . Father Zossima tells a story about a pe r son created with the power of saying , "I am and I love," and set upon the ear th only to be g r anted an instant of "active living love . " But "that unhappy creature rejected the priceless gift, p r ized it and loved it not , s corned i t and r emained callous . " How unbearable for any human being to appea r befo r e Christ the Judge in His full glor y, the pe r son who loved us so much that he d i ed for us , without ever having made a sacrifice of living love for the sake of His name , without eve r having acknowledged the gi f t of the Holy Spirit and without ev er having t ake n t he opportunity to act kindly . Such a per son , when face to face with the Give r of the gift and with the human beings who loved him despite the f a c t that he despised their love , must suffer horribly . Now that he sees the beauty of repentance, of allowing himself to be made a living sacrifice by God's grace, it is too late to do anything about it . What greater sorrow than to have God say : 'What was uniquely yours to do you did poorly . ' And what g r eate r joy than to have Him say : 'What was uniquely you r s to do you did beautifully . ' Mme. Hohlakov has the powe r to say, "I am and I love , " as we all do, and only by r epeating this to herself over and over again , and doing something about it while she still has the chance, will she become convinced o f life after death . Father Zossima : " I f you a ttain t o perfect self- forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor, then you will believe without doubt, and no doubt can possibly enter your soul . " Sadly, Ivan and Fyodor a r e not p r esent t o hear these words . Mme. Hohlakov , like Ivan , whom she r espects g re a t ly , and the Inquisitor, i s full of love fo r humanity , f ull of dreams of s elf- sac r if i ce and of saving t he afflicte d a nd g r ieved . Fa ther Zo s sima once k ne w a doctor, a cleve r man, who felt the s a me way , but d is cove r ed somet h i ng ami ss: " the mo r e I love humanit y in gene r al , the le ss I love 25 �of Christ in the desert. He cleverly tries to avoid responsibility for Fyodor' s death by asserting that he was only an agent putting Ivan's teachings into practice: "you murdered him; you are the real murderer; I was only your instrument, your faithful servant, and it was following your words, I did it." Ivan, being tempted at his weakest and most vulnerable state, almost believes that he has gained complete mastery over another human being, that he is fully responsible for Smerdyakov' s actions. Srnerdyakov may be sketched as the living embodiment of all that is base and ugly in Ivan, but he too is a person in his own right, and not merely Ivan's double. Thinking that he has imposed his will so fully on the sequence of events leading to his father's death that he alone is properly to blame, Ivan comes perilously close to denying srnerdyakov's personhood, to denying that Srnerdyakov has a will of his own. The Inquisitor for his part claims that he can take total control of his subjects, implying that they can give up their ability to choose freely in the knowledge of good and evil. He is wrong. As persons we must retain our capacity to repent of our evildoing; we must take responsibility for our own actions; conscience demands it. smerdyakov kills himself in part to punish himself for what he knows was his own doing. The Cardinal cannot even rule over Smerdyakov. The best he can hope to do is rule ove r a crowd. Devils support crowds and themselves make up a crowd. Angels and saints support communities and themselves form a community. Kolya Krassotkin is involved in the same satanic drama when he undertakes to shape the character of his younger friend (Ilusha) . Kolya is fully confident that he knows better than Ilusha what is good for the boy. He wants to whip Ilusha into top form and make a man of him. Wishing to avoid all 'sheepish sentimentality', he is cool in responding to Ilusha' s endearments. For the three days following his and smerdyakov's cruel trick on Perezvon Ilusha is downcast, dejected, and remorseful. Hugging Kolya and shaking all over, Ilusha confesses his crime. Kolya knowingly decides to keep silent around Ilusha and treat him contemptuously until he shows signs of a change in his ways. Kolya actually believes that what he is doing is for the boy's own good. He considers himself Ilusha' s master and savior. But Kolya does not know what he is doing, and he ought not to be so confident that he has the special gift of seeing into Ilusha's heart. Kolya is a merciless master when he is training Perezvon, but the dog takes a perverse delight in being abused. Dog s can be mastered by human beings, but human beings can be mastered only by God. Along with Ivan, Kol ya must learn to treat othe rs with dignity and respect and not go about imposing his own will on his friends as if he were their superior. Along with Fyodor, Kolya must control his fiendish tendency to make a big sensation, to do s omething theatrical just to stir up an effect, to be conspicuous. His need to be on stage prevents him from bringing Perezvon to Ilusha's bedside early enough possibly to save him from death. Both Ivan and Kolya are extremely bright and tend unfairly to use their intellects as show-pieces. While desperately grasping for superficial forms of attention, adoration and applause, they grow to mistrust their urge for tenderness and affection. Ivan and Kolya are gravely mistaken in making an unbridgeable division between the life of the intellect and the life of the heart . Pascal for his part would bring l' esprit de finesse under the domain of the heart, and set aside only l' esprit de- geometrie.-When he says, le coeur a ses raisons que raison ~ connait point, Pascal must mean, l'esprit de fin~se ~ ses-r~ons que ..!.' esprit de geometrie ne connait point. Likewise, when the commandment is given, "to fear the Lord your God, to walk in all His ways, to love Hirn, to serve the Lord your God with all yo~r heart and all your soul" (Dt . 10:12), the intellect need not be mentioned because it is contained by the heart. So much of Ivan's suffering, his madness in particular, seems to arise from his sense of grandeur and superiority at being a thinker and not a feeler. Even when his heart is wholly present, as when he speaks about the suffering innocents, he does his best to hide it by giving a coldly detached account men in particular ... the more I detest men individually, the more ardent becomes my love for humanity." Ivan desperately wants to see suffering ameliorated and evil obliterated for the love of mankind, but he never will. At his worst moments he believes that he has the strength to accomplish this salvific task, yet he abhors his father's company and despises his brother's reckless abandon. What super-might does Ivan possess for the salvation of humanity when he cannot bring himself to be kind and giving even to the people closest to him in blood and heart? Ivan and the Inquisitor, and maybe Mme. Hohlakov, share a lofty disdain for the masses no matter what they say about their concern for the weak. By considering themselves superior to ordinary men, being independent and without sin, by considering themselves superior even to Jesus Christ, they make it impossible for themselves to enter into active love, sharing in conunonplace, dirty suffering, and touching feeble, infirm human beings. The Cardinal, Ivan, and Mme Hohlakov, for all their knowledge and wealth-perhaps because of it-are dreamers, not doers. Father Zossima has words for such people: " ... love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams. Love in dreams is greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed in the sight of all. Men will give their lives if only the ordeal doesn't last long but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as though on stage. But active love is labor and fortitude, and for some people too, perhaps, a complete science." Dreamers cannot endure the prospect of giving and not receiving a proportionate measure in return. In the Inquisitor's salvific scheme the mighty insist on being glorified as saviors for their suffering; their own salvation consists in being worshipped. Heroes are people who make their great works manifest in public (andreis epiphaneis), which is why there is no such thing as a sanctified hero . The pious person who truly loves and serves God always wishes to be inconspicuous and never wishes to be adored. Certain saintly people make themselves seen and known, but only because their action redounds for the benefit of others . Mother Teresa inwardly possesses the true spirit of active love and outwardly has the business down to a science. The Inquisitor of Seville sits high on his throne ru ling as a cowardly tyrant with absolute authority over his subjects . Mother Teresa of Calcutta gets down on her hands and knees and bravely scrubs the floor as a servant to the sick and the dying. That woman's toughness makes Ivan look like a whimpering boy~ Mother Teresa's spiritual fruits arise from and are consistent with her trust in the teachings of Jesus Christ . Ivan, although he has the cunning and audacity to write "The Grand Inquisitor" and "The Geological Cataclysm", has not the conviction to put his teachings· into practice . The di vision between what he will allow in his words -- "everything is lawful" -- and what he will allow in his works causes a rift in his entire being . It comes as no surprise that Ivan the hypocrite eventually suffers from madness. He insists upon the stubborn nature of his euclidean intellect, which cannot withstand the absurd, yet he himself is a living paradox, saying things he doesn't really believe, things whose practical application would result in anarchy, nihilism, and parricide . It so happens that there is a literal-minded lackey around who will without hesitation carry Ivan's sayings into action, and Ivan must be held responsible for carelessly tossing his prosaic, elevated words in every direction and letting them fall on the receptive ears of smerdyakov . Ivan playfully amuses himself in conversation as if his words had no deep and .abiding influence on others; he makes outrageous claims just for an effect as if his brilliance were an excuse for his arrogance. What infuriates Ivan beyond all telling is that Srnerdyakov, a born slave, should consider himself to be in partnership with Ivan, the ubermensch, that his hyper- grandiose notions shoul~ be so easily put into practice by a low, cowardly dandy . Ivan must come to terms with the banality of · his own heroic ideal. His talk with a devil who is nothing but a tasteless bourgeois serves this purpose all right. smerdyakov tests Ivan with the simplest formulation of Satan's last temptation 26 II 27 �11 of what he has read in the newspaper. If only Ivan could come to see that the life of his heart and the life of his intellect are not all that different, and what difference there is requires the heart to take precedence over the intellect, then perhaps he would be at peace with himself and others. If Katya can show him warmth and kindness, and if Ivan can openly receive her warmth and kindness, maybe some day he will gladly hear Pascal's words: C' est le coeur qui sent Dieu et non la raison. Voila ce que c' est que la foi. DieU-seriSible au coelir;" non a--rai"sOil: ('Pensee #424). Neither can Smerdyako;t"S cleverness be separated entirely from the activity of his heart. Smerdyakov puts his whole trust in Ivan as in "God Almighty," saying: "What frightened me most was losing you and being without defense in all the world." Smerdyakov'sthoughts and actions emerge from his feeling of kinship with Ivan and his desire to raise him up to glorious heights. He wishes by means of the murder to be saved by Ivan for the rest of his life, gaining stable friendship, support, and protection. His killing Fyodor is not a coldly, logically arranged act. It's an act of desperation. After making Ivan waver back and forth between belief and disbelief in now Dmitri and now himself as the murderer, Smerdyakov discovers that Ivan is no hero, but just a confused, frightened, guilt-ridden young man. Ivan will not uphold his position on lawlessness, and Smerdyakov feels, in his hot-stoved, hellish room with bugs crawling on the deep blue peeling wallpaper, utterly betrayed and alone. Smerdyakov was convinced of his special rapport with Ivan, of Ivan's consent in and encouragement of the murder when he left his father defenseless to go off to Tchermashnya. But now, after Smerdyakov did what he thought had to be done, Ivan is giving him blows and accusing him of a crime and calling him the devil, "a dream and a phantom." Remorseful and haunted by his wrongdoing, feeling that it would have been better if he had never been born, Smerdyakov hears the devil's voice speaking to Ivan: " ••. hesitation , suspense, conflict between belief and disbelief is sometimes such torture to a conscientious man like you are that it is better to hang oneself at once." Father Zossima believes that there can be no one more miserable than a person who commits suicide. He prays inwardly for suicides all his life. Smerdyakov rightly enters into our prayers. The devil appears to Ivan just after Smerdyakov' s death, employing tactics similar to Smerdyakov's, forcing Ivan to think him now a phantom and now a living being. Despairing of the necessity of giving his allegiance either to a God who allows children to be tortured or to a devil who is petty and mischievous, Ivan is tempted by evil whisperings in his heart: "I shall sow in you a tiny grain of faith and it will grow into an oak-tree -- and such an oak- tree that, sitting on it, you will long to enter the ranks of the hermits in the wilderness and the saintly women; for that is what you are secretly longing for. You'll dine on locusts, you'll wander into the wilderness to save your soul." The devil hopes to get Ivan alone in the wilderness so that he can work on him day after day the way he worked on the Inquisitor. The desert, despite the devil's presence, can be a holy place for certain special people to offer prayerful reverence and worshipful devotion to God . Life in the wilderness precedes and anticipates life in the promised land (Ex. 34) . But the hermit must be prepared to lose fully his worldly, imaginary, own self, so that he may gain fully his true self through the in- dwelling of the Holy Spirit. The hermit must wish above all for the death of his own will so that God's will may be done in him. A seed must fall t o the earth and die before it can bring forth fruit for the gladness of others . Despite every appearance to the contrary, the monk's life of solitude is a life devoted to others, a life of compassionate dedication to his fellow human beings, for he is ever mindful of our afflictions in prayer and sub crucis sacramento. It is comforting to know that pious people are praying for us every minute of every hour of every •..•• Carthusian monks, who live as hermits but gather together three times a day to sing the holy office, are buried without their earthly names on their tombstones so that they may more gladly receive.the name which 28 God keeps for them in secret until the last day of mercy (Rev . 2 .1 7) • The whole eremitical life of a monk is devoted to being fully open to the reception of that name when the time comes. Clearly Ivan is far from being ready to enter into the wilderness, ho eremos, only to be unknown and forgotten with Him . If he were to attempt to live as a solitary person in search of God, it would be for all the wrong reas ons, as the devil knows. It would be a self-preoccupied attempt to save his own soul and would lead to a more severe madness-beyond- pride than that which Ivan suffers from at present. No human being has power over his own salvation, or anyone else's, difficult though that may be for the likes of Ivan Fyodorovitch and Katerina Ivanovna and Kol ya Ivanovi tch to accept . The devil is behind all such attempts, laughing hideously at their futility and folly. Katerina dedicates herself to the man who makes a practice of humiliating her. "I want to love you forever," she feverishly writes to Dmitri , "I want to save you from yourself." Katerina in truth wants to exalt herself in the midst of Dmitri's infidelity and sensuality. Her prideful nobility reaches extremes worthy of Ivan: "I' 11 be a god to whom he can pray -- and that, at least, he owes me for his treachery." Whence arises this satanic drama, this mad desire for glory by saving othe rs? Whence arises our need to be on stage acting as though we are humbling ourselves for the good of others when in truth we are anxiously seeking to exhalt ourselves at the expense of others? The Inquisitor, Ivan and Katerina all try to hide their limitations from themselves and disguise their faults as blessings.• They view themselves as heroic, self-sacrificing beings attaining perfection in dramatic anguish. They are deeply troubled. "Perfection is not for those who strive to feel and look and act as if they were perfect ••• Perfection is not for those who isolate themselves in ivory towers of imaginary faultlessness ••• Perfection is not for those who live for themselves alone and occupy themselves with the embellishments of their own souls" (Me rton , The Silent Life). Although their hearts are filled, with conflicts, doubts, hatreds, jealousies, fears, anxieties, contradictions and uncertainties, the Inquisitor, Ivan, and Katerina labor under the profoundly illusory conviction that they are gods and that the cosmos is centered around their saving activity . Of course it would be foolish to say that they each consider themselves to be the one and only true God. If this were the case, they would seek to destroy one another like pagan deities. Although we have a lacerative tendency to hurt the very people we love most, Ivan and Katerina, the laceraters par exellence, keep from carrying their drama to this extreme. Yet in their desi re to be 'as gods' -- a lasting deformity impressed upon human nature by the fall of Adam and Eve -- they yearn for omnipotence : " •.• the power to have everything we want, to enjoy everything we desire, to demand that all our wishes be satisfied and that our will should never be frustrated or opposed . It is the need to have everyone else bow to our judgement and accept our declaration as law. It is the insatiable thirst for recognition of excellence which we so desperately need to find in ourselves to avoid despair. The claim to omnipotence, our deepest sorrow and our inmost shame, is in fact the source of all our sorrows, all our unhappiness, all our dissatisfactions, all . our mistakes and deceptions. It is a radical falsity which rots our moral life in its very roots because it makes everything we do more or less a lie" (Merton , The Silent Life). Ivan's borderline insanity is a telling sign that he almost submits heart and soul to the absurd fantasy that he is omnipotent, that he lives, like the schizophrenic, in a world of his own making, a world ove r which he has total control and in which whatever he says goes without question. When Smerdyakov says that Ivan more than his brothers is his father's son, he means that Ivan goes around lying to himself about himself all the time just like Fyodor. The devil himself, who bears a startling resemblance t o Fyodor in body and to Smerdyakov in soul, helps Ivan see that he is living a lie. But what next? Once we discover that we cannot save ourselves, o nce we admit that we are grievously in need of God's saving assistance, what shall we say 29 �then.? iii. The Salvific Figure Jesus questions his disciples, saying: "Who do people say that the son of man is?" (Matt. 16:15). The disciples have heard some say of Jesus that he is John the Baptist, while others say of him that he is one of the other prophets. Why do people think that Jesus is someone he is not? Why in particular do they think that Jesus' message and ministry is akin to that of John the Baptist? Unless we are able to understand and trust Jesus as a quite distinctive figure, we may forever rely upon our own needy selves for saving gladness and truth , only to find damning sadness and falsity. John the Baptist cries out with a loud voice and makes his home in the wilderness. He is an ascetic and a prophet of gloom: "You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits that befit repentence, and do not begin to say to yourselves 1 'We have Abraham as our father'; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the axe is held to the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire" (Lk . 3:7- 9). John's preaching consists in a warning to the unrighteous, to everyone, of the approaching, wrathful, justly vengeful judgement of God. Jews as well as Gentiles even now, and more so on the last day, stand or fall depending upon our commitment during our lives on earth to the one true God. This commitment involves bearing testimony both in word and in deed to the presence and the glory of the living Father. John establishes a bond between a person's being in the world here and now, in this very place at this very moment, and his being either saved or damned at the end of the ages. Our spiritual condition in time determines what will be our spiritual condition for eternity. John's baptism, which is with water, is important for our salvation; it makes a difference on the last day because it is a sign that we have allowed our hearts to be changed by God. All human beings possess free wills, so we all have throughout our lives the capacity to yield to God's saving goodness by repenting of our transgressions and by acknowledging our dependence on Him for help . As long as a person has the power to repent no other person can judge whether or not he will be condemned, and every other person must deem him worthy of love. Thus Smerdyakov, who until the end possessed a free will and the capacity to turn to God when called, who indeed may have left evidence of his repentance in the form of St . Isaat the Syrian's writings, is worthy of our love . John calls for repentance in the context of the judgement already in effect and the judgement soon to come. Jesus, on the other hand, sees the salvation of human beings in the context of God's infinite mercy, graciousness, and love . Reading from the book of the prophet Isaiah, Jesus speaks of himself as a servant of God : The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because He has anointed me to preach glad tidings to the poor . He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed, and to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord. (Is . 60: 1-2; Lk. 4:18) Jesus chooses to read from this passage so that he may teach those in the synagogue who he is: one who makes people glad and whole; one who sets them free; and one who invites everyone to a great feast of fellowship at God's table in the temple of the holy city of Jerusalem . The words which follow 'the acceptable year of the Lord,' 30 the words which Jesus sees fit to close the book upon, are: " ••• and the day of vengeance of our God" (Is . 60: 2) . At this early stage of his mission Jesus pronounces upon the time of God's acceptance of us and invitation to us -- the year when Jesus himself is with us and for us in the person of the Holy Spirit so that we may be healed of the wound deep in our hearts -- but he remains silent about the Lord's day of which Amos speaks: Woe to you who desire the day of the Lord! Why would you have the day of the Lord? It is darkness, and not light; as if a man fled from a lion, and a bear met him; or went into his house and leaned with his hand against the wall and a serpent bit him. Is not the day of the Lord darkness , and not light, and gloom with no brightness in it? (Amos 5: 18-20) Jesus is no prophet of woe; he is no ascetic; his home is not in the wilderness. He is the bearer of tidings of great joy; he is an eater and a drinker; his home is the festive table at which people from every walk of life gather together so that we may join in fellowship and celebrate all the good things which God has provided in abundance for our well-being. According to Jesus, God freely gives us a just and reasonable expectation of a time of everlasting rest and peace. Jesus shows us, in the drama of his birth, teaching, ministry, suffering, death, and resurrection, that the living God , the Lord of history, is engaged in a saving activity which is directed toward a state of final good for human beings, a state in which the Father is fully manifest to his children and the children are fully reconciled to their Father. According to the Baptist, all men are in a condition of apostasy and all men are in need of a change of heart, a return to the righteous and faithful Father . A person cannot, however, bring about this change by himself. Repentance is a free gift from God which we either accept or reject. Jesus acknowledges the truth of this teaching -- not with regard to himself but with regard to the whole of Israel -- by commanding John to baptize even him , a man who knows no sin (2 Cor . 5:21). Jesus demands from Israel a new confrontation with the living God . He goes about doing good things for people in trouble on the sabbath so that everyone may see that God is still, even now at this moment, active in our world: "My Father is working still, and I am working" (Jn . 5:18). The Pharisees seem to wish that God would stay out of the picture so that what has already been established, what is known and secure , the law, which indeed is "holy and just and good" (Rom . 7: 12) , may be followed, and so that they may be confident in the righteousness of their own doings . The Pharisees hear Jesus' tidings , but they are not receptive to his gladness . st. Mark chooses the event of Jesus' healing of the man with the withered hand on the sabbath to announce that the Pharisees are plotting Jesus ' death. Jesus himself, just prior to making the wounded man whole, shows orge, the wrath of God, because he is astonished at the hardness of their hearts. The Pharisees seem to be afraid of the holy power wielded by this simple, obscure , inconspicuous man, a carpenter's son, who is active for only a few years. Behold my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him •.•.• He will not wrangle or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; a bruised reed he will not break, 31 �and a dimly burning wick he will not quench •.• (Is. 42 : 1- 3; Matt . 12) Jesus questions his diciples, saying: "Who do you say that I am?" (Matt . 16:16). This is the question to which some, having been filled with God's grace, answer with fearful and loving faith and thankfulness, and to which others, having been filled with the vain imaginings of their own hearts, answer with prideful and despairing hatred and ingratitude. This is the question to which everyone must finally respond, in one way or the other, for there is no in between, as Jesus himself says: "He who is not with me is against me, and he who does not gather with me scatters . Therefore, I tell you every sin and blasphemy will be forgiven men, but the blasphemy against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven . And whoever says a word against the s on of man will be forgiven; but whoever speaks against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven, either in this aqe or in the aqe to come." (Matt . 12 : 30 - 33). Jesus begins to sound less gentle and more severe . But how can it be otherwise? A person who does not answer Jesus with trust and hope -- "You are the Christ, the son of the living God" (Matt. 16:16) -- denies the power of the Holy Spirit, which amounts to rejecting the source of all forgiveness, for the Father has sent the H~ly Spirit to us in Christ's name so that we might share in the forgiveness of sins by being united with Him in remembrance of Jerusalem (Jn . 14:26) . The sin against the Holy Spirit , actively seeking to turn the faithful away from God by mocking them and persecuting them and hating them, must be the one unforgivable sin. How can the person who willfully refuses to accept forgiveness be forgiven? That there are such people, people who claim to have no conscience bearing witness to their evildoing, who claim to be a law unto themselves with no responsibility for others, who claim complete independence for themselves, who claim to be without need of others' forgiveness, who have no desire to let their hearts be changed, who have no wish to be self- forgetful and self- giving in the love of their fellows, who are, in a word, incorrigible, is a sad fact. Father Zossima : "O, there are some who remain proud and fi e rce even in hell, in spite o f their certain knowledge and contemplation of the absolute truth; there are some fearful ones who have given themselves over to Satan and his proud spirit entirely . For such, hell is voluntary and ever consuming; they are tortured by their own choice . For they have cursed themselves cursing God and life . They live upon thei r vindictive pride like a starving man in. the desert sucking blood out of his own body. But they are neve r satisfied and they refuse forgiveness. They curse God who calls them, they cannot behold the living God without hatred, and they cry out that the God of life should be annihilated, that God should destroy himself and his own creation. And they will burn in the fire of their wrath forever and yearn for death and annihilation . " St . August · ne cal s th · s condition the deathless death. Sadly, some seem to live in hell on earth, victimized by a stubborn and anxious need to deny their own freedom to do good . Jesus' sayings and doings make clear for us the already operative kingly rule of God . His acts of healing, casting out devils , forgiving, showing compassion, nourishing, eating dinner with sinners and publicans, b r inging good cheer to prostitutes and tax- collectors, all these acts and more, are signs of God's beneficent intentions for us regardless of our fallbacks and shortcomings and marble- heartedness . Jesus wishes his joy to be in us so that our joy may be full (Jn . 15 : 11). Wherever he goes, gladness abounds . He comes to us so that we may have life, and have it in abundance (Jn . 10:10) . Just having this person around is a good thing . It is that simple . Jesus invites us to stop and consider that our presence also, among our schoolmates and families and friends, even among our enemies, is either a good or a bad thing; there is no in between; we either negatively influence or positively influence whatever community it is to which we happen to belong . He also invites us to stop and consider that it is not enough for us to go around laughing and being carefree, although it is uplifting and lightening and helpful for 32 us to do so; we must healthily share in one another's suffering too, because beneath our laughter there is usually, if not always, some hidden pain. Unlike John, Jesus proclaims the p r esence of God's kingly rule even on earth, and in doing all things well, he demonstrates in the very manner of his living what this r ule involves. Unlike Ivan, the content of Jesus' teaching is revealed in his deeds . There is nothing in the least bit inconsistent about his sayings and his doings. Jesus simply come s to do God's will on earth (Jn . 4 : 34; 5 : 30; 6:40). That is that. The inconspicuous and mild activity of Jesus Christ makes manifest with splendor and might God's free and unconditional willing of good, His boundless, unquenchable love, for us, even you and me. Jesus' simple and humble parables reveal that the deepest, most mysterious things can be found in our ordinary experience if only we care to look and b e attentive . These stories invite us to think for ourselves in an open-ended way. we may find ourselves trying to hold on to conflicting interests. At one time we may think or feel one way and at another time we may think or feel another way about the same issue or event or position. Isn't that how life presents itself to us from one day to the next? There is no definitive structure or system built into the world or the act of living. Spontaneity and openness bring about the large part of our decisions, actions, and conversations. We therefore ought to be ready to make the most of whatever may come our way . We may become accustomed to looking at the world this way or that way, considering ourselves to be restricted by our past, or bound by our few talents, or limited by our surroundings, hut even in the midst of what is most familiar new possibilities for living are always available. The story of Don Quixote is a beautiful telling of this truth. Jesus' parables also tell us that we can always come up with new ways of going about doing things, new ways of caring for friends and pleasing strangers . On the whole, these stories encourage us to act in a way quite different from our usual way, not for the sake of being unconventional, but simply because it is a good thing to discover what a wonderful freedom we have to do good . But this is by no means easy. We must approach the world with a heart which is prepared t o be transfigured. The parable of the dinner party is partly about a feast at which the crippled and the lame, the sick and the hungry, those who ordinarily are not granted sufficient attention, are honorably seated at the table. Jesus hosts and serves people who are considered anathema by the religious community of his day. He joins in companionship with the outcast, with those who are ignorant of the law. Without hesitation he comforts the afflicted and the needy. Jesus does not hold back in order to determine whether people are rich or poor, successful or not, educated or not , members of this faction or that faction , pretty or plain , useful or not , worthy or unworthy. Jesus simply does God's will on earth, µot because he feels obligated to do s o or because he anticipates receiving s ome reward, but because doing God' s will on earth, al though only som~times joyful and also sometimes sorrowful, is yet always good. Jesus cuts· across barriers o f class and politics. He seeks t o bring an end to relationships among human beings which are founded on the domination of one by the other. He is just as much at ease with women as with men, with people in power as with people without it . Power does not corrupt him as it does other people. Jesus encourages us to serve one another in kindness, for this is a way to show service to God, and to l ove one another in hope, f o r this is a way t o show love for God . Jesus invites everyone to the great feast of spiritual fell owship al\d he himself serves everyone at the table . None are refused entry and none are cast away. We may show up dressed any way we wish, but it is better to be pleasing in God's sight . St . John Chrysostom's choir sings: "The Lord is compassionate and merciful; He is long-suffering and abounding in mercy" (Byzantine Liturgy). But are we then to think that Jesus, with whose life and death and resurrection a new era begins, would wish good men to be rewarded for their good works on the last 33 �day, and evil men to be punished for their evil works? Aside from our difficulty in judging who is good and who is evil-since we all are a different mixture of each, what is good and what is evil-since what is good for one is not so for another, we can at least say this much, that if the human will is free to choose between good and evil works, then rewards and punishments are just. But the simple truth is that all good things come from God . Merely because a person's will is free, it does not follow that he has the capacity to choose or to do good without the aid of God's grace. The exercise of the will in its freedom toward goodness is a human being's doing only insofar as he opts not to resist the grace being offered to him at every moment of every hour of every ••••• by God . And this opting not to resist, this yielding to God's saving activity is not a meritorious act, so that God's mercy and love alone are responsible for a person's being good. Only because God freely chooses to look upon us as righteous are we righteous . St. Paul keeps away from the word 'works' when speaking about justification. He makes a distinction between works of the flesh ..:._ "fornication, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, anger, selfishness, dissension, party spirit, envy, drunkenness carousing, and the like" (Gal. 5 : 20) -- and fruits of the Holy Spirit -- "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self- control" (Gal. 5 :·22). St. Paul does speak about faith accomplishing good works through love (Gal. 5:6), but this does not alter his right belief that faith alone justifies (Gal. 2: 16) • The word 'reward' in the context of our final well - being ought to be banned from our vocabulary. God's righteousness and faithfulness are hyper-exceedingly magnificent and glorious precisely because we are undeserving. What a remarkable thing that God knows t he evil imaginings of our hearts, hears our voices cursing Him, railing against Him, misrepresenting Him , and, instead of smiting us with His wrath , He saves us with His mercy. Salvation, found in the small acts of kindness in the piety of daily life as well as at the festive table of the messianic banquet, is the work , astounding beyond measure , of God's bountiful car e for us . He gives us fi r st place in a race we have lost. It is as if He were to walk into a courtroom with all of us guilty sinners present, pronouncing the verdict: 'Innocent, Righteous, Jus tified.' Sadly, punishments are deserved, "because the unfaithful receive not the love of the truth that they might be saved" (2 Thess. 2:10). Jesus' question -- 'Who do you say that I am?' - - demands a response from all of us, from you and from me, now and again, time after time, for the duration of our lives . It is not a question to be summarily answered, set aside, and ignored. When we address the question we either accept more deeply or reject more soundly the mystery of Christ's saving fellowship . We are always either on our way toward him or on our way away from him . This is not to say that the r e are just two ways of standing in relation to Jesus. There are as many responses to his question as there are persons willing to give utterance to what is in their hearts. And if we give one sort of response today, we may find ourselves giving another sor t tomorrow, for we are the kind of being who can receive the strength to accept being accepted by God. Father Zossima: "I predict that just when you see with horror that in spite of all your efforts you are getting further from your goal instead of nearer to it -- at that very moment I predict that you will r each it and behold clear ly the miraculous power of t he Lor d who h as b een a ll t he t ime lov ing a nd my ste r iously guiding you. " 'Who do you say that I am?' I cannot answer for you and you cannot answer for me. Each of us must be left to ourselves so that we may give the question the careful heart-felt thought which it demands and deserves. Responding to Jesus in my limited, human way, I shall say : 'You are the one who summons me to put my deep and abiding trust in the hidden and living God; the one who works for my joyfulness and wholeness, delivering me from distress and wrongdoing, releasing me from the chains of self-estrangement and estrangement from my fellows, restoring me to myself so that 34 I may be free for others as a friend and ready servant, encouraging me to bear others' burdens with them; you are the one who commands me to commit myself and to pray to our Father, to put my faith in God not grudgingly and with hesitation but gladly and with abandon; the one who journeyed to Calvary for my sake, who died on the cross so that I might be washed clean; you are the man of sorrows, the one who carried my griefs, was wounded for my transgressions, was bruised for my iniquities, the one through whose stripes I am healed (Is . 53: 3- 6); yet I hold you at a distance and in low esteem; I turn away from your suffering as one repulsed and I cannot bear to look upon you ; wretch that I am, I forget you holy Jerusalem, though you descended into hell for my sake; you are the one whose entrance into the flesh I celebrate at Christmas and whose glorification of the body I celebrate at Easter; the one who tells me to stake my life on the new p r omise of salvation which is offered to me i n the drama of your passion, death, and resurrection; you are the one who says, "unless a g r ain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies it brings forth fruit" (Jn 12:24) . You are the Christ, the son of the living God . ' Jesus' concern will finally be with justice, but , as long as he is with us on ear th his concern is not with justice so much as with joy, rendering joy to those who hardly seem worthy to feel joy and giving gladness to those who have nothing to b e glad about: "He who abides in me, and I in him,he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing" (Jn . 15:5) . A line from St. Mark's gospel especially reveals the character of Jesus' saving activity, of Jesus himself, who he is. After Jesus heals a deaf and dumb man, the people who witness the event are, says Mark, "astonished beyond measure" (hyperperissos exeplessonto) , and they say of Jesus : "He does everything beautifully" (Kalos pan ta pepoieken, Mk. 7: 37) • Such a gentle man, and yet he can with good reason be mistaken for John the Baptist : "You brood of vipers! How can you speak good when you are evil? For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks" (Matt . 12:34). It is a sign of his perfect holiness that Jesus can be both extremely gentle and extremely severe, that Jesus can both keep the silence of a lamb and speak with the voice of a judge. How else could He accept and endure the passion and the cross? How else could Jesus, when that t r oubling . moment at Gethsemane arrived, pray: "Abba, Father, if you are willing, r emove this cup from me; nevertheless not my will , but your will, be done" (Lk. 22 : 43; Matt . 26 : 39; Mk . 14 : 36) . Jesus i s a Jew, searching out God's will in everything; yet he has a unique rel a tion to God, calling Him Father , Abba . Father Schillibeeckx tells how at Jesus' time Abba was a famil i al term denoting a child's earthly father, the teacher and figure of authority . The word did not occur at all in prayers addressed t~ God. J esu s ' genius s t a nds o ut s ole l y on the g r ounds of praying to God as Abba. The uniqueness of his relation to God lies in its 'unaffected simplicityi-:- Jesus identified his heart and his life, his whole being as a person, with his Father. He so t r usted the abiding presence and concern of His Father that He acted upon His will even to the point of suffering an excruciatingly agonizing and humiliating death, a death by crucifixion, "a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles" (1 Cor. 1 : 24) . Jesus' death is offensive to the Jews partly because a man hanged on a tree is accursed by God (Dt . 21 : 23), and to the Gentiles partly because crucifixion is the mos t scandalous form of punishment in the Roman kingdom, a punishment reserved fo r the lowest o f the low, rebels and thieves, a punishment no Roman citizen ever has to endur e . Jesus fully manifests God's saving love for human beings with His death on the c r oss, for only by way of His perfect sacrifice do we attain to reconciliation with God and do we know that God so cares for us that He is willing to give His only Son f o r our we ll- be i ng : "God shows His love for us in that while we were yet sinners Chr ist died f o r us " (Rom . 5 : 8) . Our faithful response to Jesus' question -- 'Who do you say that I am? ' -- involves accepting the g r acious gift God gives to us in the bloody and violent s a c r ifice of His Son, involves yielding to the redemptive power o f 35 �11 the cross, whose saving efficacy frees us from the stronghold of sin. Christ crucified is bearing all our evils -- from our fall out of Eden until the last day -so that they may be nailed to the wood and die with him: "For our sake God made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God" (2 Cor. 5:21). The salvific figure on the cross is so defiled and smeared with black that God His Father forsakes him at the moment of His death. Jesus' death is like no one else's. He is utterly alone, forsaken not only by Roman citizens, fellow Jews, and his disciples, but also by the Person who sent him to walk among us and be with us, the Person whose will it was that he should undergo such horrifying suffering precisely because of his perfect righteousness and blessedness. During the preparation rite of the holy eucharist in the Orthodox church, the priest says: "The Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world is slain for the life and salvation of the world" (Byzantine Liturgy, St. John Chrysostom). St. Mark puts it simply: Jesus is "a ransom for many" (Mk. 14: 24) • witness to Christ crucified and risen, for He cares more about our salvation than we ourselves do . iv. Redemptive Drama .. He was oppressed, and he was afflicted yet he opened not his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is dumb, so he opened not his mouth. (Is. 53:7) The original, old- fashioned meaning of the word 'redemption' (Latin, redernptio; Greek, apolutrosis) is 'a buying back' or 'a loosening away from.' By being baptised with the Holy Spirit we are bought back by God, loosened away from Satan, purified and created anew so that we may be united with Christ and share in the death "he died to sin" and the life "he lives to God' (Rom . 6: 10) . Although we are not worthy to receive the redemptive power of Christ's sacrifice, yet there it is, a free gift, and by way of it we become God's adopted children, gaining spiritual health and true piety, "for the righteousness of God is by faith in Jesus Christ upon all them that believe" (Rom. 3: 22). And belief entails hardship: "For all who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God ••• When we cry 'Abba! Father!' it is the Spirit himself bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may be glorified with him" (Rom. 8: 14-17) . Faith in Jesus as the Christ,· the son of the living Father, not merely as a means to salvation, but as the Way, the Word who became flesh and tabernacled among us (Jn. 1:14), involves suffering unto death, so that we may walk in "newness of life" (Rom. 6:4). Again: The seed t h at falls to the e arth and dies brings forth fruit . Although God reconciled us to Himself through Christ's "fragrant offering and sacrifice" (Eph. 5:2; 2 Cor. 5:18) the death of Jesus is by no means the end of the matter. For: "Jesus was put to death for our trespass and raised for our justification" (Rom. 4: 25). Jesus' Father is the God of the living, of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, not of the dead. God benevolently wishes to continue our lives so that we may be with Hirn in Christ Jesus and His Holy Spirit . It is not a question of our souls possessing the nature of being immortal. Spiritual resurrection is simply God's way of doing good for us in this life; and bodily resurrection is His way of doing good for us in the life to come. Mut ual r ecognition of unique p ersons by unique persons which can be accomplished only if each one of us retains our distinctive look, is of utmost significance in Christ's kingdom. Just as Jesus arises out of our memory in the Spirit into life during the celebration of the blessed sacrament, so we shall arise out of our ever- mindful-remembrance of him into life in His divine presence at the great eschatological feast. Jesus overcomes sin with his death, and he overcomes the penalty for sin, which is death, by way of his resurrection. God wishes us to laugh whole - heartedly at life's comedy, and to bear 36 I I Drni t r i Fyodorovi tch Karamazov possesses his mother's hot temper, boldness, impatience, impetuosity, impulsiveness, frenzied vigor, and strong build, and his fathe r 's reckless lust - - al though Mi tya' s sensuality is refined by a passionate adoration of beauty and nob_ ty. According to legend, as soon as Adelaida ·married ili Fyodor, .(of cour se they had to elope), she grew to loathe the "abject, vicious, fantastical fellow" and his "persistent and shameless importunity." On occasion she even beat Fyodor, showing him to be a "worthless puny weakling . " Dmitri shares his mother 's repulsion for Fyodor and her tendency to be violent with him. When Adelaida , in one of her enigmatic fits of passion, ran off with a "destitute divinity .student" to her ignominious death, she left the newborn Mitya with his father. But Fyodor carried on in his customary manner, hosting orgies and playing the buffoon, so that he completely forgot about Mitya. Miusov is fond of telling the exaggerated sto r y about Fyodor' s surprise at discovering one morning after waking. up with a terrible hangover that he had a son . Fyodor doesn't just have a few cocktails and fool around a bit; he immerses himself in debauchery and al together neglects his r esponsibility, except, of course, when it comes to his business dealings. After being passed from Adelaida to Fyodor, and from Fyodor to Grigory, Miuzov takes custody of the child . But he too, although he remembers his part in the February Revolution of 1848 all his life, forgets Mitya, so that Miuzov's cousin has to take charge of the poor boy. Finally, after the death of this kind woman, Mitya is raised by Miuzov's cousin's daughter, Mitya's mother's second cousin, once removed. Life does not begin smoothly for Dmitri Karamazov. Adelaida came from a rich, distinguished, noble family, and before her death she bequeathed a small property including a house and some land to her son. Dmitri , however, when he came of age, was serving in the Caucasus as an army officer, so Fyodor took possession of Mitya's inheritance and wired money to support the young man's r iotous exploits , his dr inking, gambling, and womanizing. Surprisingly enough , Father Zossima's youth bears a striking resemblance to Dmitri's. He too was the son of a landowner, served in the Caucasus as an army officer, and outstripped the other members of his regiment in "cruel, absurd, almost savage" practices . Father zossirna always kept the Bible at his side but during his bout with "drunkenness, debauchery, and deviltry" he did not pick up the book and r ead. So it is with Dmitri. He hold's God's glory close to his heart but he has a long way to journey before he will be able to accept his lot in life, what God has planned for him and him alone. Father Zossima passed through a period of ferocious anxiety and misery before his change of heart . He had to give his orderly Afanasey two terrible blows to the face before he could see the black- smeared manner of his living, before he could feel what a fearful thing it is to fall into the hands of the living God (Heb.10: 11) . God's grace was at work even in the young officer's fit of violence. Thanks to Afanasey's stupid yet brave reception of his master's blows, zossirna could be struck by such concerns as: 'What am I worth that another made in the image and likeness of God s hou l d s e rve me? Ought I not to bow down and beg my se rv ant 's f o r giveness ? Am I not the greatest of sinners? More than any other am I not responsible to all for all and eve r ything?' Only by way of this awful event do the tender and life - giving words of his dying b r other Markel return to Zossirna with such force that his ways are altered for good . Shall we not praise Af anasey and seek to imitate him by being ready at all times to receive blows so that others whom we care for might through the recognition of their weakness and wrongdoing turn to the Father for help and forgiveness? Zossima 's turnabout is more sudden and localized than Dmitri's will be 37 �~ - - --- -- Mitya's stomping on his father's face is not enough for him -- but Dmitri's change of heart will be just as dramatic. God works on everyone in a way particularly suited to and designed for them, and them alone. Zossima needed Markel's holy words and Afanasey's peasant toughness. Dmitri will require Grigory's blood, Grushenka's love, his father's death, and more, before he will be able to gain the courage to sing his hymn. With an anvil-ding And with fire in him forge thy will Or rather, rather then, stealing as Spring Through him, melt him but master him still: Whether at once, as once at a crash Paul, Or as Austin, a lingering-out sweet skill, Make mercy in all of us, out of us all Mastery, but be adored, but be adored King. (Hopkins, The Wreck of the Deutschla~#lO) Drama is of utmost importance where Dmitri is concerned. Other people, especially Katerina, seem to be so many characters in the play of his life. Dmitri does not leave encounters open-ended like Alyosha. He seeks to make wholes out of his dealings with others so that he may wrap a ribbon around them and add them to his treasury. Mitya confesses to Alyosha that his life has been a lusting after voluptuousness and vice, saying: "I've a perfect album of reminiscences, brother. God bless them, the darlings." He sets up two extremes which are always in tension, the Madonna and Sodom, and attempts to characterize all his doings in this poetic light. Katerina, that "beautiful, proud, imperious" woman who hopes to save Dmitri from dissipation through her own generosity, is his Madonna figure. Mitya sees the truth about her loving her own virtue most; he knows that her benevolence is not pure self-giving for his sake but pure self-serving for her own sake; but he lets that pass as a mere human frailty so that he may haunt the back alley and make Katerina's apparent goodwill shine fo r th all the more . St . Paul : "What shall we say then? Are we to continue in sin that grace may abound? By no means!" (Rom.6:1). Katerina also needs someone as dramatic as she is who will go along with her fantasy so that she may play out her salvific role . She needs a debauchee in order to exercise her powers of hysterical self-sacrifice . She needs someone in the dark depths to make it possible for her heroism to be seen and admired by all the talkers in Skotoprignyevsk and neighboring villages : 'Well isn't that Katerina Ivanovna God's gift to Karamazov, so patient and forgiving. I don't know why she puts up with him. My heavens!' Katerina shows her true colors, her self-righteous indignation, her need for someone as dramatic as she is who will fantasize alone with her so that she may play out her salvific role, when she condemns Dmitri with her evidence in court. Thankfully, Mitya possesses some crucial gifts which Katerina lacks: an awarene s s of his own weakness - - "I pray to God I'm not lying and showing off" -- and an abiding trust i n God despite his own sinfulness --" . .• though I may be following the devil, I am thy son, O Lord, and I love thee . " There is no denying that Katerina does kind and charitable things. She sends flowers to Snegiryov's family and takes care of Ilusha's grave; she will also proudly finance Dmitri's escape. But she has a whole lot to work out concerning the source and center of goodness and salvation. Kater i na and Ivan belong together. Dmitri's frankness about his own wrongdoing -- "I'm nothing but an insect" - betrays a lack of self - respect which runs deep in his soul. He goes around saying: 'I'm just this sort of buglike person, so don't expect much from me. What can I do about it?' At the start Dmitri does not challenge himself to accomplish things which, he would be surprised to discover, he has the wherewithal to accomplish. At the end he will consider himself capable of more than his gifts allow. Father Zossima' s bow is a gesture aimed in part to make Dmitri recognize his own inner 38 worth. He has to see that his nature is good, coming as it does from God-it is just that his will is weak, and his upbringing and education haven't helped matters much. Father Zossima, reflecting on his days of carousing among his comrades, says: "I don't say we were bad by nature, all these young men were good fellows, but they behaved badly, and I worst of all." Father Zossima sees what Mitya is preparing fo r h i mself, sees what great suffering is in store for him, and is horrified. After Alyosha r etur ns from his Katerina- backed, ill- fated mission of generosity toward Snegiryov , he first learns of Porfiry's Zossima- backed, successful mission of charity t oward a poor family in the village, and then receives the conunand to be with Dmitri a s a welcome p r esence in order to p r event him from some sudden, impetuous, terrible c r ime . Father Zossima also bows to the whole company and begs for their forgivene ss because it just seems like there is not a whole lot he can do to help them. The peasant women with faith are open to his fatherly words and gestures, but the wealthy noblemen without faith are reluctant to take them seriously .. Dmitri alone is fu lly receptive to Father Zossima's sage counsel and advice. Father Zossima wishes Mitya to understand that despite the ways of Fyodor, "it's the great mystery of human li fe that old grief passes quietly and tenderly into joy •. • the mild serenity of age takes the place of the riotous blood of youth . " Dmitri, along with Ivan, fears he wili b e like his father, plagued by a base sensuality his entire life and prevented by his own weakness from attaining any kind of nobility of heart . God's angels and Satan's devils are fighting over beauty on the battleground of Dmi t'ri' s heart. His passionate attraction and powerful attachment to beauty, a potentially admirable thing, causes him to be self-preoccupied and distracted from issues and activities of utmost concern. Dmitri has not opened his heart to the sor rows of his fellows, or to his responsibility for their sorrows, or to the role he ought to play in bringing relief to those who are burdened by sorrow . Actively feeling and caring for others by graciously accepting their griefs as his own is a good and wholesome thing which Dmitri has at least to learn about, if he is not meant to devote his whole life to this noble doing. Dmitri is not called to be a Fa ther Zossima, or a monk in the world, but if he is going to give testimony to his right belief in the words of Jesus the teacher and lawgiver(Gal.6:2), if he is going to be a Chr istian in the world, he must allow for the wedding of passion and piety in his soul. Under the influence of demons Mi tya' s lust, at its worst, takes the shape of cruelty and sentimentality, distorted forms of Father Zossima's severity and gentleness. Speaking to Alyosha of a critical and unforgettable event that passed between Katerina and himself, Mitya says: "At that moment she was beautiful because she was noble , and I was a scoundrel, she in all the grandeur of her generosity and sacrifice for her father, and I a bug! And scoundrel as I was, she was altogether at my mercy, body and soul ... It seemed as if there could be no resisting it; as though I should act like a bug, like a ve.nomous spider, without a spark of pity. I could · scarcely breathe." Honesty, honor, and simple decency toward and respect for a fellow human being are at stake for Dmitri when he has Katerina in this compromising position. His breathless sensuality, not something to be taken lightly, bears witness to a forgetfulness of life being · shared by all. Mitya lustfully wants to take full possession of Katerina's beauty, which amounts to using her as a tool for t h e e n r ichme nt and r efinement of his own experience. With the prospect o f another colorful anecdote to add to his collection, Dmitri almost succumbs to the temptation of abusing and destroying Katerina's noble stature, disgracing her for life: "I loved vice, I loved the ignominy of vice. I loved cruelty." The temptation which Dmitri resists at this trying moment is the temptation to which Fyodor yields with Sophia . Defiling the purity and innocence of a beautiful young woman holds the same satanic pleasu r e as working for the downfall of the righteous. Yet although Dmitri sometimes plays on the stage of satanic drama- -when he draws 39 �11 aba_ndon~ _d, his sword almost stabbing himself from delight and when he humiliates Snegiryov in the presence of the vulnerable Ilusha, he wants more than anything to sing a song of praise and thanksgiving to God the Father. His desire for a hymn of uplifting joy attests to his hidden certainty that life is simply good and that our deepest purpose being on earth is happiness and laughter, not grief and despair. The world is not, as Ivan would have it, a vale of tears. Good things emerge even out of his encounter with Katerina in his apartment. The old lieutenant-colonel, Katerina's father, dies with military honors and not in disgrace only because Mitya has the money to free him from trouble. At first Dmitri thinks that his only reason for giving the money is to seduce the gorgeous daughter, but later he discovers that he has higher ambitions, helping out a fellow sinner. Although Katerina's father despises him, Dmitri has the capacity to see goodness in the man. Instead of becoming full of hatred in turn, Mitya acknowledges his fault and offers his assistance. He always kind-heartedly notices when he has done some bad thing to cause someone else to be angry at him. "Let me be accursed," says Dmitri, "let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which God is shrouded." Nature, Mother Earth, Dmeter, is that veil, and Dmitri needs the mercy and courage to fall down upon her, "to cleave to her bosom", to embrace and kiss her and water her with his tears. By loving what is lowly and ordinary in a serene and tender way, not by being ecstatically in love with love itself, Dmitri will truly show gratitude to Hirn who created the earth and all that is in it. By giving himself to the Jerusalem above who is our Mother(Gal.4:26), with simplicity and trust, by falling as a seed on fertile ground and bringing forth good fruit for the gladness and hope of others, Dmitri will encounter God's saving presence. The attainment of self-giving means for Dmitri corning to relish the act of loving as much as being in love, kindness as much as pleasure. Dmitri's name suggest that he is himself rich, moist soil which nurtures the growth of seeds of grace, so that he will come to be the person God means him to be. His devotion to the earth will take the form of a commitment to Grushenka. But he must endure a great ordeal before he will be ready for marriage. Mi tya mentions suicide to Alyosha at the crossroads. He cannot stand the thought that he is burdening and dishonoring his Mother with his vile presence. The questions he asks of Fyodor he also asks of himself: 'Why is such a man alive? Can he be allowed to go on defiling the earth?' 1 Do not thou, o Lord, withhold thy mercy from me, let thy steadfast love and thy faithfulness ever preserve me! For evils have encompassed me without number; my iniquities have overtaken me, till I cannot see; they are more than the hairs of my head; my heart fails me(Ps.40:11) While Dmitri dreams of taking Grushenka away to the ends of the earth so that they may settle down in marriage and begin a reformed and virtuous life together, Grushenka is planning to fly off with her Polish officer, the man about whom her imagination has been spinning false romantic stories for five years. Mitya has some knowledge of the Pole but his preoccupation with Fyodor as rival makes him forget the presence of another competitor in Grushenka's heart. Dmitri and Grushenka, each i~ their own way, are going through a painful struggle, a struggle to ensure their future happiness. They must come to see that all their anxious plans and efforts, all the feverish agitation and activity which they dedicate to working out their own destinies, is just so much fighting against God's gentle guiding hand. For five long years Grushenka has refused to be prevailed upon by any man except the tyrannical old Samsanov. How hard it must be for Dmitri to be madly in love with this woman now; he knows "with a sinking heart" that at times she must hate him for his passion. What he does not know is that her soul can find no peace, that she is in misery reflecting upon the hardships and humiliations of her past. Betrayed, 40 II irnp~veris!i~_d,_ and.. d~sgraced at the tender _ age_ of se\7enteen, Grushenka has been forced to establish a business partnership with Fyodor Karamaz.ov in order to raise herself up out of the quagmire. She is hopelessly confused about her standing with the man who once wooed her with his guitar and then left her for another woman. Will she kill him when she sees him? Or will she run to him with open arms and fall at his feet? Her bitterness and pain give rise to a just wrath against men, those seducers and corrupters, self-seekers and pleasure-mongers, who one moment sweetly profess their love and the next moment are slyly out the door. Why not take every possible opportunity to get in strong blows at the bastards? Grushenka drives Fyodor wild with desire with her pride, insolence, and rosy-plump Russian beauty. She toys coquettishly with Dmitri. And in her darkest moments she dreams of enchanting and seducing the young novice, Alyosha. She fiendishly imagines getting the handsome boy in her clutches and ruining him, mocking his purity and innocence. Grushenka's profound unhappiness is rooted in her uncertainty whether any man can or will ever love her, in a genuine way, whether any man can or will ever love her, not her shapely arms and her buxom figure, not her sharp wit and vigorous intellect, but Grushenka simply, with all her bales and pains. Drni tri and Grushenka are much alike in that the vilest scenes enter their imaginations and they yield to grace at the crucial times, Dmitri with Katerina and Grushenka with Alyosha. When Alyosha is at his most vulnerable state upon the death and premature corruption of Father Zossima's body, Rakitin takes him to the vixen in the black silk dress so that he may cash in on his deal with Grushenka and bring about the downfall of the religious idiot. Rakitin licks his chops and gnashes his teeth as a member of Satan's entourage. When they arrive Alyosha learns that his brother is in ambush at his father's house, yet he does nothing. His grief is such a burden that he forgets to attend to Dmitri, as Father Zossirna commanded, at the very time Fyodor is to be murdered. Without knowing the cause of Alyosha's depression Grushenka coyly sits on his knee hoping to cheer him up. Just yesterday Alyosha would have greatly feared such a gesture; lust and temptation would have arisen in his soul; but now the sorrow in his heart swallows up his every sensation. He wants to witness Alyosha eating sausage and drinking champagne, but most of all he wants to witness Grushenka setting to work on him. Yet she cannot. Grushenka looks upon Alyosha's goodness and feels ashamed at her own badness. Her conscience comes to life in his presence. Upon hearing the news of Father Zossima' s death, Grushenka devoutly crosses herself and immediately gets up from Alyosha's knee. Alyosha recognizes her gesture as an outgrowth of simple-hearted goodness, as a gracious gift of kindness, an onion. Even in the throes of despair Alyosha has the eyes to see Grusha' s action as a sign of pity. He, the young novice, came to Grushenka with "base and evil" motives, and she, the reputed harlot, greeted him with "a loving heart". Alyosha's soul is "raised from the depths", saved by this simple gesture of loving kindness and concern for . the gravity of his suffering. He in turn gives Grushenka an onion by calling her "sister" and showing her that she, Grushenka simply, is a person worthy of forgiveness and love tendered by a heart not full of lust and shame. This is precisely what Grushenka needs to know, to feel confident about, in order to be open to and accept God's saving reconciliation of Dmitri and herself. The meeting between Alyosha and Grusha shows forth the coming together of the Madonna and Sodom, yet it is not the case that one is the Madonna and the other Sodom; they are each a mixture of extremes, and only by recognizing this can they begin to purify their hearts. Alyosha needs to face up to his own badness and Grusha needs to face up to her own goodness. Remarkably, Rakitin is utterly insensitive to the gifts being exchanged between Alyosha and Grusha. He considers them "maudlin and mad." He is blind to the fact that these two have passed through a spiritual crisis together such as does not happen often in a lifetime. The ordinary circumstances surrounding the event do not 41 �11 detract in any way from its significance. Sadly, from the way things have turned out Rakitin is the sort of person who makes it all but impossible for others to show kindness to him. He just plain misses the beauty of Grusha's gesture and later pokes fun at Alyosha for having "saved the sinner." Raki tin's proper name is Mihail, the name of Father zossima' s mysterious visitor. He is capable of the murder Mihail enacted with such villainy and daring, but if he never commits his crime, Raki tin will never become aware that he has fallen into the hands of the living God. He will never feel compelled to confess his sins and find deliverance from his misery in Jesus Christ. Rakitin is a man to be pitied. Rakitin' s anxious concern for his career and his reputation close him off to Grushenka's goodness. Knowing all about her shameful past, he refuses to acknowledge that she is his cousin, that they share blood. This is akin to denying her personhood. Rakitin is not alone. Most people pass by her on the street avoiding her and sizing her up only with a view to her past, as if they knew the who and the why of her because they have heard rumors of her lost innocence. They recognize her as a human being only with a glance of disapproval. Grushenka is tougher than they are. She can take it. Yet how unfair that such a young girl should be so put upon by the world that before she even knows what is going on, something precious and dear, something to. be cherished, has been taken away from her. Thank goodness Grusha can turn to Jesus' happy story and read about this man who did not bother himself with people's past, except to forgive them their sins and encourage them to sin no more(Jn.8:11), whether they were adulterers or prostitutes, soldiers or governors. Mitya has the spirit. The narrator: "Mitya looked upon Grushenka' s past as something completely over. He looked upon that past with infinite pity and resolved with all the fervor of his passion that when once Grushenka told him she loved him and would marry him, it would mean the beginning of a new Grushenka and a new Dmitri, free from every vice. They would forgive one another and begin their lives afresh." Without forgiveness human beings cannot attain reconciliation with their past and begin life anew and afresh. Without forgiveness the weight of sin is an unbearable burden which human beings attempt to unload by way of forgetfulness but only manage to make worse by way of further sinfulness. But how can Mitya possibly take Grushenka away to dreamland? All will be lost unless he can come up with exactly three thousand roubles. Why that amount? So that Katerina can be paid back? Because that is how much Fyodor has set aside for Grushenka, knowing Mitya'a need? Because that is how much he can expect to get out of the property at Tchermashnya? Who knows? Poor Mitya has an awful time with money. He alone of the brothers grew up with an income, having fun and showing others a good time; but while Mitya knows all about spending money, he does not know the first thing about earning it. It's a happy thing that Mitya believes in miracles, for if he could not continue to live as though somehow, by way of providence, money would drop from heaven, he would give over to despair and madness. This is not to say that Mitya will do nothing to aid the designs of providence. He must. For the first time in his life he doesn't have easy access to a fistful of cash, aside from the fifteen-hundred roubles protecting his honor, and as we all know, a person can't go far without at least that much. Mitya is on the brink of ruin. Because of his tendency to "give himself up to every new idea with passionate enthusiasm" he passes through a nightmarish experience in search of money during the day and night before his father's murder. Samsanov gets the whole thing started by playing a cruel trick on Mitya, sending him off to Tchermashnya with the hope of selling his property, a trick which ranks with smerdyakov's treatment of cats and Kolya's game with the goose. "You're my salvation," says Dmitri, "you've saved me." He is in one of his ecstatic states thinking that a trip and a transaction will be the happy solution to all his difficulties. If Ivan is a person who yearns overmuch to save others, Dmitri is a 42 . I person who yearns overmuch to be saved by others. Being the kind, endearing, energetic, explosive man that he is, his lodgers give him their last three roubles in all the world to help him pay for a carriage to Tchermashnya. This . is among the most telling signs of the beauty of Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov, that· his lodgers, who are dirt poor, give up everything they have for his sake. He is the so"rt of person who makes it easy for others to show kindness and charity to him. Mitya's childlike ebullience brings gladness to these lonely people, so that they feel honored to be the captain's loyal friends • Every part of Mitya's salvific plan goes wrong. First he is late on account of what he thought was a shortcut; next the priest is not at home; while Dmitri searches for him it grows dark; it turns out that Lyagavy, the prospective buyer of his property, is not at the priest's but at the forester's cottage; after they set out on foot toward the . cottage, it dawns on the priest that it is much farther away than he thought; the priest cannot tell Mitya anything about Lyagavy except that to call him 'Lyagavy', as Samsonov suggested, and not 'Gorstkin,' would mean disaster; when they finally arrive at the cottage Gorstkin is dead drunk and canno.t carry on any dealings; Mitya has to wait overnight for his buyer, his savior, to sober up; meanwhile he falls asleep; in the middle of the night the hut catches fire; Dmitri is in hell; he sleeps again; while he is asleep Lyagavy wakes up and polishes off another bottle of vodka. "It's a tragedy." After exchanging some unpleasant words with Gorstkin, Dmitri finally comes to be convinced that Samsanov was mocking him the whole time. weak as a child, Mitya, being the honest and upright person that he is, leaves fifty kopecks behind to pay for a night's lodging in the forester's hut, although he is broke and he has just suffered the worst night of his life. Striding aimlessly through the black wood, he emerges on to some harvested fields, saying: "What despair, what death all around." Mitya is an · incurable romantic. But in the end, he places his last hope in the wealthy Mme. Hohlakov. The meeting of the two great dramatists, Dmitri Fyodorovitch and Mme. Hohlakov, brings laughter, but the comedy ceases when it becomes evident that the selfish, rich woman is fool,ishly and cruelly playing the role of Father Zossima, "an experienced doctor of the soul." Knowing who Mitya is, what he needs, what is best for him, what he ought and ought not do, Mme Hohlakov confidently proclaims: "I will save you." But nothing Mme.Hohlakov can say or do will deliver Mitya from the agony God has in store for him. Claiming to be all-knowing about another person's heart, and all-powerful in bringing about his salvation, are grave evils. The ways God finds to go about redeeming us are more wonderfully strange and imaginative than anything we could ever come up with. Although Mme. Hohlakov is doing damage to herself and appears to be doing the same to Dmitri, she is also an instrument in the ongoing process of God's dealings with Mitya, His child. When Mme.Hohlakov puts the ikon of the holy martyr around his neck, Mitya must be reminded in some way that trust in Christ involves suffering, that the whole creation, which groans inwardly(Rom.8:23), is part of God's redemptive drama. The faithful Franciscan nun who calls out to Christ in the storm from the Deutschland -- "O Christ, Christ, come quickly" -- does not call through the storm to a Christ who is behind and outside the storm, she cries out to the storm itself because he himself is in it, because Christ is the storm. When we turn away from suffering, we turn away from Christ. Acceptance of Jesus requires that we enter into "the unshapeable shock night" (The Wreck of the Deutschland #29) , for that is where he is to be found. Dmitri is slowly making this ,Piscovery, but, with a slam of his fist on the table and with a throw of his spit on the floor, he will put up a fight. Mitya exits from Mme. Hohlakov's house with childlike tears which save him from madness. The thought that Grushenka could possibly have thrown him over for Fyodor is enough to stop Mitya's flow of tears. His jealousy goes to such an extreme that he contemplates doing violence to his own father, and to himself, with a brass pestle 43 �and a pistol. What saves Dmitri at that critical moment under Fyodor's window as he stands there hidden by the bushes looking loathingly at his father's battered face, dandified by his red handkerchief and his silk nightgown? Wrath, fury, and vengeance surge up in Dmitri's heart as he gazes with contempt at his rival, yet he still has the childlike wonder to notice how colorful the berries are that dark night. Remembering this moment later, Mitya says: "God was watching over me then." Perhaps some sacred memory, preserved since childhood, say, Herzenstube's gift of nuts, saved Dmitri. Not that he was aware of the fact, or pictured an image to himself, but some good memory hidden deep in his heart which made him cherish life may have influenced his action. Maybe it wasn't a childhood memory. It could have been Father zossima's low bow a few days back. How fearful a thing it is to consider that our every gesture, each act, word, and glance, makes a difference in the lives of the people around us, to think that we are always planting either good or evil seeds in the hearts of others as long as we participate in public life. Everyone knows what it is like to be either welcomed or rejected by someone else's eyes in passing. Dmitri's and Herzenstube' s tears in court, the fact that Mi tya went to visit and thank Herzenstube over twenty years after the event -- Gott der Vater, Gott der Sohn, und Gott der heilige Geist -- attests to the truth of Alyosha's words~the boys after Ilusha' s funeral: "If a man carries many such memories with him into life, he is safe to the end of his days, and if one has only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may sometimes be the means of saving us." Who we are has a whole lot to do with what we remember, and what we remember says a whole lot about who we are. Some gestures and events . of supreme importance to our well-being we remember, others we forget. When Dmitri has Penya by the throat, his hands and face smeared with Grigory's blood, it occurs to him that he forgot about the Polish officer as soon as he heard of him. Mi tya in a flash changes to a state of childlike gentleness from a state of violent frenzy upon hearing that Grushenka loved his noble heart for an hour. Mitya smiles and sighs with glee. That memory will endure. In celebration of his making way for Grushenka' s new life with her Polish officer, Dmitri will host a feast, a gala event at which all are welcome, with champagnes, wines, vodkas, chocolates, cakes, pies, jams, sweet meats, all in abundance. Mitya will renounce his own lavish desires for the queen of his heart, if only she can be happy. He is beginning to care for others in their own right, apart from himself. 'Mokroe' is associated with the Russian word meaning 'moist . ' Dmitri's overflowing, Giovanni-like prodigality brings about the drunkenness and merriment, the splendid party at Mokroe, the feast in honor of rich, moist Mother Earth. Mitya's natural element is the party; with sounds of gypsies' instruments, popping corks , and rustic folk songs: with sights of colorful costumes , laughing faces , and peasant dances. The celebration is as much for the people of Mokroe as it is for Dmitri and Grushenka, for the peasants who live in their black, broken- down shanties, in poverty and desolation, day in and day out, year after year, people after Mitya's own heart. Everyone regardless of rank or religion is invited to Dmitri's feast, provided they make merry and find delight in music and dance, and in the company of their neighbors. Mitya's infectious energy exhilarates young and old, rich and poor alike; his expansiveness and exuberance bring joy and gladness to other people's hearts, and simply make good things happen . Andrey, the driver who takes Dmitri to Mokroe at breakneck speed, says, in all simplicity and truth, that though Mitya is hot- tempered, rough, and impulsive, he is still a child, and God will forgive him for his kind heart. Imagine the peasant folks of Mokroe in their huts, late at night, huddled by the fire trying to keep warm, perhaps weighed down by sadness and boredom, but hopeful, when suddenly a cry goes through the streets announcing the arrival of the captain , Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov , who has come to throw another happy feast . What relief and excitement they must feel: with hearts renewed by the anticipation of 44 drinking, singing, and dancing; with hearts renewed by the presence of this man of the earth who will greet them all, men and women , boys and girls , pretty and plain, with open arms, with a hug and a kiss; with hearts renewed by the opportunity to forget their cares and woes this one night and to be with one another as fellows full of gaiety and laughter. The peasants at Dmitri's feast do not lose themselves in Bacchic revelry, in the worship of Dionysos; they find themselves in their folk tradition, they discover the possibility for fun and play in their lives despite their oppressive surroundings . Drunkenness, party spirit, and carousing may be on St. Paul's list of works of the flesh(Gal . 5:20), but God will forgive the people of Mokroe this much for one night . Dmitri's feast at Mokroe must be pleasing to God . Grushenka has the spirit: "When do they get a chance to enjoy themselves, · why shouldn't folks be happy?" Hurrah for Karamazov! But what about Grigory? Can Mitya be excused for running away from the scene of his crime to go throw a party? For all he knows Grigory might be dead. Dmitri has not forgotten the bloody blow he gave to the man who was a father to him as a child . He is thinking remorsefully about this very deed when on the way to Mokroe he begs Andrey to forgive him for everyone and everything, and when he withdraws into "frantic prayer . " Dmitri is at heart a peasant, although in blood he is a nobleman, an honn~e homme, whose honor is of utmost concern to him. His peasant heart allows Father Zossima' s words to make a great impression on him. During the course of Mitya's 'unshapeable shock night' he comes to see more and more vividly his responsibility to all for all and everything, le plus noble des sentiments. Later in the night Mitya, with characteristic exaggeration, says to Grushenka: "I'd give ten vears r~ my life for Grigory to get well, to know he was all right." The feast at Mokroe bears a resemblance to the wedding party in Cana, of Galilee: " ••• the gladness of some poor, very poor people ••• the people living about the Lake of Genesareth were the poorest that can possibly be imagined .•• they hadn't wine enough even at a wedding ••. and His heart was open even to the simple, artless mer ry-making of some obscure and unlearned people, who had warmly bidden Him to their poor wedding ... indeed was it to make wine abundant at poor weddings He had come down to earth?" Dmitri and Grushenka confess their mutual love and even make vows of fidelity in the midst of the uproar at Mokroe. Yet the vows made between these lovers do not quite stand up to the vows made at the marriage feast at which Jesus is present. Dmitri and Grushenka may be on their way to an embrace of the spiritual life, the sacrament of marriage, but as yet they do not hold such a life dear enough. Grushenka still toys coyly with Mitya. Fondling Kalganov, she asks: "Who is it that I love?" Dmitri knows the answer, but enough is enough. After mentioning that Alyosha earlier said something to her that she will remember her whole life long, she is able to confess to Dmitri, and to herself, that she has been carrying spite in her heart and tormenting her lover with it. Grusha, like Mitya, is on the verge of reformation and needs only a spe,cial saving act of grace to push her over the edge. Saying, "tomorrow the nunnery I today the dance" I she means that she wishes to enjoy this night of feasting to the fullest before making a final commitment to Dmitri. Grusha doesn't see that it is not so easy. Living on the edge yields great pleasure; the temptation is to stay put . St . Augustine: "How long, how long? Tomorrow and tomorrow? Why not now? Why not in this very hour an end to my uncleanness?" (Confessions 8 : 12) . Something te rr ifying must be endur ed this v e ry night if Grus h a and Mitya are to exchange promises with solemn devotion . Dimitri came to Mokroe hoping only to become reconciled with Grushenka . The plan was to kill himself after making way for her new life with the Pole : "I must kill one noxious insect for fear it should crawl and spoil life for others." Mitya has shown a g r eat change in his love for Grusha . At the start he wished to win her from his rival for his glory and satisfaction as well as for his reformation and renewal; he was prone to fierce jealousy and vengeful violence; he was always on the 45 �------------ - - -- - -- - - - -- watch and even employed Smerdyakov to keep track of Grushenka's and Fyodor's de a.lings• Now, however, Mi tya' s only concern is with Grusha' s happiness. He is willing to let Grushenka go off with the Pole if that is what she wishes· he does not imp~s~ his own will on her doings; he respects her enough to let her ~ake her own decisions · Once Dmitri has attained this noble condition, and once the devil's temptation to suicide is overcome on the balcony - - "Let this fearful cup pass from me!" . -- Mi tya can place hope in the future with Grushenka, and he can be fully confident that God is working for his happiness along with hers . Mitya and Grusha are meant to be together; they are made for one another; but it is not until the ~east and the sudden catastrophe at Mokroe that they are fully aware of the gift each is to and for the other, as beings of God. Again, only when Mitya renounces his own will, his own mad desire to possess Grushenka, when he acknowledges her freedom to go abo ut doing ~hat she considers best, and only when he prays that God may order events as He sees fit, only then does everything begin to fall into place, does Dmitri see that he and Grushenka are destined to spend their lives together in holy matrimony. After Grusha's final dance, after Dmitri carries her to rest on the bed, they vow to be honest, honorable, and goo d, to work the land and dig the earth to act ·a s responsible human b eings with a closeness to life and growth, and t o b ow' down befo re God a nd b eg f o rg ive ness. But they do not know what they are willing t o endu re for one anothe.r u nti.l th.e i nvestigato rs appear: felix culpa. . The investig~ting lawyers interpret all the e vidence with a view to Mitya 1 s guilt. The case is closed e v en befo re the condemned man is interrogated. That the Po les cheat at cards is no hindrance t o their tes t imony, but that Mitya lies about t~e three tho usand r o ub l es makes all t he difference in the world. The prosecuter for h~ s p~rt h as a persona l ~take i n t h e matter despite all his c laims t o ' obj e c tiv ity ': h~s wife ~as always particularly f o nd o f Dmitri and his career will skyrocket with a vic t o r y i n court. With dev ilish wi nks and smirks of self-righteousn e s s and se~f-~at isfact ion, the inv estigato rs make the same error as Ivan. They think that by s t i c king t o t h e f acts the tru th will inevitably be t o ld, as if facts of themselves were in the habit o f fa ll ing i nto plac e, as if a selectio n and i n terpretatio n o f fa c ts on t h e part o f fa l l ible human b e ings were not at issue. J ust as Ivan c laims t o know abo ut the in j u~ti c e of suffering on the basis of s o me newspaper clippings, so t h e se attorneys claim t o know about M itya's guilt o n the basis o f hearsay: Grigo ry saw the door open; Trifo n Borisso vitch has no doubt that Mitya spent three t hous and o n each o f his trips to M kroe; and so on. The truth is that the investigato rs h ave o persu a d ed themse lves o f t h eparricidalcharacter of Karamazov. This c ase is just like s o many o thers. The y must have everything in order. They have c hosen to attend to only t h?se fac ts wh ich s uppo rt their fantasy, which fit their pre-arranged p u zzle, and to igno re every o ther relev ant piece of e v idence. They refuse to acknowledge the he art- f elt nat u re of Dmitr i' s horro r a nd sorrow over the where and the how o f h is fath er's de ath. (Not b e ing altogether b eautiful himself, Dmitri has come t o see t h at he h a d no p lac e to fi nd Fyodor repulsive. ) The inv estigato rs refu se to admit that their job consists in s to r y -te l ling . In their eyes ficti on has nothing to d o wi th the t r uth . Yet the y f ab r ic a t e t h e f ab le o f the fif t een-hundred roubles stash e d away some where in the hotel, much to Trifo n Borossovitc h's cha g rin. What t he investiga to rs don't seem t o understand is t h at Dmitri Fyodo r ovitch Karamazov a human bei?g, and an .extraordinary one at that, cannot be boxed and packaged, 'that the moti v es a nd a ctions o f a perso n are far too invo l v ed to be exp l a ined away i n a po l i c e repo rt. Of c ourse, lawyers have to j udge, as do we all, but why do we find such satani c pleasure i n j udging o thers? Why are we s o c o nfident that we know the t ruth o f their heart s a nd a c tio ns, when a goo d deal of the time we haven't t h e fa intest no tio n wha t we are talking about? ~ Dmitri's integrity and frankness make it difficult f o r him t o s h are what is in h is heart with t hese men. Confessing to Alyosha is a relief, but confessing to the 46 attorneys is agony . Honor is not so important to them that they know the distinction between being a thief and being a scoundrel . Even, that is , especially when he is s tanding naked before them , Dmitr i towers above the investigator s . God ' s way s are strange and mysterious. Piety demands that we trust in their goodness . It does· a ll seem fitting and r ight when Mitya says : "I couldn't have lear ned s o much about myself in twenty years as I have on this accursed night . " Dmitri is the sort of person who has to suffer greatly before he is prepared to have his heart changed by God. Out of his grief fo r Grushenka, his anger over the investigators' petty details, his exhaustion a f ter being tossed to and fro all night long, out of Mitya' s great suffering emerges a d r eam about a babe . The d r eam arising f r om Mi tya ' s subterranean depths bears witness to his t r ansfigured self, his careful attentiveness to people who are afflicted and aggrieved, his newfound openness to being of service t o his fellow s , to self- giving fo r the gladness of others . Approaching a bur nt-out town with the houses in shambles -- Mokroe? -- seeing the villagers standing i n tattered rags on the road in t he dead of winter, Mi tya naively a s ks his peasant driver -- Andrey? -- questions concerning the mystery of suffering : Why a r e they c r ying? Why are they crying? ••• It's the babe ••. The babe weeping ••• but why is she weeping ••• why are her little arms bare? Why don't they wrap her up? .•. The babe's cold, her little clothes a r e frozen and don't warm he r •.• But why is it? Why? •.• Why , they're poor people bur nt out ••• No,no ••• Tell me why is it those poor mothers stand there? Why are people poo r ? Why is the babe poor? Why is the steppe bar ren? Why don ' t they hug each othe r a nd kiss? Why don't they sing songs of joy? Why are they so dark f r om black misery? Why don't they feed the babe ? Sadly , Ivan never asks "Why?" . Ivan cannot admit that he does not know, that the answer is hidden f rom him . By way of the mystery of suffering, t h e 'irranortal beauty' - as Hopkins calls it- of Christ's sacrifice, that is how God finally chooses to reveal Himself to human beings in history . Mi tya is entering that storm which wrecked the Deutschland, shar ing in the suffering of people whom he does not know, and does not n e ed to know in o r der to feel what they feel . Mitya himself was once a child in tatter ed r ags, outcas t and forgotten; he understands , almost, what it means to shiver in the cold with litt le hope of finding shelter again , suffe r ing unto death . Mo r e s o than on any othe r night, even last night at the fo r ester's hut--his final preparation fo r tonight , tonight Mitya has endured a heart- wrenching pass ion : first being tempted to act c o ntrary t o God' s will by murder and suic · de; next endur ing abuse , condemnation, and mockery by the citizens and judges; las t wi ll b e the bearing of a c r oss for the rest of his life, unto death . And he felt that a passion of pity, such as he had neve r known befor e, was rising in his hear t, that he wanted to c r y, tha t he wanted to do something fo r them all, so that the babe should weep no more , so that the dark- faced, dried- up mother should not wee p , that no one should s hed tears again f r om that moment , and he wanted to do it at once, at once, regar dless of all obstacles , wi th all the recklessness of the Karamazovs • •• 'And I'm coming with you . I won't leave now for the rest of my life . I'm coming with you,' he heard close by him Grushenka's tender voice , thrilling with emotion . And his heart glowed, and he str uggled forward toward the light , and he longed to live, to live , to go on a nd on , towar ds the new beckoning light, and to 47 �hasten, hasten, now, at once! Dmitri is drawn to the sufferin face . . . The urgent call to attend to th g s of individuals, not to Ivan's 'humanity' M't ' e sorrows and woes of his f 11 • 1 ya s brotherly compassion for the woman . e ows comes from Christ. one simple manifestation of God' . and ch~ldren of the devastated village is Christ Mitya would feel no compul:i~~v~:g,, sufferi~g l~ve for human beings. Without starving people. Bearing one another's ~iv~ up h~s life for these withered, feeble, sees feelingly that he has the ab'l't b ur ens is Christ's law (Gal. 6:2). Mitya · i i Y Y way of God's sav· saving efficacy, to respond to th ing power, Christ's death's st th e cares of the babe By f reel . . and concern, by responding to Christ's . . y giving his love and . reng in the sufferings of its inhabitant b h . prese~ce in the burnt out village and bab e, Mitya acknowledges with a d s, b Y earing Christ's vo ice in t h e cries of the · · · . are responsible to all for all ;ep ow the truth of Father Zossima's words· 'all unkindness are just as much th an everything.' Mitya now knows that his mome~ts of · e b e f ore he could have his dream cause of the babe's suffering as anything else. Yet d I · · , a goo dream not the e · 1 d nquisitor and Mme. Hohlakov, Mit a had ., . vi ream of Ivan and the is like to make way to love G hy . k to strike Grigory, and he had to feel what it , rus en a as a human bein d and he had to be UnJ' ustly tri' d d g an not as someone to be won, e an put upon by the · t' · t h e character of redemptive drama inves igating lawyers. Such is H Now Mitya must face the possibility of spending e courageously proclaims that even in the mines years of hard labor in. Siberia. murderers, the persecuted and th t underground, among thieves and . e ou cast he will try t raise a hymn of praise and th k . . , o muster the strength to redeemed man to be full of h anh sgiving t~ God the Father. It is the mark of a ope w en faced with the worst imaginable conditions. I w~ite~ patiently for the Lord1 he inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up out of the desolate pit,out of the miry and set my foot on a rock, making my steps secure bog, He put a new song in my m th · ou , a song of praise to our God. (Ps.40) But Dmitri is wrong about himself when . cross in Siberia. That is . t he cons~ders that God wills him to bear his . JUs not what he is meant to d · married, to be married to a woman 1. k G h o. Mi tya needs to be the dream of the babe Mitya's d i e lrlus enk~, no one else. Her voice was also in . . ream a ows him to enter i t th b rings him closer to · Christ th R d n o o ers' suffering. it . e e eemer, but he cannot with f 1 ' weeping and hunger from the face of th h one e 1 swoop, wipe Dmitri has been delivered from tr ~ eart. . The redemptive power with which Mitya' s vows to Grushenka hi s coamrnns'gtresstions hwill work thr ough him in a family way. ' ' i men to er for l' f t · · The sacrament of marriage will be a bi ~ . i.e ime, will be a handful. seeking out run-down towns and d. t g ~nough responsibil.i ty for Dmitri without his Christ's cross. He has a cross ::. r:u~ t m?thers and children. Mitya cannot bear can still reflect the goodness a die is !uniquely his own. His sayings and doings d. n reso ve of his dream th . or inary than he thought' that's all. Th , ey may JUst be more Fyodorovitch Karamazov heretofore is t b e ~:eatest act of love open to Dmitri and a stern and tender father for theiroch:ld:en~nd and gentle husband for Grushenka v. The Holy Koinonia Alexey Fyodorovi tch Karamazov is Skotoprignyevsk after a long ab the .first among the brothers to return to . sence. Having an allegian t comes in search of his mother, s t mb ce o sacred memory, he lies buried; he abandoned his wif 'o • Fyodor in his dissipation forgot where she e s grave and all his memories long ago on a trip to 48 Odessa. Thanks only to Grigory's steadfast service and special fondness for Sophia, a stone was erected in her name. Alyosha visits the place, remembering how his mother once held him up to the slanting sunlight shining on a holy image so that as a child he might receive the gracious gift of faith. Alyosha cherishes this memory his whole life long. Strangely, when he hears a story about a fit of his mother's -- the one incited by Fyodor's spitting on an ikon hoping to destroy Sophia's mysticism -Alyosha falls back in his chair "shaking all over in a hysterical paroxysm of sudden, violent weeping." The blood of a religious idiot flows through this young man's veins. With the memory of his mother's piety working upon his imagination Alyosha decides to enter the monastery on the outskirts of town as a novice. Father Zossima, the Elder at the monastery renowned for his saintly doings, Alyosha's pater seraphicus, also recollects going to mass with his mother as a child and being struck by sunlight streaming down through the window of the church. God's word is planted as a seed in Zossima' s and Alexey' s heart at an early age, and grows of its own accord without their constant care and attention. Being a Karamazov, a person smeared with black, Alyosha is capable of base lust, pre-occupation with himself and indifference to others, willful rejection of God's saving ways, all the sins which lead to a life in hell on earth, which make a human being unable to love his fellows. Alyosha's becoming a novice to escape the darkness and deviltry of the world and his own soul, to avoid temptation by hiding behind cloistral walls, is, as Father Zossima knows, somewhat troublesome; it is a sign of youthful fear and inexperience, not a sign of weakness and aloneness. Father Zossima also knows that Alyosha sincerely wishes to search after righteousness among holy men, to offer himself up to God as a living sacrifice with a view to showing mercy and being of service to others who are in need. He has been blessed with the gifts of unaffected . simplicity and patient humility. Alyosha's soft, gentle, handsome young face raises in Father Zossima's memory the image of his brother Markel whose pious, dying sayings have always been enshrined in his heart. It is good that Father Zossima at the beginning of his life received Markel's words, witnessing his beautiful death, and at the end of his life passes on his treasured memories to the boy who reminds him o f Markel, spending his last days with Alyosha in childlike happiness. Father Zossima can look back in old age over his many years and see God at work taking care of him, giving him then Markel and now Alyosha. Under the influence of a freethinking and isolated philosophy student, Markel came to rail against God and laugh at the servants and members of his family for their devout practices during Lent. Afterwards, Holy Week brought a fatal illness to Markel, but "a marvelous change passed over him, his spirit seemed transformed." When he began speaking in ways obscure and almost unintelligible, the doctor diagnosed his words as insane, but the nine year old Zossima gladly and attentively heard them as free gifts for the enhancement of faith: "I will be the servant of my servants, the same as they are to me .•• every one of us has sinned against all men, and I more than any ... Birds of heaven, happy birds, forgive me, for f have sinned against you ••• There was such a glory of God all about me: birds, trees, meadows, sky, only I lived in shame and dishonored it all and did not notice the beauty and the glory ... it's for you, not grief I'm crying •.. I like to humble myself before them, for I don't know how to love them enough, yet all forgive me, too, and that's heaven. Am I not in heaven now?" Markel says that he has sinned against every created being more than any other person; Dimitri feels responsible for the weeping and suffering of the babe and her mother; Father Zossima blames himself for another man's sin even more than the actual sinner: all because they are aware that they have not fully attained to the joy of being in the world and that in their joyless states they have sown evil seeds in people's hearts. Markel's betrayal of life's glory encourages the brilliant young 49 �philosopher to preach his own plan of salvation, adding to his bitterness and misanthropy; Mitya's violent treatment of Snegiryov -- that large sweeping gesture which prevents him from performing a small act of kindness -- leads to Ilusha' s death; Zossima' s reckless, youthful vanity brings about a duel which could make a murderer out of a nobleman. Alyosha must accept that even the best human beings suffer from frailty and pass through periods of harmful wrongdoing. He must recognize that escaping from the sinfulness of the world and his own soul is no way to combat evil and attain purity of heart, that a monk's life of prayer in a monastery is a life of compassionate dedication to his fellows in the world, that being in the world is a joyful activity even in the midst of anguish and degradation . The primary foundation for joy is God the Creator. Also every being in the created world -- mountains, rivers, even stones -- is a reason to delight in being alive. And since it is all too easy to side with Ivan ' s claim that suffering makes it impossible to find joy and be glad, ·Holy Scripture too is a necessary foundation, for the sacred tales of the Bible place the suffering of God's world in the proper redemptive light. Alyosha holds a naive conviction that Father Zossima's saintly doings will bring extraordinary glory to the monastery. Believing the Elder' s death to be an event worth God's showing Himself and His favor -- as if justice consisted in worldly fame -- Alyosha turns away from God. He acts as though there were a fit recompense for righteousness, even though no human being is justified in God's sight because of anything he does. A person is justified only because God in all His mercy freely and unconditionally chooses to make him just, to fill him with grace, to look upon him as righteous. St. Paul: " .• a man is not justified by works of the law but by way of faith in Jesus Christ ..• I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me; and the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me . . . if justification were through the law, then Christ died to no purpose" (Gal. 2:16-21). Alyosha grieves over Father zossima's death with his back turned to the hermitage, sitting on Job's tombstone, a monk whose namesake defied God for justice's sake and whose body did not undergo corruption after death. By expecting something extraordinary, a quite peculiar marvel, to affirm and proclaim Father Zossima' s sanctified life before all the world, Alyosha is defying and denying God's will and way. Before Alyosha met Father Zossima he never loved anyone enough -- besides his mot;her -- to feel deep injury at his loss. Alyosha does not weep beautifully for Father Zossima just because of the premature corruption of the Elder' s body. His tears of sorrow turn into tears of disappointment. Alyosha is at his worst when he joins the throng behind Ferapont outside Father Zossima's cell and when he repeats Ivan's cheap phrases about not accepting God's world. Unbeknownst to him, God's saving activity is present even in this seemingly catastrophic event. The apparent disgrace of Alyosha's saint leads to "a crisis and turning-point in his spiritual development, giving a shock to his intellect, which finally strengthened it for the rest of his life and gave it a definite aim." Rakitin finds Alyosha lying motionless, face down, with arms limply outspread on the ground, deeply pained by God's hiddenness, and lures him over to Grushenka's for a drink and a fling. Alyosha's going to Grushenka's home is akin to throwing himself off the pinnacle of the temple, tempting God. On the one hand he has a childish, abstract, dogmatic urge to get back at God for what He has allowed to happen -- not only was Father Zossima not justified, he was ruined - - on the other hand he secretly hopes to find God's saving presence at Grusha's. His expectation of the extraordinary from God defied and denied the divine mystery at work in ordinary things. Grushenka's simple gesture of kindness and compassion helps Alyosha see more deeply the mystery of a Creator who is moved by and overflows with the fullness of love. Only along this path can Alyosha renounce once and for all his tendency to 50 hate God's way of going about doing good. His power to give a small gift in return to Grushenka even in his lowliest condition bears witness to the strength of his love and the depth of his kindness. Alyosha's gift to Grushenka consists in allowing Grushenka to give a gift to him, in allowing her to show forth the ~ood~ess in her oul so that she might take note of it. He is able to offer Grusha this gift because ~f his steadfast, quixotic respect for all human beings, even, that is, especially those who do not respect themselves. The source and center of Alyosha's gladness is his ability to receive with grace the gifts of others and to bear without conde~ation ~he abuse~ o~ others. Receiv~ng is more difficult than giving and keeping silence is more difficult than shouting Alyosha can be a child of the generous Yefim Petrovitch in a way Ivan cannot t OU. 'l simply because Alyosha thankfully acknowledges Yefim's fatherly .gestures whi. e Ivan stubbornly avoids them. Ivan speaks angrily to people who wish to do .him some charity, desiring rather to stand firmly on his own two feet and support himself at all cost. Alyosha, on the other hand, accepts hospitality from anyone; he doesn't bother about who is taking care of him; and even as a child he endures the insults of his school-fellows without a word of complaint, harshness, or cruelty. Ivan tends to turn down invitations to merry-making, but Alyosha, now that he has received Grusha's loving kindness and set aside his troubled spirit, is ready to respond gladly to the biggest invitation imaginable. . . . Father Paissey is reading the story of the wedding party in Cana, of Galilee, from st. John's gospel, over the dead body of Father Zossima, when Alyosha returns to the hermitage f rorn Grushenka' s house. Exhausted by the turmoil and tumult of the day, as is Dmitri when he dreams of the babe and Ivan when he d~eams of ~he devil, Alyosha enters into the sacred tale. He is invited by Father Zossima, who is present at the wedding, to join the party, the marriage feast at which joy abounds. Even Alyosha, for whom receiving is so easy, is hidden and out of sight, so that he requires a special invitation corning from the person whom he most trusts and holds most dear . Alyosha, who has been hiding from the outside, the world beyond the ikon-covered gates of the cloistered monks, is finally ready to grasp fully the words of Father zossirna -- "he who loves men loves their gladness" -- and the words of Dmitri --"there is no living without joy" -- and the words of either Father Zossima or Dmitri Alyosha isn't sure which, probably both --"everything that is true and good is ~!ways full of forgiveness" -- and the beauty and goodness of Jesus. in changing water into wine so that the poor people around the Lake of Genesareth might be festive and happy~ When the walls recede in the midst of Alyosha's dream, the distinction between inside, the cloistral walls of the monastery, and outside, the world is erased. Alyosha finally sees that what happens inside has everything to do with ~hat happens outside and what happens outside has everything to do with what happens inside. The world as well as the church is a place to delight in feasts ~nd celebrations, a place to be with others for the good of all. . Th~ sudden comi~g together of places Alyosha had always considered separate and distinct causes his soul to overflow "with rapture" and to yearn for "freedom, space, openness." For the first time Alyosha sees the splendor and the glory of his familiar surroundings: The vault of heaven, full of soft, shining stars, stretched vast and fathomless above him. The Milky Way ran in two pale streams from the zenith to the horizon. The fresh, motionless, still night enfolded the earth. The white towers and golden domes of the cathedral gleamed out against the sapphire sky. The gorgeous autumn flowers, in the beds round the house, were slumbering till morning. The silence of the earth seemed to melt into the silence of the heavens. The mystery of the earth was one with the mystery of the stars ••• 51 �.For the first tim~ Alyosha sees the oneness of all things. Before attending the marriage feast everything is scattered all over the place. Breathlessly Alyosha runs from Father Zossima in the monastery to Dmitri in the garden, from Dmitri in the garden to Fyodor in the house, from Fyodor to Katerina and Grushenka, back and forth, from Smerdyakov by the cottage to Ivan at the tavern. After attending the marriage feast everything is unified. All of Alyosha's experience points toward a common center: the Holy Trinity. Alyosha's acceptance of Christ's invitation through Father Zossima entails seeing how extraordinary are the ordinary things of God. Just by seeing ordinary things as God's things they suddenly become transformed and shine forth in ways which astound and amaze those who are filled with pious awe and wonder. Alyosha's participation in the eucharistic celebration will be truly life-receiving for him and life-giving for others from here on out. Alyosha ' s dream-vision renders less unintelligible some of the misty, mystical words of Father Zossima' s last conversation: "God took seeds from different worlds and sowed them on this earth, and His garden grew up and everything came up that could come up, but what grows lives and is alive only through the feeling of its contact with other mysterious worlds. If that feeling grows weak or is destroyed in you, the heavenly growth will die away in you. Then you will grow indifferent to life and even grow to hate it." The different worlds which are threaded together for Alyosha at the marriage feast are the various human relationships of utmost importance in his life. Each relationship is a world unto itself but they all have a unitary meaning. Alyosha's dream-vision blends into one holy partnership Father Zossima, Mitya and Grusha, the bride and bridegroom, Jesus and Mary, the wise governor of the feast and the poor villagers. For the one who was hidden and out of 7ig?t ~11 these people and contacts were unrelated, but for the one who accepts the invitation and partakes of the feast, they are mystically joined in spiritual fellowship. Christ's invitation to us all is, as Father Zossima says, unceasing forever and ever: "He is expecting new guests ..• they are bringing new wine." It is not that we a~e invited only once in our lives and if we refuse our hopes are dashed. Every ~inute of ever~ hour of every... Jesus invites all of us to gather together in Joyful fellowship at the sacred table. By keeping hidden and out of sight we offer almost as great a rejection of Him as when we come right out into the open, say: 'No, be lost!' Jesus' suffering did not end at Golgotha, He has to endure our avoidance of his saving gestures again and again, as often as we turn our backs. Yet he still reserves a seat for each of us at the table to help us overcome our horrible abiding aloneness. Imagine how sad it would be to sit at your seat and wait for a friend who refused to take his or her seat. Such sadness, however, can last for a time. Before long a table will be set only for those who accepted the invitation. Who these people are, God only knows, but all will rejoice. What then shall we say? Shall we accept or reject Christ's invitation? Some might respond, saying: 'I am not called and nothing you can say will make me believe that I am called.' Others:'I trust I am invited but I do not want to have anything to do with a party that is no more than a gathering of the elect.' Others: 'I trust I am called, and I am extremely grateful, but the shame I would feel in God's presence would be unbearable for me. ' still others: 'Thanks for inviting me. I shall join but I shall feel no joy there. ' Finally some people might r espond , saying: 'Hurrah! I shall give up anything and everything, even my life, to be able to attend such a joy-creating festive celebration of spiritual fellowship with the Father at the head of the table and the Son serving the new wine of gladness. ' There are as many different responses as there are hearts to respond. The invitation is always being tendered and Jesus always waits patiently for gracious acceptance. For our part, whether we like it or not, we are always responding, each and every second, in one way or another, for better or worse, in sickness and health, unto death. 52 Having attended the marriage feast and witnessed the glory and splendor of the sapphire sky and golden domes, Alyosha is filled with such ecstasy that only one thing is left for him to do: Alyosha stood, gazed, and suddenly threw himself down on the earth. He did not know why he embraced it. He could not have told why he longed so irresistibly to kiss it, to kiss it all. But he kissed it weeping, sobbing and watering it with his tears, and vowed passionately to love it, to love it forever and ever. "Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love those tears," echoed in his soul ••• He longed to forgive everyone and for everything, and to beg forgiveness. Oh, not for himself, but for all men, for all and for everything. "And others are praying for me too", echoed again in his soul ••• something firm and unshakable as that vault of heaven had entered his soul ••• some idea had seized the sovereignty of his mind -- and it was for all his life and forever and ever. He had fallen on the earth a weak boy, but he rose up a resolute champion •.• And never, never, all his life long, could Alyosha forget that minute. Now the gentle and open-hearted novice is ready to be fully what he was always meant to be, a ministering angel full of love for the lowest things of the earth because of their relation to the highest things of heaven. Alyosha's arms embrace all people in all conditions through every season and in every place. Having watered the earth with his joyful tears, he will be able to bring forth fruit in abundance once lie enters upon his ministry in the world, which is to serve Jesus Christ in hope of His coming reign by serving his fellow human beings with the new wine. Once Alyosha hugs and kisses the earth there is nothing left for him to do but give himself up for others. He is finally a true disciple of Jesus Christ and a true spiritual son of Father Zossima, that holy man who "joyfully gave up his soul to God" with his arms ecstatically outstretched "praying and kissing the ground." Only after Father zossima speaks to him directly from the marriage feast is Alyosha prepared to obey the Elder's commandments:" Be with your brothers ••. If evil spirits rise up repeat a prayer .•• You will have to endure all before you come back .•• In sorrow seek happiness ••. Begin your work dear one ..• Sojourn in the world." . Part of the work of a champion is to care for others by graciously and patiently accepting their griefs as his own. Alyosha's patience allows him to listen attentively to the hysterical remarks of Mitya and Ivan, Grusha and Katerina, Lise and Mme. Hohlakov, to take calmly upon himself the burden of their woes without passing judgement on their depth or genuineness, to recognize mildly that "tragic phrases comfort the heart." Patience is not passivity; neither is. it ~toical, unmoved endurance. Patience, derived ultimately from the Greek pascho, is, first, an experiencing, or enduring, or suffering, of turmoil and sorrow, with kindness and gentleness, in hope of a coming time of plenty, rest, and joy; and last, an active, attentive hearing and feeling of this experience so that what is offered as a teaching may be learned. Alyosha's patience makes it possible for him to absorb the harsh, sometimes vile and cruel words and deeds of his fellows in human community without condemning the speakers and doers. His simple pious way of being tells us a truth so simple and so common that it is often overlooked, or, what is worse, despised: imaginatively feeling for others who are in anguish, taking their part, whether in prayer or in being fully present for them, not as an advisor or as a counselor, but just as a fellow presence, is a great act of gracious human goodn~ss. Another part of the work of a champion is to gather together especially 53 �children, but also adults, and plant seeds of goodwill in their hearts. Father Zossima remarks on :he first time he understood something read in church -- the story of Job -- and how important that event was for his future well being. All children should be blessed with the oppo rtunity to hear sacred stories fr om the Bible, stories which they may not fully understand -- who does? -- but which will allow them to feel involvement, excitement, fear, happiness, the full array of emotions which an imaginative listener passes through during the reading of a good story. Father Zossima urges priests who are overburdened with "works and services" to devote at le~st one hour a week to sharing the remembrance of Jerusalem with children. The priest ought to invite the children to his cottage during the week, preparing jam and tea. for th~m, ~avo~ites of Father Zossima and Alyosha: "Let him open the book and begin reading it without grand words or superciliousness, without condescension to t~em, ~ut g~ntly and ~indly, being glad that he is reading to them and that they are listening with attention, loving the words himself •.. Let him too weep, the priest of God, ~nd be sure the hearts of his listeners will throb in response. Only a tiny seed is needed -- drop it into the heart of the peasant and it won't die it will live in his s oul all his life, it will be hidden in the midst of the dar~ness and sin, like a bright spot, like a great reminder." The work of the champion invo lves not only being with and for people in their ~orr?w, but also abiding in people as a good memory so that they may call him forth in times of trouble (Jn . 15). Christ's kiss glows in the Inquisitor's heart. Yet on account of his willful and ongoing rejection of the-rnvitation being extended to him he cannot bring forth fruits that befit repentance. The Cardinal adheres to hi~ ideas instead of risking change. Ivan's wish to receive an abiding gesture of love f:om Alyosha is his primary motive for reciting his prose poem . Ivan needs to be ki~se~, b.u t he makes i: impossible for Alyosha's kiss to glow in his heart by br~~ging it about by design. Alyosha earlier kissed Lise right smack on the lips in a f~t of spontaneous passion and joy, but the kiss he gives his brother lacks that spontaneity which is the mark of true sincerity . It is as if Ivan calculates Alyosha's kiss so that he can convince himself that it isn't genuine and so that he ca~ continue to remain alone on his wavering path of doubt and despair. Ivan is still . a.young man; he may emerge from his madness and find himself in the hands of the living God . Nevertheless Ivan warns us how soon a heart can become hardened. It needn't take ninety years. That is in part why Father Zossima wants priests to read holy t~les in the Bible to children, to show them that redemption comes by way of ~uf~eri~g, so that when as adults they freely choose either to accept or reject God's invitation ~o the great feast at least they will do so knowing the Orthodox belief . Father Zossima sheds sad tears over children and youths like Ivan who bitterly turn away from God because of some wrongheaded belief . K~lya Krasso.tkin is in danger of some day being in Ivan's shoes. Kol ya is an e~ceptional~y br.ight boy who closed- heartedly holds certain good feelings at a distance, like his love for his mother, because of their 'sheepish sentimentality'. Desperately wishing to be admired by older and younger friends alike, Kolya goes to great lengths to win approval and acceptance. Kolya Krassotkin is willfully like one of the factory children of whom Father Zossima speaks, children who are never given a chance to be children, to grow up in a heal thy way, playing in the sunshine. Although Kolya is granted a blissful day of tears in his mother ' s arms after the railway incident, he suffers the misfortune of falling into Rakitin's fiendish hands of being indoctrinated in socialist teachings after the manner of the Gran~ Inquisitor. Alyosha: "I am sad that a charming nature such as yours should be perverted by all this crude nonsense before you have begun life ." Kolya is always in a hurry to quote clever phrases and display his grown - up knowledge for fear the whole world is l.aughi?g at. him , as if he were created as a mockery. so much of Kol ya' s preoccupation with his own self has to do with the desire to be 'complex' and to be 54 recognized as 'deep' • Thanks to Alyosha's saving patience and kind-heartedness, Kolya gets a chance to see that a person can be grown-up and childlike at the same time, a person can be simple and gentle and still be respected and loved. Alyosha urges Kolya to stand apart from the devil's vanity which seeks to make clever people feel ridiculous about confessing to themselves their own tenderness and affection for others. Thanks to Ilusha's illness Kolya can feel what it is like to run his fingers through his friend's hair, to forgive and be forgiven, to weep tears of reconciliation and love. Alyosha hopes and prays that Kolya will always remember those beautiful moments by Ilusha's bedside beneath the holy ikons. Alyosha for his part blushes when Kolya acknowledges their declaration of love, not because he is afraid of his own good heart, but because of the simple fact that without any effort on his part people just love him and trust him -- that is a gift Alyosha has been given -- and because he is meant to suffer for himself only for a few short hours, while others, like Kolya, Dmitri, and Ivan, must suffer at length for him. Alyosha must try to understand and come to terms with those struggles of others -- jealousy, envy, bitterness, anger, hatred, pride -- which he has the great good fortune to be without. · He does not have the worldly experience· of others, but he is living testimony that a person may gain wisdom just as well by peacefully attending to his inner life with God as by going everywhere and doing everything. Pascal: ••• _!! ai dit souvent ~tout le malheur des homrnes vient d'une seule chose, q~ est de ne savoir pas demeurer ~ repos dans ~ chambre (Pensee #136) • Alyosha is sent by God as an apostle to teach Kolya that being a simple-hearted child is more wholesome than being a complicated adult, to warn Dmitri that it is not for him to sing his song of praise from the underground and bear his cross in Siberia, and to tell Ivan that it was not he who killed their father. Alyosha's wisdom, his mildness and patience, is manifest again with the boys after Ilusha' s funeral. Kolya says that he could not care less about the very being of Kartashov, his partner in the knowledge of who founded Troy. Alyosha allows Kolya to utter his harsh and cruel words without admonishment, and only later proclaims that he for one cares a whole . lot about Kartashov' s being. Alyosha knows enough to wait for the opportune time before speaking out in response to Kolya's sinful outburst. Meanwhile he learns about how difficult the death of a friend can be for a person like Kolya. Alyosha is simply good from the very start, but he is ever so much better after attending the wedding feast. His new clothes and unshakable serenity are signs that he has learned from his teacher to be a teacher himself, a true monk in the world, bearing other people's burdens, helping them to clarify their confusions, paying heed to every gesture and glance with a view to what will find a permanent place in especially children's hearts. Aside from patient and attentive listening, the champion monk's main activity consists in gathering people together in "good and kind feeling" so that they might be, for a time anyway, "better perhaps than they ordinarily are." At the beginning Father Zossima is at the center of · two gatherings: a simple, heal thy, fortunate gathering among pious women confessing their sins, begging forgiveness, seeking comfort, and offering charity; and a complicated, unhealthy, unfortunate gathering among the likes of Ivan, Rakitin, and Miusov, who are concerned with grand arguments on matters of the state and the church. Father Zossima succeeds at being a champion outside with the open-hearted peasant women, but not inside with the hard- hearted noblemen. At the end Alyosha succeeds in being a champion at the center of a group of twelve boys who are gathered together to share their grief over the death of their beloved friend. Having learned at the marriage party that all worlds are threaded together into one whole, Alyosha knows his place at the stone, the special place where Ilusha and his father wept for one another and shared their dreams. Alyosha knows that is gathering together what God has already gathered, solidifying what the boys have until now only loosely understood, bringing out into the open what has 55 �been hidden, namely, "th at there is no thing higher and stronger and more wh olesome and go od for life in the future than a go od memory . " Alyosha: "You are all dear to me, boy s, fr om t h is day forth, I have a place in my heart for you all, and I beg you t o keep a place in your heart for me! Well, and who has united us in this kind, good fee l i ng which we shall reme mber and intend to remember all our lives? Who, if not I l usha, the good boy , the dear boy, precious to us forever! Let us never forget him . May h is memo ry live forever in our hearts from this day forth . " Alyosha wishes I lusha's death allows our story to end on a no te of new life. t h e boys t o p o ssess a saving memo ry o f Ilusha on his deathbed just as Father zossima p o ssess e d a saving memo ry of Markel o n his deathbed. Ilusha has the same kind spirit as Marke l , asking his friends to c o mfo rt his father and requesting that bread be put o n his grav e s o t h at he might be visited by the sparrows. Alyosha , along with Father Zossima and M arkel, has a difficu lt time making his deepest, most heart- felt sayings inte l lig ible. Altho ugh the barriers o f speech are being broken, as well they should be a t a time like this, this much can readily be grasped from Alyosha's words, that while f o r Ivan, I l u s ha's death is an o ccasion f o r lonesome despair, an opportunity to re j e c t God's creat ion , f o r Alyo sha, I lusha's death is an occasio n for the l iving to join hands i n fe l l ow-feeling , an opportunity t o be good and do something pleasing to God . Ivan's s tubborn s o u l pales beside Alyo sha's pilgrim s oul . Father Zo ssima teache s that we are all bound togethe r , mutually dependen t and mutu ally influ enc i ng , t hat try i ng to g ain c ontrol over the complex web o f h uman re l a t i o ns is a mis gu ided e nterprise. Smerdyakov do es just this in being the great init iato r o f a ct i ons : l y ing t o Dmitri a bout the time o f the gathering in Father Zos sima' s cell; telling Fyodor . that Gr u shenka wi l l show while knowing f u ll well that s h e won't; preparing Dmitri f o r the murd er by i n f o rming him of the se c ret kno cks a nd the whereabo uts of the three-thousand r ou b les; setting up Fyodor for the kill by encourag ing I v an t o le ave t own; f aki ng an e p i l eptic fit. Yet nothi ng happ ens quite t h e way Smerdyakov plan s. Hi s p u r po s e f u l actio n s h ave c o nsequ enc es s o far-r e a ch i ng he cannot maintain his rule . Smerdyako v d enies the operation of providence by wi l l ful l y do ing eve r ything on hi s own , and h e p ays the price. Happenings impo ssible t o p redi ct come t umb l i ng down o n top o f h i m. Alyo sha, on the o ther h a n d, is always on the receiving end, trusting in God 's guidance. His talk with the boys is the f irs t ac t which he i n itiates and l e ad s, as one s e nt b y God. Alyo sha knows that the wo rl d 's complexit y, hugene ss, a nd g randeu r are f o r him to beho ld, n ot t o comprehen d . Fath er Zo ss ima : " My b r o t h er asked the birds t o f o r g ive him: that s ounds s en seless, b u t it is ri ght; f o r all i s like an ocean , al l is fl owing a nd blend i ng ; a t ou ch in o ne place sets up a movement at the o the r end o f the earth. It may be senseless t o beg f o rgiveness of the birds, but b irds would be happier at your side -- a little happier, anyway -- and ch i l dren and all animals, if you yourself were nob ler than you are now. I t's a ll l i k e a n ocean , I t e ll you . Th en y ou wou ld pra y to the bir ds too , consumed by a n a ll e mb rac i ng love , in a s o rt o f transport, and pray tha t they t oo will f o rgiv e your sin s, Tr e asu re this e c s t asy, however sense l ess it may s eem t o men." Acco rding to Ivan, "the earth is s o aked from its crust t o its center" wi t h "the tea rs o f h uma n i ty . " Ivan is a n oc ean o f ind ignation and a nguish . Father Zoss ima 's is a n o cean of f o r giveness and joy . Fo rgive n ess is crucia l. We h a v e t o act all the t i me witho ut k nowi ng what will be the c on sequ ences o f o ur acti on s, without knowing whether and t o what extent we are involved in evildoing. All are responsible to all f o r al l a nd everything precisely b ecau s e t he wo rld is t h e kind o f place Father Zo ssima says it is, a place b o und t ogether by a web o f c omplex relations. An analogue fr om the natural kingdom might help: "it is quite credible that the presence o f a feline ·animal in large numbers in a district mi ght determine, through the intervention first of mic e then of bees, the frequency of certain fl owers in t h at district!" (Darwin, The Origin of Species ) . We might go back one more step, saying, there is a correlation between the number of old ladies living in a t own - - old 56 ladies tend to own cats -- and the occurrence of those same flowers. Fyodor and Gr ushenka employ Snegiryov in a business deal; Dmitri is infuriated and humiliates snegiryov; Ilusha happens to be standing nearby and witnesses the beating of his father; Ilusha kisses Dmitri's hand and begs for the salvation of his father's dignity; Ilusha is laughed at by the school boys on account of Snegiryov's disgr ace; rlusha's morbid sensitivity yields to illness; the doctor cannot help; Katerina's and Alyosha's earlier mission to provide financial help failed; Kolya a rr ives with Perezvon too late; Ilusha' s illness leads to an early death . Who among those involved in this simplified chain of events is not in part responsible for the boy ' s death? or is it Smerdyakov who is responsible because he put Ilusha up to the c r uel trick with Perezvon? Or is it Raki tin, influencing Kolya? Or Ivan, influencing smerdyakov? Or Father Zossima? All are. Alyosha's speaking to a group of boys about what is good and wholesome in life, and his eating pancakes with a sorrowing family in need of companionship, a r e acts of kindness great in-their simplicity . Alyosha sees that small things can make a big difference in a complex world . For this reason alone , Kolya is right to say that Alyosha is better than other people -- including himself and Ivan , even Dmitri . But it is not necessary to stress that one person is better than another . It is necessary to stress that the presence and life of everyone is equally impor tant . Mutual interdependence and mutual recognition are at the heart of human being . Those who are bothered by the hierarchy of abilities or talents which is indeed in the order of things are those who become bitter and envious . God shows his love fo r each of us by providing each of us with the ability to respond to Him and His creation, but He offers me talents, and opportunities to exercise my talents, which he does not offer you, and He offers you talents, and opportunities to exercise your talents , which he does not offer me . My gifts a r e diffe r ent from your gifts , and your gifts are different from mine . But the important thing is not that our gifts are different, or that I have more than you or you have more than me as if gifts of this sort could be weighed or measured; the important thing is that we acknowledge our gifts as such, that we receive them graciously, by doing whatever is in our power to make the most of them fo r our own sake and fo r the sake of one another . We may not have equally strong intellects, that is just impossible , but it is possible f o r everyone to have equally pure hearts, . provided we each walk along the way God has established uniquely for us . Yet this fact -- that the presence and life of each person is to be cherished equally -- should not hinder our tendency to care for some more than others. Father Zossima loves Alyosha more than Porfiry, and Yefim loves Alyosha more than Ivan . That is just the way things are . In order to attain to that blessed state of being whe r eby we love all equally, whe r eby we are as open- hearted to any one as to any other, a state which only Jesus Christ among human beings attained , all those critical and favorable impulses that run through the imagination on the mere sight of another person would haye to be in balance, or would have to be erased altogether . For some r eason, God knows why, we are the sort of being to be drawn to the look and the spirit of one per son over against anothe r . That may be a good thing . May it not be more in keeping with the human way -- and the most excellent employment of it -- to seek to give as much to others as enter s our soul to give on each encounter with another? To be sure, if this were the most we could give, and i f the same kind and deg r ee we r e of f e r ed to all without e x ception, t h en p erh a p s t he highest state could and would be achieved . But as it stands, let us each give to every other all that we are able to give, in recognition of our f r ailty . And when the imagination reaches out for some mo r e than others, we should not despai r , for that despai r will hinder the love we can offer to these few . The highest exellence achieved will always be incomplete. Let us simply set to work stretching our selves out toward the love of God, reaching for the source and origin of all living beings, for only then will we be able truly to love one another. Shall we gather together 57 �into one holy koinonia remembering Jerusalem? Purposiveness in Kant's Critique of Judgment Alistair Morrison Acknowledgements Igor Stravinsky, for Symphony of Psalms; Father Schillebeeckx, for Jesus: An Experiment in Christology (section 111 of my paper relies heavily on his scholarship) ; Mr. Carey and Brother Robert, for our talks on the way to Russian church and at the dinner table, Mr. O'Grady, for our conversations, and Mr. Smith, for his New Testament class, teachers and friends, thank you! The judgment, by its use of the principle "Of purposiveness, provides a bridge between the realms of understanding and reason, between what we know in natural philosophy, and what we know in practical philosophy. The knowledge of natural philosophy is limited to those things whose concept the understanding can form. Thus natural philosophy can only know the agreement of nature with the categories of the understanding. The knowledge of practical philosophy extends beyond these limits to discover those implications of our capacity for free action which are necessary according to principles of reason. It discovers the moral law, and this in turn dictates certain things that we must think about the nature of the world in which we live. "Judgment in ge~eral is the faculty of thinking the particular as contained under the universal." We bring order to our experience of the world by judgment. we unite a multitude of particular experiences under a few universal principles, laws and rules. In natural science we make use of a kind of judgment that Kant distinguishes as the determinant judgment. In determinant judgment the universal is a law. of the understanding, a universal law of nature, which we have ~ priori from the · categories of our understanding. Determinant judgment subsumes the empirical laws of nature under the universal laws, and in so doing discovers an order among these laws. That it discovers such a unity in our experience of nature cannot easily be explained. We can imagine the empirical laws of nature obeying the universal laws of our understanding, without showing any such organization among themselves. For instan2e, while the ·necessity of a universal law such as "every change must have its cause" provides some unity in our experience, it does not necessitate the degree of orderliness met in laws of nature such as the inverse square law of forces. In thinking about such unity · of experience we use another class of judgment reflective judgment. These do not start from universal ~ priori laws·, but seek s°CJme unifying principl~ - f6r our particular experiences. - Prope~ly spe~king, they . do not directly increase our knowledge of the world. For while reflective judgments have only subjective validity, they allow us to find an order in our experience of the world that goes beyond that which determinant judgment can attain. We value such a systematization of nature, even tho~gh we recognize it as only subjectively valid. We are not interested in knowledge that has the form of raw data, but seek organization and simplicity in what we know of the world. The kind of systematization that we find in both the empirical laws of nature and certain natural products transcends the order of the universal laws that we have ~ priori in the understanding. The principles which bring unity to the empirical laws of nature are not objects of experience. Instead we discover them in r eflection about nature. In order to find a principle such as "nature takes the shortest path" we must expect it - that is, we must think it possible. No objective knowledge of nature will allow us to think this possibility; instead, w.e·use the principle of ·Subjective purposiveness. We can think it possible that nature has been arranged in empirical laws for the benefit of our cognitive faculties. We think of nature as the product of an intelligent cause who had our partic~lar cognitive faculties in mind when creating the order of the empirical laws of nature. In natural sc.~ence we must 58 59 �behave as if these empirical laws have an understandable o rder; God is subtle, but not malicious. We cart then use such principles as "nature takes the shortest path" and "nothing in nature is in vain; everything is good for something" to seek nature's empirical laws. We can use the idea that nature constitutes a systematized whole in order to look for consistency between empirical laws which at first seem dissimi lar. The reconciliation of the laws o f electrodynamic phenomena with the principle of re lativity in Einstein's special theory provides a good example of the use of this p rinciple. This principle guides the investigation s of natural philosophy, but natural philosophy does not therefore assert its truth. While natural philosophy uses this principle, it does not ask why it works. Kant defines a purpose as "the product j>f a cause whose determining ground is merely the representati on of its effect . " In judgments o f purposiveness we recognize an o rganization whose possibility we cannot think, unless we think that the idea of the effect guided its production . In our own purposes, we f orm an idea of the effect we wish to bring about; then, as much as is in our p ower, we determine the mechanisms o f nature in o rder to achieve this end . Our own productions have a high level of order which natural p roducts like rocks and mountains do not possess. In our own productions because we know that for the sake of which the object was created, the cause involves the idea of its effect. We attribute purposiveness to an object or state of affairs whose possibility we cannot understand except as the effect of such an intelligent cause. The C:ritigue of Judgment shows that we judge nature to have both objective and subjective purposes. We come to see subjective purposes when we judge that nature has been arranged the way it is for the benefit of our cognitive faculties. Aesthetic judgments are of this sort, and so are the presuppositions of natural philosophy cited above. We see subjective purposiveness in form (or its negation) and in the harmony of form with our cognitive faculties. We come to see objective purposiveness is seen in what Kant calls organized beings. These are products of nature whose existence we cannot think possible unless we think that the ground of this possibility lies in the representation of the being itself. Products whose possibility we can understand as grounded in the universal laws of nature Kant calls products of the mechanism of nature . Such a ground can enable us to think the possibility of rocks, rivers, mountains, or salt crystals. Yet it fails to explain the production of a blade of grass, for such a being is both the cause and the effect of itself. We cannot understand the possibility of the produc tion, maintenance, and reproduction of such a being, without thinking that the idea of the blade of grass has been used to determine the gathering and arranging of the materials .that constitute it . The processes of production, maintenance, and reproduction all take place by means of the mechanism of nature . Yet the possibility of such a combination of (natural) occu rrences cannot be thought to depend upon this cause. We call a blade of grass a purpose of nature because we can think all its parts and processes as possible only by referring them to the idea o f the whole. We thus think that there is an intelligent substrate to the perceived purposiveness of nature, for such a cause tr.at can determine the mechanisms of nature so that they produce a product according to the representation of that product. If we could show that every intelligent being needs the idea of purposiveness in order to think either the possibility of o rganized beings, o r the possibility of the order present in the empirical laws of nature, then we could attribute objective validity to the principle of purposiveness - just as if it were a rational concept suitable for use by the determinant judgment . But Kant says that we see purposiveness in nature only because of the peculiar construction of our cognitive faculties. For human understanding , the possible and the actual are distinct. we need to combine both for knowledge of an object . We find possibility in the concepts of the 60 understanding, while we meet actuality in the intuitions of the sensibility. Because we cannot think. that every intelligent being must have such a discursive understanding, we cannot assert the principle of purposiveness to have objective validity. If we form an idea of a higher understanding, our thought finds it repugnant to think that possibility differs from actuality for God - or even for the angels. We think instead that their superior understandings possess a superior notion of possibility which makes it concurrent with actuality. We do not see why there could not be unicorns in the world, but we think that such an understanding would not share our confusion. For our understanding, then, an organized being results from the cooperation of its parts. It cannot also ground this cooperative combination, for then the actuality would have created the possibility - which makes no sense for a discursive understanding. Since we cannot find the ground of this cooperative combination in the laws of nature, we place it in the representation of the being. Yet we can think of a higher understanding which does not possess the split between possible and actual. such a being might understand the possibility of organized beings to depend only on the mechanism of nature. The knowledge of this mechanism which this being would have transcends. the ·knowledqe that we can have. For it, organized beings would be no more purposive than the rest of nature. Reason's hope in a greater unity underlying nature than that which we know with our limited understanding, and thus its idea of an understanding capable of knowing this unity, makes us acknowledge that all understandings might not require the principle of purposiveness. While universally, subjectively valid for human beings, it cannot be attributed to an object, because we cannot prove that every intelligent being must think that purpose underlies nature. The principle of purposiveness provides a bridge between understanding and reason. We never come to know purposes through natural philosophy. They belong to us as free beings, and natural philosophy cannot know anything about this kind of causality. Instead, it uses the idea of such a causality to guide its investigation of natural laws . In this way, natural philosophy makes it possible for us to discover that the principle which asserts purpose as a cause in nature is at least subjectively valid for human beings. The critique of our teleological judgment shows the principle of purposiveness as essential to human thought, and as its particular possession. The understanding, by the possibility of its~ priori laws for nature gives proof that nature is only cognized by us as a phenomenon and implies, at the same time, that it has a supersensible substrate, though it leaves this quite undetermined. The judgment, by its ~ priori principle for the judging of nature according to its possible particular laws, makes the supersensible substrate (both in us and without us) determinable by means of the intellectual faculty. But the reason, by its practical ~ priori law, determines it; and thus the judgment makes possible the transition from the realm of t~e natural concept to that of the concept of freedom . Reason determines the supersensible substrate in its own special activity of .practical philosophy. Recognition of our will as an unconditioned cause in the world of sense provides tt:ie basis for practical philosophy. Practical philosophy shows that our ability to form our own purposes makes us a final end, an end in ourselves. And when we know the final end of nature, we can learn something about the substrate. of nature.. Practical philosophy also shows why we do not need more knowledge of this substrate . than practical reason can provide. 61 �One of the a priori principles of practical philosophy is that f r eedom is meant to actualize itself in the world . In moral philosophy one mus t think that the exi stence of an intelligent cause in the world is at least possible . We must attempt to bring about the purposes that the moral law sets before us ~ Although the achievement of our purposes is contingent in the world, we must think that ther e is a chance for us to make that which ought to be into that which is . Thus, r eason comes to find agreement with what it knows p r actically about the world in the reflective principle of judgments about nature which natu r al philosophy uses . Both reason and the understanding require the idea of a n intelligent s ubst rat e. Reason, howeve r, cannot merely represent the existence of this substrate - it mus t determi ne this substrate according to the requirements of practical philosophy . It is right to use the principles of pract ical philosophy to inquire into the substrate of purposiveness in the world o f s ense . On l y we must r ecognize as we beg i n this endeavor that we have over- stepped t he bounds of natu r al science whose knowledge demands expe r ience to complete its concepts . Or ganized beings - objective purposes offer the best evidence for the existence of an intelligent author of natu r e . For subjective purposes are thought pur posive wi th r efe r ence to our cognitive facult i es . We think their form designed to conform to our cogn i tion . However, we cannot think the possibility of an organized being unless it has its ground in the repr esentation of the being . Here existence, and not the form of the object , demands the principle of purposiveness . We can think the organized being to be eithe r a final purpose, an end in itself, or a mere relative purpose . The determination of the final purpose of nature would provide some knowledge of the intelligent being that chose this purpose . When we see purposive behavior in humans, we cannot judge very well about this behavior until we know its final purpose . Once we know this, we can app r ove or disapprove both the methods and intentions . A final purpose of nature must be distinct from t he chain of cause and effect that binds the whole of the mechanism of natur e . Its causality would have to be unconditioned . It could be determined by nothing else for pur poses not its own: In side nature everything serves something else as a relative purpose . We call this by names such as "the balance of nature" and admire it g r eatly . We are aware of only one thing that stands free from this chain of cause and effect , and that is our own will . In practical philosophy the will is free of a ny determination by natural con ditions . The purpose s we set befor e our selves are onl y our own , though inclination often influences us . Thus the faculty from which we gain our idea of a purpose provides us with the only possible experience of a f inal purpose . So far we have only discovered where in nature the intelligent author has placed the final purpose (if indeed nature as a whole has such a purpose) . Thus , we have only de termined what Kant calls the ultimate purpose of nature - the one uncondi tioned being in the n a tur al world. To find the final purpose we must discover what about our free will could make it suitable to have the rest o f nature subordinated to it as a means . Kant distinguishes two different ways in which we use our faculty of making purposes. The first searches out those purpose s which natu r e can satisfy . The second makes purposes and bends the mechanisms of nature in o r der to achieve these, developing its power over natu~e. Ka nt cal l s the f i rst h appi n ess, a nd t he se cond culture. He dismisses the idea that happiness is the final purpose of nature by simply pointing out that man has no determinant idea of happine s s itself, but : It is a mer e ideastate that he wishes to make adequate to the idea under me r ely ernpiric~l con~it ions (which is impossible) . This i dea he p r oJ e cts in such diffe r ent ways on account of the complication of hi s of.a 62 understanding with imagination and sense, and changes so often, that nature, even if it were entirely subjected to his elective will, could receive absolutely no determinate, universal and fixed law, so as to harmonize with this vacillating concept and thus with the purpose which each man arbitrarily sets before himself. And even if we reduce this to the true natural wants as to which our race is thoroughly agreed or, on the other hand, raise ever so high man's skill to ac'complish imagined purposes, yet even thus what man understands by happiness and what is in fact his proper, ultimate, natural purpose (not purpos~ of freedom) would never be attained by him . For it is not his nature to rest and be contented wj-th the possession and enjoyment of anything whatever. Kant next points out that we have good grounds to believe that nature has not been set up to satisfy us as pre - eminent creatures of nature, for when viewed as such a creature, man has no priority over any other such product as far as the treatment that he receives from nature goes. Kant then moves on to culture, which he divides into the culture -of skill and training . The culture of skill is our ability to set arbitrary purposes before ourselves and satisfy them by means of the mechanisms of nature. The development of the arts and sciences gives us greater power over nature and makes our lives easier . Yet learning to satisfy purposes without learning how to choose them, is inadequate to the idea of a final purpose of nature, for such knowledge is not directed to anything superior to nature . The culture of training, whereby we learn to free ourselves from the bonds of inclination, and thus develop a truly free will, is adequate to this idea. Here we interact with nature to produce something that not only will become independant of nature, but is in its elf the h i ghest good that we can conceive - a good will . As Kant says in the Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals, a good will is the only unconditionally good thing of which we can have an idea . It contains the worthiness that purposes of inclination lack. As rational beings we must think that there is no purpose greater than the right use of our freedom. Now of man (and so of every rational creature in the world) as a moral being it can no longer be asked why (quern in finem) he exists. His existence involves the highestpurpose to which, as far as is in his power he can subject the whole of nature , contrary to which he cannot 5egard himself as subject to any influence of nature . Thus if nature stands in need of a f .inal purpose its final purpose must be ourselves. Our character as final purpose comes from adherence to the moral law. By ex amining the moral law we can hope to find that, because of our moral worth, we are indeed the final purpose for which nature was created. The moral law puts us in a special relation to the world - one which We do not have without it. It is in the world that we hope to actualize the dictates of the moral law. At the same time mo r ality does not consist in occurrences in this world, but only in the determination of our will. Christ presents much the sa~e message in the gospel of Luke. In this gospel particularly, there is an emphatic asserti.on · that we Qan have no regard for our worldly well- being · l.f we follow cil~ist ." ' 1 He 'tells us that whoever loves his life will lose it. Faith demands that we love nothing- in the world so much that we would not quickly give it up for Christ. when Kant presents his moral law, he tells us that it does not consist in what 63 f 1 �we are able to accomplish in the world. "The fulfilling of duty consis_tts in the form of the. earnest will, not in the intermediate causes of success." With this assertion he makes a claim similar to the one which Christ makes. The moral law will not recognize any obstacles from the world of nature, for it determines what must be done without reference to consequences. In moral determination we can only consider practical principles; our survival or comfort can never be an end, but only a means to our moral life. The potential of human beings for moral action is the highest good that we can think of in the world. The moral law must determine what is good in the world, and not the other way around. Christ emphasizes repeatedly that the good things of this world serve as traps for us. Any love we feel for them can present a stumbling block to us. In the parable of the sower, Christ represents the riches of the world as thorns which choke the growing faith, and bring it to nothing. But we must not only renounce riches and comfort - anything of this world which we might consider a good thing can be such a stumbling block, causing us to hesitate and miss the calling. "If anyone comes to me a~d does not hate his own father and mother and wife and childr7n and brothers a~d sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple." Christ says this immediately after telling the story of the people who were invited to a great banquet, but were too busy to come when the time arrived, so that the host invited other in their place and locked them out . Christ calls people to leave everything of the world if they would follow him. And he said unto another, Follow me. But he said, Lord suffer me first to go and bury my father. Jesus said unto him, Let the dead their dead: but go thou and preach the kingdom of God . And another also said, Lord, I will follow thee; but let me first go bid them farewell, which are at home at my house. And Jesus said unto him, No man, having put his hand to the plou§h, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God. It is a frightening notion that things which we recognize as good, such as the love we feel for a family, are not good in themselves - are not good unconditionally. The calling from heaven may take us away from those things which we were most sure were good. In this way the dictates of faith demand that we set the value of this life at nothing when compared with the value of the next life. Kant says that we must look upon nature as a means which can further our moral . growth. When we look for any other reason in life, we are desiring happiness something which Kant says cannot provide a final purpose . We must now see the world of sense only as ·a place to learn about the freedom of our will, and demonstrate that .we can live up to the responsibility that accompanies such freedom. We must not look for fulfillment in the things of this world, but must in our actions always appeal to an understanding of what those actions mean which is higher than any understanding that our knowledge o f nature can enable us to achieve. While Kant calls the belief that we do not need morality to fulfill ourselves happiness, Christ calls it love of life. Any love of life or love of happiness will impede both moral growth and our ability for moral action. To follow the commands of Christ we must vest no interest in our own enjoyment of life. "Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, btess t~em that curse you, and pray for them which spitefu~y use you. And unto him that smiteth thee on the one . cheek offer also the other." In our · de'alings in the WOrld What rna.t terS iS OU-r. behavior tOWardS Other people I and . Whether We have lOSt ourselves in· a love of the world. We must set our lives at nothing and value the lives of others: "Love God with all your heart, and your neighbor as yourself." Loving God with all one's heart means not loving and not fearing the things of the 64 world. I can best make- sense of Christ Is teaching about loving one Is neighbor as oneself when I view it in light Kant's analysis of the categorical imperative, especially in the last two formulations we find in the Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals. There the essential thing lies in treating people as "ends in themselves." ·T his demands that we recognize in ourselves and so also in others the potential for moral action - or in Christian terms, the potential to do the word of God. While we demonstrate this love of our neighbors in acts of charity, it seems important that when we provide for the worldly needs of those poorer than us we do not therefore imply that the satisfaction of worldly needs as any great salvation. In acting from faith, or the categorical imperative, we value each human being as something greater than anything e·lse in the world. We do not seek to have a place in this world for ourselves, but only attempt to serve what we see as the greatest thing in the world - the potential in human beings for good will. "Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven; give and it ~11 be given to you •.. For the measure you give will be the 1 measure you get back." By not seeking to judge or condemn those who do us wrong, by offering the other cheek, we affirm life to be the most sacred of gifts. The life . of the wrong-doer who has struck us or stolen from us matters more that worldly justice. Temptations to sin are sure to come; but woe to him by whom they come! It would be better for him if a millstone were hung round his neck and ·he were cast into the sea, than that he should cause one of these little ones to sin. Take heed to yourselves; if your b7ot~Ir sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him. Christ brings the message that setting accounts straight on earth is unimportant. It is not essential whether our actions cause people to treat us well or ill. What matters is that we do our best to love them as we love ourselves. In order to follow Christ then, we must not judge or condemn our neighbors out of love of the world, but must be guided only by a love of God and a love for humanity. Love for humanity is guided by a vision of humanity. as liberated from th~ bonds of this world, so that we see people achieving goodness only in as much as they show love for one another. This is not a love which attaches to any worldly aspect of the person, !or when Christ calls we must hate even our father and mother. The love within families can pose an obstacle to faith because it depends on the worldly situation of the people involved. Christ says that his mother and brothers are ·tho.s e who hear the word of God and do it. The relation of people in faith, then, transcends faith, then their relations in society. One must love people in a way that does not attach one attributes; to their worldly attributes; that is, one must love them as one loves oneself. Fo~ we do not love ourselves .as sons, or husbands, or bankers, or teachers; we love ourselves because we have discovered within ourselves the potential for moral worth, the gift of life and the promise of eternal life. We should not love our lives, but should love the opportunity to glorify God. From our practical philosophy we discover that we must regard ourselves as the final purpose of nature. We do not think that God has made the world for some purpose indifferent to our moral growth, our culture of training. For we must think God to be completely good, all-powerful, wise, just, and all-knowing, and we cannot then think that he has arranged the world for anything other than our own moral growth. Everything in the world must be thought to provide the perfect opportunity for our culture o~- tra~ning to ta~e place. We think that the world has been arranged solely for the education of our will in order to remove the last obstacle which the world could present to our moral actions. We should not examine the events of the world .for . any worl~ly meaning; meaning must always come from the moral law. Kant thinks it 65 �unimportant whether the world was made only for the development of our good will in some objective sense . Morally we must not consider there to be a purpose to life that might conflict with the fulfillment of moral duty. Thus we regard the world as the b~st place for us to develop a good will. We must somehow harmonize this with . our experience of both the world and our own nature. This reconciliation provides the greatest possible determination of the ground of the purposiveness of nature that human reason can achieve. We must think God to be such that the created world per fectly serves our moral development, and that the bad things that happen to us here have simply been judged by the standard of happiness rather than that of morality. All will be made right in the next life. Without the belief that God watches over us now, and that we can expect another world where moral actions shall count towards our reward, Kant does not think there can be any real hope for morality, and thus any meaning to life. We may then suppose the case of a righteous man (e.g. Spinoza) , who holds himself firmly persuaded that there is no God and also (because in respect of the object of morality a similar consequence results) no future life; how is he to judge of his own inner purposive destination, by means of the moral law,' which he reveres in practice? He desires no advantage to himself from following it, either in this or another world; he wishes, rather, disinterestedly to establish the good to which that holy law directs all his powers. But his effort is bounded; and from nature, al though he may expect here and there a contingent accordance, he can never expect a regular harmony agreeing according to constant rules . • . with the purpose that he yet feels himself obliged and impelled to accomplish . •• So it will be until one wide grave engulfs (everyone) together (honest or not it makes no difference) and throws them back--who were able to believe themselves the final purpose of creation--into the abyss of the purposeless chaos of matter from which they were drawn. The purpose, then, which this well-intentioned person had and ought to have before him in his pursuit of moral laws, he must certainly give up as impossible or else, if he wishes to remain dependent upon the call of his moral internal destination and not to weaken the respect with which the moral law immediately inspires him, by assuming the nothingness of the single, ideal, final purpose adequate to its high demand (which cannot be brought about without a violation of moral sentiment) , he must, as he well can--since there is at least no contradiction from a practical point of view in forming a concept of the possibility of a morally prescribed final purpose --assume the being of a moral author of . the world, that is, a Go d • 12 In finding a moral answer to the question of the final end of the world the nature of the question has changed . One does not ask to . understand how 'this . or t~a_t _ , furthers the purp-ose... of the w~rld; rather, one comes to see the fitness ofthi_s or that par~i~~l~r event by asking how it furt~ers one's own striving for a good wi~l •. In this way even subjective purposiveness, such as that of beauty, ,showsitself. ()bJe_ct1ve.ly savs that we see that the beauty in nature allows us · to love nature, tmrpos i y e • Ka.nt . · 66 us tu love nature, and that we feel ennobled by this. Unpleasant things and aff lictions serve to free us from a possessive love of the world . As we try to find that delicate balance netween loving the world because God made it and placed us in it, and hating it for the potential it holds to distract us from finding our salvation, we find that everything serves us in this pursuit. For it seems that if we are determined to see the world in a moral way we cannot fail in our attempt to see its "designed striving" as furthering our moral development . We can find some moral as pect in any situation, whether in the action it demands from us, or merely in our reflection about the God who made this world . Such an approach to learning the purpose of the world is anti-scientific, for in scientific discovery one limits the influence of the observer on the experiment as much as possible, and then extrapolate e (when possible) to the ideal condition of a perfectly uninvolved observer . But in p r actical philosophy we are the real subject of observation, since we can attach no meaning to the world that stands independent of ourselves . In practical philosophy, moral teleology , we do not inquire into a purpose of the world that does not involve ourselves - and perhaps it is not even permissible to inquire into a purpose which does not include ourselves as individuals . In this way moral philosophy discloses to i t self the final purpose of the world . Neither would Christ have us think that the order of nature is at odds with the d i ctates of faith, or even is indiffe r ent to them . After all , Chr ist tells u s tha t every hair on our head is counted . God is the all-powerful author of the world . We should believe that all things in the world can come only through God so that the best success i n the world can come only through loving God with all our hearts and loving our neighbors as ourselves. As with Kant's moral interpretation of the purpose of the world, we gain a different insight into the world. Christ asks us to e x amine the life that we love so that we may find it intangible and uruneaningful without faith. We cannot love the world in the same way once we have heard the word of God . And we could not pursue happiness as we once did before having recognized t h e mor al law. These things, however, are not forbidden to us. The world is God ' s We can imagine having the various comforts of life and c r eatiqn, and it is good. enjoying the earthly love of family and friends without loving life more than God. In fact, we believe we can love God better for having loved them. Thus, we find ourselves in possession of these things in a new way . After calling their attention to the lilies of the field, Jesus tells the disciples: Do not seek what you are to eat and to drink, nor be of anxious mind. For all the nations of the world seek these things; and your Father knows that you need t hem . Ins tead , seek hi s kingdom, and these things 13 shall be yours also." Christ does not here assure us that the righteous shall never be hungry. He means that we must trust that God looks out for us and provides for our needs better than we could ourselves . For while God knows all our needs, we know only our bodily needs, and merely suspect our spiritual need. We must trust that God always gives us everything we need, not to attain earthly comfort but to achieve eternal life. And while we cannot understand why it should be, we must believe. that God has put us on this earth for some reason - the best reason . In this way, our existence in the world does not oppose the call to follow Christ, but somehow makes it possible for us to hear the call. Sometimes the good things of this world make us feel love and awe for their author. Sometimes they tempt us to neglect our love of God. Either way, however, they will serve us in our search. f~tbe kinadom of heaven. Like the moral law faith gives the right meaning to all the things of the world. If we have fa1th, the~ the whole world directs itself to help us follow Christ. There is no doubt. Faith in Christ, or recognition of the moral law, allows us to affirm the order of the world . Our life in this world is the greatest of gifts, for it allows u s to 67 �show our love for God. We must acknowledge Christ before men, so that he can acknowledge us before the angels . We must show our love for him by acts in this world: loving our neighbors, enemies, and those who do us harm; forgiving those who are harm; indebted to us; helping the poor. If we did not feel a part of this world, if we really did believe this life a miserable prison, we could not experience the peculiarly human feeling of turning from love of the world to love of Christ and then . returning to love the world in a deeper way. In order for moral growth to take place, we must confront our love of the world . The notion that happiness might be the purpose of our lives on earth did not stand up very well under Kant's scrutiny. Yet the notion is a powerful one in human affairs. In the Canon of Pure Reason Kant says that "Happiness .•. in exact proportion with the morality of the rational beings who a r e the r eby rendere d wor thy of i t , alone constitutes the supreme good of the world wherein, in accordance with the commands of a pure but practical reason, we under obligation to place ourselves." Happiness combined with worthiness fulfills human nature, which is neither purely rational nor purely animal (belonging to nature) . Our inclinations move us to hope for happiness; practical reason says that if moral satisfaction does not accompany them, our happiness will be hollow - a mere mockery of what we are capable of doing. To enjoy happiness without morality we would have to renounce the responsibility that accompanies our free will. Yet the confused notion of happiness embodies an attempt to find the purpose that underlies the purposiveness of nature by using only our knowledge of nature (internal and external). Happiness is the idea that we have been given an understanding and other intellectual faculties so that we can rise to become the most purposive creatures in nature. Our ability to see purposes allows us to become much more elaborate than any other animal in the things we do to provide for our own existence. We are the only creature capable of striving after a purpose such as "never having to work again." The idea of happiness claims that we should further as a part of our final purpose anything which our existence enables us to find either pleasant o r good - even though we do not investigate that final purpose itself. Such an idea is not as trivial as it at first sounds. For we are certain that we recognize things in the world which, if they are not unconditionally good, come pretty close. Strong family ties, devotion to the welfare of a community, and the loyalty we feel to a good leader all constitute highly-purposive goals. We can never justify calling these things good in themselves, certainly not to Kant's satisfaction. In fact, these highly-purposive goals offer the greatest deterrence to true devotion to moral growth. I remember in T.H. White's Once and Future King that Lancelot was too kind to leave Guinevere t o follow God. we-ao-not u s ually clas s such motivations as d es i re for happiness, but if we follow Kant's definition then they are exactly what the term represents because they hope for those good things which can happen on earth as a part of the process of nature. Christ calls these highly-purposive goals love of life. By means of the purposiveness we perceive in it, the world appeals to us not simply through pleasures, but by a way which we associate with moral worth. In the highly-purposive forms of happiness we almost succeed in finding fulfillment as the fin a l pur pose of nature within our lives. The realm of understanding and that of reason do not, then, stand quite so independent. In understanding the world, we depend upon our moral nature. In pursuing morality, our nature as a creature of the world dictates we explore, challenge, love, overcome, and accept the world in order to bring about moral action and moral growth. If the world did not suit us so well, and suggest to us such a wonderful author, we could not hope to satisfy ourselves in the world. And if we did not have . this hope we could not learn the value of the moral law which tells us that our satisfaction lies beyond these things. Now it came to pass on a certain day , that he went 68 1 into a ship with his disciples: and he said untc them, Let us go over unto the other side of the lake. And they launched forth. But as they sailed he fell asleep: and there came down a storm of wind on the lake; and they came to him, and awoke him, saying, Master, master, we perish. Then he arose, and rebuked the wind and the raging of the water: and they ceased, and there was calm. And he said unto them Whe:e is your faith? And they being afraid wondered; saying one to another, What manner of man is this! for he corgnandeth even the winds and water, and they obey him. The events of this story are very complicated. We see Christ acting once again to save p~opl~ f:om the afflictions of life. Christ puts things right in the world. Wh~n John s disciples come so that they can find out whether this man is the Christ, this man tells them to report what they have seen and heard: "How that the blind see, the lame walk, ~he lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, to ~he po~l 6 the g~spel is preached. And blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended: in me. God .s manifestation in the world takes away the suffering of the world. It seems only right that Christ, the spiritual healer, the savior, is also a physical leade:· When he he~ls pe~ple, Christ says "Your faith has made you well." _ and he associ~tes the healing with the forgiveness of sins. The world is most free from suffering for those who have found Christ. Yet, we know that Christ demands our willingness to suffer' many things on ea'rth We shoul~ always pr~fer .re~ard to heaven to reward on earth, shunning the latter: When Christ asked his disciples "Where is your faith?" after saving them from the storm, we wonder what that faith might be. Should the disciples have believed that God.would protec~ them from the storm? It seems logical that God would not let Jesus perish at that time and place . But faith cannot depend on our worldly situation. We cannot attempt to ~nderstand how God chooses the time of death. Should the disciples have had en~ug? faith to calm the waters themselves? After all they can heal in the name of .Christ , .and he has told them of miracles they could accomplish if they had ev~n a little faith. But it does not make sense to think that faith will bring power which we can bend .to our convenience. The miracles of faith compliment God• s pu:poses; ~hen the time comes for Christ to die, he asks for the cup to pass _ but this does not happen. Yet we can be sure that the faith which the disciples lacked would have freed them from the fear they felt for their lives. Perhaps they could h~ve calmed .the storm. themselves, but their safety is the essential thing . Fai th gives us a dif~erent kind of power over the forces OL nature. As with Kant's moral person, the f~ithful see all acts working to bring them closer to God. When Christ says that God has ~ounted every hair on our heads, we do not therefor~ expect the world to provide for all our physical needs· and comforts. Instead C~rist ur~ed.us to look for the provision that God has made for us in every situation. . Th~s is more than an exhortation to face adversity without turning from God Even in ;imes 0 ~ ?appiness, we must make the same effort so that we can acknowledg~ ~oth God s provision and our responsibility to make use of it, our responsibility to ear the call. When th~ dis.ciples ask Christ to teach them to pray, part of the prayer ?e ~;ache~ them is "give us this day our daily bread .• ~and lead us not into temptati~n: This prayer asks God to forgive us what we need so that we can always ~now the difference betwe;n h~ppiness and morality, and be able to choose the latter. In praying this way one aspires to seek always the manne_ __ iri which the world of nar ture can serve our moral development, and accept the situation before us as an opportunity, rather than a curse. 69 �FOOTNOTES Memory and Personal Identity in Shakespeare's Tempest 1 Immanuel Kant, trans. J .H. Bernard, Critique of Judgement (New York, Hafner Press, 1951) I P. 15 2 Amy McManus Ibid . p. 19 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Ibid. p. 256 rbid. p. 260 rbid. p. 283 rbid. p. 302 Luke 14:23 Luke 9:59 Luke 6:27 10 Lukr 9:37 11 Luke 17:1 12 op. Cit . Critique of Judgment, p. 303 13 Luke 12:29 14Immanuel Kant, trans. Norman Kemp Smith, Critique of Pure Reason (Hong Kong, MacMillan Press, 1929), p. 641 15 16 Luke 8:22 Luke 7:22 BIBLIOGRAPHY Immanuel Kant, _gritique MacMillan Press, 1929) of Pure Reason, Immanuel Kant, Critique of. Judgment, 1951) trans. trans. J.H .. Bernard · · New Testament, Revise d Stand ar d v ersion (N ew York : Holy Bible, King James version (New York: Norman Kemp Smith (New York: (Hong Hafner Press, Thomas Nelson & Sons, 1946 ) Meridian Books, 1974) Kong, What cares 1 these r oarers for the name of king? cries the boatswain near the opening of Shakespeare's Tempest. Yet at least for the magical time which follows, they care very much; the elves and demi-puppets have all lent their aid to Prospero for the righting of human social order , which had been overturned when Prospero was supplanted from his dukedom. In restoring outer social order, Prospero must establish or change the internal order within those who must return to social life and rule in Naples. The transformations Propsero will attempt in Miranda, Ferdinand, Antonio and Alonso will take place on many levels and thus may be examined from different viewpoints. One helpful way to understand the character developments in the play is to investigate the differing roles which memory and a sense of personal identity play within each individual. Memory and identity are important facets in their return to society because these individuals all share a past in which a dangerous disruption of roles has occurred - a past in which the wrong man has become Duke and falsely ordered the court of Milan around himself due to Prospero's neglect of duty. The wider political effects of Antonio's activity provide a significant periphery for the action, since the play is a preparation for the return to political life. Within the play, however, the immediate, personal consequences of the crime are the center of the drama. The primary result of Antonio's action is, of course, the exile of Prospero and Miranda. Though they find a providential haven alone on the island, there are, nevertheless, serious challenges to Miranda's personal growth in the situation - challenges that are usually met in the company, and with the aid, of friends. A second result of Antonio's betrayal is the corruption of Alonso, King of Naples, who, in overthrowing Prospero, attacked the divine basis of his own rule and more importantly, overthrew his own good character, the flaws and strengths of which will be revealed in the crises brought about by Prospero. Lastly, Prospero must overcome the diffidence and disillusion of one betrayed by a brother in blood and a brother in rule, if he is to return as a worthy ruler to Milan. Twelve years of life have been determined by one criminal act and the problem of the play is to gather from this disheartening past the wisdom and courage to make new lives. Prospero addresses this problem by helping the children and adults to a truer understanding of the past, by instilling in them a healthy memory. Each character begins with varying states of remembrance, varying notions of who they were and who they are, but by magic and terror, Prospero implicitly and explicitly guides most of them to a truer self-reckoning and in so doing, restores among them the basis for good society. Miranda is the first, dearest and most unique of Prospero's charges because, due to her extreme youth at the time of her exile, she must rely on him to form an entire memory for her to take back to Milan. In the brief interval before Prospero tells the story of their lives, the playgoer realizes that a pastless Miranda is a good and beautiful person already: O, I have suffered With those that I saw suffer! 2 70 71 �Her heart is filled with empathy for those she has never seen, but on that admittedly good basis alone she is not prepared for coming events. Instead, Prospero explains, thou Art ignorant of what thou art, knowing naught Of whence I am; nor that I am more better Than Prospero, master of 3 full poor cell, And thy no better father. As he unfolds his narrative of betrayal and suffering, it is important to r emember that Prospero is not really concerned with her naivete. Her acute and practical questions ("Wherefore did they not I That hour destroy us? 11 ) 4 show that, whatever her inexper~ence.' she ~s . in no danger from the usual sort of human duplicity which one migh t find in an it i nerant patent me dicine peddl er . No , h er preparat ion is aimed towards another sort of danger altogether; she must quickly learn enough about the past and herself to fall honorably in love with Ferdinand . In Prospero's long discourse the most important things that we, in a confused, disordered fashion, must learn and remember are compressed and ordered for Miranda's sake into one sad story. Perhaps the first lesson is that this memory for which .she has longed could be painful; the distant past is not like the undist1¥'bed peace of her father's home - rather it is the "dark backward and abysm of time". Her father, she finds, is not only a father; she is not only a daughter . On one level they are dif :erent people than she thought they were because both were once part of a larger society - were once responsible for the fulfillment of leading roles in Milan . On another, Prospero is now a different man for her because he is revealed as divided against himself - divided by duty and inclination in Milan, and divided by pain, anger and wisdom even now in his storytelling. Further, she needs to learn the dangers of self division - she needs to lea r n how a combination of self division and negligence in Prospero could end in Antonio's betrayal of his brother and his estrangement from himself. Anton i o is the most difficult subject for Prospero to teach Miranda, and Prospero must bring his mind's wisdom and heart's passions togethe r t o do justice to one who is not simply a villain in a cautionary tale, but a man and his own brother. Though the 'social' Antonio will be discussed in greater detail later, it is appropriate to examine how, amidst many outer roles and many inner parts, Antonio was led not just to an estrangement from his state, to error - as was Prospero, but to an estrangement from himself, to true sinfulness. Perhaps surprisingly, it was not a very complex matter. Forgetting his own responsibilities and his brother's character, Prospero had sai d, in effect: 'While I play scholar, Antonio, you play duke, bu t apa r t f r om u s e , ceremony and power, we 'll rememb er who we rea l l y are . ' He being thus lorded Not only with what my revenue yielded But what my power might else exact, like one Who having unto truth by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory To credit his own lie, he did believe He was the Duke, out o' th' substitution And executing th' out~ard face of royalty With all prerogative. Despite the fact that he is a roundly vicious person to us and to Miranda, Antonio must also be a person to recognize and pity. Wrongfully tempted, Antonio .allowed his memory - his very self - to slip through his fingers. He damaged himself beyond his own or Prospero' s power to heal. The tale to Miranda is nearly finished when Antonio, thrusting Miranda and Prospero out of Milan, removes the screen between the part he was playing and himself . Mir anda, confronted by so great a fall, then begins to we ep: 72 I not remembering ho' I cried out then Will cry o'er again; She probably cries for many reasons--because she and her father were abandoned; because her father had so great a wound inside him which she had never seen; and because this frightening story somehow intimately affects her and she does not yet know how that will be so. Until now, she has learned to remember failed relationships, inner conflict and self-deception, but to these sad revelations Prospero provides the true balancing. Though having failed his brother and his city, Prospero did not fail Miranda. Instead, he found in her, he says, a smile, Infused with a fortitude from heaven, When I have decked the sea with drops full salt, Under my burden groaned; which raised in me An undergoing stomach, to §ear up Against what should ensue. Prospero gives Miranda a life history which will be her unique memory, for unlike any other memory in the play, it has no part in confusion or forgetfulness; though to be a real memory, it cannot avoid pain. There is a heaviness to be felt from Prospero's strange story - Miranda sleeps at its close. But soon, in Ferdinand's courtship,her courage and new, well- ordered memory will be tried. · . Because she is so wise and generous, so sure-footed in the steps she takes, it is easy to forget that marrying one's love is a difficult business - even for Miranda. Her love begins when she hears the songs of Ariel and sees Ferdinand; he is to her so beautiful that he seems a spirit, hardly real. They change eyes.with one another at first sight - as Prospero knew they would - but also at first sight the world of confusion and inner division begins. As she sees Ferdinand, she finds herself, quite suddenly divided up. Part of her, at her father's precept, would hide from Ferdinand; part of her, not saying what she feels, would play coquette; part of her, utterly at risk, would profess love. When he asks her for her name, then tells her of the other women he has known, her two replies convey how amazing her experience must be: Miranda. 0 my father 9 I have broke your hest to say so! I do not know One of my sex; no woman's face remember Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen More that I may call ~en than you, good friend, 1 And my dear father. 'I am Miranda and I do not know one other woman who has felt as I do now, nor any other man besides my father who might love me as you do. In my glass was always one Miranda - who is Miranda now?' Infinitely more fortunate than Antonio, Miranda has something of the same decision to make: Amid all these longings, who should she be, and how should she be with Ferdinand? For the second time in the play she weeps this time in her own confusion: ' At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer What I desire to give, and much less take What I should die to want. But this is trifling; And all the more it seeks to hide itself' The bigger bulk it shows. Hence bashful cunning And prompt me' plain and holy innocence! I am your wife, if you will marry me' If not I'll die your maid. To .be your fellow 73 �You may deny me' but I'}! be your servant Whether you will or no. H.er father's dark story gave her some notion either consciously or - fairy-tale like - magically, that adults have to choose to be themselves ~nd that they are wretchedly unhappy when they neglect or abandon themselves for some partial or false role. In the ordinary course of advice given to new lovers, the older heart is anxious to point out that there are many possible spouses in the sea - mainly because one has to be prepared for jilting . But to be prepared for loving, Prospero' s older, wiser heart advises Miranda, not that there are many princes, but that there are many Mirandas and she must choose which Miranda's heart and hand she will give away. Ferdinand's growth in the play is like Miranda's in that he is very young and is preparing for his first commitments. But his growth is unlike hers in that he has not been given careful tutelage and needs a second father to help him reevaluate past experience in a more enlightened way. Though Ferdinand is not quite ready to love Miranda, he is as innocent as she; thus the gentlest spriting,two songs, adventure and Miranda herself are all he needs. Even without seeing anything of Ferdinand before he hears Ariel's songs, one can imagine the needs they are addressing. The second song is primarily about Ferdinand' grief and the transformation that will take place in Alonso: Full fathom five your father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes; Nothing of him that doth fade But suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea nymphs hourly ring his knell; 12 Hark! now I hear them--Ding-dong bell. Without meaning to assign a shameful weakness to Ferdinand's character, it is important to note that this song does not just assuage grief for it affirms most broadly the 'all-rightness' of things. Ferdinand needs to hear this song, above and beyond his grief, for the very reason that he is, in this situation, grief-stricken. In just a logical way, if one escapes a shipwreck one should hope that others do too, but Ferdinand here, and his father later, immediately and unnecessarily assume that only the worst event could have occurred. Security or at least the p~actice o~ hoping is the oldest sort of memory well brought-up children have. All-rightness is the deepest sort of spell that parents cast on children, so here, Prospero provides Ferdinand with comfort and with hope. The first of Ferdinand's songs faces an emotional and intellectual confusion which results from earlier love affairs. Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard, and many a time Th' harmony of their tongues 1 ~ath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear; If before, Ferdinand has found himself a slave when in love, Prospero' s adventure allows him to be a slave and be in love and find the two rather different . Though Prospero is playing a joke by making Ferdinand wear chains and pile up logs, there is also a strong element of compassion in this spell. Prospero, with all the hard-earned respect possible for boundaries and duty, has no wish to see free creatures enslaved; he is the type of man who would hear and release Ariel. Ferdinand enslaves himself by persistently mistaking the bonds of love for a gilded variety of shackle. He is fill ed with far too many protestations when he speaks to Miranda, because he is trying t o defend himself. How sad if, like Ariel stuck in a pine tree, he never grew up enough t o realize that Miranda spoke to him truly and plainly, without any intention of playing a game with him-except chess . In the love song, then, 74 Ariel calls the other sprites to sing the refrain, while at the same time calling on lovers, those who take hands and hearts, to bear love's burden. Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Courtsied when you have and kiss's The wild waves whist: Foot it featly here and there, And sweet s~4ites bear The burden. When he means to profess love Ferdinand says, with true affection but poor speech, that he will be Miranda's slave. That is no answer for Miranda, who has, from the firsb known there was no slavery in help~ Ferdinand carry logs. "Do you love me?" she must ask, and "My husband, then?" , until finally, he, succinctly, takes his freedom where it truly lies: Ay, with a heart as willing 17 As bondage e'er of freedom. Here's my hand. To give Ferdinand due credit, these songs were Miranda as much as they were his, for she, in taking a husband, loses a father and in loving and remembering, must bear new burdens. They are a good pair because if she was unsure of who she was, he, in calling her a 'wonder' recognized her from the first. And he was afraid of slavery, she was always ready to serve. Together they can understand the need to maintain their virginity until the wedding ceremony, because they have reached the inner equilibrium which allows good people with right values to fulfill their obligations to society. Part of Prospero's task is completed in the third act with the engagement of Ferdinand and Miranda. Much remains to be done with respect to Antonio and Alonso, who as adults, cannot be led by songs and stories since their problems are not ingorance or unwarranted fear, but willful crime and self-deception. As an adult, Antonio has an adult memory full of self-motivated, purposeful action (but as has already been discussed) his memory carries the awful distinction of sin. During the course of the play Antonio never becomes any better, yet he is essential to watch because he gradually acts out the social implications which result from allowing a man with moral amnesia loose in society. Unlike Miranda, Ferdinand or Alonso, Antonio does not remember being small, young, powerless, hopeless or confused. he does not remember that anyone has ever given him anything he really needed; he does not remember that there are standards above himself - like Nature, truth or justice - which determine action. His is not simply bad, his very unreasonableness, which he displays both on the ship and in his speech, shows him to be forgetful of what even willful criminals usually know. For when Antonio finds himself ·On a sinking ship, he does not pray - he is not afraid. Rather, he currss the sailors for treachery: "We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards". He cannot imagine that there could exist a group of elements which were supremely unmindful of Antonio's life or death. When he speaks, he shows his conviction that truth and falsity, right or wrong, are a matter of rhetorical emphasis. Therein lies his danger as a social creature. Antonio convinces Sebastian to depose his brother Alonso by jumping all the moral and practical hurdles in speech. First, there is the true heir Ferdinand, who, as has sensibly been pointed out, might possibly be alive. But Antonio just denies the possibility in words: Will you grant with me 19 That Ferdinand is drowned? As for that prickly question about murdering one's sleeping brother, just blur the distinction between life and death: Here lies your brother, No better than the earth he lies upon 20 If he were that which now he's like--that's dead. 75 �Lest it be forgotten that Ant onio can wor k on those less ready to be wicked than Sebastian, Prospero has already explained that, Being once perfected how t o grant s u its, How t o deny them, who t' adv ance, and who To trash f or over-t opping, new created The creatures t hat were mine, I say, or ch anged 'em, Or e l se new--f ormed them; having bo th the key Of officer and office, set all heart i' th' state To what tune pleased his ear, t h at now he was The ivy which had hid my prince~~ trunk And sucked my verdure out on't. Antonio, clever and powerful, forgetting himself and his scruples, can play tunes and change hearts just as Prospero can. In days past he practiced the black magic to Prospero's white. He is not an incredible character - we know that often we have no firm grasp on either who we are or what is right and wrong. Then, too, it is easy to be at ebb tide, like Sebastian, morally indifferent and ready to flow. Standing steadfastly in opposition to Antonio and Sebastian is Gonzalo. Not a wise man, he nevertheless has the finest memory--the best perspective on events and the greatest kindness towards the infirmity of others. Weary and bedraggled on the beach, and trying to make conversation, he wants to tell Alonso something about the joy and sorrow of a whole life - :32_cpiething very true, but very ill-timed: "Beseech you sir, " he begins, "be merry." Antonio and Sebastian mock Gonzalo because he mixes up his history and because he mak~ a very silly political theoretician. They 3 and promise to forget him as soon as he is call him the "lord of weak rememberance" dead. It is they- truest self-revelation that, in their merry fooling, Gonzalo is 4 nothing to them. It is also the truest warning of social danger. Antonio's self - corruption would affect not just the morally weak like Sebastian, and not just the politically powerful like Alonso - those whom we say must 'take their changes'. No, to Antonio all men of good heart and memory are threats - -Gonzalo would hav e t o die too. Alonso is another adult responsible for having committed grave crime - but being Alonso and not Antonio, he is a good man, woefully confused about the past and his responsibilities. He is caught by his shipwreck in a state of being able neither happily to forget nor properly to remember. So ifdicative of his condition, his first words after the wreck are, "Prithee, peace." Ariel will later declare that Alonso is unfit to live with men but it is already evident how desperately lonely he is. Even knowing Prospero' s story one is moved by Alonso's isolated brooding and self-reproach: You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense. Would I had never Married my daughter there! for, coming thence, My son is lost; and in my rate, she too, Who is so far from Italy removed I never again shall see her . 0 thou mine heir Of Naples and of Milan, whaz strange fish 6 Ha th made his meal on thee? His regret is undeniable, but it is a sickly, misshapen kind of regret that does not correspond to what is truly regrettable about their situation . The tragedy is that Ferdinand, from Alonso's standpoint, is almost certainly dead. While grief for a dead son is completely appropriate, mixed with his grief is an unreasonable guilt. Alonso is no more responsible for his son's supposed death than Ferdinand would have been for his father's . As far as they know, they have been overtaken by a natural disaster; tempests know neither kings nor king's sons . Guilt in some ways, is natural disaster in itself, fo r it chases one unreasonably and destroys without 76 scruple or justice. However, the sort of free-floating guilt with which Alonso is plagued often is the sign of a good, but pleabargaining soul. One would sooner feel guilty for a hundred imagined crimes inside oneself than admit the crime one actually committed. Alonso has not Miranda's well-ordered remembrance, he must hunt and scrape to find the meaning of his past life--and he fails. Alonso's regret will neither cure him nor reform him-it will only wear him down into numbed listlessness, as when he said, I will stand to, and feed, Although my last, 2 ~o matter, since I feel The best is past. With terrifying fanfare Ariel and Prospero disabuse the king of his illusions, force him to realign his memory and feel-not guilt-but heart's sorrow. But remember (For that's my business to you) that you three From Milan did supplant good Prospero; Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it, Him and his innocent child; for which foul deed The powers, delaying not forgetting, have Incensed the seas a~§ shores, yea, all the creatures, Against your peace. In the valor of madness men hang and drown their proper selves. Alonso's proper · self, having died when he connived against Prospero, is reestablished by a second death the death of his improper self. His heart's sorrow is as terrible as he himself is good; that is, terrible in the Greek sense of deinos: 0 , it is monstrous, monstrous! Methought the billows spoke and told me of it; The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder, That deep and dreadful organ pipe, pronounced The name of Prosper; it did bass my trespass. Therefore my son i' th' ooze is bedded and I'll seek him deeper than e'er ~lummet sounded 2 And with him there lie mudded. This true remorse holds danger, for to feel it as he should, Alonzo must want to kill, not just the part that did wrong, but his whole self. He is not like the playwatcher or Gonzalo .who have known his crime all along and cared for him, Alonso, anyway. The sea change would be unfinished if it gathered all the elusive deceptive selves together for once, and then ended in self-loathing. If Ariel was best to ~tiate Alonso's repentance, only Prospero can comple te it. "I embrace thy body .•• " he says and Alonso replies, Thy pulse Beats as of flesh and blood; and since I saw thee, Th' affliction of my mind amends, with what, I fear, a madness held me. This must crave (An if this be at all) a most strange story. Thy dukedom I resign and ~? entreat . Thou pardon me my wrongs. As Ferdinand and Miranda did earlier, so Prospero and Alonso do now--j oin hands. Forgiven Alonso is himself again, though still perhaps a little amazed. With utmost gentleness Prospero dissolves the charm around Alonso, gives him his son and daughter and-though they must speak of the past at the right time-frees him from its dogged oppression: A: But, 0 , how oddly will it s ound that I Must ask my child forgiveness! P: There sir, stop. 77 �- r1 Let us not burden our re~2mbrance with A heaviness that's gone. Burdens borne, whole selves accepted, and by those harshest critics, one's victim and one's self-- this is the completion of Prospero's restoration of order. The rulers of Naples and Milan are no -longer criminals, · and their future rulers are well- grown and ready to order the state with whole, unfearful selves . There is cause for uncommon joy, and only Prospero himself is left to consider. Through most of the play, Prosper was mysterious conjurer of tempests in human lives, while he himself hovered outside the action. He has ordered Miranda's and Ferdinand's memory of the past, showing them how to understand inner dividedness and the better part of human freedom. He has given them the best and worst in men in a coherent framework and he has left them with the truest source for joy-the ability, (though feeling many emotions) to be true and serviceable to one another. From Alonso Prospero has demanded both an admission of crime and true repentance, but he has allowed remorse to attain its end and thus has set Alonso free from a useless lifetime of self-reproach and confusion. However, when we consider Prospero himself, we can look to no magical intervention and indeed there is some reason to doubt -he believes the happily- ending fairy-tales he tells: M: 0, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! 0, brave new world That has such people ~~'t! P: "Tis new to thee. Prospero arranges and observes human spectacles throughout the play, yet his responses are never so predictable as his results . He is by turns majestically detached, bitterly rueful and achingly sad . These our actors, As I fortold to you, were all spirits, and Are melted into aire, into thin air; And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on , and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vexed 34 Bear wi t h my weakness; my old brain is tr oubled . The emotions he displays show the uneasiness with which differing inescapable visions of men and women cohabit in one person . On the one hand whether a man behaves well or ill mat ters to the individual, to his society , even to Nature ; on the other hand, a man, especially a meek one, is a dreamy unreality, one easily shipwrecked and spellbound. Having grasped so much of the paradoxical in human life , Prospero is in danger of once again receding into omnipotent, scholarly abstraction . What saves him , what allows him to glimpse a fulle r story, but tell an honest tale to Miranda , is his s t eady remembrance of the potent magic of his human heart . A: Your charm so strongly works ' em That if now you beheld them , Your affections Would become tender . P : Dost thou think so , spirit? A: Mine would , sir , were I human . P: And mine shall . Hast thou which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their afflictions , and shall not myself 78 One of their kind, that relish all as sharply Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art? 35 His admission is not a fore gone conclusion-there is no apparent necessity that magicians never forget they are men. Prospero .must choose to take off his magician's cloak and be recognizable to Antonio, Alonso and Gonzalo. Having abjured rough magic Prospero becomes at once vulnerable-but he also becomes so powerful for the good of others that the sight of him, the touch of his warm hands, restores men to themselves. In his benevolence and renunciation of detachment Prospero shows-if not peacefulness at least a knowledge of who he was, and is, and must be in Milan. Prospero can be best remembered in the words he used for Ferdinand: it eats, and sleeps, and hath such senses As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest Was in the wrack; and·, but he's something stained With grief (that's beauty's canker), thou mighst call him 36 A goodly person. 79 �Footnotes For My Soul 1s Filled with Troubles Bruce Johnsen 19 1william Shakespeare , The Tempest (London : Methuen , 1980), Act I. , Scene i . J lines 16-17. 2 0ibid . , II.i.11. 283- 285 . 2 21 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Ibid . , I. ii.11. 5- 6. 22 Ibid., I. ii.11. 17- 21. 23 Ibid., I. ii.11. 138- 139 . Ibid. , I. ii.1. 24 so . Ibid ., II.i.11. 246- 247 . Ibid., I.ii . 11. 79-86 Ibid. , II. i.1. 1. Ibid ., II. ii. 1. 235 . Ibid . , II.i.11. 181- 182 25 Ibid . , I. ii.11. 97 - 105 . Ibid . , II. i. 1. 9 . 26 Ibid . , I. ii. 11. 133- 134 . Ibid ., II. i. 11. 109- 116 . 27 Ibid . , I. ii.11. 153- 158 . 28 Ibid . , III. i.11. 36- 37 . Ibid ., III. ii i. 11. 49 - 51. Ibid . , III. iii. 11. 68 - 75 . lOibid ., III. i. 11. 48- 52 . 29 11 3 0ibid . , V. i.11. 109 . Ibid .' III. i. 11. 77 - 86 . 12 13 14 1 31 Ibid ., I. ii.11. 397 - 405. 32 Ib i d ., III. i. 11. 39- 42 . 33 Ibid ., I. ii.11. 377 - 383 . 34 5rbid. ' II I. i. 11. 67 . 16 17 18 35 rbid ., III. i. l. 87 . 36 rbid ., III. i. 11. 88- 98 . For I have eaten ashes as it were bread, and mingled my drink with weeping; because of thine anger and thy wrath: for thou hast lifted me up, and dashed me down. Psalm CI, 9-10 rbid . , II I. iii. 11. 95 - 102 . Ibid . , V. i.11. 113- 119 . Ibid ., V.i. 11. 196- 201. Ibid . , V. i.11. 181 - 185 . Ibid . , V. i.11. 148- 159 . Ibid . , V.i. 11. 16- 24 . For on this wise have the gods spun the thread for wretched mortals, that they should live in pain; and themselves are sorrowless. For two urns are set upon the floor of Zeus of gifts that he giveth, the one of ills, the other of blessings. To whomsoever Zeus, that hurleth the thunderbolt, giveth a mingled lot, that man meeteth now with evil, now with good; but to whomsoever he giveth but of baneful, him he maketh to be reviled of man, and direful madness driveth him over the face of the sacred earth, and he wandereth honoured neither of gods nor mortals. Iliad , book XXIV, 527-33 . Ibid ., I.i.11. 413- 417 . rbid ., I. i. l. 56 . "If we hrve received good things from the hand of the Lord, shall we not endure evil things?" The existence of evil has posed a problem for all men who have wrestled with the belief in a perfectly good God. For some, including St. Augustine (in his early life), the only solution was to appeal to the existence of a contending evil principle. This Zoroastrian or Nanichaean heresy exonerates God at the expense of His omnipotence by considering Him as the source of all good and the evil principle as the source of all evil. Is such an appeal necessary? Must one alter the concept of the Christian God in order to account for evil, or can one, as a rational being, affirm one's suffering along with Job, while retaining a belief in the Christian God as sole Lord? Can one 80 81 �-reasonably retain belief in an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good and infinite creator, althoug2 He seems to visit evil upon men - even upon one who "abstains from all evil deeds"? The question, then, is not how one arrives at a belief in such a God. This is a matter of faith, something for which a proof cannot be given. Rather, the question is whether such a belief is consistent with man's reason. Logical necessity constrains even an omnipotent God. While His omniscience determines all truth, He does not thereby invent a logic and a truth which corresponds to it. He simply thinks in the only perfectly consistent manner. Since God's thoughts have no temporal progression, He has no need for logic such as human logic. He knows all premises and conclusions perfectly. Only one fundamental logical axiom constrains Him- that of non- contradiction . Consequently, God can actualize any contingency which does not entail logical contradiction. It follows from this that while a perfectly good God cannot do evil, this does not imply a constraint on His omnipotence . Instead, He has the power to do evil , in so far a s an evil act would not be logical contradiction (as creating an object too heavy for Him to move would be) . Rather, the contradiction is moral, for one cannot be perf ect ly good while doing evil . Aquinas di s tin guishes this nece ssary non- contradic tion by calling it 'moral necessity . ' Since God both has the powe r within Himself to commit good and evil acts, and is intelligent, his actions are.morally free. However, t o attribute intelligence to God assumes that He knows both good and evil, for He must choose between them. One may object that God does not know evil, for ex hypothesis He neither thinks nor wills evil. And since God knows those things wh~ch are not in Him insofar as He requires that knowledge to know Himself perfectly, He must know all that He causes , and nothing that He does not cause. Howeve r, if He does not will evil, He does not cause it, and does not know it. The previous argument is false and can be used to establish that God knows evil only indirectly. God does not think evil. Nor does He will evil antecedently , for antecedently God wills only perfect goods. However, since some goods require that something else be imperfect in order that they may become actual, God can cause the imperfection of something else by willing a good. In this way God knows evil indirectly by knowing the good which necessitates it . He also knows the evil that man causes. This knowledge is also indirect, for God knows such evil by the truth of human actions and by the men who commit it. Therefore, God does know evil and is morally free. Since God is perfectly good, He is constrained by moral necessity to choose f ree ly only t he good . Hence be lie f in God can be "consistent with reason" only if God can never be shown to act in any manner other than a perfectly good one. Before continuing i t will be necessary to specify both what evil is and what kinds ~f evil exist. St. Augustine says that evil is "nothing but a privation of good." St. Thomas Aquinas clarifies this position: Absence of good, taken negatively, is not evil; otherwise, it would follow that what does not exist is evil, and also that everything would be evil because of not having the good belonging to something else . . • But the ~sence of good, taken in privative sense, is an evil." 6 It follows that "evil always lessens good, yet never wholly consumes it" ; for if absolute privation were to occur in all respects with regard to some thing, that thing would not be itseif. Hence, every substance is good insofar as it exists, for in respect of existence there can be no privation and thus no evil. Every substance is capable of imperfection , which is evil; but since evil is only a privation of good, the substance 82 must first be good in order to have a potential for ev i l . Now t he substantial being of a thing is absolute, and hence absolutely good, but the re l ative being of a thing is only relatively good. For example, since Bob is a man, and therefore exists absolutely, he is absolutely good with respect to his substantial being. Wi th respect to his relative being, Bob is a man who may be blind, and thus is only relatively good, for he lacks an attribute proper to a man, namely sight. This concerns Bob insofar as he is an object, without regard to his moral quality. The foregoing suffices to clarify the expression 'metaphysical evil'. Metaphysical evil is imperfection, such as imperfection of form. In addition, one must consider two other classes of evil: natural evil and moral evil. Natural evil comprises the environmentally caused suffering of sentient creatures and therefore includes the suffering caused by hurricanes, earthquakes, etc. ; the suffering of animals other than humans; and even such pain as arises from stubbing one' 6 toe. Moral evil considered with respect to human acts may be termed sin. However, since one must also consider the acts of God and since the question concerns the very goodness of God that with which God's will accords, and which we therefore transgress whenever we transgress God's will (that is, whenever we sin)-more must be said. Moral evil, then, comprises free enactments of the will directed toward an improper 'nd, for "the primary goodness of a moral action is derived from its suitable object" • Since an object of choice is suitab~e i f i t is "one of the things in our own power which is desired after deliberation", moral evil results from a failure to deliberate sufficiently when choosing the object of an action. The final end is a matter of intention, not choice, but the specific end of a single action is not itself a final end, but merely the means to that end. Since all men necessarily desire happiness as their final end, an action is judged in relation to its specific end, which is a matter of choice. Such an action can follow as the conclusion of a practical syllogism. Yet since the will must be directed by the practical intellect if it is to have a suitable end, the will must also have the method of attainment as its object. This method must accord with circumstance - an accordance which reason determines. A good will is therefore one which conforms to the rule of reason. Further, since a good will cannot produce a morally evil act, an action of the will can cause evil only in so far as evil results from the will's failure to conform to the rule of reason. The previous paragraph asserted that a suitable end follows as the conclusion of a syllogism. If so, there must be some first principles of morality upon which the syllogism is based. Aquinas addresses these precepts in his theory of a natural law which all men intuitively know. Whether this claim to intuitive knowledge is correct is debatable. However, since such a debate would extend far beyond the scope of this paper, let it suffice to say that all men living in society must hold in common certain moral precepts in order that society function harmoniously . Further and most importantly, whether these common pr,e cepts are intuitive l y held, determined in order to effect a pleasant society, or determined insofar as t hey aspire t o some conceptualized perfection of their agent, all men either possess them by intui tion or formulate them .!?.I_ reason in accordance with an intuitive end. Such an as sumpt i on upholds the previous c laim that moral evil results f rom t he f a i l ure of t he wi ll t o conform t o the rule of reason. The precepts of mo ra l reasoning are e i t her intuited or determined by reason. Earl ier, we demonstrated God ' s mora l f reedom and His pe r ~ect goodnes s . I t remains f or us to de t ermine whether t he presence of evil in t he world empirically i nval i dates t he cla im tha t s uch a God exists . Perhaps t he simp l est and mos t obvious attempt t o disprove the existence of God by appeali ng t o instanc es of evil is the following 1) A perfectly good God exist s . 2) A perfect ly good God would eliminat e a ll evil that He can. 3) God is QJP.nipotent. 4) Therefor e God can elimina t e a ll evil . S) Therefore God eliminates all evil. 6) Evil 83 �exists. 7) The existence of a perfectly good God leads to contradiction. Unless this argument can be shown to be unsound, or at least uncertain, God's existence as a perfectly good, omnipotent being is disproven. Statement one is assumed. Statement three is given. Statement five follows logically from statements two and four. Since six is obvious and seven is a logically valid conclusion, only two and four remain unaccounted for. Now, statement four holds if the elimination of any given evil does not entail contradiction, and two holds insofar as a perfectly good God is morally obliged to eliminate any evil if by so doing He would not cause a greater evil or eliminate a greater good. The remainder of this treatise will examine why God is unable to eliminate certain evils because their elimination would occasion greater evil or eliminate some greater good. It will examine first metaphysical, then natural, and finally moral evil with respect to some greater good. That every thing contributes to the greater good of the universe is clear if one considers that evil is only a privation, that every object is good absolutely and always contains some relative good, and that the imper fection or privation of a given . obj ect does not detract from the r elative good of any other object (as long as objects are considered at an instant rather t han with respect to the conditions of their genesis). That is, regardless of how much metaphysical evil an object contains, the universe contains more good if the object exists, then if it does not. At the instant of creation then, in order that the universe contain all possible good, God desired the existence of an infinite number ·of objects, each of which would manifest some good. Thus Aquinas argues for the diversity of the universe: The perfection of the universe consists in the diversity of things. • Because His (God's) goodness could not be adequately represented by one creature alone, He produced many and diverse creatures, so that what was wanting in the one representation of the di9 vine goodness might be supplied by another. Every thing, regardless of the amount of metaphysical evil it contains, is necessary to achieve the greater good of the universe, but this explains only the metaphysical evil of objects when they are considered at an instant. When objects are considered insofar as they relate to one another in motion over time, they might appear to cause evil in other objects, and thus detract from the metaphysical good of the universe. That objects be able to harm one another - that they be able to cause metaphysical evil, is necessary in a universe governed by laws. Thus, metaphysical evil results from the consequent will of God, which is the series of His antecedent wills with respect to their mutual possibility. God antecedently wills each object as perfect; He wills an ordered universe. However, since objects must be potentially imperfect in that universe, and since some objects through their interaction, make others imperfect, evil results. Further, even if the universe could be ordered so that no metaphysical evil resulted, with the addition of free creatures no such order could yet suffice. Therefore there is no way for God to order the universe without incurring metaphysical evil. The greater good which the ordering constitutes is the representation of the divine intelligence. However, metaphysical evil also is a necessary condition for the existence of ano t her manifes tation of God' s goodness - living creatures. Some of these creatures can sense. Both because the universe has laws which govern the interaction of all matter and energy, and because finite sentient creatures must act within this universe, natural evil inevitably results-especially if some creatures are free and rational. For matter reacts to the actions of the creatures according to the determinations of preexistent laws. These laws sometimes conflict with the creatures' desires. This conflict between matter's tendency and the creatures' desires causes suffering in 84 sentient creatures - even if rational sentient creatures can not be physically harmed by it. That this suffering is evil is not evident. In the case of irrational creatures, the suffering occurs only as physical pain which invariably causes the creature to alter its actions in response thereby causing it to act in a manner not proper to it. This altered action is therefore a privation. The same alteration occurs in a rational creature. In it, however, suffering affects its thoughts~ altering the actions determined by those thoughts. Suffering is not, then, in itself a privation. Rather, like the will's failure to conform to reason, suffering is a privation with respect to a moral action. That natural and metaphysical evil are consequences of an ordered universe which, in turn, is necessary in order for living creatures to function-has been established. One might reply that God could miraculously intervene in all cases of natural evil. However, free moral agents enact moral good or evil insofar as they either do or do not consider the rule of reason. In order to determine by reason whether an action is appropriate to an end, one must be able to understand causality well enough to determine the consequences of that action. Such causality may be understood in a universe governed by law, but in one governed or dominated by miraculous intervention such understanding is impossible. Thus, besides the loss of good occasioned by the disruption of the order of the universe, through the inability of their intellect to guide their will, rational animals would suffer an even greater privation than that of natural evil. Therefore metaphysical and natural evil are necessary for the greater good of both the universe and man. Ex hypothesis, as perfectly good, God commits no morally evil act. However, man does commit moral evil. Insofar as God wills the existence of man, God causes moral evil. For although He does not cause it directly, since man, a free moral agent, is directly responsible for his own acts, God nevertheless causes evil indirectly by permitting man to do evil. This permission may be construed as an indirect cause of evil because of divine foreknowledge, by which God knows when a man will commit moral evil. Now, even i f we assume, (but do not admit), that God permits evil because He knows that each particular moral evil results accidentally in some greater good, God is still the indirect cause . Yet because God's will is directed toward the greater good and not the evil He is not culpable. Note that the issue of a moral act does not determine its goodness since the greater good arises from the action accidentally. Further only that which belongs to a thing essentially can determine it in species. Thus while the action is still morally evil for the man who commits it, it is morally good for God to permit it because He knows essentially the accidental issue of all actions. Aquinas is very clear on the point that must be demonstrated: God is not even indirectly responsible for moral evil. The first cause of moral evil is in man, for God does no violence to man's will, which is the free cause of moral evil. Unfortunately, St. Thomas is not clear on how to vindicate God of even indirect causality. He says, The effect of the deficient secondary cause (man 9 s will) is reduced t o the first non-deficient cause as regards what it has of being and perfection, but not as regards what it has of def ect; just as whatever there is of motion in t he act of limping is caused by the motive power, whereas what is unbalanced in it does not come froll\. the motive power, but from 0 the curvature of t he leg. This mechanical example fails, however, because the will has no power over the leg's curvature, yet God has power over the actions of a man, and He creates man and 85 �sustains him. Therefore Aquinas's claim that God is not even indirectly responsible for evil has not yet been justified. In fact, St. Thomas acknowledges that man's turning to God is by free choice; •.. But free choice can be turned to God only when God turns i t ... He (man) does not do this without the help of God moving him. Man can only act in accordance with God's perfectly good will, that is, he can only enact moral good by virtue of the prevenient grace of God. Even though God grants sufficient grace to all who accept it, it is God Himself who moves them to accept it. Moral evil results from the will' s failure to conform to the rule of reason. Since God's grace brings man's will into conformity with the rule of reason, i f God moves man to accept this grace, He permits evil antecedently when he does not move a man to accept His grace. For whenever acceptance is not caused, man does not consider the rule of reason. This non-consideration is not culpable, f or it is a negation. But when man subsequently acts, he is culpable, for non-consideration of the rule is a privat ion with respect to a morally significant action. Hence, God causes not a privation but a ne gat ion, which man freely makes a privation. God is therefore only the cause of mo r al good and not of moral evil. God does not do anything that He does not cause; acceptance is a non-act. Such an argument, derived from Aquinian positions, is unconvincing. In the first place , God's non-act directly causes man's non-consideration of the rule, which subsequently causes the morally evil act. God did not act because of a greater good which, by divine foreknowledge, He knew would be caused accidentally by the evil act. His non-act is a negation rather than a privation, for action would not be proper to God. However , His non-act still willfully and indirectly causes moral evil. To vindicate God of any such causal ity as Aquinas affirms one must, it is necessary to establish and maintain a slightly different interpretation which yields radically different results. Although God can infallibly cause a man to act in a non-evil manner in a given instance, He does not - except, perhaps, in rare instances. Usually, He determines not to move a man in such a way that the man must act in a specified manner. Rather He grants man prevenient grace. Along with this grace, God moves man to accept it by inclining him to do so. Man either follows this inclination or does not He chooses freely. God, then, at the time of man's choosing cannot fail to permit evil, for to do so would contradict His decision to grant man only an inclination and thus allow man moral freedom with respect to that act. This is important .because, in a situation where God infallibly causes man to act well, man's act is not free . It is absurd to claim that one is caused by someone else to choose freely a particular alternative. According to this interpretation God never permits an evil act per se . Rather, He permits man to act with moral freedom, and so permits the possibility of an evil act. Further, by inclining man toward considerat~on of the rule in all instances of human freedom, God causes man's consideration and, so, man's morally good act. Man's morally evil act, then, results from his autonomous disregard of this inclination ... . Thus, God causes moral evil neithe r directly nor indirectly. For, God cannot eliminate moral evil without also eliminating a greater good-namely, man's freedom. Whether or not moral evil exists is therefore entirely up to man . This is not to say that God does not prevent some moral evils, but He is morally obliged to permit some. Herein it has been demonstrated that the existence of both evil and a perfectly good God is consistent with man's reason, for plausible explanations have been offered for all three kinds of evil. If the arguments presented herein are sound, the faith of one who believes may be renewed and strengthened. For one who does not have faith, the possibility of gaining it remains. Further, if anyone is hereby convinced 86 that it is his own freedom which requires the potentiality of the manifold evils which he endures, and that it is primarily his own responsibility as a free man to determine whether these evils are actualized, he may less readily despair should his soul be filled with troubles. Footnotes 1 Job, II. 10. translated form the Greek text of the Septuagint, as are all further biblical references. 2 Job, I. 8. 3 4 5 6 The Summa Theologica, St. Thomas Aquinas, Part I, Q.14. contained in Introduction to St. Thomas Acquinas, ed. Anton C. Pegis. confessions, St. Augustine, Book III, Chapter VII. Summa Theologica, Part I, Question 48, Art. 3. Ibid., Part I, Q. 48, Art. 4. l Ibid., Part II, Q. 18, Art. 2. 8 9 Nicomachean Ethics, trans. W. D. Ross, contained in The Basic Works of Aristotle, Random House, Inc., New York, NY, 1941, ed. Richard McKeon, Book III-,-Chapter 3 section 1113 all. Summa Theologica, Part I, Q. 47, Art. 1. lOibid., Part I, Q. 49, Art. 3. 11 Ibid., Part II, Q. 109, Art. 7. 87 �c Solution to the Junior-Senior Math Problem s Martin Marklin Given the accompanying diagram arc with center at N AEN is a straight line f ormin~ any angle MN; it is to be proven that the area. in which ACBN is a circle, ADB is a circular circular arc with center at M, and CDEN is a less than or equal to a right angle with line mixtilinear triangles ADC and ADE are equal in ~--i"--...::::;;;..------' M FIG .1 FIG.2 N N First, the case when CN is at right angles to MN (figure 1). The area of a sector of a circle is = 8r 2 , where 0 is in radians. 2 Since AM= MN, and AM is perpendicular to MN, Then AN = 2 AM; (I. 4 7) 2 = 2 AM 2 • And AN Since angle ANB is a right angle, 2 Then sector ANBD TI/2 AN 2 IlAN 2 4 Since angle AMN is a right angle, 2 then sector AMNR TI/2 AM 2 TIAM2 4 Substituting 2 AM for AN 2 , 2 sector ANBD : sector AMNR ·· TI2AM 2 •• 2 2 TIAM 2 2 1 But sector AND = ~ sector ANBD. Therefore, sector AND = sector AMNR. And triangle ANM = triangle AON. Therefore, subtracting equal triangles, section AOD = section ANR . Section ADONR = triangle AON - section ARN + section AOD. But, section ADO = section ARN. Therefore, section ADONR = triangle AON. Section CAD, likewise, = sector COA - section DOA. But sector COA = sector AND. And subtracing common section DOA, section ADC = triangle AON. Therefore, section ADONR = section ADC . 88 For the case when CN . is less than a right angle with MN: Draw in ME, OC, and SC. Now, angle MNE = angle OSC (III . 32) And because of equal radii, MN = ME = OC = OS. Since triangles MNE and OCS are isosceles, angle MNE = angle MEN = angle OCS = angle OSC . Therefore, triangle MNE = triangle OSC . And triangle OSC = triangle OCN, because they are on equal bases and under equal heights. Now, sector AQN = sector ANM = sector AOS, from previous proof. And, angle CNO = ~ angle COS (III. 20) Since the area of a sector varies directly with its angle, and given whatever angle for CNS, angles EMN and SOC will each be twice that angle, then, sector QDN = sector SOC sector ENM. Now subtracting the common area of section EN, section QGDENO = triangle ENM = triangle OCS = triangle OCN. Subtracting further the common section OGDEN from both sides, EN + CGD GQO But section EN section SC, Therefore, GQO section CGD + section SC. But triangle OSC section OQG + QGCS section SC = section CGD + section QGCS. section SCDGQ Therefore, section SCDGQ triangle OSC = triangle OCN = section QGDENO. Which was to be proven. Q.E.D. 89 �Brise Marine In the particular case in which CNM is a right angle, show that the volumes of revolution formed by rotating the two mixtilineal triangles ADC and ADN about CN as an axis are . unequa~; and explain why this is the case. The volume, generated by the revolution of a curve, is the product of the area enclosed by the curve and the distance moved through by the center of area or center of gravity. In other words (see figure 3), the volume of the ring generated by the circle A about axis CN is equal to the area of circle A times the circumference of the circle with radius AO (the mean distance). Hence, equal c areas at equal distances from the axis may not always give equal volumes-.~The further o requirement being that their respective centers of gravity be also equidistant from the axis. 1--~-+-~~~-+~~~-+~--t N The volume of rotated. ACD rotated volume of hemisphere ACB - volume ADO Stephane Mallarme' La chair est triste, helas! et j'ai lu tousles livres. Fuir! la-bas fuir! Je sens que des oiseaux sont ivres D'etre parmi l'ecume inconnue et les cieux! Rien, ni les vieux jardins refletes par les yeux Ne retiendra ce coeur qui dans la mer se trempe 0 nuits! ni la clarte deserte de ma lampe Sur le vide papier que la blancheur def end Et ni la jeune femme allaitant son enfant. Je partirai! Steamer blancant ta mature, Leve l'ancre pour une exotique nature! Un Ennui, desole par les cruels espoirs, Croit encore a l'adieu supreme des mouchoirs! Et, peut-etre, les mats, invitant les orages Sont-ils de ceux qu'un vent penche sur les naufrages Perdus, sans mats, sans mats, ni fertiles ilots • Mais, o ~on coeur, entends le chant des matelots! The volume of ADNP rotated = volume of hemisphere ABN + volume ADO rotated - volume APNR rotated. c Let volume volume ADNP. ACD Then, volume APNR ADO. rotated Translation We know, from the previous proof, that the area of APNR = 2 x area ADO. Hence, the centers of gravity of area APNR and area ADO must be equidistant from axis CN. We know the center of area APNR to be at K, which is ~ radius AO (because of its bilateral symmetry). N Nancy Mease 2 x volume But the center of ADO can not be at ~ AO. For, in· that case, there would be the same area to the left of ~AO as there would be to the right of ~AO. But the arc AD has its maximum at the axis and its minimum at point A. I t is impossible for the area of ADO to be bisected along a line which passes through the point ~RO. Hence, the assumption that volume ADC = ADNP must be false. The flesh is bleak; I have read all the booksTo flee, flee alas! The birds must be drunk To exist amid nameless foam and sky! Nothing shall hold this sea-steeped heart, O nights! Neither old gardens shining in the eyes, Nor the desert clarity of my lamp On empty paper defended by white, Nor even the young wife nursing her child. I shall leave! You, steamer, cradling your spars, Up anchor, crowd sail for exotic wilds! A man of ennui, undone by cruel hopes, Still looks to the last good~bye of handkerchiefs. And perhaps these spars, inviting tempests, Are among those that wind bends over wrecks Lost, dismasted, without fertile isles •.• And yet, oh my heart, hear the sailors' songs! Which was to be proven. ~ancy Q.• E. D. 90 Mease, '84, is currently living in Orange City, New 91 Jers~v. �Non -Profit Org. BULK RATE U. S. POST AGE St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 PAID PERMIT No. ·1 20 ANNAPOLIS , ~-~J � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. i, 91 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Burlein, Ann (Editor) Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Fall 1984 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1984 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Fall 1984. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Fall 1984 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/6961c61523531777a5e80a6b5c8e5ccd.pdf 3c7ce134a24af0676983fb6cc62b1f74 PDF Text Text �ENEBGEIA; The activity in which -anything is fully itself. n... voQ tvlpy£~a ~w~ ... (Aristotle's r : .·, ; . '1.-' I ... ~ J ~.' r ·. Metaphysics, 1072b) • • ·. I •'· 'I •" ~ 1 f ~TAFE; ,.! .- _.-.~. .'. " I 'i I .~,' Maura Brady " . Cathy Buckler Michael Crawford Gabrielle Fink Nancy Harriss : /' . A · · · Ted Ingham . ,... ~ ~ Maria Kowalczyk . Mark Streeter . ·. .:.! - ·~.i . '· • : )' i · Liz Waldner Jason Wal sh . Steve Werl 1.n · Editor: Ann Burle1n Faculty Advisor: Jonathan Tuck ~( • I , J ~ ~· ' .h ' ..... .. • !' .( ~ ,' I' ' I ~ .· Energeja is a non- profit, student magazine which is published three times a year and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's Co 11 ege, Annapo 1 is and Santa Fe. The Fa 11 issue con ta ihs a samp 11 ng ·of the student work from the previous s~hool year which the prize committees of both. campuses have selected for public recognition. For the Winter and Spring issues, the Energeia staff welcomes submissions from al 1 members of the co mm u n i t y - essays, poems , st o r i es, o r i g i na 1 math p roofs, 1 ab p r o j e ct s, drawings, and the 1 ike. Note: A brief description of the author accompanies al 1 work not by current St. John's students. Please include some such statement along with your submission. Thank you. �Imagination and Knight-Errantry in Don Quixote Anna Davis CONTENTS IMAGINATION AND KNIGHT-ERRANTRY IN DON QUIXaTE Anna Davis DONNE AT PENI'EL Nancy Townsend 13 Coldwell Daniel 17 · ·· · Martin Marklin 18 · James Beall 23 · , · Ann Burlein 26 HOUSE RENT BOOGIE ' · ., 1 .j l ' STUDIES IN NON-EUCLIDEAN REGULAR POLYHEDRA MOON WHEN ONTOLOGY WEARS A JANUS-FACE . THE TRAGICOMIC PHILOSOPHER Ann Sitomer IN DEFENSE OF PROPOSITION 35: COINCIDENCE AND EQUALITY IN EUCLID'S ELEMENTS, BOOK I Fawn Trigg 39 44 CONNOISSEUR OF CHAOS Wallace Stevens 47 CHAOS IN APRIL, ORDER AT KEY WEST AND THE PLANET ON THE TABLE Liz Waldner 48 SELFHOOD, FRIENDSHIP, AND STATEHOOD IN THE NICOMACHEAN ETHICS Michael McShane 53 We become acquainted with Don Quixote through the narrator of this true history who first describes Don Quixote as a voracious reader of books about chivalry. Finally we are told he "became so immersed in his reading that he spent whole nights from sundown to sunup and his days from dawn to dusk in pouring over his books, until, finally, from so 1 ittle sleeping and so much reading, his brain dried up and he went completely out of his mind. He had fi 11 ed his imagination with everything that he had read ••• and as a result had come to believe that all these fictitious hafpenings were true; they were more real to him than anything else in the world~ We are led to believe that these are the adventures of a madman - and so they seem when we find him, for instance, engaging in a fierce combat with great skins of red wine. As he emerges from each absurd adventure, sometimes victorious, but mostly in defeat, we can not help but laugh along with the people he meets. He is easily made to look ridiculous by everyone he encounters whether by means of a practical joke or a criticism of knight errantry. Don Quixote's apparent madness lends an unfair advantage to his antagonists; for although most derive nothing but amusement from the knight, Don Quixote sees no humor in his profession. The more seriously he takes himself, the more we laugh. Our 1 aughter, however, for the most part is brief and it puzzles us. Why do we not feel comfortable ridiculing him? Is it because we see, even if only for a moment, a nobility and virtue in his actions that awaken us from our dogmatic slumbers? Too often in the course of his adventures the truth of his words and the righteousness in hfs deeds make us blush to think that we once laughed at his folly. Before we pass the final judgement upon his madness, let us examine those words and deeds in the hope of discovering the secret contained in his "imaginary" world of knight-errantry. Don Quixote embodies the g 1 ory of the Go 1 den Age, that happy century "to which the ancients gave the name of golden ••• because those who 1 i ved in that time did not know the meaning of the words 'thine' and 'mine•. 112 More than this, however, he longs to share ·with the world the wealth contained in the virtues which the Golden Age exemplifies. Thus his sojourn becomes meaningful each time he encounters in this world men who have long forgotten even the simplest amenities of life. It is not surprising that those men Quixote meets have no interest in remembering the lessons he offers them, for his way of life demands sacrifice and courage to pursue virtue, at a time when vice volunteers an easy gain. Everywhere Quixote is met with resistance. But he faces this resistance and overcomes it within himself, not by physical force, but by believing that his intervention can change the hearts of men. As he explains to Andres after freeing him from his cruel master, "it is sufficient for me to command and he out of respect wi 11 obey ••• He has sworn to me ••• Every man is the son of his works."3 Is it madness to put such faith in one's fellow man? Or does Quixote's faith remind us that this Iron Age of ours would dissolve if such 1 �faith were often in vain? It would be a sad misfortune indeed if it were not the 1 atter, for faith in the goodness found in the heart of man is perhaps the first step toward destroying the barrier that "thine" and "mine" erects between men. Though Quixote fails Andres, our author leads us to believe that the knight's faith has made an indelible impression on the prostitutes at the in~ By mistaking them for Ladies of the Castle, he helps them to see their own self worth. They, in return, promise to adopt the title of Dona. This smal 1, but meaningful, transformation has been wrought through Quixote's imagination. The world he has created does not allow for prosititutes or men who would renege on a promise. Such characteristics are products of an Age which emphasizes material wealth, rather than virtuous action. Though Quixote's imagination demands a great deal, he presents his faith as a gift of love to those who choose to participate in it, so that life can become a little less wretched. Sancho, more than anyone else, shares in Don Quixote's imagination and is transformed by it. Simple in the way that a child is simple, Sancho is innocent and unadorned. His reason requires no proof from the knight. He fol lows his master with the undaunted faith that Don Quixote will deliver the fortunes he has promised. If Quixote were simply a madman, he could never inspire in a man like Sancho the faith to leave home and family in order to wander the countryside in search of adventures. The lure of riches alone, however, fails to explain the depth of Sancho's conviction. As Sancho himself learns as governor, happiness is not synonymous with material wealth. This knowledge comes as a revel at ion to Sancho and with it brings consolation in his 1 ot in life. As he leaves the island he embraces his grey saying, "Come, comrade and friend, partner in all my troubles and hardships. When I was with you, I had no other care than that of mending your harness and feeding that little carcass of yours. Those for me were the happy hours, days, and years: but since leaving you and mounting the towers of ambition and pride, a thousand troubles a thousand torments, and four thousand worries have entered my soul." 4 Sancho has not reached this conclusion by himself. Only through his association with Don Quixote is this contentment possible. In the moment Sancho discovers that which is truly important in his life, he sets off to resume his place at his master's side - his devotion now steadfast. We have seen that the enlightment which Sancho and the prostitutes experience is accomplished through the imagination of Quixote. But it takes more than imagination alone to work miracles of this sort. Without an invincible faith in his own ability to transform the lives of those he encounters, Quixote's imagination is incapable of conveying the virtues of the Golden Age to this Age of Iron. It is his fa1th which gives his imagination vitality. In a world determined to defeat him, it is his spiritual strength that calls upon him to rise from each beating. Let us, then, examine Quixote in an adventure which requires him to draw heavily on these faculties. He enters the Sierra Morena to escape the dreaded Holy Brotherhood. But the mountain provides Quixote with much more than a hiding place. His faith is displayed in al 1 its splendor high on the Sierra Morena cliffs where there are no damsels to rescue, no rogues to prosecute, and no one but Sancho to witness it. Quixote's penance, in "imitation of Beltenebros", lends us a new perspective to Don Quixote. Throughout his previous adventures he has been only 2 a knight. He has told us of the cruelty which men exhibit and has shown us that "prudence, valor, endurance, firmness of will, and loving devotion"5 are the symbols of the Golden Age. Enchantment and dragons only oppose the hearts and minds of men who dare step beyond the bounds of appearance. When a flock of sheep can be transformed into an army, one must summon all one's courage in order to defeat such an enemy in single-handed combat. Would those who scuff at the knight have gathered such courage and firmness of will to fight for anything? Perhaps they are just sheep, but as he charges into battle it is a real army Don Quixote opposes. The isolation of the Sierra Morena, however, transforms him into a love~ He has fought long enough for love and the honors of chivalry: it is now time to set his sword aside and declare to all of nature his love for Dulcinea and the virtues she possesses. Only in this way will he become worthy of his love for her. Dulcinea embodies all the womanly virtues. As the Princess of al 1 princesses, al 1 women should strive to become like her, although the attainment of such perfection always remains impossible. If, Don Quixote is the greatest knight- errant who ever lived, we may find ou rse l ~es, l i ke s.ancho, wondering why he must perform such a di ff i cult penance. Don Quixote explain~ "What thanks does a knight deserve for going mad when he has good c~use? The thing is to go out of my head without any occasion for it, thus letting my lady see, if I do this for her in the dry, what I would do in the wet." 6 Though he sends Sancho to Dulcinea for her appraisal of his master's wor~hiness, t~is r~tual ~oes .not so much express his faithfulness or constancy, as it proclaims his belief in what she is and what she stands for. To the man who sees prostitutes instead of ladies, sheep instead of armies, Dulcinea is only Aldonza Lorenzo. To Don Quixote and those like him who possess the gift of freedom from appearances, by disregarding them as the deceit of a wicked enchanter, the peasant woman Aldonza Lorenzo ceases to exist. His faith elevates her to an almost divine stature; he considers her the embodiment of all he loves and finds meaningful in the world. The fact that some uninspired men se? only a flesh-and - bl?od.peasant becomes almost trivial in light of Don Quixot&s love. ~And soi~ is enough for me to think and believe that the good Aldonza Lorenzo is beautiful and modest ••• I am content to imagine that what I say is so and that she is neither more nor less than I picture her and would have her be, in comeliness and in high estate~ 7 Quixote has captured the very essence of his imagination with this statement. Nothing must remain as it appea r s to be under the influence of his imagination, for no l anger is man enveloped in a world where souls and substances are restricted by their appearance. In the Iron Age, the world has become stagnant; men have fooled themselves into believing that a· barber's basin is forever bound to be merely a barber's.basin. But Quixo~e demonstrates that through imagination we can purge ~ur.vision of the haze which prevents us from beholding the potential locked inside every man and object. His imagination, and ours if we choose to believe, ~rea~es a world from mundane matter where new challenges and never-beforeimagined adventures demand an heroic sense of duty and courage. Quixote's imagination conjures up thirty "lawless giants" where most men would have seen only windmills. There is no escape from the battlefield upon which he finds himself. Though he knows a fatal blow could await him, he bravely commends himself to his lady and attacks. The giants take on a life of their own under his assault, taunting him by flapping their wings. He and Rocinante are hurled to the ground by the initial blow, but this setback signifies nothing more than the fortunes of war for Quixote. He has behaved 3 �admirably in the true spirit of knight-errantry, for facing such an awesome enemy is a noble endeavor, when its purpose is to combat si~ "In confronting giants, it is the sin of pride that we slay, even as we combat envy with generosity and goodness of heart." 8 To subdue a giant is to rob him of all reason to consider himself as above other men. But more importantly, Quixote has shown us that the battle begins within ourselves. Our own fear presents the most formidable enemy; if we can conquer that, a giant seems inconsequential. Even defeat, when delivered by a giant, is honorable. But let us return to Aldonza Lorenzo. She, too, is liberated by Quixote's imagination, for she is no longer limited by her cumbersome station in life or the p 1 a in, earthy f ea tu res of a fie 1 d-hand. Don Quixote a 1 one has found the beauty in her heart and bestows on her the greatness she deserves by displaying it before the world. It is an ironic twist that Sancho, a peasant, is able to see through Quixote's eyes the truth about Aldonza Lorenzo. Like a teacher to his student, Quixote has made Sancho understand the necessity and beauty in his master's penance. Profoundly impressed by the letter to Dulcinea, Sancho revels in the pride he feels toward Quixote and expresses his love for him when he nearly weeps at the prospect of his master enduring such pain. What else but the intensity of Quixote's imagination could elicit such heartfelt emotion from Sancho? It is more than the promise of three ass-colts that persuades Sancho to journey alone to El Toboso. He who is assaulted by fears "with a thousand different kinds of starts and visions"9 every time he leaves his master's side must also believe 1n the nobility of Quixote's deeds. Sancho, however, is rare among men. As Quixote returns to his home after the first expedition to the inn, he attempts to teach the same 1 esson to the silk merchants of Toledo. He challenges these would-be knight-errants to go no further until they confess that Dulcinea is the most beautiful damsel in the world. Without the power of faith, the silk merchants are incapable of believing what Don Quixote has told them is true. They regard the whole affair as they would a stubborn shopkeeper haggling over a bolt of expensive fabric. They would rather 1 ie about Dulcinea's beauty after seeing her picture than humiliate themselves on the chance that she is not as beautiful as the knight has said she is. But it is clear that her beauty is irrelevant. "If I were to show her to you, what merit would there be in your confessing a truth so selfevident? The important thing is for you, without seeing her to believe, confess, affirm, swear, and defend that truth." l OFaith is to believe without knowledge. By not allowing the silk merchants to document the affirmation of Du,.cinea's beauty, Quixote compels them to admit the existence of things in the world more important than money. The silk merchants, of course, do not believe t.his. Their imaginations extend no further than to envision how many real es each handsome piece of silk can br ing. They measure wealth by luxury. When Don Quixote confronts them with a woman endowed with the riches of modesty and nobility that will buy them nothing, the merchants find it impossible to recogn 1ze these virtues. It is the curse of the Iron Age that these men have accustomed themselves to looking no further than this for happiness. When a man is incapable of acknowledging even the possibility of such beauty in a woman he has never seen, how wi 11 he ever be ab 1 e to believe in the goodness of an age which knew not "thine" and "mine"? 4 The silk merchants do not dare to oppose Quixote in an ideological battle, for thi s might place their beliefs in far too precarious a position. They wil 1 not tolerate anyone who might force them to re- evaluate their first principles. Instead, they choose to ridicule and reject with violence Don Quixote's challenge. ~hough our kni~ht_ fights valiantly, the silk merchants are stronger. They leave him beaten, sati s fied that they have rid themselves of this nuisance. But rather than giving up in the face of utter defeat, Don Quixote reinforces his bel_iefs by recalling and reliving the tales of knight- errantry. His is the true victory, for though some people will never change, he will continue to believe in his profession and to pass it on t o those who wil 1 listen. His faith has been tested on this battlefield and has emerged intact. It is true that his b~uises ~revent him from r~sing, but his spirit delivers a devastating blow to his e nemies when he exclaims to his neighbor, Pedro Alonso , "I know who I am. " All of his beliefs have come into question, and yet he remains secure enough- in his convictions to declare that he is proud to be what he is. Quixote's faith i~ knight- errantry and in his own strength to transform the world gives him the right to say "I know who I am." something which the silk merchants could never declare. It is heaven's wi 11 that cal 1 s him to mount Rocinante and it is a voice that only he can hear which nurtures his poetic vision. The rest of the world is deaf to these whisperings; Quixote must try to make it hear them. Perhaps Quixote's true nobi 1 ity arises here; though he knows the essence this heart and can perceive beyond mere appearance, the world still sees in him only the lunacy of a madman. Nor does his faith appear to weaken in the adventures that fol low, for we can detect no decline in the intensity of his faith when he meets the galley slaves. As he questions them about the crimes they have committed, Don Quixote has no doubts as to who he is or in what his duty as a knight consists. He piti~s them _ and judg_ their punishment too harsh. The King's justice means es nothing to him, for "it does not appear to me to be just to make slaves of those whom God created as free men •••Up there, each of us wi 11 have to answer for his o~n sins~" It .is an odd t~rn of events that brings Quixote , whom we usu a lly fin~ trying to impose his wil 1 on whatever affords him an opportunity, acting as a liberator of men who have become slaves to the will of the Law. But because the slaves are taken in chains against their will, Quixote feels compelled to defend them. He reasons that this is the just and noble thing to do since it is his "knightly vow to favor the needy and aid those who are oppressed by the powerfu 1." !n return for saving the galley slaves' lives, Quixote asks but one thing: Dulcinea must know of her knight's courage and valor from the lips of the re:cued unfortunates. Un l i ke the silk merchants, however, who s imp 1y ; gnored Quixote after they had beaten him, the galley slaves give way to selfishness as they turn and attack the man to whom they owe their ·lives. There is an added perve~sion. to the gal_ley slave's action, for they corrupt Quixote's gift of love by u~ing it for their own selfish and unjust ends . Though we may find the rea li st po s i t ion of the silk merc hants offen s ive , they at l eas t dese rv e recognition for holding their beliefs as dear as Quixote holds his. The galley s~aves not only offend us , they offend God with the sin of ingratitude. They disregard the dc1nger in which Quixote has placed himself for their sake. As they seek to escape their captors they think only of themselves. Like so many times before, Quixote's good will and Golden Age virtue have been wasted on selfish, ignorant men with hearts of iron. Perhaps it is madness , to continue to bear such an undying love for his fellow man , after so 5 �many disappointments, but if Quixote is mad, all men should be afflicted by this kind of insanity. We must not, however, al low the admiration we feel for Quixote's steadfast faith blind us to his mistakes. We have seen him ~wice misjudge another man's character, causing pain and suffering to those associated with them. Andres was not freed by his master but was made to ensure worse abuse because Quixote placed too much faith in a man unworthy of such trust. The galley slaves, besides stealing poor Sancho's grey, perhaps corrmitted other crimes once they were free of their jailers. While we can not and should not ignore Quixote's mistakes, he is still only a man, subject to human error and weakness - however strong his faith and courage may be. We would judge him too harshly and commit the same offe~se of which we accuse him if we allow this to become an obstacle in our estimation of his worth. We shal 1 not qauge his nobility by the final result of each adventure, for then we would equate the Golden Age with gold. It is, rathe~, the worthiness of his heart and the goodness in his soul that, in spite of his "failures", will be our measure. After all, Quixote's flaws make him even more dear to us. If he is to be our guide, i f we are to try to emulate his nobility, he must remain within our grasp. We learn from his mistakes that he is as human as we, and this gives us the hope that Quixote's dream to restore the Golden Age is not quite so impossible. But just as his mistakes give us assurance, so does his insightfulness i~to the soul of Marcela. Among the crowd of goatherds that too much resemble silk merchants, Quixote sees Marcela as the vision she is. He recognizes at once the virtue and goodness in her soul. This stands in tremendous contrast to his encounters with other people where it was necessary for him to dig deeply into their hearts to find their merit. Marcela's treasure, is of such brilliant gold that unless one is eclipsed by prejudice as the goatherds are, one cannot but perceive it. Any addition or amendment by Quixote's imagination would be superfluous. Rather than being insulted by her chastity, he is the first to defend her. Here, finally, is a damsel truly worthy to be defended by a gallant knight! Here, too, is evidence that the virtues of the Golden Age are not completely forgotten and that Quixote's quest is not in vain. Perhaps this adventure with Marcela proves Quixote right. Men do not seem to recognize true virtue when it is presented to them, nor are th.ey ab 1 e to discover it in their neighbor. Imagination provides the key, for it not only nourishes a decaying soul, but accustoms it to recognize the good when it does appear. Did not Quixote offer the first poultice to the afflicted souls of t~e prostitutes, just as he afforded the goatherds their first glimpse of Marcela s real beauty? Imagination is the bridge that spans the abyss between each man and the world. It provides a conmen bond between men and only from it does true understanding arise. Throughout these adventures in Book I, we have seen Quixote's imagination thrive with each encounter. With such determination and spiritual strength he seems indomitable· but as he embarks on the Third Sally, he is overcome by many changes. Perhap~ he has been 1 ul led by the security of his home, but w~ are more inclined to believe that these changes result from the humiliation Quixote suffered as he was carried home from the Sierra Morena, caged like some dangerous animal. For whatever reason, he hesitates to venture into this hosti 1 e world a third time and even Rocinante must urge the knight to take up his arms once more. He is finally persuaded to go, but as if Quixote needs assurance of his Lady's love, they set out for El Tobosa to see Dulcinea. Never 6 before has Don Quixote needed proof of her existence. Doubting all that he once staked his 1 ife on, he desperately seeks confirmation from she who symbolizes his 1ove for the Go 1 den Age. Though Quixote doubts, we must not interpret this to mean that the benefits bestowed by his imagination are diminished . On the contrary, his master's imagination is precisely what enables Sancho to enchant Dulcinea. The squire has observed wel 1 and makes his own attempt to transform the world. As he relaxes under a tree, Sancho decides he does not want to go into the village to look for Dulcinea. How much better it would be, he fancies, if she would find him. With cold calculation, Sancho plots to deceive his master into believing that a home 1 y peasant 1 ass is the peerless Du 1 c i nea. But as he careful 1 y considers the execution of his plan, Sancho's reason and his faith struggle with one another. He knows that his ma.ster is mad, yet he be 1 i eves in the fulfillment of Quixote's promises. The wil 1 to believe in Quixote overcomes what appears as madness to him, and with the defeat of the empirical, Sancho is able to impose what he wants to be true even though the world would deny it. In the same manner in which Quixote has convinced Sancho that sheep are armies, Sancho prepares to persuade Quixote of Dulcinea's enchantment. "It wil 1 not be hard to make him believe that the first farm girl I fall in with around here is the Lady Dulcinea. If he doesn't believe it, l'l 1 swear to it; and if he swears that it isn't so, l'l l swear right back at him; and i f he insists, l'l l insist more than he does, so that, come what may , I'll always have my quoit on the peg." Although we might wish for Sancho to employ the gift his master has given him in a more constructive fashion, he has begun to understand Quixote's ministry. Sancho will eventually learn that the motive behind the deed is as important as the deed itself, but this first smal 1 step yields him an insight into the grandeur of Quixote's imagination. Sancho's gain, however, is Quixote's loss. Dulcinea's enchantment marks the beginning of a transition in the knight's faith. Though he has always had to pit himself agai~st the world, the bruising of his body has never before reached his heart. Time has weakened Quixote's faith, and only Dulcinea can renew his hope. As her captive knight, Quixote wishes only to set the visi~n of her loveliness before the world. To be assured of the truth of the existence of her virtue now is to never again doubt his ability to transform the world. Sancho destroys his master's wish by parading a mockery of womanly virtue before him. Her transformation is 1 ike a knife which has been plunged into the very dep t hs of hi s heart. Quixote has no alter-native left but to accep t Sa nc ho's word. He cannot even delve into the peasant's heart to extract the goodness buried in it as he has done before, for the curses she hurls at the knight and squire indicate no goodness is there to be found. The effects of Dulcinea's enchantment are devastating to Quixote. With eyes "fairly starting from their sockets" and a "deeply troubled look" upon his face, Quixote is incapa.ble of speaking to the farm girls. He al lows Sancho to make the introductions. Sancho niust now provide comfort for his mast r, though it does little good. Words alone will do nothing to soothe such pain; only the reaffirmation of Dulcinea's virtue can heal his wound. As they leave El Tobosa, however, they meet a t roupe of players. Seeing them dressed as demons and angels and even Death himself, Quixote is "at once cheered by the thought that this must be some new and perilous adventure." But an uncor11prornising fate will not even al low Quixote the luxury of proving the valor of his good right arm. As he realizes that these are only men in costume, Quixote cries with disappointment, "Upon the word of a knight-errant, when I first saw this wagon, 7 �I thought that some great adventure must be awaiting me, but I perceive now that one must actually touch with his hands what appears to the eye if he is to avoid being deceived." 16 Can this be the same Don Quixote that once sailed forth from his home to change the world armed only with his imagination? The courage and determination that Quixote displayed through Book I returns quickly after leaving El Toboso. He regains his composure, and his imagination is by no means destroyed. He manages to gain victory over the Knight of th: Wood and earns the new title "Knight of the Lions" with "unimaginable courage. But this is a difficult time in Quixote's life. Although he still performs these splendid deeds of knight-errantry, an undefined pall casts itself over his character. He totters between attaining an unshakeable faith and losing his poetic vision altogether. We find this ambivalence nestled in the adventure in the Cave of Montesinos. It is at once Quixote's greatest feat of imagination and his greatest failure. Descending into total darkness where he is deprived of all senses, he creates a new and fantastic world of his very own. He is here transformed from one who uses his imagination to embellish objects and men to a Creator of an Arthurian world. His imagination is so powerful that by abstracting from time itself, he condenses three days into thirty minutes. Yet, in the midst of the perfect world of knight-errantry, Quixote lacks the strength to imagine Dulcinea in her true form. She runs through his dream as the peasant lass, reduced to sending a maid to borrow money from Quixote. Oh, the depths to which our knight's passion has sunk to associate his princess with so base a thing as moneyl Does she not belong to that age "which knew not the words 'thine' and 'mine'"? With sadness, we realize that not only can Quixote not overcome the poisoned image of Dulcinea, but he finds it necessary to convince Sancho of the veracity of his vision. Never before did it matter whether Sancho was convinced of his master's transformations; Quixote's conviction was strong enough to sustain them both. Now, however, Sancho's acceptance is vital. He, too, has learned to impose his imagination on the world, and Quixote's diminishing faith clutches for the strength that now lies within Sancho. Not long after emerging from the Cave of Montesinos, Don Quixote and Sancho meet the Duke and the Duchess. Uncharacteristically, Quixote does not ride bviuly f~r.-drd to greet the Duchess. Instead, he lingers meekly on the hill while his squire begs her permission to approach. The Duchess, let us note, is the first person they encounter who has read the first part of Quixote's adventures. Perhap~ here finally is a person whose sensibility of soul has been awakened by the message of Don Quixote's ministry. She gives us the first clue to her true nature, when we find that rather than being honored to entertain s~ famous a knight-errant, she uses this opportunity to ridicule him and to amuse the household at his expense. She instructs the servants to perform lavish ceremonies and to indulge the knight's every desire. After all, they conclude, he is only a madman; what harm can there be in humoring him? The injury is immediate. As Don Quixote enters the patio a sumptuous scarlet cloak is thrown over his shoulders. While the servants shout, '~elcome, 0 flower and cream of knight-errantry,1117 the greatest knight-errant of all who once desired only to sleep under the stars, enduring every imaginable hardship, for the first time "really and wholly believed himself to be a true knight-errant and not a fanciful one, for here he was being treated in the very same manner as knighterrants in ages past, according to the storybooks he had read." 18 A fa 1 se paradise has been imposed upon ·him. Sti 11 suffering from a weakened faith, he finds security in a refuge which renders imagination superfluous. The voice of a silk merchant within him, or perhaps the voice of Alonso Quijano, is pacified as the Duke and Duchess carry out every ritual down to its minutest detail in accordance with the laws of chivalry. No longer must his imagination strive to transform the appearances, lending them nobility. Like a muscle seldom used, Quixote's imagination begins to atrophy a·s he passive 1 y accepts each degrading scheme the duke and duchess present. What an insult it is when four "damsels" wash his beard in a basin at the table, mocking him with grave ceremony. He who has always responded with righteous indignation at the mere insinuation of a slur against his profession, complacently allows then to humiliate him. Even Sancho is able to discern their hosts' motives. He derives no 1 ittle satisfaction as he tells the anecdote about the farmer and the gentleman who sit down to dinner and cannot decide who will sit at the head of the .table, just as Quixote and the duke each insisted that the other have the honor. Finally, as Sancho relates, the gentleman yells, "Sit down, you stupid ass, for wherever I sit wil 1 be the head of the table to you." Though Quixote is embarrassed by this, it is because of the impertinance of his squir& He is oblivious to the cruel laughter of the duke and the duchess. Is he not deluding himself by his attempt to vindicate his calling to the ecclesiastic when he cries, "If true gentlemen of great lords of high and noble station were to call me a fool I should take it as an irreparable insult, but for the opinion of mere bookworms who have never entered upon or trod the paths of chivalry I would not give a penny. A knight I am and a night I shal 1 die, if it be pleasing to Almighty God"? 20 Sancho, too, is ridiculed by their lordships, although he receives great favor for his ready wit. An island is conferred upon him by the duke which fulfills Quixote's promise of long ago. His belief in his master is finally rewarded and a great change is effected in our humble Sancho. Although r'eluctantly, he becomes convinced by the duchess of Dulcinea's enchantment by sorcery rather than through his own contrivance. He therefore concedes to the lashes which "Merl in" demands as necessary in order to restore Dulcinea to her original beauty. The squemish squire of the first book would never have submitted to such treatment, even for the acquisition of a governorship. But Sancho finds a far greater strength within himself than even Quixote could have foreseen. Not only has he come to believe and trust his 1 ife to his master's poetic visions , Sancho can now ascend to the level of Quixote as he creates an imaginary rea lm of his own. Upon Clavileno he flies high abov e the earth an d our poor, ignorant peasant sees Heaven. What the Cave of Montesinos was for Quixote, the ride on Clavileno is for Sancho. The greatest tribute to Quixote's powerful imagination is that it has inspired Sancho with the ability to envision the earth as "no bigger than a grain of mustard and the people walking about on it •••a little larger than hazelnuts.n21 Though Sancho has not yet attained enough sense of self to join his master in saying, "I know who I am", Quixote's imagination has bestowed a magnificient gift upon the beloved squire. Sancho, an illiterate man who has never even set foot outside his own country, has flown through the Pleiades on a wooden horse and remained to play among the stars. He may not realize that the true beauty in Quixote's ability to transform the world arises from a genuine love for man and a sincere desire to refine his heart, but can any of us say that we have romped through Heaven? No, · even if Sancho had never received his island , this would have been recompense enough for the sufferings he endured. 9 8 �Quixote is not ready to see the marvelous transformation he has brought about in his squire. An aching need for reassurance of his declining vigor from his friend prompts him to whisper, "Sancho, if you want us to believe what you saw in Heaven, then you must believe me when I tel 1 you what I saw in the Cave of Montesinos. I need say no more." 22Could we say more in Quixote's position? The duke and duchess attempt to chisel away at Quixote's self-respect with each absurd game they play on him. He is blind to their cruel designs and the perverse pleasure they derive in doing so. When the judgement is finally made, however, it is Quixote who retains his dignity and the duke and duchess who become offensive to our eyes. Nobility and virtue can never be made into toys and those who try are the only ones who are truly mad. Though Quixote's faith and imagination are waning, he need not feel shame; human weakness al lows for such decline. His love for humanity remains impenetrable. The duke and duchess are incapable of seeing this as anything but the prattle of a madman, but their souls are so blackened by the Iron Age that they believe deceit and trickery to be the mark of a sensible man. · Though the duke and duchess unwittingly weaken Quixote's faith, they have not the strength to overcome him. The coup de grace wi 11 not be delivered by these unworthy rabble; it wil 1 come much later and at the hands of one who claims to be his friend. From Quixote's first sally, the curate and the barber have attempted to dissuade their frie~d from these mad roamings through the countryside. They are joined by Sanson Carrasco before the third sally who, after being defeated as the Knight of the Mirrors, rides to Barcelona to challenge Don Quixote again as the Knight of the White Moon. Carrasco does not intend to ha rm Quixote; he wishes on 1 y to def eat him in a jousting match and then to demand that Quixote confine himself to his home for one year wherein they hope to cure him of his madness. He meets Don Quixote as the valiant knight rides along the beach one morning, "cl ad in full armor-for, as he was fond of saying, that was his on 1 y ornament, his on 1 y rest the fight, and accordingly, he . was never without it for a moment.1123 Carrasco goads Don Quixote into combat by insulting Dulcinea and the challenge is immediately accepted. The joust lasts only a moment, but it is enough for the Knight of the White Moon to bring both Quixote and Ro~Jnante crashing to the ground in utter defe~t. "You are vanquished, 0 Knight!" This is no mere bruising from an insolent Biscayan or an ungrateful galley slave. Don Quixote has been conquered by another Knight in both body and soul. Never before has Quixote lacked the spiritual strength to rise from a fight. He has never before ceased to believe that only through his ministry will the virtues of the Golden Age be brought to the world. The b 1 ow received today, however, 1 ays to waste a 11 that he once held as true. Stunned and battered, Don Quixote did not so much as raise his visor but in a faint, wan voice, as if speaking from the grave, he said, "Dulcinea del Tobosa is the most beautiful woman in the world and I the most unhappy knight upon the face of this earth. It is not right that my weakness should serve to defraud the truth. Drive home your lance, 0 kn~t, and take my life since you already have deprived me of my honor." He can blame no enchanters for his defeat this time. He cannot deny the reality of the victor or of the promise he has made. Quixote's spirit has been crushed; if he is to preserve the di.gnity and nobility of knight-errantry, he 10 must abide by Carrasco's rule. Each adventure Quixote has engaged in has carried the threat of defeat, yet ha bravely accepted the risks each time. To ignore or excuse his opponent's triumph now would render his life and all he Even the promise of a new adventure to has sought to teach us meaningless. rescue Don Gregorio from Barbary cannot restore his strength. "But what am I thinking of, wretch that I am? Am I not the vanquished one? Am I not the one who was overthrown? Am I not he who cannot take up arms for an entire year? What, then, am I promising, of what do I boast, seeing that I am better fitted to handle the distaff than the sword?" Do we even know this familiar stranger anymore? Sancho is as shocked and bewildered as we are by his master's sufferings. Brokenhearted over the turn that events had taken, Sancho did not know what to say or do. It seemed to him that all this was something that was happening in a dream and that everything was the resu 1 t of magic. He saw his master surrender, heard. him con sent not to take up arms again for a year to come as the light of his glorious exploits faded · into darkness. At the same time his own hopes, based upon the fresh promises that had been made for him, were whirled away like smoke before the wind. But though Sancho does not completely understand the importance of what h~s happened and wishes against hope to ju st if y Quixote's def eat, he f o 1 1 ow s the advice his master gave him long ago and draws strength from weakness. While Quixote "for six days remained in bed, sad and dejected, moody and 111tempered," Sancho is optimistic for the future. The transformation in both knight and squire is complete. Sancho returns the comfort and consolation his master provided so many ti mes befor& With the voice of a philosopher he tells his master, "brave hearts should be patient in adversity just as they are joyous in prosperity." To escape from a reality too grim to face, Quixote resolves to give up his arms and lead the pastoral life of a shepherd. But as Sancho leads him home and p1eads to their be 1oved v il 1age, "Open your eyes, and beho 1 d your son, Sancho Panza, returning to you ••• Open your arms and receive your other son Don Quixote," he realizes that a shepherd's existence is but an illusion and.he has not the strength to begin anew. With no enchanters left to des poil that which his imagination has made the world to be, Quixote can do nothing more than to resign himself to the realm of appearance. Armed with only the rationality that the real world has given him, Carrasco, the curate, and the barber are fools. They realize - too late - what i t means to deprive a man of his dreams. They have destroyed thefaith which was the knight's sustenance and forced him to abandon a world not ready to recieve him. Don Quixote dies as Alonso Quijano, denouncing al 1 that he had once believed as madness. A grieving Sancho percieves the true wisdom that Quixote has given him and begs his master to cling to life, once again echoing the truths Don Quixote taught him. "It is a common thing for certain knights to overthrow others, and he who is vanquished today wi 11 be · the victor tomorrow." But by its very nature, once faith has been extinguished, it can never be rekindled. Al 1 that remains to Quixote is the worldly wisdom of Sancho's proverbs. The Knight of la Mancha no longer exists and it is Alonso Quijano who murmurs, "In last year's nests t here are no birds this year." 11 �It has been remarked throughout the book that Quixote appears mad only when he discusses knight-errantry; at all other times he is quite lucid. The world which opposes him wishes him to surrender his poetic vision to their conception of reality. But when Quixote is forced to acknowledge their world view, he dies. He cannot live in a world where he is denied the beauty which shines in everything only after the outer appearances have been stripped from each object. Quixote's imagination has given his l 1fe meaning and a mission to ful fi 11. Is it so much to ask of his family and friends that they al low him this dignity? Though it is no easy l 1fe that Quixote demands we pursue, it is nothing less than what he expects of himself. Al lowing Don Quixote to be what he is means that he has al ready sparked a transformation within us. One cannot recognize his nobility or understand his purpose without being changed by him. What the curate and the barber call sheer madness actually endows Quixote with the higher truth of know.ing that intangible elegance which God has bestowed upon all of His creation. Invisible to both pure rationality and total insanity, Quixote perceives this vision of the Golden Age because his imagination encompasses both realms. Reality and the true nature of things are found not in appearances which lie to fools, but in the virtues visible only to the imagination. Appearances cal 1 upon us to accept with silent passivity the world as it 1s presented to us; Quixote urges us to live through our imaginations and to envision the world as an extension of ourselves. That morsel of the Golden Age which is within us al 1 is found only by the imagination. By investing this portion of ourselves into the world, we endow 1t with the ind1vidual ity and beauty which is its due. A1 1 quotations lb~ Iag~ajgu~ G~atl~m~a are Qga from Quj~gt~ d~ the Modern Library Edition La Mancha translated by Samuel Putman are ref erred to by page number. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. p. p. p. p. p. p. p. p. p. p. p. p. p. p. p. p. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 27 81 43 858 198 199 206 559 183 45 49 174 174 568 575 576 p. 709 P· 709 p. 714 p. 717 p. 776 p. 778 p. 935 p. 937 p. 937 p. 940 p. 937 p. 943 p. 978 p. 986 p. 986 I w1~h . to express my most sincere gratitude~tri Mr. Kalkavage for all his generou~ and thoughtful advice during the writing of' this essa·y. Donne at Peni'el Nancy Townsend At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blow Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise From death, you numberlesse infinities Of soules, and to your scattred bodies goe, All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes, Shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe. But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space, For, if above all these, my sinnes abound, 'Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace, When wee are there; here on this lowly ground, Teach mee how to repent; for that's as good As if thou hadst seal'd my pardon, with thy blood. Holy Sonnet VII by John Dom~e The poetry of the young prideful Donne is ironic, witty, often bitter, sometimes wild, always full of passion. It usually concerns his love for women and his frustration with their inconstancy. As he grew older, Donne became more religious. In the work of the more mature poet, the love and frustration are transferred to God and his relationship with God. Athough his feelings are deeper, and the poet is clearly a wiser man , he retains many of his youthful characteristics--pride, presumption, passion, a slight wildness. Some of these characteristics are troublesome, since a Christian minister should be humble and servile to the Lord. Doubtless he went into the church to find peace; doubtless, judging from some sermons and essays, he might have shown the way toward peace to his public. But privately, in his poetry, he carries on a heart-to-heart combat with God. And Jacob was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day. When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and Jacob's thigh was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, "Let me go, for the day is breaking." But Jacob said, "I will not let you go, unless you b 1 ess me." (Genesis 32.24-26) In the seventh of John Donne's Holy Sonnet series, immediately. At ·the round_ ~. arth's imagin'd corners, blow Your trumpets, Ang~lls~ •• · 12 13 battle begins �Donne is in command, ordering the angels to trumpet a ca 11 to arms. Part of this image is borrowed from Revel at ion 7.1: "After this I saw four angels standing at the four corners of the earth, holding back the four winds of the earth, that no wind might blow on earth or sea or against any tree." But Donne has made significant revisions -- the angels, holQ~ ·ng· trumpets, not winds Care they adding wind?), are standing at "roynd earths i m ag1n'd corners." It wi 11 take some time for us to try to imagine why he made such changes. While figuratively the bugler-angels prepare the way for battle, violence emanates from the meter of the first 1 ine. Since this is a sonnet, were you expecting iambs to be prevalent? Not even one appears in the first 1 ine. In fact, three trochees follow in a row in the middle of the line, emphasizing the encompassed phrase. Caught in the middle of the trochees is "imagin'd" -perhaps if we can capture the significance of that word, we can gain an insight into Donne's strategy. . We find turmoil created, not only pictorially and.rh)'thmkal ly, but even logically. How can the round earth have corners? Of course it . cannot. Is that why Donne had added "imagin'd" corners? No -- how can we imagine something as both round and as having corners without destroying the roundness of the thing? It appears we must for the moment accept this paradox, this jab at our reason, and continue. It will be helpful to return later after having grasped the who 1e octet. ••• and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of soules, and to your scattred bodies goe, Again Donne conmands. In his first imperative, he gave "blow" an accent which he strengthened by pl acing it after a slight caesura. In this imperative, he repeats his conmand for added emphasis. Once more he echoes part of Revelations (7.9): After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude which no man could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in whith robes, with palm branches in their hands. And again he has revised the passage. The souls do not stand in white robes in front of the Lamb, but are sent to their "scattred bodies." Donne does not envision congregated, peaceful souls, but imagines souls in flight, in search of their bodies which are dispersed throughout the world, which have become scattered dust and ashes. More of the expected meter occurs in this passage than in the first - only "numberless infinities" skips outside iambic control in accelerated pyrrics. The poet gives his poem an ironic twist when he sends the poor souls off in ordered meter to search for their scattered, disordered bodies. These souls and bodies, that once belonged together, have been completely severed. In the next passage, Donne reveals death as the assailant. All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine ••• 14 In the second half of the octet, to examine how souls are overthrown, Donne takes hold of death. In line five, he gives the far past and far future causes of death. In the young days of the world, a great deluge k 111 ed everyone but Noah. In the old dying world, a great sweeping fire will cause destruction. In lines six and seven, Donne lists causes of death found in the ancient world -war, famine, old age, sickness, bad governments, suicides, lawful punishments, and accidents. But the words he uses are heavily accented, like quick-falling b 1ows: "war re, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, des pa ire, law, chance." The poet orders his 1 i st carefu 11 y to di sp 1ay the power of death. Between the "man-made" s 1 ayers -- war and tyranny -- are caught famine, o 1 d age, and sickness -- the "natural" killer~ Line seven begins with despair, which tears a man apart from the inside, and continues with law, which holds a society together. Last of al 1 comes chance -- the most unpredictable, the most uncontrollable, the most unconquerable cause of death. ••• and you whose eyes shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe. John says in Revel at ion 22.4: "They shal 1 see his face, and his name shal 1 be on their foreheads." In 21.4, a voice tel 1s him, "(God) wil 1 wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, for the former things have passed away." In John's vision, these fortunate souls have a definite place near God. Donne has not signigi$:antl y revised Revel at ion this time, but he gives the blessed few an ambiguous rank in his numberless legions of souls. Whether he is commanding them to search for their bodies Chow could those who "never tast deaths woe" be separate from their bodies?), or whether he never gives them a command at a 11, is unc 1ear. Indeed, except in the relative clauses, no verb orders the second quatrain as the imperatives ordered the first four lines. Ironically, the last passage of the octet concerns the highest and most blessed human souls envisioned in Revelation, yet, because of the absence of verbs, Donne has left us bewildered and confused. Now we should return to the beginning, to try to grasp the octet as a whole. Maybe Donne's octet is a vision similar to, if not the same as, John's. Aft e r a ll , he borrows many of his images from Revel at ion. But this interpretation is weak. Why did he not stay closer to the biblical text? Why the concern with death if, as John describes in Revelation, God eventually destroys mortality? Donne may be attacking the vision of a final resurrection of the world's dead. How wi l l the angels ever ca 11 the dead if they must stand on corners which can never be? A mortal cannot envision impossibilities; he can only imagine them. The octet's rhyme scheme, ABCA I ACBA, reinforces the attack on John. The rhymes of the first four lines are mirrored in the last four; objects in a mirror only appear to exist actually, as visions only appear to exist actually. Donne gives no verb to those "whose eyes shal 1 behold God" because he doubts their very existence. What, then, does Donne actually see? What object does he view as the actual one, the one reflected by John's Revelation? While Donne at first 15 . �appears ethereal -- he talks of trumpeting angels, and life after death, and eyes beholding God -- behind, above, and in front of the appearance looms an earthly preoccupation with death. Donne is no prophetic visionary. Only a person very much a part of this world would feel the causes of death as acutely accented blows. The poet is struggling with the very worldly matter of death. The rhyme s scheme proves his tenaciou . grip, ash~ returns again and again to rhyme A -bl o~, goe, o'erthro~, woe. He wi 11 not 1 et go of his preoccupation with death until he can free himself of death, like those non-existent, blessed souls who "never tast deaths woe." And he said to him, "What is your name?" And he said, "Jacob." Then he said, "Your name shall no more be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed." Then Jacob asked him, "Tell me, I pray, your name." But he said·, "Why is it that you ask my name?" And there he blessed him. {Genesis 32.27-29) . After the excitement and disruption of the octet, the sextet sounds surprisingly peaceful. The rhyme scheme is more customary for a sonnet CDEDEFF), and the meter is nearly all iambic pentamete~ For some reason, Donne suddenly creates calm. But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space, For, if above all these, my sinners abound, "Tis late to aske ·ab.undance of thy grace·, When wee are there; He leaves the world of imagined corners full of rising numberless infinities of searching souls and scattered bodies; for a moment, he lets the round earth full of death go. In the middle of the first line of the sextet, with emphasized trochees, Donne ad d res s es h i ms e l f to h i s Lo rd. I n the octet, God h ad no re 1 at i on to the poet, and was seen only in the dubious afterlife of some unnamed souls. In the last six lines , Donne , by calling Him Lord, claims a ·worldly relationship of subject to ruler. As a subject, he can demand certain privileges. Whether they will be granted or not will be decided, of course, by the ruler. He requests that God mourn him during his life when death most affects him. Finding God's grace after death, when he is no 1 onger tied to the earth, wi l l not help his present struggle with mortality. ••• here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent; for that's as good As if Thou hadst sealed my pardon, with Thy blood. Earlier themes echo faintly in the last line of the poem. ''Thou'hadst" is forced to conform to regulated iambic pentameter. The conditional clause makes us question the existence of God's redemptive power by the sacrifice of his Son. The mention of blood reminds us of our own mortality. But in the quiet allusion to Christ, we might find what Donne believes to be his Lord's response. Of course Donne never receives an answer from God; he never truly sees him face to face. Yet he has fought with death, and perhaps, in releasing death for a moment, and directing his mortal thoughts toward Eternal God, he has caught a glimpse. At least, in looking up, he is saved from one of the most devious causes of death -- Despair. So Jacob called the name of the place Peni'el, saying, "for I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved." The sun rose upon him as he passes Peni'el, limping because of his thigh. (Genesis 32.30-31) House Rent Boogie Coldwell Daniel Late at night the cold stars in ebony fright Rasta raps niggard rockin in rythmn plank and base of every timber in the house of Sam and Dave's There in heat dark bodied soul shines glist'ning sweet As Hallelujah I love her so swings the band's beat Through every sister in the house and slaves to save The alley whores the wind through working Sally While Sonny Boy's Why are you crin' blues the heaven's key to every sinning joyous louse damned and made loosened eyes watch at doors wind asks cold inside like death at St. James' Infirmary the sight starts the song that every winter warms the house of Sam and Dave The caesura in line twelve cuts between "there" and "here." In the 1 ast three lines, Donne breaks completely from his references to a world beyond the one he inhabits; he accepts the lowly ground and all its implications. He asks his Lord to teach him to repent while still alive -- just as God sent his own blood down to the earth while never leaving his lofty kingdom, so can He help Donne rise above the earth while he remains "here on this lowly ground." 16 17 �comprehended in t he same sphere, t he paral 1 el faces of t~e cube are t h.e sa~e distance apart as the parallel faces of t he octahedron. This same relat1onsh1p holds for t he dodec a hedron a nd icosahedron as wel 1. Studies 1n Non-Euclidean Regular Polyhedra Martin Marklin Yet, paral 1 el faces in Eucli dean geometry are equidistant at al 1 pl aces. They are determined by equal 1 ines set up perpendicularly to both planes. In non-Euclidean geometry , t hi s is no t the case. Take the cube, rather pseudocube, for example. While we can rest ass ured t hat the edges wil ~ · al 1 equal o~e another, and that the 1 ines which connect the centers of oppos1 ng faces ( 1 et s call them 'centroid perpendicul ars' ) will t hemselve !5 equal one another; no net he 1 ess , the two sets of 1 i nes wi 11 be of different 1 engths . Just as the While Euclidean plane geometry holds true on the surface of the nonEucl idean horosphere, one may stil 1 inquire about the relationship -- either similar or dissimilar-- between Euc.J_i_d.ean and ~obachevskian solid geometry. This short paper wi 11 attempt to study some of .the Regular · · So 1 ids of non - . Euc 1 i dean Geometry. -- ULTRA -PARALLELS E PSEUDO-CUBE c I A It seems Euclid intentionally ended his Elements with the construction of the Five Regular Sol ids. Even more than the logical progression from linear to planar to sol id geometry, Euclid seems to find the paradigm of the geometer's contemplation in the Regular Solids (or Platonic Solids, so called because of the important cosmological significance given to them by Plato). My evidence is threefold and takes the three words, "five", "regular" and "solids", as crucial: f i rs t, t here a re on 1 y .ii~ reg u 1 a r so 1 i d s. I n two d i mens i on a 1 s pace, we ca n inscribe an infinite number of regular polygons in a circle. But in three dimensions, there exists a natural 1 imit of five regular polyhedra which one can comprehend within a sphere. Secondly, the solids are regular. The Platonic Solids are, in a very natural way, the most perfect shaping of three dimensional space. Th i rd 1 y, the po 1 y he d r a a re ~l~. 0 u r wo r 1 d i s a th re e d i mens i on a 1 world filled with three dimensional bodies. Our expertise as geometers comes from our experience of matter bounded by geometrical forms and figures. And so, what can non-E uclidean geometry offer us in three dimensions? recal 1 Euler's formula for polyhedra, namely that We F + V - E = 2, where F, V and E stand for the number of faces, vertices, and edges, respectively. <Incidentally, a·n analogous formula was previously discovered by Descartes). From this formu 1 a we can prove arithmetica 11 y that the number of regular polyhedra is limited to five (for a proof, see "tlh.il .ls Mathematjcs, by Courant & Robbins, Oxford Press, p. 240) . This arithmetic proof seems to gain more generality than Euclid's proof (Book III , Proposition 18). By not appealing to angle sum, this more general proof holds for Euclidean as well as non-E uc 1 i dean geometry. Even a preliminary study of Lobachevskian sol id. geometry forces us to reconsider parallel ism in a more complex sense, namely, how do we define ~11~ ~l~. Parallel ism abounds in the regular solids. The cube, octahedron, dodecahedron , and icosahedron are each composed of sets of parallel faces . The tetrahedron, while having four mutually adjacent faces, nonetheless has opposing edges lying in pairs of parallel planes. Furthermore, for solids 18 F 1---1---------t--Centroid Perpendicular D AB=CD>XY E F = shortest distance common perpendicular between two ultra - parallel lines defines the shortest distance between them, so the centroid perpendicular defines the shortest dista nce between two parallel faces. Only in the limiting case when the edges approach zero, wi 11 the faces be 'Euclidean' para 11 el . At the other extreme, for the 1 imiting case of an infinitely large cube, the length of the edges will approach infinity while the AB= CD= ex> centroid perpendiculars _________;,__,.___ A ap p roach a maximum limit in length . /\x ~c XY= 21T(45°) INFINITELY LARGE PSEUDO-CUBE ~/-/_/--~------·~ D With these differences , one must be careful in constructing non-E uclidean sol ids . The fol lowing contructions demonstrate that once one constructs a pseudo- cube, t he pseudo-tetrahedron and pseudo- octahedron literally fall out. Before we begin , we need to state these few definitions . 19 �Defjnjtjons Proposition 2 A pseudo-square is an equiangular and equilateral quadrilateral. A pseudo-cube is a solid figure contained by six equal pseudo-squares. A pseudo-tetrahedron is a solid figure contained by four equal triangles. A pseudo-octahedron is a solid figure contained by eight equal triangles. To construct a pseudo- cube. Set out two equal and perpen dicularly bisecting lines, and : ca 11 them AD and CB. Connect the endpoints with lines AB, BO, DC, and CA. The resulting figure is a pseudo-square, since the four trinagles ASB, BSD, DSC, and ASC are equal and isosceles. E J[ .c D Q<2 To .construct a pseudo-tetrahedron. Given pseudo-c ube AE, the diagonals AF , FD, DA, AH, FH, and HD together form the pseudo-tetra hedron . For triangle AFD is equilateral, each edge being a diagonal of adjacent (and hence congruent) faces of the pseudocube. Thus, triangle FAD is also equiangular. Like reasoning concludes that the other triangles AHO, FHD , and AFH are equ i l atera 1 and equiangular. Therefore, polyhedron AFHD is a pseudocube. E I I I Which was to be constructed. Q. E. F. Given the length of the edge AB, there will be a corresponding angle measure at each vertex, such as ABO, l~ .:t...h&n a right angle. Proposition .1 To construct a pseudo-octahedron. Given pseudo-cube AE. I say that the centroids of each face-namely K, L, M, N, O, and P form the vertices of a pseudo-octahedron. Construct a line DE inclined to the plane of the pseudo-square such that angle BOE and angle COE equal angle COB. Connect BE and set up OF; such that BE and OF are equal and perpendicularly bisected. For connect KL, LM, MN, NK, OL, OM, ON, OK, PK, PL, PM, and PN. Connect BF and FE. E Then OL =OK= KL, since lines connecting Connect CE and set up DG, such that CE and DG are equal and perpendicularly bisected. centroids of adjacent sides of a pseudocube are equal. (See lemma 1). Connect CG and GE. Hence, triangle OKL is Repeat the process with the sides containing lines AG, AF, and FG. The resulting solid will be a pseudo-cube. Which was to be constructed. Likewise, for the seven other triangular faces-OLM, OMN, OMK, PKL, PLM, PMN, and PNK-are all aquiangular. Hence, the polyhedron OHKLMP is a pseudooctahedron. Which was to be constructed. Q.E.F. Q.E.F. 20 equi-angula~ 21 �Lemma 1. To prove connecting centroids of adjacent sides of a pseudo-cube are equal. Moon James Beall · MK = NL = OP, because centroid perpenculars of a cube are equal. - for Lenore Beall Therefore, OR = RP = RK = RL, since centroid perpendiculars of a cube bisect one another. N I I. I K Then angles ORL, ORK, and KRL are right angles. T~erefore, triangle ORL = triangle LRK / J--- / = / triangle ORK. / / Of the dark of becoming night. Wind furls clothing around chill shapes, threading the warmth out. Limbs p / Therefore, OL KL The moon tethered by love or gravity or a force we do not yet know, rises orange and full, its round face cut out = OK. Barren as that surface our eyes look upon, feel the thin edge of air's knife drawn along them, a surgeon's hand reaching into hollows arms make in their circling, or into an opaque distance before us, bringing into whiter air the old porcelain face, smiling a little like an idiot, its complexion the color of bone. II. There is in this air lodged a blue haze that passes for winter, though the air smells white with spring The earth steams like words from a novel a Russian would write, breathing its 1 anguage of tongue, surfeit into a complete system of belief - 22 23 �belief the air is charged with, though no form persists in the vapor rising, that shifts with every current, tentative as leaves' absence, the white curve of limb and uninterrupted by green. are like nipples, taut, smooth, sky The buds dark skin erect with cold. III. Humid in the presence of bodies, strangers crowd away the raw sky scudding in low and northeast, hiding the moon. and the conversations carry the brook of surcease into a dry bed, sand and rock, that defines a valley, the valley defining a hill. The hill is the foreground wherein we frame the sky. So conversations carry that part of the world As a brook carries sediment, or etches, or defines. And in the vault rema1n1ng, the moon, sometimes visible as an alien face, rides steadily higher, and overhead like geese fleeing toward a memory ot the sun, clouds gaggle or congeal into continents uniquely property of the sky. IV. Which wrestles like an angel of the Lord the stalwart Jacobs of the trees, is again sorrow, a sediment that is carried, seined. v. You never walked here. The world never wheeled for you along this sand stained lavender by the sea's life and light cast down from the heaven like tablets which are broken by the shore. The air here never formed as mist burring the edges of water or the black boughs of pines' shadow. It is as hard as the edge of these needles on a clear day to imagine that you know or do not know, as though the interleaving of pine and air were knowledge and the absence of knowledge, and they were the same, as though shore and the sea beside it or the moon rising within the blue absence of the sky, made this the one question that continually asked itself and was denied. As the slow march encroaches, so what was driven bacK becomes a palpab1e force bearing in its limbs The consequent burden of the wind In the lee of new growth deer thread thicket and grass. What was barren here, what was Only grass has become the pines' lamenting a burden they could not but choose to bear. And in the writhing air, 24 25 �When Ontology Wears a Janus-face Ann Burlein The Greek's study of being arose from the insight that parousja, .Q..U..S...ia., and energeja are one - are being (.:t..Q ejnaj). They viewed ousja, that single peculiarity which is most a thing's own, as the being of a thing in its fullest degree. Consequently, they saw a thing's presence (pa rous i a) or look C.fil. d..Q.SJ, and as the exhibition of its .Qll...Sig its activity (energeja). They regarded this unity as necessary, because only if a thing's presence and activity manifest what it is can the soul uncover truth, can a thing be intel 1 igibl e in itself. Socrates regards the intelligibility of things as an ultimate condition of all investigation. As such, he cannot guarantee its truth. Socrates cannot prove to Meno that once Meno 1 earns a single piece of knowledge al 1 the rest stand within his grasp. Instead, he accompanies the myth of recollection and the slaveboy's demonstration with the warning that investigation requires great courage (80a-8ld). In dialogue after dialogue, Socrates reminds us starkly and relentlessly that we might never reach the end of our inquiry. Nevertheless, because the search for self-knowledge illuminates the here and now by turning one toward the divine, Socrates' conviction that this search is essential to the best life (.M.§n.Q-86b; Apology 38a) remains so strong that even in the last hours before his death, those which Phaedo recounts, he does not cease in his endeavor to convince others that they must look for that which they do not know. · But when Kant looks upon the field of inquiry to which Simmias, Cebes and their predecessors have devoted themselves, he sees a battlefield in which ••• reason is perpetually being brought to a stand, even when the laws into which it is seeking to have, as it were, an .a priori insight are those that are confirmed by our most common experiences. f.y_fil: .filld. _gggj_n we have to retrace our steps, as not leading us in the d i rec t i on we ilil.r~ to g o. S o f a r , too , a re t h e st u d en t s o f metaphysics from exhibiting any kind of unanimity in their contentions, that metaphysics has rather to be regarded as a battleground quite peculiarly suited for those who desire to exercise themselves in mock combats, and in which no participant has ever succeeded in gaining even so much as an inch of territory, not at least in such a manner as to secure him its permanent possession. This shows, beyond All Questjonjng, that the procedure of metaphysics has hitherto been a merely random groping, and, what is worst of all, a groping among mere concepts. <Bxiv-v). In the face of both this discord and the continual sting of the torpedo fish which, through the Antinomies, holds the understanding captive, paralyzed in unending vaci 11 at ion, our need to believe in an intel 1 igibl e world as the i n d i s pen-s ab l e c o n d i t i on o f mo r a 1 1 i f e c a n no 1 o ng e r g r o u n d o u r a s s u mp t i on o f intellectual intuition. 26 I n its p 1 ace, Kant heeds that n ec es s i t y and u n i v er s a 1 it y wh i ch thought claims as its distinguishing marks, while noting Hume's revelation that these marks cannot arise from experience. As a result, he seeks to establish the sort of knowledge possible for man. In doing so, he attempts to complete Socratic inquiry by rendering the Socratic quest for self-knowledge absolute. He convenes a tribunal which "... calls reason to undertake ..a.Dfill the most difficult of al 1 its tasks, namely that of self knowledge" (Axi). "This tribunal is no other than the critique of pure reason" (Axii). Kant views his critical inquiry as a Copernican Revolution, as a complete reversal of our point of view. As one who executes reversals, a critical philosopher cannot help but view these questions which led Aristotle and Plato to wonder. But this time when we gaze upon the heavens, the activity which we come to know, rather than culminating in something divine, springs entirely from within. In the process of inquiring anew, our very questions have turned themselves around, and done so permanently. Although Kant proffers his Copernican turn as a hypothesis in. the Preface, it becomes final and apodictic as soon as Kant denies intellectual intuition. We find nothing other than selfactivity in the manifold upon which we gaze, because theoretical reason lacks access to an i ntel 1 igence which gives. The argument in which Kant denies intellectual intuition grounds and shapes the entire Critique. The Critique, in fact; opens with it. Kant even repeats this argument when he begins the B Deduction, suggesting that this argument alone can correctly and completely break the ground for critical philosophy. The crucial section of the deduction, its discussion of apperception, returns to and resolves an aporja which gave birth to much Greek Philosophy. This aporja is the origin of the unity we find among the many. Plato and Aristotle each developed an ontology in order to resolve this question, which Socrates first uttered as '.:t.i ~'. Socrates came upon this aporja by wondering about analytic unity. He asks why many different things (1 ike the virtue of a child, and a man, and a horse) exhibit a common character which we can name ('virtue'). Nevertheless, both Plato, in the Sophist, and Aristotle, in De Anjma and the Metaphysics, come to ask questions about synthetic unity: "Let us explain, then, how it is that we call something ••• by several names." ( Sop h i st 251 a). Likewise, Kant considers the Critique an ontology (8873). While he begins his discussions of apperception with analytic unity, with the universality of the I think, he, too, soon focusses upon synthetic unity. Despite these similarities, however, Kant's inquiry spawns a revolution because the general problem of pure reason does not hinge upon whatness. Kant does not begin with something that is one with itself and then explain manifoJdness by viewing synthetic unity as the fragmentation of this self-identical on~ Instead, the problem of pure reason passes beyond the Greek investigation in order to seek the possibility of any unity whatsoever. Kant begins by asking how, .f.rQin jjyersjty, a thing can arise ..9..t..all. Kant comes to the problem of the one and the many by way of an insight into the significance which objects hold for the I that thinks. Hence Kant ushers us into the B Deduction by placing before us the problem of the one and the many insofar as he confronts us with our own fundamental acknowledgement of combined wholes and manifolds. When we look about us, we 27 �find both unity and diversity when we find objects. In order to unfold this fact, Kant seeks the source which makes these presentations possible, he claims that if we know the source of their possibility, we can know their value (824). But why does Kant think that knowledge of the conditions which make something possible wil 1 enable us to determine its reality and meaning? Why must the ~xamination of thinking, an activity, and the investigation into being, an inquiry which for Aristotle presupposed inquiry into existence, become a search for conditions, for possibility? Hume claims that we can know nothing with certainty until we know the knower. Is it a belief in the ability of certainty to characterize knowledge and truth that leads Kant to pose the general problem of pure reason by asking .h.o.w. a priori synthetic judgements are possible CB19) rather than by asking:~~ knowledge? Whatever his reason, Kant separates our presentation of combination from that of manyness in terms of the manner in which each can become possible to us and, so, become ours. while we can receive manyness, we can never receive combination. He explains this by claiming that combination is possible only if it is an act and as an act, only if it belongs exclusively to the subject (8130). In order to explain these cl aims about combination and its possibility, this preparatory section, after thus stating Kant's assumption of the unity of experience, returns to that other argument which rests upon this assumption, the argument which prefaces the Aesthetic. This grounding argument (this Grundsatze) both delineates Kant's field of inquiry and shows us, after ushering us into this field, why the Critique is~ place we ought to enter and why we must remain in it. In some sense, this argument performs a peculiar function in the critical structure Kant desires to build. It provides a paradigm for the task of the entire Critique because it renounces intellectual intuition in order to break the ground and pre.pare the way for critical philosophy, a philosophy which has as its main task the " ••• clearing, as it were, and levelling of what has hitherto been wasteground" (Axxi) in order to make room for faith <Bxxx). More strikingly, it provides a paradigm of the activity which a critical phi 1 osopher performs. It enacts before us, in microcosm, the activity of reversal which the entire Critique will execute. Kant needs the particular reversal which this argument carries out to~ him to define his terms. Accordingly, the argument forges before our eyes the meaning of the words which the Critique will use. (Perhaps this explains Kant's frequent use of equivocal words here-their meaning reverses itself often even within the same sentence.) As the argument begins, the words sti 11 retain the general meaning they held .for Aristotle. In Aristotle, too, all knowing depends on an exhibiting, a showing forth. When the soul knows, i t acts. Knowledge is an activity which involves a relation between that which knows and the thing known (even thought the separation between these two ultimately disappears). For Aristotle, too, immediacy characterizes intuition. Al 1 knowledge depends on the fact that objects affect us, and so depends on mediated reception. Yet by the time we finish these opening lines, these words have become critical. They no longer mean what they once did. After having thus turned our words from their former meanings, Kant can state his definitions in terms of the Copernican Revolution. How did this metamorphosis, this about-face, happen? 28 The argument grounds itself in Kaht's observation that the radical or cardinal nature of al 1 human knowledge consists in its presentational character. This observation seems to entail some sort of return to the Greek notion of sensible form except that Kant regards sensibility as presenting undifferentiated otherness, rather than aspects, and therefore does not 1 imit presentation to sensibility. Further, Kant assumes this presentational nature to be the essence of knowledge; he assumes it to be absolute. In this way, Kant begins to commit critical philosophy to an 'empirical' point of view, to a truth which p'rimari 1 y relies upon and concerns itself with that which we happen to find as actual. Thus the understanding can only use its concepts to judge and not to contemplate (8a3). Thus, too, Kant considers science (rather than storytelling's playful evocation of memory and interpretation or dialectic's movement) as the paradigm of human knowing because it provides the one instance in which an appearance presents itself without qualification. Unlike Descartes, then, Kant need not st i pu 1 ate a rb itra ri 1 y that knowledge be certain. Instead, certainty simply results from its presentational nature. As a result of this observation, Kant concludes that our knowledge must involve two aspects. It involves something pl aced before, or given, and something before which that other can stand , something which can know and therefore can act. For when we reflect upon experience, we find certain activities which we can't regard as things we receive from without. Rather than something sensibly given, they must result from faculties , powers, of our own (8132 & 8515) . Thus Kant begins with a consciousness of ourselves as capable of acting - a consciousness of ourselves which we earn by means of logical reflection. For Kant claims that I lack immediate consciousness - intuition either of the I (of theoretical activity unique to myself), or of its possibility. Kant then separates the two aspects of human knowing (that which is placed before and that which acts) into an utter opposition, because human activity, as finite, cannot create its object but must receive it. Such dependancy takes place " ••• in man at least (only) insofar as the mind is affected in a certain way"(Al9). Rather than postulating the mind's connection with divine intelligence, Kant asserts that we receive only through our sense organs. Now, while Aristotle possessed knowledge - 'logical consciousness'-of inner activity, he asserted that our ability to act became fully ' actual only with the aid of something divine - namely, Active Intellect. By assuming the absence of any such connection, Kant considers (B847) the activity of the mind as a spontaneous or unconditioned activity which arises wholly from within. In this way, Kant makes possible not merely a soul, but a self, an I. On the basis of this assumption, the Aesthetic spatial and temporal character whiCh marks our According to Kant, our sensibility by . its very everything as either outside and alongside, before or proceeds to disclose the ability to be affected. nature makes us present after. For in order that certain sensations be referred to something outside me (that is, to another region of space from that in which I find myself), and similarly, in order that I may be able to present them as outside and a 1 on gs i de one another, and according 1 y, as not only different but in different places, the presentation of space must be presupposed. (838 and for time, 846) 29 �Pr imar ily , t he a pr i or i s pat ial and temporal manifolds pre s ent ot herne ss, fo r t he y set e a ch pres e ntat ion a part from a l 1 el se, in i s ol atio n : " ••• for e a ch presentation , i ns ofar as it is . contained in a single momen t, can never be a n Yt h i n g b u t a b s o l u t e u n i t y " ( A9 9 ) • B u t b e c a u s e t h e s e f o r ms s e t mM~ presentations apart within a shared context , e a ch impre ss ion stands in a s sociation~ other s. Yet although they therefore do no t rem a in utterly foreign to one another , because the parts of space and time stand external to ~ne another , no intriris ic connection between 'nows ' or 'heres' can present 1tsel f • . Consequently , I cannot receive any connections between presentations. The very nature of the manifold prohibits this , for moments can only fol low .1J..P.Qil. one another , and spaces can only stand MX.t .iQ one another . Since I must receive everything into these formal intuitions, al 1 that I can receive incurs automatically a differentiation which mere passivity cannot overcom~ From the external relations of 'alongside' or 'after' we cannot derive the internal relation of 'belonging to'. Thus Kant can claim that we receive nothing but utt er diversity, without requiring ~ knowledge of the mechanics whereby the s en s e s r eceive. · If sensibility provides nothing but otherness, and if we nevertheless pronounce a priori synthetic ~udgements which concern internal connect ions or s ame ness, t he na ture of the mind ' s activity must dif f er from energeja. My act could not simply actualize whatever I happen to receive. It must primarily be a n a ct which gives somet hing uniquely its own . Kant thu s views thi s a ct as a function , rather t ha n a s a pleasurable activity in which the s ubject i s fully itself. Aristotle expresses this latter view in his consideration of the intellect as the form of forms (432a2). For him, the mind in knowing becomes the essence whose activity in matter bears the responsibility for all that matter becomes. W i 1 e Kant wo u 1 d a g re e that t he mi n d i s t hat wh i c h ma k es i ts obj ec t a 't h i s • h C412a7) , he does not focus upon identity , upon the 'i s ' in the way that Ar i sto t le does . For Kant , the very 'making' arises from the mind . Ka nt view s the mind, not as a form, but i's formeitive. It possesses an integrity unique to i t s el f . Its action upon its mattf:r resembles the work of an algebraic func t ion. Such forrnc,tive work differs frorr1 that of P.ristotel ian essence. Aristotle considers intellectual form a final cause. Therefore, intellectual form, ~ ll.QJ;Ll_e, directs the sensible towards itself by means of desire . Because Kant opposes (83) the sensible and intel l~ctual stems of our f ac ulty of presentatior , domination and limitation characterize the activity of thought rather than fulfillment of potential. For Ki nt, the efficacy of form der i ves from that of power. Its fruit is legislaticn. No lon9er do understanding and sensibility d i f f e r o n l y i n so f a r a s o n e p res e n t s a s a c t u a l t h e u n ; v f_) r s a 1 s wh i c h t he o th e r contains as ih. potent i a 1. Instead spontaneity , ~ understand.ing, subordinates (unterwirft - U1rows under (,A.108)) the rnanifol d h i itself, thereby transforminQ it . Yet despite this opposition , experience exhibits a unitary character; we experience wholes, or object s , and our experience itself seems to form a whole, which we cal 1 knowledge. As a combination which 1.;11ites the manifold, a whole requires something other than the sensible ma n ifold and its synthesis - the gathering together of its multiplicities. 30 But t he co nce pt o f c ombin atio n in c lud es, b esi d es t he conce pt o f t he ma ni fold a nd its s y nt hesis, a 1 so t he co nce pt o f t he uni t y of t he man i fol d. Combi nati on is prese ntat i o n of t he s ynt het ic unity of the manifol d. T he p rese ntation of t h is uni ty cannot t herefore ar i se o ut of co mbin ati on . On t he co ntra ry , it is what, by a ddi ng i tse l f to t he p rese ntat i o n of t he ma ni fo ld , f i rst ma k es possi bl e t he co nce pt of t hi s comb i nati on . {813 0- 1 ) W c a nn ot rece iv e co mb i natio n fro m o bjects bec a use t he co mbin a tion t hat e di st inguishes a n obj ec t as an obj ect c a n only res ul t from a n activ e uni t y. I f I deny thi s, not only mu st I deny t he s el f, bu t I a l s o come to cont r a dict myse l f. Ka nt il 1 ust r a t es t hi s wh e n, in imi tat ion o f Hume , he at tempt s to c on str uct an object of exp e rience "from t he bott om up" : For e ven t hough we s ho uld ha v e t he pow er o f ass o c i at ing perceptio ns, it wo u l d re ma in e ntire ly und ete rmin e d a nd acc id e nta l whet her t he y woul d t he m l ves be associa bl e; a nd s hould t he y not be se associable, there mig ht exist a mu ltitu de of perceptio ns, an d in deed an entire sensibility, in which much empirical co nsc i ousness wou ld arise in my mind but in a state of separation and without belonging to consciousness of myself. This however is impossible. For it is only because I ascribe all perceptions to one original consciousness {original apperception) that I can say of al 1 perceptions that I am conscious of them. CA121-2) Kant finds that Hume's argument forces h i m into equivocatio n. The word 'my' splits into two in a way that Kant cannot permit, because he clai ms no presentation can stand withi n me and yet not be me. T he 1 1', t hen, is un iversal. All that can be present i n t he wor ld can be p resent in t his un ity. The task of the deduction beco mes the searc h for t h is p rinciple wh ich we must always presuppose - this unity from which alone t he col l ected ma n ifol d of an object and the logical manifold of ana l ysis can arise, a un ity whose altered image we find in the connected manifolds of fi gurative s ynt hesis. W stri v e e ••• to foll ow up t he i nn er gro u nd of t he co n nection of presentations to t h e~ upon which t hey all converge i n order t hat they may therein acquire the unity of knowledge necessary for a possi b le experience. CA 116 ) The endeavor of the critical philosopher, resemb l es - at l east in part that of the platonic dialectician. Both seek, after l on g practice of attention, to separate t he one fro m the many, and to s how as i de ntical t h in g s wh ich at first appear other. Yet Kant describes the task of the critical philosopher as unique ("hitherto rarely attempted" (890)). For while the dialectician dissects given concepts in order to render them more distinct, the critical philosop her dissects the faculty CMogljcbkejt) and so, the possibility of the understanding itself in order to take that which he in order discovers by analysis to trial CB90) . Such a philosopher does not merely separate the one from the many. He acts as judge. Kant considers this transformation of the philosopher necessary, because, for Kant, the dialectician, beginning with concepts and understanding 31 �them merely in terms of their presence, abstracts them from the activity which gives rise to them. As a result , such presence, whi 1 e it has transcendental meaning, fails to render comprehensible the relation which concepts bear to a particular object - the relation which the dialectician claims to unfold. Kant claims that the unity which the critical philosopher seeks stands behind the categories and makes them possible. Like the Good, this unity resides 'beyond being', and so also resides beyond speech - behind our ordinary ways of thinking and knowing. As Kant says: We must therefore look yet higher for this unity, namely in that which itself contains the ground of the unity of diverse concepts in judgement and therefore of the possibility of the understanding, even as regards its logical employment. (8131) Yet while behind speech, Kant speaks and writes about this unity and claims to do so accurately, without needing the aid of myth. Whatever enables Kant to do this renders critical philosophy possible. For only the resolution of this paradox can legitimate Kant's claim to paradox an ontology - to meaningful knowledge which speaks, not about appearances, ~ut about being, the.ultim.ate ground of all presentations. Yet how do we acquire access to something which, as one, remains empty in itself? Kant claims that when being turns outward to work in the manifold, it yields determinate knowledge. But what sort of knowledge does being yield about itself? That relation provides the key to intelligibility Kant has shown - but what about the intel 1 igibi l ity of rel at ion? In other words, does critical philosophy itself constitute definite or determinate knowledge? The character of the knowledge which critical philosophy yields corresponds to its two faces -to the two questions it seeks to answer. Insofar as Kant ascertains what and how much reason can know a priori, he provides determinate knowledge, for he discloses the relation of apperception to sensibility by establishing its objective reality without specifying its particular functions. Even though such a demonstration must investigate the nature of the faculty of thought, Kant claims it need not investigate the ve~y.poss~bil it~ of that faculty. This latter inquiry, the second face of the Critique, investigates the pa rticulars which condition .Q.UI. faculty of thoug~t (the doctri~e of figur~tive synthesis and the Schematism), and which constitute the particular experience which we as men have (The System of All Principles). In order to make this second inquiry, Kant must completely specify the understanding, which he attempts to accomplish by providing an inventory which completely exhausts its powers CB105). Such knowledge can proclaim itself as definite, because its object in presenting itself, presents the order and system peculiar to it. Such an object fixes its own.boundaries. Perhaps, t~~~, there remains one form into which we still have insight-that of reason. CBX111). Tran$cendental philosophy, in seeking for its concepts, has the advantage and the duty of proceeding according to a single principle. For these concepts spring, pure and unmixed, out of the understanding which is an absolute unity; and must therefore be connected with each other according to one concept or idea. Such a 32 connection supplies us with a rule, by which we are enabled to assign its proper pl.ace to each pure concept of the understanding, and by which we can det ermine in an a priori manner their systematic comp 1 eteness. (892) The Table of Catagories provides the rule, but what concept or idea unites its diversity? We cannot deduce this manifold from the I think. Kant cl a ims that we can never know t he reason why we have such and so many categories. (8145 - 6) Because the unity from which the manifold concepts spring must remain forever unknown , Kant's philosophy transforms the Platonic ideas into rules which guide the understanding, so critical ontology itself performs a regulative function because its negative doctrine clarifies reason and keeps it free from error (825) . Y t he way in which Critique regulates our faculties differs from t hat in et which our ot her ideas check sensibility and reason, insofar as critical philosophy regulates them by the knowledge which it yields. Not empty in itself, Cri t ique presents neither probable speculation , nor the mere appearance of our act, but what happens in fact. Indeed, only insofar as Critique speaks truly about spontaneity can Kant.call it an ontology. But how does it do this? That is , how can I speak accurately about a principle which resides beyond speech? How can I speak truly and meanjngfull~ about a unity which stands ~, aloof from the sensibility which alone can provide it with meaning? Kant establishes a necessary connection between the two stems, and thus explains the possibility of all experience, by revealing an I think which shares the nature of Janus, the Roman god of passage. Indeed, this supreme principle, which the critical philosopher undertook to find, embodies in itself the Copernican reversal . Its two faces provide the unity of myself as thinking and the unity of objects , those things which stand against me: "The original and necessary consciousness of the identity of the self is thus at the same time a consciousness of an eQual~ necessary unity of the synthesis of all possible appearances ••• "(Al08). These two faces can occur together only because the I think peculiar to me, the ultimate particular, lacks its own content. It lacks individuality, so that the I which thinks presents something perfectly general: Through this I or he or it (the thing) which thinks nothing further.is presented than the transcendental subject of thoughts= x. (8346) I think myself only as I do An.)'.. object in general from whose mode of intuition I abstract. (B429) In grammar, the 'person' of a verb indicates the rel at ion which a speaker holds t o his act of speaking. If critical philosphy reduces second person to the first by transferance, and renders first and third person indistinguishable, then not only grammar, but our very understanding of 1 anguage - of what it means to speak - must undergo a critical reversal. What relation does the transcendental "I" hold to the experience it yields, and how does it become aware of this right relation? For an object, the analytic connection between identity and objectivity signifies a special kind of unity. What does it mean for the self which Critique reveals? 33 �Kant expresses the significance which the analytic connection holds for the I think when he designates it an empirical proposition, for in doing so he reveals this purely ~llectual presentation to bear the mark of empir;ical givenness: The I think expresses an indeterminate empirical intuition, i.e. perception (and thus shows that sensation, which as such belongs to sensibility, 1 ies at the root of this existential proposition) ••• W1thout some empirical presentation to supply the materi a 1 for thought, the ~ I think wou 1 d not take p1 ace... (84223) Because empirical givenness conditions the intel 1 igible insofar as it provides the occasion which renders the possible actual, my act can obtain meaning only insofar as it bears some relation to sensibility. As an ability which fails to supply its own material, the I think wears the face of both my ident1ty and the object in general then, because it includes within itself something other than itself. As rules of combination, the categories involve consciousness or inner sense. Therefore the empirical I and transcendental I do not oppose one another as fragments, but belong together of themselves; intellectual synthesis ~ludes the transcendental synthesis of imagination CA118). But the dependance which the emptiness of my act necessitates extends even further, for because I require an intuition of the permanent in order to fix 1n time those appearances which fill inner sense, inner sense includes consciousness of a relation to actual things distinct from myself and therefore also includes consciousness of that to which this outer sense refers: Consciousness of my (empirically determined) existence is .:t.iJiw an immediate consciousness of the existence of other things outside me. (8276) .Qt~~ While I do not spatially locate my thoughts, feelings, or moods, only a spatial analogy can enable me to think of them in time - can render comprehensible what I mean by simultaneous or successive: How it is possible that from a given state an opposite state should follow, not only cannot be conceived by reason without an example, but is actually incomprehensible to reason without intuition ••• For in order that we may afterwards make inner intuitions thinkable, we must present time (the form of inner sense) figuratively, as a line, and the inner alteration through the drawing of this 1 ine, and so in this manner by means of outer intuition make comprehensible the successive existence of ourselves in different states. CB291-2) Inner occurrences, mental happenings, make sense for me only if I set them against a spatial or 'physical' background. Thus, sim.ply because the empiric~l provides the only condition for the a priori, i t also provides the terms in which we comprehend the categories. (And so, schematization alters the meaning of the categories: magnitude becomes number, reality becomes sensation in genera 1, substance becomes the permanence of the rea 1 in ti me, and so on ( Bl83)) • 34 This helps explain the Critique's reliance.upon spati~l metaphors - and thereby presses us to inquire into the degree in which critical philosophy relies upon such metaphors in its attempt to disclose our act of determining. What sort of knowledge can the critical philosopher attain about "the being itself" (B429) if he can only describe the work which being performs in the manifold in terms of the sensible stem - in terms of something which being definitely cannot resemble] That is, how can criticism yield philosophy - or anything more than mere descriptions of appearances? If intuition alone can give a concept meaning, how did the transcendenta 1 terms about which ontology speaks and upon which the Critique relies acquire the meaning they hold for me? How do I understand 'unity', or 'subjective' and 'objective'? As experimental, critical philosophy begins by allowing certain observations the status of facts. By assuming experience in this way, it also presupposes our familiarity with words. As a Copernican revolution, Critique endeavors to turn these words around - to give them their proper critical sense. Thus, because we receive the I think empirically, each of us can know what sort of thing critical philosophy investigates. The Critique then transforms this pre-critical awareness of inner and outer into a critical recognition of subjective and objective unity - figurative and intellectual synthesis. But from what do I obtain my pre-critical awareness of unity? Because Kant can identify unity as the element most crucial to both identity and objects he can assert their relation as analytic, and with this assertion the deduction can begin. But how do I know what sort of thing 'unity' means? For while combinations continually present themselves to me, an object in general never does. Indeed, while an atemporal substance likewise never presents itself to me, I can nevertheless think such a substance as 'that which' I never predicate of anything else although I predicate other presentations of it. While this thought, as an abstraction, cannot enable me to know what sort of thing my word 'that' refers to, it nevertheless stands apart as a transcendental meaning, a logical function which I perform. CB186-7 & 8305). Critical philosophy however, seeks no mere category, but a function common to al 1 the categories. Thus the task of the critical philosopher reveals itself as the search for a logical function which can occupy no unique place in the Table of Judgements since it must ground and express itself equal 1 y in each of twelve different categories. If we cannot find a transcendental meaning for this critical philosopher lives in a borrowed world. For in and relying upon observation, he must have presupposed a - the one which renders intelligible the words which he he cannot supply. special unity, then the presupposing experience more primordial inquiry uses but whose meaning Yet apperception has a Janus-face; Kant describes the ultimate principle of consciousness as a principle of knowledge•••"a form of presentation in general; i.e., of presentation insofar as it is to be entitled knowledge, for it is only of k now 1 edge th at I can say that I am t he re by t h i nk i ng some th i ng" ( A3 4 6 ) • W y h must the transcendental I look away from itself and towards the empirical and contingent in order to bear fruit? ·And what is the nature of such unitary looking - the activity from which all knowledge arises? Kant claims that the direction of fruitful thought necessarily becomes outward because finitude marks al 1 discursive understanding insofar as its 'I am' can give nothing manifold (8138). Thus our thought can only obtain meaning from the sensible stem. It 35 �Any such attempt would account of the things that are, but because it presents an account of the ultimate conditions which in fact ground all that presents itself to me. As a result, we lack direct access to our act, to ourselves. Whatever knowledge of the act of determining we can gain (and we do not learn everything, for the art of schematism remains mysterious, as does the reason for our twelve categories or our particular sensible forms), we acquire by logical analysis . of the work which our act effects in the manifold. Although Critique provides an ontology which as such cannot primarily speak about appearances, it nevertheless reveals only an effect whose cause - the root of the transcendental self remains unknown. Because I am conscious of myself only as something which in ~ ..a&1 exists CB423) , my examination of theoretical activity can reveal nothing more than mere relation. For if I know myself only as a correlate - as a rel at ion which X holds to Y, Kant cl aims I can know nothing about X in itself. The activity of a logical I, then, reveals nothing about the actor - the I which is in itself (8320-1). Such an account turns being from actuality to possibility while speaking at the same time about a merely logical I. Thus while the understanding must determine sensibility in order for us to know an object, on a more primordial level, the critical reversal suggests that sensibility must determine the understanding. After all, does not the sensibility empower the understanding by providing the occasion which yields meaning-and therefore also real possibility to a merely intellectual form? (8302) Does not the Refutation of Idealism suggest that the two faces of apperception have, as arbiters, the two faces of my sensibility - inner and outer sense? If so, the Copernican Revolution - the turn to the necessary harbored within the self-masks a turn to the contingent. Whi 1 e sti 11 a turn to the self {to mere appearances which exist only in my sensibility), such a turn will always threaten to reverse itself and return us once more to the Ptolemaic point of view. For in yielding appearances, sensibility also yields the hope which grounds Cat least in part) Greek ontology - the hope that if I only penetrate deeply enough into the manifold, I will come into contact with that which stands behind it. Simply because apperception must turn to the manifold, it turns to something which lures it beyond its activity of lifting presentations to concepts and into penetration - beyond its island of truth and into an ocean where fogbanks and swiftly melting icebergs provide the only ground. But unlike Simmias, and Cebes, we need not "••• select the best and most dependable theory which human intelligence can supply and use it as a raft to ride the sea of 1 ife ... "(Phaedo,85c-d). For Critique transforms this illusion, and uses its strength to provide us with safe passage into the intelligible realm, although it can never help us attain either these further shores or that knowledge about theoretical reason which Critique cannot supply. can never turn back to reflect directly upon itself. presuppose its object. This denial not only completes being's transformation from substance into relation, it also completes its fragmentation into the three rudimentary senses which the Greeks first noted. This fragmentation began in the argument which opens and grounds the Critique, for when Kant separates our faculty of presentation into two opposing stems, he separates presence as sens i b 1 e form Kant's further separation of sensible form from ousja from activity. constitutes the main fruit of the aesthetic, for on the basis of the proofs it offers, Kant concludes that the sensible stem can yield not hing more than mere appearances. The first chapter of the Analytic of Concepts carries this separation yet further, for when K ant dismisses the dialection and his Table of J udgem en ts as a me re tl~ to t he Cr i t i ca 1 p h i 1 o sop he r an d h i s Tab 1 e of Categories, he separates the presence of logical form from the. activity which gives rise to it. And finally, in separating the actor from his activity, Kant separates ousja from activity (a separation with which he concerns himself most fully in the Paralogisms). As a result of the critical transformation and fragmentation of being, the principle of apperception must exhibit the dual nature of Janus, for only in this dual nature can it be fully itself, can it bear fruit by becoming actual rather than abiding in barren possibility, can it obtain meaning. Aristotle thought that I fully understand the meaning of an object only when I know the cause (ajtja) which bears the responsibi 1 ity for 'what' the object is. But when Kant turns the activity of knowing from fixing an object's last or perfect differentia {li]_..e..u.:t_a djaphora) to legislating its ultimate possibi 1 ity, .Kant separates intel 1igibi1 ity from meaning, distributing them among the two opposing stems. Yet because apperception speaks with a doubleedged voice, although Kant designates it a point - something which in itself can comprise nothing of magnitude - as the unity of a manifold , apperception can take upon itself the meaning of that for which it acts. Thus I can understand i nte l 1ectua1 unity in the same way that I understand the categories, s i nee an object in general, as a function .f.Q.r. sensibility in general, provides the condition which enables me to relate manifolds. Intellectual unity, then, presents the logical function which frees me from the manifold in order to reflect upon it and infer its conditions. Thus critical philosophy speaks truly about being - and in so doing provides an ontology - not because it presents an 36 ' For since we cannot prove the absolute impossibility of intellectual intuition, the illusion which sensibility presents remains always before us. When unchecked, it alters our persepective of living within the world to one of living at the surface of a world. Then, questions about things we never experience wil 1 always entice us (A30), and the negative doctrine which Critique provides for the objective face of apperception would continually fail to satisfy it. But when I combine these questions with the map which the Analytic provides, I attain the negative, limiting concept of a noumenon: What our understanding acquires through this concept of a noumenon is a negative e~tension; that is t6 say, understanding is not 1 imited through sensibility; on the contrary, it itself 1 imits sensibility by applying the term noumena to things in themselves. (8312) By means of this .:t.fil:m, I check the pretensions of sensibi 1 ity. For the thought of a noumenal world transforms my inability to imagine this world - my inability to come to 'practical' terms with the doctrine of the Aesthetic - into ~irrefutable proof of my inability to know this world. As a result, while sensibility can 1 imit the application of the categories and thus 1 imit what apperception can know, it fai 1s to 1 imit what apperception can think. Thus the CrjtjQue itself wears the most remarkable Janus face of al 1, for when the understanding limits itself in knowledge, it frees itself in thought for 'faith'. When ontology wears a Janus-face, it secures passage for the self. 37 �Wh at is t he va lu e of the meta phys ics t hat i s a ll eged to be t hu s pu r i fie d by c ri ticism and establi s he d once and f or al l ? On a cursory view of t he p res en t work ; i t ma y se e m t hat i ts res u lts a re negativ e ••• But such t eaching at once acquires a pos i t i ve va lu e when we recogni ze that the principles with which s pecul at iv e reason ventures out beyond its proper 1 imit s •• • properly belong t o s ensibility , and when thus employed they threaten to make the bounds of sensibility coextensive with those of reason , and so supplant reason in its pure (practical) employment."CBxxi v-Bxxv). All revolutionaries claim to destroy in order to free. Yet the Antinomies reveal this critical revolution to do something more, for we require the negative principles of Critique in order to render possible, not only beliefs about freedom, but knowledge about nature as well . In the Dialectic, Kant claims that the unconditioned presents for human reason the 'veritable aby s s' CB641). In the cosmological ideas and the transcendental ideal , I work towards the unconditioned because its presupposition simply prescribes a rule to the underst anding. Bu t I do not presuppose the unknown substratum of the self simply in order to obtain a mere rule of action. I presuppose it as the basis of the action itself. Thus, in assuming our lack of intellectu a l intuition, Critique commits itself and the other endeavors of theoretical reason to continually rest upon an aby ss. Yet by carrying out this Copernican reversal and thereby denying objective reality to the questions which Plato and Arisotle raised , critical philosophy turns those questions around in order to endow them with a new function. Only by viewing the two faces of apperception can we free ourselves from the pretensions of the contingent and - by means of practic a l reason- secure a passage into the intelligible realm. Only by establishing the objective laws of the understanding- by establishing nothing to come from nothing - can Kant make room for the subjective postulates of reason - for something which promises passage across the schisms which have divided men for too long. Thus the final words of the Canon which presents the positive face of Critique, echos the words of Bacon which Kant has taken as his motto for this, his first CritiQue. But, it w11 l be said, is this al 1 that pure reason achieves in opening up prospects beyond the 1 imits of experience? N othing more than two a rt i c 1 es of be 1 i ef? Su re 1 y the common understanding cou 1 d have achieved as much, without appealing to philosophers for counsel ••• But I may at once reply: Do you rea 11 y require that a mode of knowledge which concerns al 1 men should transcend the · common understanding, and should only be revealed to you by Phi 1 osophers? Precisely what you find fault with is the best confirmation of the above assertions. For we have thereby revealed to us~ could .rurt. ~.:the~ .hAY..e b.e..en foreseen , namely , that in matters which concern all men without distinction nature is not guilty of any partial distribution of her gifts and that in regard t o the essential ends of human nature the highest philosophy cannot advance further than is possible under the guidance which nature has bestowed even upon the most ordinary understanding. (8858- 9) 38 The Tragicomic Philosopher Ann Sitomer After love has been praised, the wine consumed, and most of the party either gone or fallen asleep, Aristodemus wakes at dawn to hear an argument between Socrates, Agathon and Aristophanes. Socrates is trying to make the two poets admit that the same man could have the knowledge required to write both tragedy and comedy. And Socrates' claim is a particular one: all tragic poets should be comic poets. Why P l at o c ho o s es th i s end i ng fo r the d i a 1 og ue, or rat he r encomia, is not clear. Aristodemus, our narrator, has fallen conversation moved from the encomia to the discussion of poetry. escapes us. A fruitful approach to this question would be to dialogue to see how love and poetry can be discussed together. co 1 1 ec t i on of asleep as the The connection look into the Let us direct our attention to the two poets who give their encomia to love, Aristophanes and Agathon. For a poet to praise love is more natural to his calling than it is for a lawyer or a doctor to praise love. While love ofte_n forms the subject of poetry, it rarely forms the subject of law or medicine, as it does for Pausanius and Eryximachus. Of the two poets, Agathon expresses a link between love and poetry. Yet unlike Pausanius and Eryx1machus, love is not the subject of Agathon's occupation. Rather, he claims love is the cause of poetry in all men. This seems an agreeable claim - indeed it is more agreeable than both Pausanius and Eryximachus claims. If it is so, then Socrates' assertion at the end of the dialogue may begin to make sense to us. A11 men can fa 11 under the sway of 1 ove and can therefore become poets. Yet Agathon's inspiration fails to solve the puzzle that Socrates' strange claim presents. Agathon fai 1 s to mention two things explicit in Socrates' cl aim. These two things are the knowledge (epistasthaj) required to write poetry, and the di stinction and bringing together of the two skills (technaj) necessary to tragedy and comedy as particular kinds of poetry. Since Agathon's speech does not give us the footing we need to begin to discuss the issue which Socrates raises, let us turn towards Aristophanes' speech to find some clue to unravel Socrates' perplexing cl aim. Whi 1 e Aristophanes, like Agathon, composes a poem about love, he does not discuss poetry in the explicit way Ag at hon does. The c 1 ue seems to 1 i e in the form of the speech, for Aristophanes' speech strikes us as tragic , although Aritophanes is a comic poet. Perhaps Aristophanes himself manifests Socrates' claim that the same man can have the knowledge needed to write both tragedy and comedy. But as I have pointed out , Socrates' claim is a particular one •. He did n~t cl aim that the comic poet should be a tragic poet, but that the sk1 l led tragic poet should be a comic poet. Thus Aristophanes' speech presents us with a riddle. Yet b.efore we look into this riddle, let us first examine why Aristophanes' speech strikes us as tragic. 39 �PROLOGUE IQ ARISTOPHANES' SPEECH 1 acks something; he desires nothing. On the other hand the wise man, if one exists, lacks nothing - but he also can desire nothing. If there must be someone between ignorance and wisdom, someone in the metaxu, that someone is Love. And Love is a friend of wisdom who is neither ignorant nor wise. Yet right opinion occupies the metaxu with Love, since it too resides between ignorance and wisdom. Diotima al lows Love what we al low to the poet, right opinion. This awareness of imperfection and the desire which accompanies right opinion need not become tragic if Love, the phi 1 osopher, has the resources to supply his deficiency. The child of both Pores and Penia, Love is sometimes resourceless. But unlike a tragic character, sometimes he is resourceful. Whatever his resources are, Diotima does not tell them to Socrates. On the other hand, Aristophanes gives his audience the resource they need in order to regain their original nature, and that resource is sex. Arist~phane~ compels Eryximachus to be on the lookout for anything absurd (~eloion) in Aristophanes' speech. But Aristophanes is not concerned that he w1l 1 say something which wil 1 make us laugh. Such words are native to his muse. Rather he fears that he wil 1 say something that wil 1 make the others jeer (catagal~) at him. Derision does not at al 1 seem proper to the muse of comedy because comedy makes us laugh with good humor, at the characters which it presents to us. Neither does derision seem proper to the muse of tragedy, for tragedy causes us to fear something or to pity some character. Derision may lie b~tween these two extremes. The comic poet makes us laugh with him at the situati~n and at the c~aracters he has created because we have an affinity with the ~UbJect which we w1l Jingly acknowledge. On the other hand, we often choose t~ d1s~ngage ourselves from a tragedy (in so far as we can) and feel fear and pity~ lf we have that same affinity with the tragic situation we do not so willingly .ackno.wle~ge i~• . Derision is a way of laughing at something rather than 1 aughing with it; lt is a means of separating ourselves from what we 1 augh at without sep~ratin~ ourselves to the extent of feeling fear and pity. Thus, the speech ~h1ch Aristophanes plans to compose is neither strictly comic nor t r.p g i c • Ari stop ha nes' f ea r of de r i s i on suggests that he i ntends to compose a poem which somehow partakes in both tragedy and comedy. Aristophanes' resource forces us to laugh, but this resource is what strikes us as the most tragic element in Aristophanes' speech. His creatures, once sliced, yearn to be together again. He calls this yearning love. Yet these tal 1 ies of men cannot know why they love each other in this way. A natural but inexplicable inclination possesses them. Thus they spend their time seeking their other half. When they find one of their kind they embrace him, never letting go. This inexplicable desire suggests two things. Like the poets of Plato's .l..Qn, these 1 overs must 1 abor without ever knowing why they must occupy themselves thus. Yet this desire immediately suggests something else to Aristophanes' audience just as the audience viewing a tragedy knows the outcome of the play to be inevitable, Aristophones audience also knows how and why man has fallen. They know beforehand the reason which lies behind such a desire and therefore acknowledge the gravity of the plight of these lovers. Er~ximach~s then makes a strange demand on the poet. He warns Aristophanes to speak nothing he cannot defend. This demand reminds us of the d; st i net ion between right opinion and knowledge which Diotima will make. Any claim which can be supported by reason we ca 11 know 1 edge. Yet we a 11 ow poets to teach us with right opinion; we do not challenge them as we would challenge a geometer. In~erestingly en~u~h, Er~ximachus does not uphold this challenge after Aristophanes has finished h1s speech. Although it seems that Aristophanes would be hard p~t to defend the claims he has made concerning the original state of m~n and h1s fall.' something in his story rings true for Eryximachus and he is s11 enced. Eryximachus tel 1 s Aristophanes that he has listened to the speech wi~h pleasure. We know that he has been made to see the power of 1 ove through Aristophanes eyes. There is nothing more that one can demand of the poet. Aristophanes then tel 1 s of Zeus' concern about 'the state of the 1 overs. Men were dying out, their genitals were on their backsides and these lovers would not forfeit their embraces for the sake of propagating their rac~ Zeus alleviated the punishment he had imposed on men and moved their genitals around to their frontsides, so that when they embraces they would reproduce by and by. Yet Zeus had inadvertently given men a more complete union than they had had before. Thus sex resembles our state before.the fal 1. Ili.E SPEECH ~ristophanes begins his speech with a tale about the original state of man a~d his fall, or perhaps I should say "slice". The beginning of his speech differs from what the preceeding encomia have given us. Phaedrus and Pausanius have mentioned the origins of some gods - feeling comfortable with this enterprise ~ and they have al 1 spoken about man's present state. But it takes a certain amount of courage to describe the original state of man, for in order to compose such a tale one must first acknowledge his imperfection. We are often t~o ~ow a rd 1 y ~o admit that we are not perfect. Yet Aristophanes acknowledges his imperfection and he makes his audience acknowledge theirs by allowing them to laugh at it. Looking upon some state of man which was better than our own and knowing about man's fal 1 is tragic, but Aristophanes veils this tragedy in comedy. This awareness of our imperfection, although it strikes us as tragic, does As D1ot1ma must point out to Socrates, an ignorant man can remain unaware that he n~t ~lways hav~ to strike us this way, at least according to Diotima. 40 l . At first we must laugh at the claim that sex unites us, completes us and hea 1 s .u s of the wound of our imperfection. Upon refl action however, we fear that sex cannot provide the entire cure or be of any duration. Aristophanes leaves us wondering if we have anything else which can express love and which can cure us or our ill~ This very thing perplexes Aristophanes' lovers. The sex tragedy manifests itself whenever two of a kind come together: No one could imagine this to be a mere amorous connection - sex for sex - or that such alone could be the reason why each rejoices in the other's company with so eager a zest: obviously the soul of each is wishing for something else which it cannot expess, only divining and darkly hinting at what it wishes. (192c6-d2) There is a sense that there must be something more although the lovers do not know what it might be. The only resource they have does not suffice. They are resourceless and therefore tragic. When Hephaestus asks them what they 41 �want, the lovers fall into a state of aporja. Yet when he offers towel d the two of them into one the lovers feel s ure that he has offered t hem exactly what they wanted. Their bodies would be one, as would their souls, since they could 1 ive and die toget her. The s ugges tion having been m ade, is never realized. Even the grammatical structure of Hephaestus' offer points to the imposs ibility of such a union; he utters a st ring of protases with no apodasis. The lovers can never achieve any union like the union before the fall. The lovers have discovered , with the help of Hephaestus , what they want. Yet Arist ophanes leaves them without the resources to obtain it. They only have sex as the next best thing. 1 ove. Whereas . Dio t ima could not name for Socrates the resources of love, Socrates understands t hat whatever love's resources might be they provide the only alternative for t~e tra gic plight of the philosopher. Thus Socrates himself i s the tragic poet who must also be a comic poet. As Aristophanes sees a grain of tragedy in love, so Socrates finds a grain of tragedy in philosophy. In order not to remain resourceless in either case, each must find the comic element of resolution. Hymns to love are not enough. Socrates speaks not of hymns but of encomia - praise given in the spirit of comedy, in the spirit of resolution and happy endings. Socrates' comedy gives us an alternative to the tragedy of the imperfection of our knowledge and therefore gives us every reason for revelry • .Il::iE TRAGICOMIC PHILOSPHER Aristophanes leaves these lovers in a state like the state in which Socrates leaves those who speak with him. As Ari stophanes' speech expresses a feeling of inadequacy an d imperfection that we might otherwise have overlooked or avoided, so Socrates forces so meone to ac kn owledge the inadequacy an d imperfection of the wisdom he thoug ht he possessed. It is the task of the poet to shed light on things at which we might otherwise not look . In dramatic poetry, either we see somet hing which stands beyond our ken and power, and acknowledge our insignificance in relatio n to it - tragedy - or we see something ridiculous and laugh at it - comedy. In both cases we struggle between alienating ourselves fro m the action on the stage and allowing ourselves to be drawn into it. In this respect Aristophanes resembles Socrates; he forces us into a state of aporja. Yet un lik e the tragic poet (the comic poet) offers a resolution to the aporja he makes us feel. In Aristophanes' speech this resolution is sex. Socrates, on the other hand, cannot give such a resolution to the aporja into which he forces someone. If such a resolution in philosophy exists, Socrates leaves its discovery to the m wit h whom he converses. an Alcibiades, who has not heard Socrates' encomium to love, comes to praise Socrates. He says Socrates' words resemble those of the poet because they will forever haunt you . Alcibiades always feels t he strange effect of Socrates' words even when he would rather not acknowledge them. In this way, Socrates' words are tragic; the y leave t ho se who hear them in a state of tumult. Yet Alcibiades says that he does not fear this state; instead he fears t hat the seductive quality of Socrates' words might hold him forever at Socrates' side. The seductive quality of Socrates' poetry is its comic element. Alcibiades claims t hat Socrates "spends hi s whole life in chaffing an d making game of hi s fellow men," just as the comic poet depicts hi s fellow men as ridiculous. Thus Socrates resembles the comic poet in a twofold way. On the one hand he mock s the tragedy that all our knowledge is incomplete and in an ironic way claims that the only t hing we can know is what we don 't know . On the other _ ~~~d~ Socrates 1 ures men into this tragedy, which he veils as a comedy full of many wondrous things for them to obtain. These wonders are the knowledge of t he things in themselves. But such a good may never be realized. Socrates' encomium to love differed from the conversations to which Alcibiades referred. Love is the only matter which Socrates professes he understands. Philosophy, which is often so tragic for Alcibiades and others, becomes something quite different in Socrates' encomium. The philosopher no longer lacks resources in his pursuit of knowledge. Like the comic poet, Socrates gives the philosopher a resolution to the aporja in the Symposium 43 42 �In Defense of Proposition 35: Coincidence and Equality in Euclid's Elements, Book I Fawn Trigg which triangles can be equal. We can judge the boundaries equal or unequal only with respect to length , and the angles equal or unequal only with respect to inclination. The triangle, the figure itself, can only be equal ·or unequal in one respect - that of space. Euclid demonstrates this distinction in the bisection proofs. In each. h~ proves the angle, line, or figure bisected by comparing triangles, using different aspects for each. Equal bases prove a line bisected, and equal figures, triangles, prove a parallelogram bisected. He shows again how distinct the aspects are: angles are not compared to lines, lines are not compared to figures. ca~e, In Common Notion four, Euclid states t hat things which coincide are equal . In Proposition 35 in Book I of the Elements he disproves the universality of its converse, for he shows that two figures can be equal even though they do not necessarily coincide. Euclid reveals this converse, which is not self-e vident like the proposition, t hrough a consistent unfolding of the idea of equality. But to accept t his converse and the proof of Proposition 35, it is necessary to contend wit h several seeming difficulties. Two major objections are: (1) Euclid had no basis for asserting t he parallelograms as equal, since he had only proved things equal thro ugh coincidence, and those parallelograms do not coincide, and (2) he had no basis for subtracting the triangle from the parallelograms or for adding the triangle to the trapezia. The first objection results from misunderstanding Euclid ' s idea of eq ual ity an d coincidence, and the second arises from an unawareness of how Euc lid manipulates mathematical objects. To understand t he first problem of equality and coincidence, it is necessary to look at . how Euclid proves equality and what he proves equal. His use of triangles shows both . Her treats a single triangle as an entity which possesses distinct asp ects of line and angle. When we compare two tr iangles, those aspects can coincide; t he triangle can be equal or unequal . We must maintain the distinction between t he figure itself, which is by definition space; 1 ines, which are the boundaries of a figure; a nd angles, which are the inclination of the lines. By maintaining these distinction s, Euc lid obliquely helps us understand the relationship that the aspects of a fig ure have to the figure. One clue is in his treatment of t he enunciation and subsequent use of th& conclusion of I 4. Euclid orders his words carefully: base equals base, triangle equals triangle, and angle equals angle respectively. Moreover he ne ve r deviates from this order anytime he uses I 4. Wh en I 4 proves the remaining sides equal (in I 12, I 24), a he repeats from the enunciation is base equals base. When I 4 proves figures equal (in I 6, I 34, I 35), he repeats base equals base and triangle equals triangle. When I 4 proves angles equal, he repeats all three parts in order . Why does Euclid treat this so consistently and carefully, if not to highlight something specific about the relation of the aspects of a triangle? Perhaps he intends to indicate a certain h i er a re h y f o.r comp a r i son i n t r i a ng l es, b ut f o r whate v er re as o n he u s es th i s order, he shows the aspects of a triangle as distinct. Although one cannot separate aspects of a trian gl e, one can distinguish them. Sir Thomas Heath does not help the situation when he paraphrases Procrus, who "like other commentators gives at this point. (after I 26) a summary of the cases in which the equality of two triangles in al 1 respects can be established." I think Euclid would disagree with two things in the statement: first, that there is more than one proposition up to this point proving the equality of triangles, and second, that there is more than one respect with 44 The first half of Sir Thomas Heath's statement, in which he asserts the ex·istence of several congruence theorems, assumes more than Euclid actually µre· Ve!:-: • t.t ~.~ I E ~-c.ir:t Sir Thomas makes that statement, I 4 is the only proposition which proves the equality of triangles. I 8 proves only one angle equal, and I 26 proves the remaining sides and angle equal. The assumption that I 8 and I 26 prove triangles equal, although logically drawn, obscures what I think Euclid intends. Proclus says, and Sir Thomas agrees, that Euclid does not prove the triangles in I 8 and I 26 equal because such a proof would be redundant. I think that there is an additional rE:ason. With the enunciations as they are, Euclid is able to juxtapose I 4 and I 26 ih Propostion 34 and emphasize the difference between proving entire triangles equal and proving certain aspects equal. In I 26 Euclid uses I 4 to prove angles equal. Because of the way he ~reats I 4, he must state in the proof of I 26 that the triangle equals the triangle, It would have meant no extra steps if he had added "the triangle equals the triangle" to the enunciation c.1f I 26, yet he does not. In fact, by not adding these words, Euclid gives himself more work to do in I 34. I 34 needs I 26 to prove the angles equal, and then I 4 to prove the triangles. This is an especially striking reminder of the difference between a triangle and its aspects, since it falls immediately before I 35, in which he demonstrates that the equality of figures is independent of the equality of angles. Even if we do not anticipate the step to I 35, we should not be disconcerted by it. Asserting figures which do not coincide as equal contradicts nothing which Euclid has done before. This seems not only consistent, but prepared, since Euclid has been moving the idea of coincidence and hence equality - away from the seemingly physical id~a of application. In I 4 we apply two separate triangles and they coincide. The two triangles in I 5 share a common side. In order to apply them, we must either fold them together with the common side as an axis, or separate them and replace the common side. To apply the two triangles in I 16, we must rotate them around a point and then fold. I 34 combines the two, requiring both separating and rotating. By this point in Book I equality is not directly or obviously related to the coincidence of figures. Significantly, this most distant and gymnastic example occurs immediately before I 35, where the equality of figures is shown separately from the equality of lines and angles. Even accepting Euclid's conclusion, it is possible to object to the proof itself. One cor1 -Lr:.r.-'. ·i on is that Euclid had no grounds for subtracting the triangle from the parLllelograms or for adding the triangle to the trapezius. Although it is true t hat he had never added or subtracted figures · before, he has add~a and .s ubtracted angles. A comparison between the tw6 i~ · justifiable 0 Both 45 �--a re bisected by l i nes, bounded by l i nes, · and can only t c: (:;:<11 , -;111 ,IJ ·\I ruugh these boundaries. To add and subtract is not foreign , because he has been adding and subtracting angles ever since I 13. Division of space in a figure has a precedent, though the actual adding and subtracting does not. When Euclid bisects a paral lelcgram in I 34, he shows space as something divisible. Connoisseur of Chaos 1 Even without evidence to counter this and earlier objections, I 35 should not be suprising simply from a pedagogical point of view. Euclid treats converses carefui !~/, c.r:c original misunderstanding results directly from assuming a converse, that of Common Notion four, which should have never been assumed. When Euclid does disprove the universality of the converse, his proof is well prepared and both internally and externally consistent. I 34 culminates a comparison of equal objects which have the same shape; I 35 begins a new section, one which compares equal objects of different shapes. Wallace Stevens I. A. A violent order is disorder; and B. A great disorder is an order. These Two things are one~ (Pages of illustrations.) II. If all the green of spring was blue, and it is; If the flowers of South Africa were bright On the tables of Connecticut, and they are; If Englishmen lived without tea in Ceylon, and they do; And if i t all went on in an orderly way, And it does; a law of inherent opposites, Of essential unity, is as pleasant as port, As pleasant as the brush-strokes of a bough, An upper, particular bough in, say, Marchand. III. After all the pretty contrasts of life and death Proves that these opposite things partake of one, At least that was the theory, when bishops' books Resolve the world. We cannot go back to that. The squirming facts exceed the squamous mind, If one may say so. And yet relation appears, A small relation expanding like the shade Of a cloud on sand, a shape on the side of a hill. IV. V. 46 A. Well, an old order is a violent one. This proves nothing. Just one more truth, one more Element in the immense disorder of truths. B. It is April as I write. The wind Is blowing after days of constant rain. All this , of course , will come to summer soon. But suppose the disorder of truths should ever come To an order, most Plantagenet, most fixed a great disorder is an order. Now, A And B are not like statuary, posed For a vista in the Louvre. They are things chalked On the sidewalk so that the pensive man may see. The pensive man ••• He sees that eagle float For which the intricate Alps are a single nest. 47 �Chaos in April, Order at Key West and the Planet on the Table Liz Waldner It appears to be a sy 11 og ism, does pa rt I of "Connoisseur of Chaos". Even de- or re- composed in mathemat ica 1 1 anguage, one might expect to di st i 11 from propositions A and B some universal c, source of the particularity if not the peculiar circularity of: some A is B, some Bis A. However, we are given to understand by one familiar with the matter--connoisseur being kin to connaitre: to know familiarly , to be acquainted with--that A and Bare one. Voi 1 the hoop s nake, sw a llowing his t ail! Voici, a moody nothing, expanding into squirm! What m akes these goings- round? a, The ac tivi t y of s ee ing is the necessary (but not self- suffic i ent) cause of t hat m i on sw elling disor de r in t o great- disorder- which- is- order i nto violentot order- which-is-di sord er. To s a il t hi s spiral -- for the very spiral t o exist, for relation to curl i nto a pp a rent ca usal ity-- seeing must be present. Thi s seeing i s a proc ess undiffe re nt i at e d f rom its product, the world collected , told over, a rranged in speech or s ong, and is informed by the never sat is if ed mind. Each of us is the single arti f icer of the world in which we sing ; "the wind , encirclin g us, speaks alw a ys with our speech" ("Evening Without Angels") . We and the world make one in the way that A and Bare one. Pages of illustrations follow . We have seen that the motion of the meaning in A and B is not uni directional but circular, and that this spiraling ( a postulate at this point; demonstration to follow) is rounded in waves, sailed on swells. The passing of order into disorder is the passage of crest defining trough into trough and trough into crest, a motion mimicking the restless iteration of our thought. From A and B we get no product C but, inseparable from the components, "some bright scienza outside of ourselves, a gaiety that is being, not merely knowing" (Of Bright and Bluebirds etc.) comes to be. What's seen and the seer are mingled, to put it crudely, in the making that is the experience of the movement begun by form and spun on the "dark, green water-wheel" by content. A look at part II is in order, its form and content being particularly illustrative of such experience. (Whose experience is this? that we sought.) we said, because we knew it was the experience He r e we encounte r negative relations and are disappointed in our grammatical expectations; here, too, form has not the final word, its meaning shaped by content. Perhaps we ought be amazed to remark form's having voice at all; howsoever, the ifs have no thens. Directly we hear If, we listen for its Then; hearing no Then now , we await it at stanza's end, where instead we are given a proper noun, a place name. Like A and B these clauses are fol lowed by Ands affirming the preceding's correspondence to fact and its existence as such in the present. "It is" neutralizes "If", precludes the subjunctive, and is itself tempered by the precedent "If" so that the present is presented in swaths with voilas as an activity compounded ("and") of If and It is. What we see we name What Is: the green of spring is blue. Green is the universal necessity. There is no use saying green is green unless we see it so. In the activity of seeing, each proposition is divested of the robe and hood of the postulant/postulate to stand as statement of fact. (Here is half the wave. We may name it crest or trough, as the spirit moves us.) Unmasked, "lf" is unfe~tered and enters into the creation of fact. Unmasking the green of spring is addressing it personally, idiomatically and hence as peculiarly one's own. Ramon Fernandez's green of spring is not one's own; his can be only "iffy" in a stiff and robe-y, old (Benedictine) order sense for another. The undulation in meaning begun by the Cassandra "If" in the phrases, curled back onto itself (like the lyre and the bow), generates by "and it is" the shape of the larger circuit of the stanza, as if this shape were and ought be understood as, inalienably and inexorably, an interference pattern. The "Ifs" are, perhaps, instances comprising a law which is itself subject to instance- hood were sight and scope adjusted. Resolve is temporary. Things are makings, not made. The form cast as shadow by the initiating "If" is altered and othered by the contemporaneous and concomitant surge (like surf over strand) of "ls" washing over "If". "If" gives form to "ls" while being formed. Resolution is an instance and the stuff memory (and thus identity) is made on; it is not like statuary. This is not to suggest that the world is the figment of an unstable imagination. One must have the green of spring before that green can be blue. <This is the other half of the waving.) "If" implies "Is", Fact, terra firma whose ground is the necessary rock on which every edifice of Otherthan stands. This ground, however, is for us terra incognita; unmixed with the "If" of one's own presence, the vision peculiar to the beholder, the pensive man of part IV, the green of spring is not. It is not being made. To rightly esteem order, to savor its pleasure as a particular, ephemeral, an instance, one must be acquainted with the not-ordered: a connoisseur of chaos. The stanza as a whole gives us as meet for our desiring some "Then" to stanch and answer the flood of "lf s" a g l i mpse, a sight i ng--ahoy being the marine "voi l a"--a further fluidity: a moment: "An upper, particular bough in, say, Marchand". No dyke, no respite, no order as end "of motion or of the noise of motion, the renewal of noise and its manifold continuation" (The Place of the Solitaires), no olive branch is this bough; rather in it rocks the cradle of "The Planet on the Table". The approach of the maker of the planet of which she is part to the shapeless shore Facts will come to comprise has, then, something of "If'' in it naturally, according to our own necessity: it only li. in our presence. That about which we say "and it is"--douce compagna of that thingI--comes to be of our relation to it, is concretized by amalgamation of is and if, of the universal antique accord of spring's green and Mr. Stevens, say. The approach, this process, is that "exactest element for us, in which we pronounce joy like a word of our own". There, our word is "and it is"; being a round of activity, a curling of relatings, a re-iterated meeting of if and is, a greeting to which we will without fail wave adieu, adieu as we sail--and we always sail~-it is the word of a veritable font of ifs, of one whose bent and wont is if, whose stance is informed by sea-legs, whose sailing is steered by fixed stars eclipsed by the sail, the sail, shroud of Turin-like, marked by the star, the star that planet sailed toward: the world, the world, the sol id ground on which we stand: "and it i s". The passage of such a one, sea - s i ck and squamous, ( i n accord wi th that 49 48 �element) from facts to relation must be as pleasant as port. Before long , however , far enough inland to tote a winnowing fan, solidity becomes just one more truth, order "one more element in t he. immense disorder of trut hs ," an d it's "I must go down to the sea again ••• " So, argonaut, aro und , your spiral--go, go to! The pretty contrast of life and death affords no van tage. A finished round, a world bound by a perfect circumference, is a dead planet, a pie equally portioned , fit to grace the tea-table of the bes test bi shop. It appears t hat t he way in which A an d Bare one is not a matter of essence but of myopia. The maker of A and Bi s mixed with and into them. This fact cannot be bound into the o of one. Every fact cannot be ordere d into accord , and yet relation appears: squirming facts pass as in a vortex t hrough a vertex, relation; motion : facts squirm. The mind 's motion of a sudden finds accord: re l ation appears. The circle of opposite things affords no vantage for witnessing relation. When for every question is made an answer and when each answer has its question tailor- m ade, then bishops' books resolve the world, forswearing squirm. The bishopric's spectacles and telescopes resolve the astigmatism we might deem natural to Q & A, assigning each planet its sphere , e ach spher e its harmony . Too many orders have become old for us to look on that sight, to take sight by that scope. The unruly fact, the intractable instance, the s candal of particularity banished beneath the bishop's hearthrug to make straight the way have become fruitful, multiplied, and risen to sit at table with us: behold South Africa's fl owe rs on Connecticut's tab 1 e. Sate l 1 ites, Heisenberg, video, petroleum and Einstein and Oppenheimer have altered our orders, scales and table settings, seati ng the once far an d strange next to the once neighborly and near. Distance fat homed , the b ishop's length, t he me as ur e of Q & A's pas de deux, was the hallmark of an order. Now, here, things don't stay put, are very much with us., may be said (and well) to exceed the mind , however squamous. The di sta nc e or. di sci pl ine neces sary to resol ve-- C hat from which squirm appears stil 1) t or that of the verand a- view of t he formal gardens, or of a vista in, say, the Louvre may si mply be lacking. Perhaps t he world in which one looks at the night s ky to sa y "Satel 1 ites are ou t to night" is smaller t han t he bis hop 's. Perhaps too much is here at once and that impossibly mul tifario usly. And yet relation appears. A sma 11 relation appears, expanding. One sees on the sand a shade shaped by what shows it. Cloud and sand are related by the shade in making the shade. So the single artificer and the world she sang, and singing, made are bronzed by the same sun that casts the clouds shadow onto the nets of sand , and are related in a relative-as-in-familiar way. She sings, and it is. She sings, "And it is". The pensive man , the sail i ng one, the seer, and the thing seen a re related in the activity of seeing. This activity is the making of the sun, the planet of which she and he are part. Seeing the shade, one "ladders" sand, shade, c loud , sun, even though the top rung is unseen: shade makes there be sun. Sun, we al so say, makes shades. The world moves one to sing "of a remembered time or of something seen that he liked"; t he world sung, of which the singer is part, is made in singing. The sin ger does not see the sin ger , but singing, sa ys she is there. When she si ng s, "And it is", then she is. Making t he planet, she makes herself. We also say t he spirit moves us. Whose s pirit is this, we might well ask, its rel atings making between ourselves a nd our origins "ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds." 50 CA thing and its shadow are said to be as 1 ike as desire and that which is desired). The relation of cloud and earth expands as cloud rises or falls, as earth rises or falls. Relation bears some lineament, character or family resemblance of "If" and "Is" which bear it. The appearance of relation which is activity, a carrying out of itself, coincides with the appearance of the pensive man. The pensive man appears in his thought, as we have seen. Once sighted, stel l a maris , relation expands as sand shifts and cloud is shaped. Once sighted, relation orders what is around it by virtue of its presence. What is seen is related to i t. Soon, hecksapoppin with facts asquirm. What is seen is shaped by our seeing (cloud casts shade). Our seeing is shaped by what is seen (shade is strec hed by sand). These are, of course, instances and they may be exactly backwards . Facts aplenty do not relation make. Position, however, does : our position with respect to them and the fact that time goes by (or that we do) , in so far as we and they stand (or squirm, as the case may be) on ground of our own making -- which is only to reiterate, which is what minds do , generating thereby the time in which facts squirm and hence the path of the spiral. To say that our position , seeing, is amidst the world sung and the world made in that singing is another way of saying that we are the place in which relation appears. Again, we make the world of which we are part. As the pitching of a pebble into water makes a pattern of waves and as the scope and design of the pattern .expands as a second stone is thrown, so relation expands as our pensive presence orders the world and we see the world so made. As ripples multiply, demarcations grow ghostly. Faint waves become a swell, the swell a wavelessness. A and Bare not fixed, but ride the waves that swell them. Facts asquirm are not a fixed vista. Relation will evaporate to condense again another day. What the pensive man sees chalked bears the mark of that from which it came: walk and chalk are limestone. Water, or a fading of the sun, or a shift in posture, or preoccupation, or attending to vistas will wash chalk away. Walk, chalk, and pensive man like sand, shade, and cloud are an arrangement, a moment, something seen. The presence of the pensive man and what he has seen amongst spring's blue and the flowers on the tables and Englishmen's living tealessly in Ceylon would make relation visible like that of sand, shade, cloud, if only that man should say the way they met in him. Those are instances of his order, of his reme mbe re d time, of hi s self. To assume them, for h·s order to be a light in our imagination, we must stand where he stood, see what he saw chalked. In doing this no essential unity nor inherent opposites may be found; each fact to be opposed is related to its opposer by the familiar look, lineament borne, of the pensive man who brings them to stand as fact. His relation to them and theirs to one another expands or fails as he straightens up, walks on, thinks. To assume them, we participate in his seeing/thought, bringing to be for our selves that about which he said "And it is." Statuary posed is an old order. The definition of categories describes a formal garden along whose walks royalty waltzed. The skull beneath the crown comes and goes; the diadem remains posed, most Plantagenet. One partaking in the crown's stroll dons the ermine of universality , eyes fixed on dolmen A and cromlech B. This one has remained forever poised above the walk from which the chalk has long since washed, however much he appears to walk or walt z. The emperor wears his new clothes here, and orders his hours according to a book of days bound and marked by another's grasp of a truth, a relation . His baby s hoes 51 �are undoubtedly bronzed. Who raised up A and Bas ordering forms undoubtedly did so in the throes of vision--of the apparition of the shade of a cloud on sand. Held al oft as trophy, elevated, isolated spoil of the mind, worm A and worm B no longer asquirm, but rounded to form sorry imitation of the selfswallowing snake are not pleasant at all. Persons Plantagenet are often advised to buy works such as these to fix their vistas and foreshorten their outlook. When facts do relate--not of their own bu t of their and our own accor d--it is pleasant, perhaps because in the presence of very particular thin gs we have a peculiar feeling of universal ity--of partaking, of seeing through to, for an instant ••• Relation bronzed is itself an A. The never satisfied mind sees to it. The motion generating relation leads one to believe thought is the paradigm of carnal knowledge, or at least near kin. The bent of the pensive man pondering the chalked walk is attentive, loving. Having rounded the bend of April's weathers before, whatever the welter of facts--rain, rain, wind--he is familiar with the course; as a matter of course, the days will come to summer soon. The earth's course, once known as sun's coursers, sees to it. One sees, has seen. Relation appears. One is standing; A and B appear again to be statuary. One looks, now, to the upper, particular bough. Again. Cherub: Behold inane infinity! Pensive man: I see a cherub who sees it. See? Come round, we see ourselves angelic. "Sad men made angels of the sun"; we see singular rel at ion, unsquirming factuality appear. This appearance is rendered monumental by distance, whether of person (not my order, but Ramon's) or time (mine seven years ago). We can see this focus shift and count it fact, too. Our understanding of Ramon's or recognition of our previous resolution becomes another fact asquirm until some aspect of some thing seen and liked or some time remembered arranges, deepens, and enchants them. Sighting along that extended relation poised in the moment, an obelisk composed of moments, we see t hat eagle fl oat for whom all our Al py obelisks are a single nest. Its shadow describes spirals on the sidewalk. A. Ask Prospero, "Whose spirit is this?" B. Ask Ariel, "Whose spirit is this?" CA sip of Sandeman's is in order.) he single artificer is made uch of. Selfhood, Friendship, and Statehood 1n the Nicomachean Ethics Michael McShane In "The Concept of Number in Greek Mathematics and Philosophy" Jacob Klein explores a metaphysical question discussed by Plato and others. Klein formulates the issue thus: " ••• how one thing 'brought together with another one produces two things. Neither of the things is two. Is the 'two' something apart from the single things--is it, so to speak, outside of them? Where is the two?" A further difficulty presents itself: once given that 'two,' what status would it have? It must in itself form a kind of 'one,' a third thing relating the first separate ones. A version of the same problem., expressed in human terms, 1 ies at the heart of Aristotle's Nicomacbean Ethics. For - how is it that one individual brought together with another unit person produces two people together, a coherent relationship? Neither of the individuals is two. Is the 'two' "something apart" from the single people-- "is it, so to speak, outside of them?" If they are originally Other, where does their relationship come from? What provides the ground for human relationships? What origin could they stem from? The Njcomachean Ehtjcs must confront and constantly grapple with the fundamental problem of the possibility, ground 1 and character of human relations. For Aristotle, friendship provides the most obvious and useful context within which to begin his discussion of human relationships. Though he finally discusses e;11 manr1er of human relationships--legal, political, psychological, fami 1 ial--Aristotl e retains his powerful notion of friendship as a common measure throughout the Ethics. Characteristically, the philosopher begins his exposition of friendship by emphasizing its natural roots, saying "a natural affinity and friendship exist b et we : n rn ~ n . ~ n d ma n u.n i v e r s a 1 1 y. " ( VI I I , i. 4 ) F r om t h i s p re l ; mi n a r y o r p,rescient~fic .standpoin~ Aristotle sug£ests that friendship is a kind of n~tu ra 1 inst in7t" ho 1 ding among members of every species. Al ready then Ar~st~t~e ques~ions the notion of a mythical origin of a kind of extrinsic frienoship. This genera: opening account of friendship winds its way through· many changes as the Ethics develops, yet it persists, mediated ar.d enriched, throughout the work • . When ad.dressing the matter from a slightly more developed viewpoint, Aristotle finds that friendship presupposes a kind of sameness between men: "Am.ity .cons.ists of equality and similarity, especially the sim.ilarity of those alike in virtue." (VIII, viii. 5) Later, Aristotle decides that the alternate notion of opposites attracting has only "accidental" meaning <VIII. viii. 7) as an account of friendship. If, however, we agree that friendship requires a fundamental background of Sameness, a version of the original "two-ness" problem presents itself. For 52 53 �th e es s ence of being a n i ndividu a l or having a n identity requires t hat one be · signifi ca nt ly Ot he r t ha n ot her individual s. Aristotle recogni z es that under certain condit i ons, friend s hip cannot exist, or must cease. co~unicating their thoughts to each other; fv.. this is the meaning of living together as applied to human beings. Ii does not merely mean feeding in the same place, as it does when applit:-0 to cattle. CIX, ix. 11) When a wide disp a rity arises between friends in point of virtue or vice or of weal t h o r anything else they no longer remain nor indeed expect to rem a in friend s ••• i t is tru e that we cannot fix a precise limit in s uch cas es, up to which two men can s till be friends; t he gap may go on widening and the friend s hip st ill remain ; but when one becomes very remote from the · other, as god is remote from man, it can continue no longer. (VIII , vii . 4) He also recognizes that most men seem to differ significantly in many How the various kinds of friendships can mediate between Oi.hfdt"5 remains Aristotle's concern throughout the discussion of friendship and ~hrough the Ethics as a whole. ·irnpo r tcnt respects. To discuss the kinds of friendly mediations, Aristotle divides friendship into three main kinds : one i s based upon utility, another on pleasure, and the third on shared v i rtue . The first two constitute friendships in a rather mercenary , transact i ona 1 s t"ri ss , c'>< i sting mere 1 y as a n1 eans to an end . Hence , "Friendship s of thi s kind are ea.sil~. Lir-c;h .-r c.ff ••• for if (the friend s ) are no l anger p 1 e as ant or us e fu 1 t o each other, they cease to 1 ove each other." (VII J, iii. 2) These lower friendships do not involv e virtue and cannot last. Natura lly, the highest form of friendship revolves around virtue : The perfect form of friendship is that between the good and those who res emble eac h othe r in virtu e. For these friend s wi s h each alike the other's good in respect of their goodness and they are good in themselves ; but it is those who wish the good of their friends for their friends' sake who are friends in the fullest sense, s ince they love each other for themselves and not accidentally. Hence the friendship of these lasts as long as they continue to be good; and virtue is a permanent quality. <VIII , iii. 6) This bold notion of true friendship plays an essential role throug h the Ethics. The s pecial nature of t he mediat i on betwee n t he virtu ous friends differentiates this form of friendship from the two other kinds . The two true friends are measured in common by their co - re l ated steady interest in divine or eternal matters. Ideally, the awkward "gap" dissolves, the mediation falls away, and the two become somehow unlted -- radical ly Same. Then the virtuous man feels toward his friend in t he same way as he feels toward himself,"for a friend is a second self." (IX, ix. 10) The "s econd self" metaphor represents an important turn in the argument and recommends itself for serious considera t ion, des p ite ( a n c: because of) its possible paradoxical tenor. It proves essential for reso l vi ng t he "two- ness" problem discussed above. In the pas s age just cited Aristotle continues: Then ju s t as man 's exi stence is desirable to him, so, or nearly so, is his friend's exi s tence al s o desirable . .. Therefore a man ought to also share his friend 's consciousness of his existence and this i s att ain e d by t he i r living together and by conversing and 54 He makes a tremendous claim here. The problem of one here who is remote from another there can be overcome. Through their logos two attain the one-ness of highest friendship. By means or n1~ mo~t hum~" capacitie~, a man can actually "share his friend's consciousness of his existence." Considering its power, it makes sense that "affection men like for its own t:: itke ___ i t ;~ more valuable t han honor; friendship is desirable in itself." CVIII, viii. 2) Indeed, the overal 1 importance of friendship for Aristotle cannot be overestimated. Pragmatically, the friendship as second-self concept arises at many junctures throughout the Etbjcal landscape. For expample, Aristotle suggests that even after death one's friends sti 11 influence one's happiness. Elsewhere, he proposes that friends can bear som part of one's grief, lessening e the load. Aristotle says true friendship has more value than money, a 1 esser medium. Such observations suggest a keen appreciation of the meaning of friendship. However, as yet the second-self argument seems vague and abstract. It seems to indicate some progress on the theoretical issue of the possibility and ground of relations between Others. On the other hand, certain questions persist. What is a self that it can be so seconded? If it remains monolithic, individual, elementary, then how can the idea of a united and conwnon second-self be n1 eaningful? Is this new relationship "something apart from" the original single selves, outside of them? Aristotle's account of the self evolves in tandem with the development of his account of friendship. At important junctures the two notions converge dramatically: The form which friendly feeling for our neighbors takes, and the marks by which the different forms of friendship are defined, seem to be derived from the feelings of regard which we entertain for oursel ves ••• It is therefore because the good man has these various feelings toward himself and because he feels towards hi~ friend in the sa~e way as towards himself (for a friend is another self) that frif:n d ~. 1 1~· < 1!.:·C' i! 1 hcL:srt -1. c <:(it• ~h."\ it: o:E- or other of these : feelings, and the posses ion of them is thought to be the test of a friend. Whether a man can be said actually to feel friendship for himself is a question that may be dismissed for the present; though it may be held that he can do so in so far as hP- i~ ; <., <lu r: l c;r composite b6irig, cin d because very intense friendship resembles self- regard. CIY, iv. 1) Tri:. passag(-? outlines several key sel f-ish aspects: One feels for one's self ,, ~, for· a friend . Aristotle definitely resolves the question "dismissed" here some pages later, saying, "t he goo d man wil 1 bf: a lover of self in the fullest degree ••• " (IX, viii. 6) The passage also presents the possib.ility of t he self's "composite nature" and suggests the importance of such a notion. 55 �The idea of a man's sust~~ning a friendship with himself does imply a dualistic sel~ Friendship m~ans relating; therefore the self must mean a kind of re 1 at i ng of component e 1 e~nents. Nothing can continue to give us pleasure always because our nature is not simple but contains a second element, (which is what makes us perishable beings) and consequently whenever one of these two elements is actf ve it runs counter to the ~~turg or the other, whi 1 e when the two are balanced their action feels neither painful nor pleasant. Sinc e if any man had a simple nature the same activity would afford him the greatest pleasure always. Hence god enjoys a single simple pleasure perpetual ly••• there is essentially a truer pleasure in rest than in motion. But change in all things is sweet, as the poet says, owing to some badness in nature that needs change; for it is not simple nor good. <VII, xiv. 7) Unpacked, the above seminal passage makes many crucial claims about the nature of the self. The self constitutes itself of two mutually contradictory elements. These "moments" of the self engage in a dynamic struggle that must "balance" to insure the health of the self. The proper mediation of this internal conflict becomes the interior friendship which the good maintain with themselves. The struggle of the dual elements causes change and death. The passage also hints strongly at the respective natures of the .polar elements. The theme of the soul's dual nature arises constantly throughout the Ethjcs. In the first book, Aristotle identifies the two parts as being the rational principled part and the irrational. Now, the irrational tends towards desires, appetites, sensuality. It "opposes and runs counter to principle." CI, xiii. 17) In the virtuous and "self- restrained man it obeys the behest of principle." In u·n restrained men, however, this internal "badness" runs amuck and there "is civil war in their souls ••• one part pulls them one way and another the other, as if dragging them asunder." (IX, iv. 9) Such a "bad man" as this one certainly "appears to be devoid even of affection for himself, because he has nothing lovable in his nature." (IX, ix. 10) Lacking internal amity, such a character could build no valuable "external" friendships. "All the fellings that constitute friendship for others are an extension of regard for oneself." (IX, viii. 2) In their most extreme senses the two elements of the human self metaphorica 11 y correspond with a "divine" aspect, on the one hand, and a "bestial" one on the other. People irrational by nature and 1 iving soley by sensation are bestial, as are "those who lose their reason owing to some disease." CVII, v. 6) If bestiality dominates when rationality is subtracted, then it must be the remaining psychological element. The rational aspect, on the other hand, ••• is thought to rule and lead us by nature and to have cognizance of what is noble and divine, either as being itself also actually divine or as being the divinest part of us ••• (X, vii. 1) In fact, just as we call Denmark's ruler "Denmark," Aristotle would "imply that the intellect is the man himself." (IX, viii. 6) Aristotle wonders 56 whether, if the i nte 11ectua1 constitutes the "true se 1 f", then a man 1iv1 ng a 1 ife associated with his more best i a 1 nature wou 1 d be "chaos i ng to l i ve not his own 1 ife but the 1 ife of some other than himself." (X, vii. 9) Hence arises the strange possibility of a man being Other than his own interior self. When properly aligned then, man's self comprises itself of a coherent relation, or relating, of diametrically opposed elements--god and animal. (It remains unclear how actually distinct these two are: "Whether though distinguishable in thought as two they are inseparable in reality, like the convex and concave sides of a curve." (I, x. 10) The very being of the self resonates from within that god/beast dialectic. A human being is the mediated relationship, the internal friendship, between these two Otherly components. Aristotle's conceptual hold on all "external" human relations presupposes a comprehension of this unseen interior dialectic. The use of this mediated understanding of self allows some progress on the initial problem of the theoretical grounds for human relationships. Yet, this progress may prove to be somewhat illusory. For, in some ways, the dialectical selfhood position al lows for a provisional resolution--or at least displacement--of the question of "twoness" in human intercourse. Aristotle's dualistic psychology presents an attack upon the premises of the original scenario, in which one simple and elemental human is confronted with another discrete individual. In that scenario, the "twoness" must certainly arrive from some mysterious "outside, apart from" the single men. But because for Aristotle every self is itself already a relation or friendship of dual elements, the concept of atom-like human individuals must no longer obtain. In the Njcomachean Ethjcs, Aristotle unearths a "twoness", or relation, deeply rooted in his fertile anthropological terrain. His dialectical anthropology accounts for the theoretical possibility of intrinsic human friendship by previously grounding it in his notion of natural human selfhood. The pragmatic meaning of this resolution is that friends in an "external" sense can each relate directly to what is the Same in the other. Appetitive acquiring-type friends can achieve a distant kind of unity through sharing their common internal appetitive faculties. Virtuous men enjoy a much greater sameness and unity through their common intellects. Before mentioning some problems with the aforegoing account of Friendship, Same and Other, etc., I think it useful to sum up what we have establ1shed regarding friendship and selfhood in the Njcomachaen Ethics: The meaning of each term necessari 1 y con ta ins traces of the other. Aristot 1 e grounds "external" friendship in the notion of internal friendship--a self's relation to itself. The general question of friendship cannot be posed without a reference to the dialectics of selfhood. Yet "internal" self-relations depend upon metaphors of "external" friendships. One can be an-Other's "second self" or even alien from one's own self, depending upon one's virtuousness. As with "individuals" the two concepts (selfhood and friendship) defy independent or atomistic formulation; they are essentially interdependent• As mentioned above, certain problems remain in this account of selfhood and friendship. These specifically relate to the possibility of selfhood as mentioned above . In a sense the problems of "twoness" that dominated the external friendship question have been relocated inside the self: Recall that, 57 �for Aristotle, friendship can only exist between beings which are somewhat the Same. Aristotle discusses friendship between people unequal in various ways, but seems to assert that human relations require a fundamental Sameness. Recall the 1 ine about the two men, once friends: " ••• when one becomes remote from the other, as god is from man, (the friendship) can continue no 1 onger." CV III, v 1 i i • 5 ) Re 1 at 1on s cannot end u re such d i stance. I f god i s " remote" f r om man, He must be utterly incommensurable with animal. Yet the soul is said to comprise a relation between god and beast. How can any meaningful friendship subsist between these two contradictory elements of the self? What could be he 1 d in common between them? How cou 1 d that "gap" be mediated 1 How then can this self be? It may be that to solve this question Aristotle must ultimately resort to an implicit Platonic stance. At least, one· is reminded of the Iimeaus. In it, "Force," in an original cosmic effort, jams together Same and Other to make the world possible. Aristotle does not adopt this position and instead suggests something just as remarkable. The "inner" self, which must be considered the most "private" aspect of man's being, can only be rendered meaningful in terms of the most "public." For, to convey the relations inside the human self Aristotle turns to the language of political discouse: In a metaphorical and analogical sense, however, there is such a thing as justice••• between different parts of one's nature ••• For ••• a distinction is set up between the rational and irrational parts of the soul ••• so that there may be a sort of justice between them, such as exists between ruler and subject. CIV, xi. 9) So we learn that the relation between elements of the self sometimes is a special kind of friendship: that of a political regime. The issue of the politicization of the self and the selfhood of the polity will be taken up in the second section this essay. II Aristotle recognizes that human interaction takes place within a political context. Therefore, a comprehension of Ethics requires a thorough theoretical understanding of political relations. Aristotle weaves the political aspect of the work into the already inextricable notions of friendship and selfhood. The state founds itself upon the more "private" human institutions, while they themselves are unthinkable outside it. As suggested at the end of the last section, the political question defines and conditions the most "interior" aspects of the selfhood relationship. In turn, the polis as a self must ultimately confront the same questions that bedevil our understanding of the "individual" selves which constitute it. If we provisionally attempted to examine the more general character of the state before returning to the problem of the self,we might find ourselves in good company. Thus, let us begin by sketching the state as some· kind of "se 1 f- 58 sufficient" self. Like an individual self, it composes itself through friendships both internal and external 11 ••• states can be 'friends' (since expediency is generally recognized as the motive of international alliances)" (VIII, iv. 4). Internal relations here concern those between people--buyer and seller, citizen and citizen, citizen and monarch. Naturally, as in previous accounts, issues arise concerning the possibility, ground and character of these relations. How are they mediated? How can they comprise the whole? As in his friendship discussion, Aristotle carefully states at the outset that man's existence as a "political animal" comes about and maintains itself "by nature;" the city-state is a "natural growth." CPol 1t1cs) (l, i. 9) For Aristotle, being a part of nature - mplies a certain teleological necessity or i inner logic to a subject's development. The natural entity must have its own principles of motion and rest. Accordingly, Aristotle carefully traces the natural or logical principles of development for the polis. It evolves from a family, to a collection of families, to villages, until it finally becomes itself. A city-state, then, comes into existence because it is necessary for the animal life of man. It "exists" or maintains its teleological highest being for the sake of the more divine aspects of human ity--"the good life." (Pol 1t1cs I, i. 8) Like the self" the pol is contains various elements: some citizens have more godlike natures, otners tend more toward desire-ridden bestiality, while most lie somewhere in the mean. Thus the state displays an organic, complex, vital selfhood which naturally relates to the greater part of the human spectrum. Internally, the state subsists upon various "partnerships"'· In fact, "Friendship appears to be the bond of the state." CVIII, 1. 4) The majority of these friendships relate individuals who are, in some way, unequal or Other. This inequality appears in terms of virtue (the ruler and the ruled), or in the more mundane sense of commercial relations (when, for example, one has only bedsteads, the other houses). In order to mediate such political friendships there must be some way of equalizing the two parties. In the city the justice relation partially performs this function. In general, justice forms a sort of "mean" between "doing and suffering injustice, for the former is to have too much and the latter to have too little." CV, v. 18) Consequently, Justice operates as a medium between people, insuring that everyone receives only that to which he is entitled. Thus those who are equal receive equal goods; those who are unequal gain in proportion to their merits. Thus, in apolitical context, unequal Others can relate through Justic& "In the · interchange of services Justice in the form of Reciprocity is the bond that maintains the association <koinonia> ... The very existence of the state depends upon proportionate reciprocity~CV v 6) Just as the notion of proportional justice mediates abstractly, so does the human person, the Justice or Judge, mediate more concretely. To go to a judge is to go justice, for the ideal judge 1s, so to speak, justice personified. Also, men require a judge to be a middle term or medium--indeed, in some places they are called mediators--for [people] think that i f they get the man they will get what is just. Thus the just is a sort of mean, inasmuch as the judge is a medium between the litigants. (V, iv. 7) 59 �In the same passage Aristotle provides typical linguistic analysis, demonstrating the relationship between dikaion <just> and dich~ <in half>, showing that a dikast <judge> is a dichast <halver>.2 In the state, money relates unequal products in the same way that a judge relates unequal people. Money provides the medium through which demanders can have friendships of utility with suppliers because "money then serves as a measure which makes them [commodities, and thus buyers and sel lersJ commensu rab 1e and so reduces them to equa 1 ity ••• "( V, v. 15) Money constitutes in this manner a middle term, for it is the measure of al 1 things, and so of their superior and inferior value."CV, v.10) Without such a medium the friendships of the marketplace would be impossible: If there were no exchange, there would be no association <kojnonia>, and there can be no exchange without equality and no equality without commensurability. Though therefore it is impossible for things so different to become commensurable in a strict sense, our demand furnishes a sufficiently accurate common measure for practical purposes. As depicted above, commerce presents a special case of the problem of "twoness." That problem questions the possibility of establishing relations, commensurability, between Others. This problem recurs more seriously within the context of justice. Just as there can be no friendship between radically "remote" Others, there are beings, potential citizens, between whom Justice cannot mediate because of their remoteness. "Justice can only exist between those whose mutual relations are regulated by law and law exists [only] among those between whom there is a possibility of injustice." CV, iv. 4) And again, Claims of justice exist between persons who share in things generally speaking good and who can have a share too large or smal 1 of them. There are persons who cannot have too 1 arge a share of these goods. Doubtless, for example, the gods. And there are those who can derive no benefit from any share of them: . namely the incurably vicious, to them al 1 things generally good are harmful. But for others they are beneficial within 1 imits, and this is the case with ordinary mortals.CV, ix. 17) If we note that the "incurably vicious" correspond with the "bestial," it becomes c 1 ear that the "two-ness" prob 1 em for Justice takes on exact 1y the same terms as in the cases of friendship and sel fhood outlined above. Others are incommensurate--god and beast cannot relate. Before dealing with the extraordinary cases of supposedly unmediable beings, let us examine the "case with ordinary mortals." What is it that allows them to partake of justice, to have friendly political relations? Obviously, they must not be too remote in terms of self-components. More importantly, their natural logos allows men to participate in judicial relations just as it mediates between two highest friends: Why man is a political animal more than any bee or any gregarious animal is clear. For nature, as we declare, does nothing without 60 purpose, and man a 1one possesses speech <logos>... logos is designed to indicate the advantageous and the harmful and therefore the right and wrong; for it is the special property of man in distinction from other animals that he alone has perception of good and bad and right and wrong, and the other moral qualities, and it is partnership <koinonia> in these things that makes a household and a city-state.(Pol 1t1cs HI i 10) Again, speech mediates among men. Because men have logos they possess the potential for the sort of reasoning and communicating necessary for making justice among them. It is on the foundation of their shared loquacious nature that "ordinary mortals" can be radically Same. This ground of Sa~eness underlies the superficial differences among people and renders political justice possible. The notion that a fundamental likeness holds between citizens, as elements of a larger self, has far-reaching ramifications. First, it enables Aristotle to speak about justice as holding between many disparate members of society. Though, justice relationships between father and son, master and slave, woman and man, ru 1 er and ru 1 ed, wi 11 differ accord 1ng to the re 1 at i ve merit of each party, Aristotle does have grounds to insist that, because of shared human Sameness, some justice must obtain in every relation between "ordinary mortals." There can be no friendship with a slave as slave, though there can be some room for justice in the relations of every human being with every other that is capable of participating in law and contract; hence friendship is possible with everyone so far as he is a human being. <VIII, vi. 7) As the last line suggests, justice and friendship prove to be necessarily related: "The objects and personal relationships with which friendship 1s concerned appear ••• to be the same as those which are the sphere of just1ce."CVIII, ix. 6) No matter what varied interests divide citizens their citizenship itself unifies them. The state or ... po 1 it ica 1 association <koj non i a> ... was orig i na 11 y formed and continues to be maintained for the advantage of its members. The aim of lawgivers is the good of the community and justice is sometimes defined as that which is the common advantage.CVIII, ix. 4) Consequently, al 1 citizens . become one through their common interest in preserving the good of the state (mutual sel fl; by doing this they ensure the continued good of their home city-selves in much the same way that the highest friends relate to their second-selves and primary selves. Ideally, every self acts for the good of every other one. Ari stot 1e ca 11 s i de·a 1 citizen's agreement about practica 1 po 1itica1 matters "concord." "Concord ••• appears to mean friendship between citizens ••• [this relation can only exist] between good men, since these are of one mind both with themselves and with one another, as they always stand on more or less the same ground; for good men's wishes are steadfast, and 61 �do not ebb and fl ow l ik·e the tide, and they wish for just and expedient ends, which they strive to attain in common. The base, on the other hand are incapable of concord, except in some small degree, as they are capable of friendship ••• "(IX, vi. 3) A community of highest friends constitutes the highest, most perfect state. Any institution unifying men at a fundamental level can be termed a kind of friendship. Aristotle speaks of the various kinds of constitutions in terms of the friendship they imply. The h1ghest is "the tfmocratic form of constitution; since the ideal of Timocracy is that all citizens shall be equal and shall be good, so that they all rule in turn, and all have an equal share of power; and therefore the friendship between them is one of equality."(VI, vi. 4) In every case, "friendship and justice exist between the same persons and are co extensive in range."CVIII, ix. 3) In a state with the ideal constitution a remarkable thing happens with regard to justice. As stated, in such a state the best kinds of friendships hold between citizens: " ••• friends' goods are common prope,rty and this is correct since .co mmunity is the essence of friendship."(VIII, vii. 4) Since all true friends maintain true equality and each acts only for the sake of the other's good, there is no reason for them to worry about injustice. "Friend s hip exacts what is possible, not what is due."CVIII, xiv. 4) "Equity" unites such a perfect state. The equitable man " ••• does not stand on his rights unduly, but is content to receive a smaller share although he has the law on his side ••• [equityJ is a special · kind of justice ••• "(V, x. 8) In an ideally constituted state, then, friendship wields such power that it creates a justice which is more than lawfulness. The many conflicting interests of individual~ are somehow subsumed by their common interest in each other as second-selves and the city as a meta-self. Such an ideal state would be informed by the highest expression of "concord." Before we turn to the anticipated difficulties in Aristotle's political philosophy, let us simply remark that it has been established that each of the terms: statehood, sel fhood and friendship is connected to the other two. One could have no state independent of self and friend. These, in turn, comprise, condition, and define the meaning and the life of the state. Aristotle does not suggest that the ideal state or harmoniously functioning self cannot be attained. He does, however, present an image more complex than thus far depicted here. Though "ordinary morta 1s" are indeed fundamenta 11 y Same, there remains the problem of those Others extra-ordinary nearly im- mortals in society. The godlike men will ultimately prove essential to the maintenan.ce of the city-self. Yet their Otherly existence within a coherent , unified state seem to imply a contradiction. These beings are apparently outside the claims s of justice. Ar istotle's vision of the active state features an immediate conflict between extreme individuals, especially godlike ones, and society. This momentary clash requires Aristotle as djkast to mediate. At certain points in his deliberations, he seems to rule in favor of the individual; at others, the community apparently gains primacy. Finally, the conflict becomes subsumed through the dynamic activity involved in the cyclic maintenance of the polis. Both aspects prove essential for the rest and the resting of the state. 62 Aristotle reserves some of his most striking language for those instants in which the isolated individual receives godlike glory. Those individuals who cannot enter into a state wel 1, or wi 11 not enter into a state, correspond to the extreme elements of the human soul. An apolitical man, says Aristotle, "must be either a lower animal or a god."(Pol itics) CI, i. 12) Aristotle depicts the curious "great-souled" man, who is most godlike in terms of the moral virtues--honor and glory--as being most anti-social. He "deigns" to accept the "great honors conferred upon him by persons of worth," a 1though they reportedly "afford him pleasure only in a moderate degree" because "no honor can be adequate to the merits of perfect virtue. Nearly everything and everyone he wi 1 1 despise, exhibiting a con.tempt for others."( IV, iii. 20-25) In fact, the great-souled man is justified in despising other people--his estimates are correct." (IV, iii. 22) (Note that even the Great-Souled do not exist in individual isolation.) Aristotle seemingly refers to Great-Souled Men and their relationships to the community in the Politics. It is no longer proper to count those exceptional men a part of the state; for they will be treated unjustly if deemed worthy of equal status, being so widely unequal in virtue and in their political ability: since such a man will be as a god among men ••• there can be no 1 aw dea 1 i ng with such men ••• for they are themselves a law. (Politics) Here is our o 1 d prob 1 em: - Great-Sou 1 ed Men a re god l i ke, "remote," Other than "ordinary mortals." How can there be relations? Aristotle suggests two solutions for the problem of the great-souled man confronting a community of "ordinary mortals." Though unappealing, ostracism is one remedy, suitable for democratic states here all must be equal. The second and more productive alternative recommends that the citizens relate to the god 1 i ke e 1 ement of the state in the same way as they just 1 y regard the divine element of the self and the actual god of the universe: ''The natural course is for all to obey such a man gladly, so that men of this sort may be kings in the cities for al 1 time."(Pol jtics) CIII, viii. 1) His very disinterested elevation and the fact that he is himself a law make the Great-Souled Man an ideal candidate for an uncorrupted ki~gshi~ The great-souled one is still somewhat transcended by the contemplative man, in whom Aristotle finds the ' highest expression of the moral virtues. The latter presents the most perfect example of intellectual virtue. The most compel 1 ing language in the Ethics enlivens the passages in which Aristotle treats this godlike character. The activity which produces this great intellectual happiness involves the faculty which is "thought to rule and lead us by nature and to have cognizance of what is noble and divine, either as being itself actually divine, or as being rel.atively the divinest part of us."(X, vii. 1) The gods, in Aristotle's view, ).re not socio-political beings. The categories and imperatives of justice,L;f._courage, 1 iberal ity, and temperance do not app 1 y to the gods as they do to men. "If we go th rough the 1 i st we sha 11 find that a 11 forms of virtuous conduct seem trifling and unworthy of gods."(X, viii. 7) Consequently, the "human activity which is most akin to the divine activity--contemplation--is also not a political or social activity. It is the 63 �most internal of all activities. "self- sufficient. " As the activity of true happiness, it must be Yet, paradoxical as it actually may be, it is our thesis that Aristotle's anthropology and polit- ology are coherent as well as contradictory. This duality in the city- self recalls that of the human self. In the human self the divine aspect must somehow maintain proper relations with the bestial one. Likewise,in order for the city to be a coherent whole, the individuals who are godlike must strive to uphold just political relations with those less so. •• • in every composite thing where a plurality of parts whether continuous or discrete is combined to make a single common whole, there is always found a ruling and subject and this is characteristic of living things and is present in as an outcome of the whole of nature ... (.E..Qljtjcs)(I ii 9) If t he living city's most great- souled and godlike elements were to eschew poli t ical r e lations with it, to refuse to lead, this would be unnatural and destructive. Such a happening would be analogous to the intellect refusing to gov e rn appetites. We mu st then seek to understand how these political relations can come about ; how t he greater men manage to rel ate to the "ordinary mortals." Although Aris t otle seems to present the happy life of contemplation as internal and solitary, he does not strictly do so. For, after a long discussion in book nine, Aristotle concludes " ••• to be happy a man needs virtuous friends ."(!X , ix. 10) Hence, if the contemplative life truly provides the ha ppiest, most pleasurable existence , it cannot be a lonely one. Even contemplatives need a community of friends, Aristotle decides. The difficult notion of the "self- sufficiency" of contemplative life reveal s a surprising meaning. The term "self- sufficiency" would seem to imply a minima l or negligible reliance or interaction with people or things external to the self. Yet one' s friends , as second selves , are not extern a l to th e self. For Aristotle, the limits of happiness pertaining to sel fhood and "selfs ufficiency" become even more broadly fluid : ••• it is felt that the final good must be a thing sufficient in itself. he term •sel f- su ff icient• , howev er, w empl oy w't e efe e ce not to one's self alone, living a life of isolation , but also to one's parents and children and wife and one's friends and fellow citizens in general , since man is by nature a social being.CI, vii. 6) A man's self ext~nds not only to his family and friends, but it also embraces his "fellow citi zens in general ." The political self becomes then, say , not his first or "second self" but perhaps a happy man's sixth self; if t hat prov es so, a contemp 1at i ve m i s se l f-s uff i c i ent .9..llii (or, "and therefore") an political . et, in his sect ions abou t the contemplative man , Arist otle never reminds Y us· abou t t hi s not ion of se l f hood (which fal 1 sat the distant beginning of the work) . In fact , he deliberately portrays the pure intellectual pursuits as "sep a rate" (X , vi i i . 3) s ep a rate from Other people ; separate from "external equipment"(ibid) s ep a r ate even from justice and the other moral virtues. 64 Aristotle seems to ignore, for the moment, even the findings of the iRlnediately previous book, which determined that no one could sustain happiness without friends. Within the iRlnediate parameters of this discussion of contemplation, then, Aristotle depicts the "self-sufficient" aspect of contemplation as entailing Otherness from polis, family, friends: self. The instantaneous portraits of the two most radically individualistic moments appear intrinsically contradictory. The great-souled man's character is at once the most apolitical and simultaneously--because of his very aloof disinterestedness and virtue--the most political. Apparently, the state must either banish him or crown him. Likewise, the contemplative individual - -the man both consummately happy and thus strongly "self-sufficient"--becomes social and political. In both cases, the individual is both Same and Other than his community. Selves seem to expand and contract, including and excluding in unstab 1e ways. Why does Aristotle provide such a seemingly contradictory account of great elements of the city-self? I think I can attempt a partial resolution to this problem. At least it seems less intractible than the theoretical problems of the personal self and its god/beast rel at ion. For one thing, we can see the workings of the state; we can pernaps observe its moral and intellectual leaders come to terms with it in public interaction. Even masters and slaves can relate politically insofar as they are human. The dialectic of inner human selfhood cannot be so observed. That internal government, that internal friendship between those so "remote" beings (god and beast), may be inexplicable, ••• nor should we in a 11 matters demand an explanation of the reasons why things are the way th~y are; in some cases it is enough if the fact that they are so is satisfactorily established. This is the case with first principles; and the fact is the primary thing. It is the first principle. CI, vii. 20) Although the political contradictions shown above may be resolvable, it seems worthwhile to wonder why they are present in the text at all. I think Aristotle wanted to assert that there can be real Otherness between people and that remoteness cannot always be bridged. A genuine and lasting tension will always exist between the great men and society. To present contemplation in its purest for m per ha ps it seemed nec essa ry to deny for a mome nt som l ess div in e e aspects of man's nature. Yet, Aristotle restores elsewhere what he seems to deny in book ten. To comprehend these difficulties regarding the self-Cpolity)Sameness and Otherness of great individuals we must examine them mediated through the motion of the Ethic's whole argument. Aristotle practically begins his work by announcing that since the science of politics is the ••• master-craft [that] employs the rest of the sciences ••• the Good of man must be the end of the science of Politics. [Therefore because] to secure the good of one person only is better than nothing; but to secure the good of the nation or state is a nobler and more di vine achievement ••• [Aristotl e declares] ••• our investigation is in a sense the study of Politics.CI ii 8) 65 �Through the early sections of the work, Aristotle accords primacy of cons ideration and importance to the political, rather than the individual , self. Political science aims to make men happy, i.e., active in accordance with virtue. This first comes about through training. The early sections of the Ethjcs concentrate upon lawgiving, education, habituation , and so on. For, "intellectual virtue is for the most part produced and increased by instruction, whereas moral or ethical virtue is the product of habit ••• and therefore it is clear that none of the moral virtues can be engendered in us by nature •• •"(I! , i. 2) And, "it is therefore not of smal 1 importance whether we are trained in childhood in one set of habits or another, on the contrary, it is of very great, or rather of supreme importance."(II ii 1) Since law can compel obedience the po litici a n mu s t undert ake to tr a in a l 1 c iti zen s , (bu t es pec i ally the young require guidance). The theoretical investigations of human happiness contained in the Ethics attempt to aid the attentive lawgiver to better habituate his charges. At some point in the successful ethical development or growth of a person , however, motivation must become interior instead of entirely exterior. A man must voluntarily choose his own actions and accept personal responsibility for t hem before just ic e. Prep a red by his political and person a l habitu at ion, a man grows as virtuous as he can. Much of the middle of the work concerns itself with the character of the virtues and their attainment. In terms of moral virtues, our former child and now "best man" wil 1 have grown into the Great - Souled Man. "Indeed, greatness in each of the virtues seems to go with greatness of soul."(IV, iii. 15) In terms of intellectual virtue, obviously the most successful man will then develop into the contemplative man. As noted, each of these characters appear integral to, and isolated from, the state. The great-soul should govern, even though the vastness of his virtue renders him remote from his people. The "self- sufficing" contemplative fellow must be at once isolated and communal . Immediately upon concluding his discussion of the inhuman contemplative life, stil 1 in the tenth book, Aristotle launches into a m ediated recapitulation of his earliest chapters. Again, at the very end of the work, he describes the necessary role of the state as that of educator and habitu ator. The difference between the last section of the Ethics an d the f i rst concerns t he ground covered between. While both parts deal with the science of politics, the second treatment assumes knowledge of virtue in general and of the contemplative man in general. Ultimately , Aristotle claims that the lawgiver must possess and utilize knowledge--science--about the "human Good" and other universals in terms of first principles. Must not such universals comprise at least part of the class of eternal divine matters which the contemplators contemplate? Now, during his discussion, Aristotle insists that the act of contemplation must be good simply for its own sake; it must itself suffice, so to speak . While this seems true if the frame of reference is the "individual" contempl ator "himself," the state as self has its own demands to make. For, "the good of the state is manifestly a greater and more perfect good, both to attain and preserve •• •to secure the good of a nation is a nobler and more divine achievement."(!, ii . 8) Being themselves the divinest of men , t he contemplat ives could hardly fail to heed the state's demand~ . Contemplatives acquire knowledge of the highest goods as they travel toward the state of contemplating the highest good. I believe 66 that with this know 1 edge those philosophers must either themse 1 ves govern or create a climate, an atmosphere, within which others can use those principles to legislateo ''The political philosopher is the master craftsman and lays down the end which is the standard by which we pronounce things good or bad in the ab so 1 ute sense."( VII, xi. 1) The end of the Ethics obviously points one forward towards the Politics; Aristotle says so there. Yet, because it picks up the mediated thread of the inquiry into political science which the initial chapters began, the end of the Ethics also doubles back towards its own beginning. The opening paragraph of the work speaks about the "good," the "end" of "every art and investigation," no doubt aiming the reader back through itself towards its own end and beginning hundreds of pages later. Like Plato's philosopher from the cave, Aristotle understands and inscribes the permanent life of his Ethical polis as returning, dynamic: One generation habituates the next to become virtuous and happy. The best men of that generation acquire their own volitions and. achieve moral greatness in quasi-individual terms. But, if there were no return to the cave, if those perfect contemplatives remained happily aloof, the state would cease to be a natural self; the next generation would have no informed lawgivers to habituate it correctly. Therefore, these highest expressions of "individualistic" happiness must contain the seed of communal happiness as wel 1. The highest success of the habituating community lies in producing "selfsufficient" happy men who must both deny and re-affirm the 11fe of the cormiunity and of their individualistic .selves. The actuality of the potentiality of the vital state, ~potentiality, (the potentiality say, in the form of unborn generations) affects the philosopher and somehow moves him into the political 1 i fe. Ethics starts, ends, and starts with the political; ·yet it always keep s ends in mind. Men are born and mediated through the influence of the preexistent state. They grow to be constituted of a proper internal state of self and~ in time, to constitute the external state-self. It is thus mediated through their wisdom and activity as it habituates the next cQihort. Through time extraordinary men are both Same and Other than their polis-selves. This is how the mature polis dynamically maintains itself for the sake of the good life of itself and its citizens. The pol is is natural in the fullest sense when. i~ exists in delicate rest while undergoing contradictory cyclic activity. III The active reader will discover ~nd sim~ltaneously animate a lively sel fhood in Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics. Like _any Aristotelean self, the selfhood of that text is composed of inter-relating "internal" and "external" friendships or relations. These friendships involve the dialectical mediation of Same and Other in a variety of contexts. We will now concern ourselves with the more narrowly conceived internal selfhood of the work; questions of form, content, and structure arise. Later, we will attempt a discussion of the broader sel fhood of the text. There questions of function, context and ground w11 1 emerge. 67 . �We depict the internal selfhood of the Ethjcs as being analogous to the interior s el fhood of person and state as described above. The person constitutes himself as a relation between those radical Others, God and beast. The state arranges itself around the political dialectics ongoing betw een its great men and its "ordinary mortals." The Nicomachean Ethics' self encompasses two seemingly contradictory or competing accounts of the highest Ethical good, end , or goal. As was discussed at length in the last section , one discourse seems to regard the public and political aspect of man's existence. as the primary factor in Ethical considerations. The Other account apparently emphasizes the predominant importance of the nearly isolated apolitical individual, viz, a great- souled and/or contemplative man . The contradictory elements co- exist in the Ethics and, fittingly , they express themselves at polar ends of the work: the political aspect arises most forcefully in the First Book; the lonely contemplative appears in the final Tenth. Since they directly contest the very significance of the work as whole, these internal conflicting patterns 1 ie at the heart of the Ethics' relation to itself. These Others cannot immediately sustain a peaceful coexistence, and their conflicting . presences make the Nicomachean Ethics a "changeable," difficult, and controverted work. soon develops a more articulated set of meanings. These include the particular cases of the more socially oriented distributive justice and the more personally applicable notion of retributive justice. Yet, the course of the book shows friendship to underlie, and sometimes replace considerations of justice. Friendship grows to transcend or encompass justice altogether in an ideal state, where all are equally friends and each wishes only the best for each. CThat is, a state composed only of selves and second selves; a state that is 1tsel f one large self.) Later, friendship seems to become an essential part of contemplation a~d then almost no part, depending on how one reads "selfsuffiency." Yet, it pops up as justice again in the habituating state, which reappears at the end of the book. What is at issue here now is the relation between the form and the content of the Ethics as a work . The thrust of the second section of this paper was an attempt to display and resolve certain questions regarding the content of Aristotle's argument about the city-self. There it was shown that one could generate arguments about how to read the contents of the Ethics by examining its form. For example, because the work seemed to have cyclic structure one inferred that perhaps its content- matter, the polis, might also display such a structure. Section II then, examined briefly the formal arrangement of the book in orde r t o understand its contents more complete ly. While recogni z ing that the meaning of the text is intimately bound up with its form, we wil 1 reapproach the examination of the form of the Nicomachean Ethics in order to understand the overa 11 nature and activity of the text as se 1 f. Other lines of categorical development follow the same internal pattern in the course of the Nicomachean Ethics. Aristotle moves these categories through and by means of his most fundamental and ultimate mediational tool: language. Language provides the means and defines the space through which the motion and being of the text takes p1ace. The mobile "to-i ng and fro-1ng" of the Eth1cs 1 overall dialectical form relies heavily upon the presence of the same kinds of motion in the form of his language (~) itself. Otherwise, it would be as if an automobile displayed an overall locomotion, but had no internal moving parts. The language through which the Ethics' categories develop advances indirectly and cautiously. Initially, Aristotle formulates his speech in a deliberately imprecise and carefully undefined fashi.on. All the Ethical categories will slowly grow into a form Other than but ultimately Same as the form in which they are initially presented. <This holds true for all change, according to Aristotle.) To avoid outright l itera 1 contradiction between earlier and . 1ater sections, Aristotle must couch his pre-scientific im-mediate findings in terms stable enough to hold meaning, and yet plastic enough to admit their necessary change and evolution without embarrassment. Generally, Aristotle accomplishes t hi s by use of s uc h f o r mal con s t r uc t ions as: "X i s t hought t o be Y ",: or, "A seems to us to be B." As his categories grow more mature through the book--as they reach their final expressions--Aristotle's language becomes much more definitive: "We declare X to be Y," he will say. "We w11 l find al 1 A's to be B," he asserts. Or, simply, "A is B." Ju s t as his internal duality causes man's mut a bi 1 ity, the fact t hat the Ethics has not a straight forward "simple" nature accounts for its developing, dynamic mode of being. To this point, the essay's 1 ast section suggested that the Ethics has an internal formal pattern of development which parallels the growt h cyc l e of a generat i on of c i t i zens . Th ey are born into a po li t ical context, habituated, trained , and become volitionally virtuous. Some few attain the highest states of intellectual and moral virtue. These men , we argued, are naturally pulled back into the political arena , providing for the next generation. The Ethics, as self, undergoes a similar development. It too moves generally from the political sphere, through moral virtues , intellectual virtues, and contemplation only to return back to an account of the necessity of political life. The logic of this development is dominated by the interplay of those internal polar Others- -the political and individual . The work moves through itself, from one to the Other and back, as endlessly as there are generations of the ideal pol is or active readings of the text. The book's flowing ethical categories provide the media for its cyclic motion . Like "individual" citizens and the state, the virtues grow into themselves throughout a reading of the text. Justice, for example, begins as an abstract and vague concept, containing all social virtues. Dialectical 1 v, it 68 Pain and pleasure follow a similar path of development. At first Aristotle treats them in only a general fashion. Through the general flow of the work, they cease to be mere tools for habituating children and other citizens. Indeed, they come to bear an intrinsic relation to moral virtues as a kind of by-product. Of course, pleasure comes to find its highest expression when 1t accompan 1es contemp 1 ati ve acti v 1t i es. Yet, it swings around to reappear as a legislative device. Examples of such constructions can be found throughout the Ethics. A paradigmatic passage of another kind of Aristotelean dialectical language informs his definition of virtue: Virtue then is the settled disposition of the mind determining the choice of actions and emotions relative to us, this being determined by principle, that is, as a prudent man would determine it. And it is a mean state between the two vices, one of excess and one of defect. Furthermore, it is a mean state in that whereas the vices either fall short or exceed what is right in feelings and in actions, 69 �virtue ascertains and adopts the mean. While fn respect of its substance and the definition that states what it really is in essence virtue is the observation of the mean, in point of excellence and rightness it is an extreme. CII, vi. 15) As one reads the passage closely, one actually senses a dialectical rhythm, a carefully controlled back and forth motion. This definition does define, it does differentiate virtue from some other things. Yet, the very virtue of this definition of virtue as mean is its ability to be itself an inclusive mean. Particularly in the early parts of the definitiori, each clause appears to respond dialectically to the one before it. The phrase, " ••• determined by principle, that 1s, as a prudent man would determine it," provides a splendid example of Aristotle's fence-sitting mean between, say, a Platonic and a more Protagorean position. We have seen the internal moments of the Nicomachean self's dialectic. We have observed that the Nicomachean Ethics has an internal motion and that this "changeableness", as with the human and political selves, somehow arises from the interaction of contradictory interior elements. Yet questions remain concerning the possibility, ground and meaning of that "interaction." The vitality of the text comes about through its intrinsic dialectics. However, when we examine the text passively, or in isolation, the book, the volume, seems dead, fragmented, inert. The words and chapters of the Ethics are the inert sum of its parts. Since its separate accounts of itself apparently contradict ea.ch Other, the Ethics, 1 ike al 1 Aristotelean selves, suffers from an im-mediate internal problem: it is alien to its own self. What force can adjudicate and mediate between the two Others and show them to be somehow Same? What animating "external" force unifies the whole and relates the Ethics to itself? What revolves the book through its rotations, actively pitting the contradictory elements against each other? In order to address this issue of "two-ness" we must momentari 1y turn our attention from formal to functional considerations. The function which the Njcomachean Ethics performs is to provide a framework for relating two Others separated by vast gulfs of time and space--Aristotle and his reader. As sections I and II suggest, the activity of "conversing and communicating thoughts" or, the common activity of lo.gos, enab 1es any two humans to be unified as friends or fel low-cit·zens. Here again in III, logos mediates and relates Others. What is any text, and the Nicomachean Ethics especially, but a package of relating logoi? If we view the Ethics as logos mediating between t~o interactive minds--the active writer's and equally active reader's--then the question of the text's animation becomes less difficult in theory and in practice. In practice, we know where the text acquires its movement and self-sameness--we read the words Aristotle wrote and think about them. The contradictions we find and define are mediated through motion in the mind. We resolve them through our interpretive hypotheses. More theoretically, Aristotle informed the Ethics with potential, and the active reader supplies the actuality of that potentiality. The text revolves, develops, 1 ives and exists in the atmosphere of the dialectical relation between writer and reader. They animate the conversational text with their own souls, with their reason. 70 The Ethical text then takes on an interesting status. As a logos which relates distant Other selves, the more fully it relates those Others, the more fully it can relate to itself. For it is the interaction of minds within the nexus of the Nicomachean Ethics that provides the animation of the text itself. Just as a happy man requires "external" selves--writer and readers--in order to be fully itself. Thus, in terms of the dual concept "sel f-suffic1ency," there can be known two kinds 1f sel f--an impoverished and narrow conception and a more fluid and broad understanding. For the Ethical text as for the human being, the broader conception, involving second and perhaps third selves comprehends and vitalizes the narrower, more internal self. The function of the text, then, is to mediate between Aristotle and his reader. Section I showed that an "individual" can relate to others, can be a friend, only because he is not a s i mp 1 e u n i ta r y be i ng. He can re 1 ate because he i s h i ms e l f a 1 ways a l ready a relation. Similiarly, a now of time can mediate between the past and the future because it is itself a relation, not an atomistic thing. Every smallest now is not simple, says Aristotle in the Physics, but is a relationship between the very end of the preceding past and the very beginning of the future to come. Generally, 1f a mediation is to sustain relations between entities--each of which is a relation in itself--it must 1n itself be dual. The one mediating entity "two" must contain within itself two distinct ones. Thus, because the Nicomachean Ethics functions by relating its writer and readers, it follows that it should have the dualistic structure outlined above. Were it formally unitary and monolithic it would not have earthly selfhood, nor would it be able to rel ate Others. The Ethics' formal dialectics thus play a crucial role in the life of that text. Not only do they allow form to parallel content, but they allow for the very possibility of the text's overall function. Aristotle arranged the Njcomachean Ethics dialectically and informed it with dialectically flowing language and categories because it is itself a dialectic dialogue between him and his readers. Aristotle had incorporated into his form the holistic tensions intrinsic to his content and function. It seems fair to claim that the Nicomachean Ethics enjoys some functional success as a mediational tool, for it seems to manage to mediate between two immediately "remote" Others: Aristotle and this community of readers. We recall that for two Others to have relations they must be the Same in some more fundamental sense. They must have always "stood on more or less the same ground."CIX, vi. 2) But upon what."same ground" can today's reader stand 1th the great and ancient and foreign Aristotle, so that something like the Ethics can relate them? The discussion of this issue requires a re-evaluation of the text itself. For the work does not merely mediate but also results from other mediations and relations. Most narrowly, the Nicomachean Ethics relates closely with other Ari stot 1 ean texts. Most c 1ose1 y akin, of course, is the Po 11 tics. As mentioned, the last paragraph of the Ethics directs the reader's attention forward to that "external" work as much as it points back toward its own more "internal" self. One might not hesitate to call the Politics the second-self of the Ethics. Other Aristotlean texts are similarly internally related, to varying degrees. In the Ethjcs, Aristotle plainly displays the fact that he regards himself as undertaking a dialectic with his "friends" Plato and the Platonists. The . 71 �concepts and concerns of his "closest personal"(!, vi. 1) friends condition, both positively and negatively, ttie whole Ethical undertaking. To a lesser degree, perhaps, the Ethics results from Aristotle's attempts to mediate or converse with various pre-socratic figures and Sophists. In a fascinating fashion, the Ethjcs also mediates between Aristotle and his community. He clearly believes that the answer to the question "What do we mean by X?" and even "What is X?" lies i.n everyday speech. Aristotle never strays far from common usage and seems to regard himself as much a clarifier as an originator of ideas. (for example, consider the .dichast/dikast argument cited above.) Aristotle composes his own words (e.g. "~l~") to express "new" concepts. Yet even they are grounded, etymologically and conceptually, in the prior language of his corrununity. Finally, the Ethics and Aristotle arise from a ground more difficult to speak of. He was a human being, "by nature." A natural 1 y social and loquacious animal. It is on this ground that Aristotle and his reader are most fundamental 1 y Same. In fact, it is likely, that her understandings of herself stem partially from her and her society's reading of Aristotle 's ideas. As mentioned immediately above, those concepts are grounded in Greek culture and language which have to infuse her culture and speech. Insofar as one is familiar with other Aristotelean works, Platonic works, the Pre-socratics and Sophists, one becomes more and more same with the Aristotle of the Njcomachean Ethics. The fact that Aristotle and his reader can thus "stand on more or less the same ground" enables the Ethics to perform its function of mediating between the "two." From the marvelously effective form and content with which Aristotle endowed the work arises the potentiality of its being a dialectically mediating text. Active readers and interpretors cause the rich actuality of that potentiality. Through the mediate interaction of the above self-ish elements, the Ethics text relates itself ("internal" and "external") to itself (narrowly and broadly defined). This relating becomes the soul of the vitally "selfsufficient" self of the Nicomachean Ethics. Footnotes: 1. In the Ethics, Aristotle says: "Friendship is essentially a partnership [kojnonjaJ. A man stands in the same relationship to a friend as to himself." (IX, vii. i) In the Politics, Aristotle consistently employs kojnonja for citystate. This provides importantly linguistic evidence that the three terms are analogically the same. 2. Curiously enough, this passage about halving and judging falls almost precisely halfway through the Njcomachean Ethjcs. It lies at V, iv . 9; the work ends at X, ix. 23. : Acknowledgementi ·Loeb translation by H. Rackham, MA. Ann Burlein, who edited. Cambridge, Mass ., 1975. 72 �Non-Profit Org . BULK RATE U. S. POSTAGE St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 PAID PERMIT No. 120 ANNAPOLIS, MD. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. ii, 72 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Burlein, Ann (Editor) Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Winter 1985 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1985 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Winter 1985. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Winter 1985 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/b4f252cb056e37f0ca0721d64dec8446.pdf 63e46eb105fb47f1ef1faa4378cb9dd9 PDF Text Text �energe1a editors staff faculty advisor Stephanie Connolly Kaitlyn Schuler Genevieve Allen Jerome Dausman Liam Dougherty Nathan Goldman Danielle Nelson Ian Tuttle Fawn Trigg cover by Hannah Pasternak: Pacific Sun<1et �contents Jerome Dausman 7 Noble Lied Nathan Goldman 9 Mu.:1cfe Sarah Marx 15 YomKippur photographs Henley Moore Rainer Maria Rilke 39 40 14 Erika Adam Maraschky Stephanie Connolly 17 Be.:1tpitch Trinity Kathryn Lewis Eva Brann 8 59 38 29 67 Quad Scene Tunnel Vuion Private Cour0 State Circle Hannah Pasternak 16 Journeyc1 Kaitlyn Schuler 46 Flamingo d Repo.:1e AchiLfean Armor and 0dyd.:Jeian Time Summer Sonnet Offering trandlateo by Stephanie Co11110LLy Maggy Barnes 42 Suffocation Liam Wallace 47 The Labyrinth of Quixote and the Dream ofMonte.:1ino.:1 T. Carmi 68 Intimate Matter.:! tra11<1!ateo by Daniel Kraft Vmcent Tavani 78 The Bird who Wait.:1 - hu .:1ong �7 Noble Lies .feronielJaUdnian Is it so noble, that Socratic lie that would, Republic proudly give birth to? Do noble ends the means ennoble by transmuting base-born acts to holy view? What is it in a man that Truth mayn't be enough to draw him out from dismal cave to dwell where sunlight permits all to see that which forbids a man to be a slave? If shadows be the poetry so strong to turn the heart of even a good man would not the poems of free men belong to all that would against the lie withstand? May that division of Socratic line, fall ne'er between the likes of mine and thine. �9 8 Muscle Nathan GorJnian Bedtpitch I Henley Moore Watching the birth of new muscle is like watching the growth of a vine in fast motion. It blooms from the seed and wraps, wraps about the bone, forms a coiled spiral. Moves as if hungry, chasing prey, mounts both widthwise and lengthwise, swells into a creature of substance, bubbles gently until its journey is complete, before it tightens, solidi£es. And then it is a dead thing, and it's hard to remember that what comes next is not grief, but life. "There's a reason this is supposed to happen in the dark," I tell her. Don't think she hears me. She's too busy seeing, gaping, to remember the world outside her line of sight . . The organs come next, sprouting one by one from the tiny black nodes distributed generously around the body, clustered most noticeably in what should become the chest cavity, I think. The heart is a meaty, fleshy thing, and I'd like to say it blossoms like a rose, but it doesn't. It gurgles. Pusses up into an unshapely, unbeating mass, and I find myself wishing hearts really could resemble those simple, symmetrical symbols sandwiched between magnet and metal on refrigerator doors, circumscribed in lace, a tear drop splintered and inverted upon itself. That is a place from which love could arise. But this ... even blood seems too pure. The veins. Arteries. Twisting, trembling see-through tubes, snaking around each other, up �11 10 through the body, constructing a dense network of tangles. "I thought veins were blue," I say to her, accusmg. "Blood is blue," says the attendant. He's young, with hollow cheeks and a well-proportioned nose. Smugness flickers at the corners of his lips, the way it does on young people when they correct someone older. "There's no blood in these. Yet." "Oh," I say. "We're just constructing the shell now. It will be refrigerated while you continue the customization process. Fluids enter last." "Right." It's almost human now. Everything but the skin. That's a terrifying thought. Is this how I would look if you ripped off my skin, drained my fluids? A fleshy labyrinth of organs and tubes. We are such ugly things. "That's it?" Helen says. Her voice is quiet, like a stifled breath. "F or now, yes, "h e atten dant says. "B eauti. t ful, isn't it?" Helen nods dazedly, and I suck back a grimace. Sunsets are beautiful; sons are beautiful. This .... "Dr. Burke will see you now, for your consultation," says the attendant. "If you'll just follow me." Behind the glass, the tube in which the body was grown is drained of fluid. The tube divides at the center and retracts into metal canisters on each end. Two silver, three-pronged mechanical claws grip the body at the shoulder and hips and move it t o t he left, out of sigp.t. "It goes to the refrigerator now?" I ask. "Yes," says the attendant. "With the others. " "Blue," Helen says. "We decided blue." Dr. Burke makes a note on our file. "A popular choice," he says, smiling, looking up at us with rich brown eyes. "Helen's are blue," I say, probably too defensively. "And my mother's were." We haven't lost respect for lineage. Genetic tradition. Helen places her hand on mine, delicately, and runs her index finger around the curve of my wedding band. Sterling silver, cold and smooth. "I don't think Dr. Burke meant to ruffle you, dear," she says, squeezing my hand gently. · "No, no," he says, tapping his pen rhythmically against his ample mustache. "And brown hair, you said. Lovely choices." "Auburn," Helen says. "Of course. Auburn," says Dr. Burke, smiling like a grandfather assuring his granddaughter that yes, of course Santa will like your letter. His eyes turn to me, as if to say, Isn't that cute? I look down. "And how about complexion?" Dr. Burke asks. His pen abandons his mustache to hover near the form once more. "You looked at the samples?" "Yes, yes," Helen says, beginning to rifle through her purse. "They're in here somew her e .... " �13 12 "S eventeen, I say. e wante d num b er seventeen. Right, honey?" I remember a line from the brochure: We're proud to bring you the widest range of shades in complexion. We out color the competition. "Oh, yes, yes, how could I forget?" She restores the contents of her purse and looks at me, eyes adoring, lips slightly puckered. "And that's why I love you." I smile at her, genuinely. She has the palest skin, the reddest lips. "No lipstick?" I asked her, incredulous, when we first moved in together, and I surveyed the makeup she had moved into the bathroom. "Really?" "All natural," she said, smiling so impishly I forgave the cliche and kissed her. Dr. Burke makes another note. "Should go nicely." He nods his sage approval. JJ "TIT vv "I had this dream last night," I tell her driving home, "about a dragon." ''I'm glad we went with blue," she says. "Blue was right, wasn't it? Best option?" "Had this long tail. Coiled, like a snake." "Huh?" "The dragon." "Oh. Well. What color was it?" It was blue. "Red," I say. "Strange color for a dragon," she says. ''I'd have thought green." 7 "' .1.eah , I say. "Blue was right. Right?" "Yes." JJ "And ... auburn?" I wonder what it's like to hope; I imagine it's somewhat warmer a feeling than it is to know. "Of course, dear," I say. "All The Right Choices." END �14 15 Yorn Kippur Sarah Marx Someone had told them that the Book of Life was already bolted, that the only way to wrench it open was to pray. They stared, unmoved for what were words? Transactions, courtesies, a string of curses when the hammer slammed down too hard, missing the nail, · excuses, the sibilant lies of a love song, as many and slight as the grains of sand that chafed their feet; yet, chastened by the warnings and the autumn storms and the wild dogs whose barks lit up the sky they prayed - and prayed - and prayed and after they had vomited up their insides in a hail of guttural sounds, corrosive, sticky, bilious, after they had spewed their words and purged themselves beyond recognition, Erika I Kathryn Lewis all they could do was wash their mouths and hope that the book might reopen, and hope that the night would pass. �17 16 Achillean Armor and Odysseian Time Eva Brann Predented Ma Lecture at Mercer Univerc1ity on October2Ic10 2010 Joarney.1 I Hannah Pasternak Homeric scholars used to worry a lot - perhaps they still do - about the authorship of the two great Greek epics. Do they have an author, or were they pieced together from lays, from folk songs? If there is an author, a final composer, is it the same one for the Iliad and the Odyssey? And was it the Homer of tradition, the one claimed by seven ·cities? A sensible amateur, meaning an aware and loving reader of the poems, might well ask: Does it matter? Well, it really doesn't, except insofar as this pseudo problem might make us actively attentive to factors we would otherwise take in passively: the inner coherence of each poem separately and the comparative character of the poems taken together. I'll make no mystery of my opinion. To me, it's a no brainer. Each poem taken separately, Iliad and Odyssey, offers scores of bits of evidence that it was composed by one acutely aware, fully in control author and, taken comparatively, they give plenty of signs that they have one maker. (You may have heard that the word poet, poietes in Greek, means "maker.") For all I know, the �18 19 poet walked on earth in two bodies with one soul. Maybe his real name was Homer, or maybe Homer 1 and Homer2. It is the comparative aspect I want to talk to you about tonight - to whet your appetite for taking in both poems. But I'll say more about the Odyssey, which you've read recently. Why do I think that comparison shows that both poems have one maker? For the oddest reason: because they are so unlike. Put less oddly - because they are deliberately and thoughtfully antithetical. Obviously the one is relentlessly devoted to war making and its contingencies, while the other depicts the uneasy peace that is war's aftermath and the returns of its veterans. Consequently the venue of the Iliad is static, the beach, the plain of Troy, while the events of the Odyssey move all over the Mediterranean Sea. The dreary long stretches of close combat and the high moments of holy terror of the Iliad are almost hyper realistic, stuffed with repetitive accounts of pierced jugulars and spilled bowels, while the Odyssey is full of swiftly moving, novelly various adventures and magically fantastical places. The poetics of the poems is in accord with these features. The Iliad is full of lovely similes, whole cascades of them; they are needed to relieve the imagination of its concentration on blood and guts. The Odyssey has far less figurative language, and some of it in fact uglifies the proceedings, since the poem is in itself "poetic" and in parts dreamlike. But above all, the chief heroes are quite de- signedly antithetical, each other's precise opposites: Achilles has chosen a short life; he is intense, temperamental, and constitutionally juvenile. Odysseus, on the other hand, is promised a peaceful death in old age; he is patient, controlled and manfully mature. Achilles, it turns out, is an unconscious liar (we can talk about that in the question period), while Odysseus lies consciously, artfully, gloriously. Longinus, the best known art critic of late antiquity, thought that Homer wrote the Odyssey in old age when dramatic intensity gives way to narrative fantasy. I think Homer composed both at the height of his power, but that's speculation. Tonight I want to draw your attention to two preoccupations of Homer, each characteristic of one epic: Armor and Time. Armor is clunky, concrete, and eminently ex terior; in fact, you might call !t the warrior's exoskeleton. Time is fleeting, intangible, eminently interior; you might call it the traveller's inner life line. Armor is Achilleian and time is Odysseian, at least in this talk. That is a way of saying that the two epics claim your whole attention always - but that in reading the Iliad your powers of visualization, of making words into images, are specially called on, while the Odyssey requires particularly a capacity for running complex strands of events together in memory. So first to armor in the Iliad. We are at the climax of the poem, in Book XX, when the moment comes that Hector, having run around the walls of his doomed city trying to escape fleet footed A chilles, gives up and turns to face him. �21 20 Homer makes sure we see what Achilles sees as he examines the figure before him to find a place for his fatal spear. Hector is covered from tip to toe by the armor he has stripped from the corpse of the one friend Achilles loves ardently, Patroclus. Achilles sees the spot near the jugular and thrusts. Visualize it, and it makes your hair stand on end. Hector is inside, but what is visible is Patroclus as Achilles last saw him when he sent him off to enter battle in his stead. And indeed, when Achilles first hears that Patroclus has fallen he cries out in unconscious self accusation: ''I've lost him" which is in Greek homonymous, that is, like sounding, with "I've killed him." But there's more. This armor Patroclus then wore is Achilles's own. And indeed Achilles, the short lived, knows that he must die soon after Hector; in killing him he is fixing his own death. There's yet more. What does it mean to wear another's armor, especially Achilles's? Our freshmen back home read the Iliad before any other book, and I am - happily - with them in seminar this fall. They pointed out to each other that the same thing happens to Patroclus and Hector, as Homer m a kes explicit: They begin to be filled with the raging courage characteristic of Achilles. That enters into them with his outer covering - but not his warrior's competence, his incomparable potency. Their borrowed temper exceeds their unborrowable ability. They go beyond the orders and the advice of their friends and beyond their own powers - and they die. These are the conundrums of bor rowed outfits. W ho hasn't experienced a, perhaps less than heroic, personal case of it? Now to time in the Odyssey. Let me begin with some wild speculation: What did Homer assume about time? The same as you and I, I would guess. His language expressed three main tenses, present, fu ture, and past, as does ours: "things that are, things that will be, and things that are before." And as are we, so was he, guided by them. He surely wondered where the past had gone (or better, he knew) and where the future was to be found (he knew that too). He may not have asked himself how long the present is, nor, since the more closely you analyze it the less viable it gets; just when is it that we are actually there, alive and present? If you wonder how legions of angels can dance on the head of a pin, try living on that knife edge cusp of the time phase called the Now by philosophers! Story tellers, Homer included, rely on the three phases of time that our lndoeuropean language proposes. But each of these phases has its own times: There's an extended present, termed the progressive aspect, which is in grammar what the so called "specious present" is in psychology the practical solution to the evanescence of the instant: "I am talking," - indeterminately, extendedly, but "now" as well. Then, besides the simple past, there is a future of the past and also a past of the past, called the past perfect: "I was going to finish, I had finished my talk." And the same can b e done for the future, and all these tenses (verbal �-23 22 times) and aspects (ways of relating to these phases of time) are thus available for story telling. It is therefore significant that most tale telling takes place in the simple past. By and large stories, to be told, need to have happened; that's their warrant for being tellable. Homer too begins the Odyssey this way: "The man of many shifts - tell me of him, Muse - he who drifted so many ways .... " Story time is "Once upon a time," meaning "at some indefinite time past," in the unfixed time of the imaginary world. The places of this world were never present but always past in the telling -yet present in the imagining. Their ordinary time, for Homer and for us, marches on, continuously and progressively. But in the soul's imagination and in the poet's fiction that time has inversions, repetitions, parallelisms in short discombobulations. Ordinary or r eal time is the measure of the world's most reliably regular motions: the diurnal rotation of the heavens as mirrored in mean time which is visible in our analogue watch dials. It is cyclical, imaging the daily retur ns of the sun, and if the watch has a calendar function, it has a linear component as well, the "marching on" factor. When you compose these you get a spiral, a good model for real world time - upward directed if you believe in progress, otherwise spinning down. The time of fiction, however, issues from that laboratory of experiments with nonbeing, the workshop of the imagination, which, first, in Shakespeare's words, "bodies forth/ The forms of things unknown," whereupon "the poet's pen/ Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing/ A local habitation and a name." And as soon as the imaginatively formed nothing has acquired a local habitation it is fixed in the past permanent, what you might call the mythic tense. This time of the poet's pen is the soul's time, which is anything but linearly sequential. In short, Homer's time can be soberly the same and also imaginatively very differ ent from our daily time. Thus, the Iliad is a temporally quite prosaic tale, while the Odyssey is a time web of fantastic complexity. For the events of the Iliad are deeds and their consequences, and its actors are warriors. They have passionate souls, but, except when they are put out of commission, they live those passions out in action; they themselves don't do much extensive imagining. Consequently, the less than six weeks of the Iliad are told in linear order. Old heroes do, to be sure, go into their memories to tell stories, but the time of the camp goes on while they are back in their youth; the young listeners respectfully conceal their impatience while their elders ramble instructively and invidiously: They in their time were better. If the march is straight on, the pacing of time is, however, very varied. Sometimes it's time out while Homer walks the beach telling who was collected before Troy, and very significantly - just where they were stationed. Sometimes for days and days nothing much happens except that a punitive plague rages or that the warriors incessantly knock out or in each other's eyes, teet h , b reast b ones, innards. Then �25 24 again comes a memorable minute not of knocked about bodies and stricken camps but of agonized souls and human eventfulness, for example that moment when Achilles is about to plunge his spear into a body which is completely covered, face and all, with his own old armor. In short, the story of Troy is told straightforwardly though with greatly varying psychic density. All in all the Iliad goes in, as Longinus noticed, for grandeur, the Odyssey for sophistication, and so with respect to time structure. The less than two weeks of the Odyssey are as temporally complex as a composition can well be. I will say right now what most helps to make that complexity possible: Horner turns over a large part of his epic to Odysseus' imagination, so that all the temporal laminations of the soul- Odysseus' soul of many shifts - are wor ked into the fabr ic of the poem. Consequently there is a multitude of what I will call "time realms" in the Odyssey. (I forego here dwelling on an unabating puzzlement of mine: why the gear of the human world develops in time from simple to complex, while the souls of human beings tend from deeply intricate to reductively simple: why does the psychic appear to go less subtle as the material world gets more intricate?) I discern ten such time realms. 0. I list as zero a ternporality not belonging to the poem itself, the historian's chronological speculations about the reality and dates of the fall of Troy (thought in antiquity to have taken place in 1183 B .C .E.), t he date of H orner and his corn- position (thought to belong to the later eighth century), and, most vexedly, the real time of the times there described (thought to be an amalgam of a historical Mycenaean Greece of the late second millennium with the times of the following Dark · Age, when the Achaean kingdoms had been destroyed). All that, all the speculative "historical" time, has, even were it more certainly known, no great bearing on the epics. It is indeed delightful to learn that many a boar's tusk helmet, such as Odysseus wore on a beastly night of marauding in the plane of Troy, is found depicted in Mycenaean contexts, but it is a dead end delight. There's nowhere to take it; evidently Horner had seen artifacts half a millennium old. Such archaeological evidence is altogether external to the poems; it doesn't even provide their context, did they need one. 1. I'll begin with Homer's time - not the century of his life or of the seven cities t hat claimed him, but his time relation to the poem, which is, as I said, the present. Horner is presently there; his Muse tells him, and he immediately tells us the story, and at rare times he even intervenes, notably when he directly addresses a man he loves, Eurnaius, the faithful swineherd. The story is long past, but the teller is now present, a human channel for the goddess, his Muse. Delicate as he is about introducing himself, to me it seems to matter that the third word of the poem is his imperative -Andra rnoi ennepe, Mousa: Tell me the man, Muse" - a request now, to be realized as the p oet intones: H orner the teller is always there �26 27 (e.g., Iliad XII 176). It is a presence evanescently in my consciousness, and yet it is of some consequence to me that the teller himself is in the "sempiternal," the enduring, present. 2. The Odyssey has its own real world. Its time is indeterminate, because it is probably, as I said, an amalgam of old stories, surviving artifacts and present conditions. Its places are more or less determinate and still in existence. Ithaca has recently been relocated, but is still close to the island even now called Ithaca; Troy was rediscovered by Schliemann in 1871 at Hissarlil{. in Turkey, though that its seventh level is Priam's Troy is speculative. Egypt and its "men of strange speech" is still where returning Menelaus was blown and landed and gathered treasure, and we know where Phoenicia was. This world is a very real world, r inging the "midland" sea, the Mediterranean , which forms the setting for the so called "returns" (nostoi) of the Trojan expedition. Of these Odysseus's took the longest, ten years. It was a world of danger and opportunity for trade and piracy. Since the victors, after a ten year investiture, finally captured a totally impoverished city (Iliad XVIII 290), they also took time getting home, attempting to beg, barter, and rob their way into some semblance of a prosperous venture. This is what Odysseus is up to during part of his travels. His is a mobile world; rumors and real news are rife, but only toward the end do brief sightings of Odysseus come to outlying Ithaca. 3. Ithaca has its own time world, the baseline time. It and neighb oring islands comp rise a tiny island kingdom left bare of fathers, full of rambunctious sons beleaguering a strong and wise queen, Penelope, and her dangerously exposed son, Telemachus. Odysseus, the then young monarch, had left twenty years ago, ten sitting before Troy and ten traveling back. His old father has withdrawn to his farm, his mother has died. Otherwise nothing much happens in this isolated little realm, until seventeen years or so after Odysseus' departure, when the now grown up sons of Odysseus' expeditionary force - a hundred plus of them - begin to make trouble for the queen and the prince about to come of age. The pretense is the wish to marry her, though only two older men are real contenders. They plot Telemachus's death. Ithacan time is a long relegation to stasis, gathering into a crisis. 4. Parallel to the island's isolation runs Odysseus' strange disappearance. At Troy, for ten years, he had been at the center of things; as Homer tells us, his beached ships are literally in the middle of the line up (Iliad VIII 223), but no sooner is Troy taken when he takes off. He nearly reaches Ithaca but is blown off course. For a few years he becomes an adventurer (in the old sense of someone who undertakes hazardous enterprises) and then falls off the earth for seven years, "out of sight and hearing." In the twentieth year of his absence sporadic news of him comes to Ithaca. Then he himself returns. Here's his time, his ten years of oblivion: After some years of doing what adventuring captains do - sacking, stealing, selling - and meeting and (to b e properly vulgar) shack- �29 28 ing up with the lady whores of island ports, he holes up with one of them until he's thoroughly, depressively, sick of her. And then he finds his way home, where he tells a jumble of tales realistically pieced together from the reality of his driftings - real adventures, real experiences, in a real sea world, real, that is, in the world of the Odyssey. As the Muse tells Homer: After sacking Troy, he drifted all over and "saw the cities of men and knew their mind." While he is satisfying his insatiable curiosity, he slowly loses his men, who have neither his endurance nor his self containment. They succumb to drugs in one port, make pigs of themselves in another, transgress the cattle laws of the land, and fall into the ocean, until no one is left. Recall that these are the fathers of the sons who are growing up wild in the kingless Ithacan kingdom. This sea world is the dangerous and opportunity laden venue that history books about the early Aegean world describe - relying heavily on Homer, to be sure. 5. Odysseus is the most steadfast of men and the most vagrant, most genuine and most · lying, most focused and most ambiguous, most rf:!alistic and most imaginative. The time I'm about to delineate, the odyssean time (with a lower case "o") is altogether (as expressly was his time at Troy) under the aegis' of his wife and his boy. He thinks only and always of returning to his queen, but he diverts himself - literally - on his way, particularly with women. Decry that ambiguity who will, to me it Tunnel Vuwn I Adam Maraschky �30 31 makes human sense; we, well, many of us, are capable of such digressions on our way- I won't even add: men especially. That longing for Penelope is the plangent strain behind all the "adventures" whose time I'll describe in a moment. This man is the most adhesive of husbands and the most abandoned of men - a raw and real sea captain who has the soul of a poet. So much so that, as I said, Homer turns the telling of the most wonder filled part of the tale over to him. He tells it twice, both times in deepest privacy; only of Calypso is there ever more than a passing hint in the world at large. Odysseus tells his story first to the Phaeacians, who are, wonder of wonders, themselve~ a part of his magical myth. This lower case odyssey is more involved even than being a story within a story; it is a ring tale, a veritable ouroboros, the snake that swallows its own tale. Odysseus finishes his "myth telling" (his very own word: Odyssey xxii 450) with his arrival on Calypso's island of Ogygia, of which he had told them the day before, since it was the last station before his arrival among the Phaeacians. Thrice, then, we here hear the tale of the Calypso episode, once as Homer sees Odysseus living it out and twice as Odysseus spins it into a tale. The Phaeacians bring him home, and for that Poseidon, the god of the element Odysseus has used and battled, loved and hated, punishes them with isolation: He throws a high wall around them, and that's the end of their magical sea faring in sh ips that h ave the speed of a t h ought su ch as flies instantaneously from here to the bounds of the world. Once properly home, that is to say, in bed with Penelope, Odysseus tells the story again, with discreet omissions. Both tellings are exclusively for his listeners. It is a story of coastal raids and island hopping, of places where dwell formidably mature feminine witches who are eager to seduce him, Circe, Sirens, Calypso - and once a young girl whose shy approaches he wisely suppresses in his account to Penelope. To put it plainly: It is a time in the world of the imagination identifiably parallel to his travels in the world of reality. While the time the army spends investing Troy is, as war time is said to be, an alternation of long stretches of boredom and short squalls ofterror, these ten years, parallel to the merchant pirate's voyages, consist of about three years of vivid eventfulness and seven years out of the sight, out of the mind of men - though never of the woman who holds him, a demi divinity - and then at the end there is a week or so, when he emerges into reality, and everything happens at once, just as it does in life. During the first voyaging y~ars, when the pirate Odysseus is sailing the Aegean sea, the poet Odysseus is seeing his places of call imaginatively: monocular giants, the Cyclopes, who are incarnations of primitivism, and magical islands with aggressively lascivious vamps - very beautiful, very ripe, very dangerous - and in the long run boring. The la st one, C alypso, w hose name means "she �33 32 who covers (or hides)," the one with whom he goes to ground, drives him, as I said, into a deep depression; he feels stuck, surfeited night after night by her incessant desire. These island Edens are isolated and static. Nothing happens, and their mistresses are lonely and at loose ends. The time scheme of these places will - don't balk at the thought - become the great ternporality of Western history, in fact it will give us our chronology that breaks around B. C. and A.D. and that first makes historical time have meaningful epochs: the irruption of a stranger into ongoing but eventless life, a potent man who is godlike. When he leaves the island dwellers, for of course he is only a sojourner in their world, we must imagine that they are bereft and dream of a second corning. In the Odyssey his first corning is merely mythical (though "merely" is a poor term for this work of the paradigm producing imagination), but it is how Odysseus sees himself: as the Event of these spots in the sea, by which its dwellers will reckon before and after. And so he transforms his voyages for himself, for the Phaeacians, and for Penelope. These t ravels ar e munda ne in the literal sense of the word, very practical and worldly, but he makes them into stories that will form the backdrop for all future odysseys. For that is what is meant by myth telling. A myth is a model event that makes sense of many a mere occurrence. This odyssey gives many a subsequent mere t r ip its significant shape: its local habitation and true name. 6. Within this enchanted w orld Odysseus makes an excursion to the extremes of the human world, whose bor der is the flux of Ocean, the out landish water. He sails to what we call the underworld, though it is not so much infernal as outlying. Hades too has its time, or better, it has no marching time, for it has no moving bodies, only gliding shades. It is a place where the newly dead arrive but whence few return, among them Odysseus, as ever the intruder, the live one, whose descent into hell ex cites the shades. Yet even inactual Hades has its time phases: it is full of old news; stories and myths are packed away ther e, a treasure increased by whatever a new arrival can tell. But above all, a visitor ·finds out who has recently died and how. Odysseus learns that his mother has arrived in his absence from home. And toward the end of the poem there is a second visit. Horner himself follows Hermes, the Conductor of Souls, into Hades and, in a grand flash back, supplies a great gap between the Iliad and t he Odyssey: the sacrificial death and overwhelmingly splendid burial of Achilles, that unwilling king of Hades. Hades is the place of the past, wher e dead heroes tell tales which live poets go to learn. 7. The gods on Olympus also have their time. No human gets there in the Odyssey, but Horner knows what goes on through his Muse; indeed it is the glorious enig~a of the epics that he has a direct line to Olympus and tells of men as a man and of the gods as a poet. As in Hades, nothing much happens - only one god, Hephaestus, does any productive work, and one goddess, Athena, shows much real intellig ence; she's quite �34 35 humanly in love with Odysseus because he's such a clever liar - which is indeed an attractive characteristic in him, betokening the sinuous complexity that complements his stubborn endurance. The Olympians are, to be sure, born (though not all as babies), but they cannot die, which means that nothing temporal is serious to them, and that in turn means that they are very excitable, for excitability is a sign of levity. The Odyssey begins with one of their festive gatherings in the halls of Olympus, where some decisions are taken to get things moving, to get Odysseus off Ogygia. Of Olympus one might say that its time is determined by constitutional light mindedness. It is depressurized, weightless time. No heartbeat brings any of its residents closer to death; to them fatal human time is play time (e.g., Iliad XV 362), spectacle time, and they hardly ever, perhaps even never, cause anything the human actors aren't about to do anyhow. Hades' dead hordes endure somberly; Olympus' divine company persist in levity. 8. That initial gathering on Olympus marks the start of the time internal to the poem itself. The action of the Odyssey begins with the last days of Odysseus' stay on Calypso's island and ends with Laertes, Odysseus, Telemachus, three generations of the Ithacan dynasty, making peace with the Ithacan insurgents - perhaps a week or so of active time, within which are comprised twenty years - no, it will turn out, fifty years - of told time. 9. Perhaps the most artful time device of the Odyssey is the temporal disposition of t his last week, the actual time of the epic. For in it, along with flash backs, there is yet another parallelism, a day by day parallelism, and a final convergence, of the father with his son, of Odysseus with Telemachus. Early in the poem Athena, flying into Ithaca in the guise of a stranger, a captain called Mentes, "Minder," who rules ov er the Taphians, the "Burial People," has told Telemachus to make what turns out to be a voyage of coming of age and self discovery. While he is traveling in the real Peloponnesus and returning home, acknowledged by the world of the Trojan generation - meaning mostly Helen - as his father's son, his father is emerging from the world of his imagination into the reality of his disordered realm of Ithaca. It is possible to figure out where, during these last, pre climactic days, each of the two is in their parallel approach, Telemachus in his real itinerary a nd Odysseus in his imagined odyssey. For example, just when Odysseus in Phaeacia meets and is shyly approached by the young princess N ausicaa, the most innocent of all the women in the epic, Telemachus in Sparta meets and is instantly r ecognized as Odysseus' son by Helen, the least innocent of them. And when, in his story of Hades, Odysseus recounts how Agamemnon's shade tells of his own murder by his wife Clytemnestra, Telemachus is told that very tale of horror by Agamemnon's brother, Menelaus. Both accounts cast a raking light on Penelope: Is she above suspicion? Parallelism and convergence are the temporal modes of the last week. Then, together, father and son retak e th eir palace. �r 37 36 10. One final time treatment: As I said, people in the epic often tell remembered events. The time belonging to the place of their telling passes while they take time to recall the past. But there are certain moments, one spectacular one in particular, when Homer himself tells a story, the story of Odysseus's birth some half a century back; then he fast forwards a couple of decades to the time when, at his coming of age, Odysseus acquired the scar by which his old nurse has just recognized him. It is a time chasm, a sudden drop into explanatory depth; the edges of the story's present time close around it; none of it passes while Homer is telling it; he interrupts the main story without taking up its time. This temporal mode, the steep, time exempt opening into the past, is the starkest time disruption of the Odyssey, and it completes my inventory. I'll briefly recapitulate the ten "times" or ways of eventuation of the epic: 1. Homer s own presence in the poem; 2. the real time of the poem, that of all the Aegean sailors and their cities of origin and ports of call; 3. the cut off time of Ithaca, remote from world events and the time of Penelope's waiting; 4 . the years of Odysseus s trips of trading and marauding and the time of his occulting; 5. that very time transformed in Odysseus imagination, a parallel time of wonders marked by his irruption into hidden places and recounted in his cyclical myth telling; 6. the past as the phase of time operative in Hades where heroes and heroines come and deposit their stories; 7. the light time of Olympus, unconstrained by mortality and 1 1 1 inconsequential to the Olympians; 8. the time, a little more than a week, of the poem's action within which the cycles of returns, recollections, reprises, take their place as told tales; 9. that same week unfolding as two coordinated parallel times, those of Odysseus' odyssey and Telemachus' telemachy, ending with a convergence on Ithaca; 10. the time chasms, by which the poet, rather than taking up the time of the action, tears into it to insert a causal tale. Here I'll end. For what conclusion could do justice to such adroit artistry, such complex clarity, such inventive eventfulness? On second thought, one more observation. Generally speaking, comparative readings don't do much for me. It is, after all, the mystifying glory of fictions that they tell universal truth by being uncannily particular, and it is that peculiar particularity of each work that gets lost in reading across several works. Comparing is an iffy enterprise we should engage in only when we are deeply already imbued with the incomparable character of each work. But reading across both Homeric epic strikes me as a possible exception. Perhaps they are, as it were, one work composed in two movements. �39 38 Summer Sonnet Stephanie Connolly You watched my body pressed against the cold of my own winter's making: the chill air which turns the darkening sky into frail snow and strips your bones, like trees denuded, bare. You watched me turn to go, and I who left thought you were gone, and all the world away. Sun withered, summer hid, and I, bereft, was left to winter, held in death's pale sway. But now the world is sick with flowers sweet, and now all brightness and all warmth returns; yet we in all this beauty never meet, and still my heart with yearning's fever burns. Oh, dearest, whom I left behind in spring, come back to me on winter's fleeting wing. Quao Scene I Adam Maraschky �41 40 Offering Opfer Rainer Maria Rilke Tran:Jlated 6y Stephanie ConnoLLy 0 wie bliiht mein Leib aus jeder Ader dufteneder, seitdem ich dich erkenn; sieh, ich gehe schlanker und gerader, und du wartest nur--: wer hist du denn? 0 how my body blooms from every vein more fragrantly, since I have come to know you; see, I go slender now and straighter, and you only wait--: who are you, then? Sieh, ich fiihle, wie ich mich entferne, wie ich Altes, Blatti um Blatt, verlier. Nur dein Lacheln steht wie lauter Sterne iiber dir und bald auch iiber mir. See: I sense how I am disappearing, how I let fall my old life, leaf by leaf. Only your smile towers like brilliant stars over you and soon over me. Alles was <lurch meine Kinderjahre namenlos noch und wie Wasser glanzt, will ich nach dir nennen am Altare, der entziindet ist von deinem Haare und mit deinen Briisten dich bekranzt. All that which, from my childhood, is nameless still and shining just as water, Will I name after you, upon the altar, which is ignited by your hair and garlanded lightly with your breasts. �r 42 43 Suffocation Maggy Barned [Based on Rene Magritte's painting The Lovers] It was only difficult at first. Before we decided on the sacs, we thought about masks. But masks were dangerous, you said. They left our eyes too open and our lips too vulnerable. I was sure you were right. My eyes were exhausted from all the ·things they'd seen. They were getting tired of skimming over your shallow features night after night before I allowed them the easy relief of closing. The burlap sacs were our only option. We knew it would be difficult,......., keeping our heads covered all the time, maybe even when we didn't want to,......., but it was the only way we could hold tight to the fragile bindings of the things that kept us going: our traditions. Our routines. Our marriage. The first step you took, you ran into our coffee table. You let out a shocked burst oflaughter and made some stupid joke like, hey was that table always there? I could tell you were nervous, but I felt better anyway. Your jokes always made me feel better, even if they also made me feel numb and a little tired. And then your hand fumbled to find my face and you traced the crook of my nose, as though convincing yourself I was still there. Of course I was. Where else would I be? So things got easier after that. Well, for starters our electric bill went down right quick, because it's not as if we could have used the lights to see. For weeks we went through the tiring motions of flipping and switching; but soon the novelty wore off, and the distinction between dark and light became too difficult for us to judge. So eventually we unplugged the lamps and lights. Things were simpler that way. With the money we saved, we said we'd buy some music. Maybe an audio book or two. We never did do that, but that's all right. Silence was an easy adjustment to make, and anyway sometimes music strikes chords that make my heart beat too quickly. And if I can't feel your lips when we kiss, well that's all right too. I'm not so certain I liked them all that much. They're chapped, aren't they? Chapped and too thin. Yes, but the burlap, it's allowed us all sorts of freedom--and in my head your lips can be whatever I'd like them to be. Your eyes, too. My memory is hazy, but I think they used to be brown and musty. Well now they're blue and clear. They shine and reflect all the things you know and remember. Beautiful things I can scarcely bear to imagine anymore. (I don't remember my eyes so well either, but it really doesn't matter. They could be grey, couldn't they? Grey and deep and wise? I like the sound of that, and I think it must be true.) Okay, yeah--there's the breathing thing. Burlap, it doesn't circulate so well, and it isn't so easy to get air past our mouths, into our lungs, and back again. So sure, sometimes I have to rest when I'm climbing up the stairs. And of course it's too hot under here. Everything is stifled and stuffy. The moistur e from our b reath collects and �45 44 .I twines itself around the tight weaving of the bags, and it can be almost suffocating. And sometimes you find yourself on our bed and on your back, hyperventilating shallow breath after shallo:w breath. There have been some close calls. Sometimes your breath wheezes and dies into nothing. And then there are long seconds when I cannot feel your chest rise and fall. But it comes back. It always comes b~ck. You've been fine all along. Why shouldn't you be fine forever? These are the types of prices we' re willing to pay. For safety. For security. There are some things more important than air. Hey, can I tell you a secret? Sometimes I lie awake at night, listening to your lungs struggle. It's a comforting sound because I'm afraid. I'm afraid one day you will tire of blindness. You will take off your bag, or maybe you will only cut yourself slits for eyes and lips. You will want to see what has become of our home, or you will want to see what has become of me, or maybe you will even want to see what has become of yourself. That, I think, would be the most dangerous. If you could see, maybe you could even leave. And what would I do then? I would look for you--feel for you against cool walls and dead furniture. I might never know you're gone. Mostly I still trust you. You've always been smart, I think, if I can remember it right. And it was your idea, in the first place. You realize, don't you, that this is the best way? So yes, I trust you. I trust you to not want to know. There are some things better left unseen. And us--you and me-- we' re a part of that. You're still there, aren't you? And you're all right, aren't you? Aren't you? I can't hear you breathing. �46 47 The Labyrinth of Quixote and the Dream of Montesinos Liam Wallace I began this essay from the desire to know what there was to learn from Don Quixote. The aim quickly became to figure out how to learn anything from the novel. Or rather, how to learn anything important, that is, how to learn something from the true author of the novel, Cervantes 1• This is made very difficult by the multitude of narrators and reporters through which the adventures of Don Quixote are relayed. All of these narrators are within the story, and most of them contradict each other. Because of this, it is unclear how one is to approach Don Quixote; it is 1 It is, of course, easy to learn certain things from the novel. Many Flamingo:, Repode I Kaitlyn Schuler different characters give speeches on many subjects: Don Quixote speaks on the golden age, for example, and the erudite canon, at the end of part I, on chivalric novels, plays, and the poetic art. But these speeches often contradict each other. The canon and priest criticize chivalric novels for not being true, but Don Quixote argues that there is nothing truer in the world. This contradiction forces one to realize that the speeches are not wholes. They may seem to be if extracted from the novel, but seeing them placed within it, one is forced to realize them as smaller units of meaning, like words in a sentence. If one is to learn what the author is trying to say, these speeches, these smaller pieces of meaning, must be read in relation to each other, and in relation to the other units of meaning used in the novel: the characters who give the speeches, and their actions. When the novel is seen in this way-as a sentence whose words are its characters, their speeches, and their actions -it is clear that the ideal way to understand Don Quixote would be to hold the entire novel in one's head at once; to take the whole novel, in all its detail, in at a glance. But this is impossible, even for Homer. �49 48 .! difficult to find a voice one can trust. I will first examine the labyrinth of different arguments and opinions expressed by the authors, narrators, reporters, and other characters found in the book, and how the novel the reader receives is tinted by the opinion of its primary source, Cide Hamete Benengeli. I will then examine the uncanniness of the particular arguments of the novel's protagonist. Concluding that Don Quixote is no ordinary madman, I will then point out several similarities between him and the novel's actual author, Cervantes. Because of Don Quixote's uncanniness, and his similarities to the author, it seems that perhaps we can learn what Cervantes wants to tell us by trying to understand Don Quixote's true motives and desires. This leads to the Cave of Montesinos, which seems to hold Don Quixote's attention throughout the second part. I will spend the final part of the paper explaining why I think the cave is important, and provide two interpretation of the nature of the cave, and how it may effect the knight's later actions. I. Cervantes h a s the adventures of Don Quixote relayed to the reader through a sur p risingly long chain of viewpoints. Cide Hamete Benengeli is the primary source for most of the text. The narrator explains this early in part I (chapter ix, 65-69) 2 • Benengeli wrote in Arabic, however, and so the narrator first needs to have it trans2 All q uotations a nd pag e numbers a re from the HarperCollins Edith Grossman translation. lated. He does this by commissioning the first Arabic speaker he finds. These translations are then related to us by the narrator, who is not himself Cervantes. Cervantes is mentioned twice within the novel (in part I, Chapters vi, p . 52, as the author of La Galatea; and xl, p. 344, as a fellow prisoner in the captive's tale) and earlier works of his are referenced twice. (both in part I: La Galatea in chapter vi, p. 52; and Numancia in chapter xlviii, p. 416) but in none of these places is he associated with the narrator. So there are at least four layers to the labyrinth: Benengeli, the Arabic translator, the character of the narrator, and Cervantes, the actual author. This difficulty is made worse by the fact that it is often unclear which narrative voice we are listening to. It seems that Benengeli is the main one, and that the narr ator is doing some type of transcribing and paraphrasing to relay his words to us from the text prepared by the Arabic translator. Part I, chapter i, begins, "Somewhere in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember ... " and at the end of part II (chapter lxxiv, p. 938) the narrator attributes this statement to Hamete, not himself, saying "This was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose village Cide Hamete did not wish to name precisely." It is important to try to make this distinction between Hamete and the narrator because they do not see Don Quixote in the same way. The narrator is either heavily sarcastic or he, like Don Quixote and the innkeeper of part I, actually believes chivalric tales to b e true, and Don Quixote �51 50 to be praiseworthy as a true knight. A good example is found in part I, chapter ix (which is also where Benengeli is introduced to us). The narrator believes in wise men that follow knights around and record their adventures: "It seemed impossible" the narrator says, "and completely contrary to all good precedent that so good a knight should have lacked a wise man who would assume the responsibility of recording his neverbefore-seen deeds." He wants to know, "Truly and in its entirety the life and miracles of our famous Spaniard Don Quixote of La Mancha, the model and paragon of Manchegan chivalry, and the first in our age and in these calamitous times to take up the exercise and profession of chivalric arms, righting wrongs, defending widows ... " ( 66). Benengeli, on the other hand, explicitly states his purpose as, "to have people reject and despise the false and nonsensical histories of the books of chivalry" (part II, chapter lxxiv, 94 0), and it seems that he must be the source of the frequent, unattributed narrative comments that, from the beginning, criticize Don Quixote as mad, and chivalric novels as the source of his madness. "His fantasy filled with everything he had read in his books," we are told at the beginning of part I, "enchantments as well as ... other impossible foolishness, and he became so convinced ... of the truth of all the . .. false inventions he read that for him no history in the world was truer" (chapter i, 21). We find these comments throughout the novel, and they are made confusing if we do not distinguish w hich r eporter w e ar e hearing from, the narrator or Benengeli. Whether either the narrator or Benengeli is on to Don Quixote's intentions is unclear One might ask which layer, or narrator, we are closest to. It would seem that we are closest to the narrator of the prologue, and then the main novel's narrator (assuming these are distinct), with Benengeli being the most removed from us, simply because he is farthest from us in the chain of reporting. It is however, Benengeli's opinions that are made most clear to us, followed by those of the narrator of the main novel. The Arabic translator hopefully remains only a minor influence. It is the prologue narrator (of part I) who is more elusive. He calls Don Quixote a "noble" knight (4) but books of chivalry "inane" (9), and wants God to not forget him. Beyond that, we do not know why he is writing. It is not the prologue narrator but his friend who asserts, "This work ... intends only to undermine the authority and wide acceptance that books of chivalry have in the world." Does Cervantes the author agree with the opinions expressed by the narrator of the main novel, or, for 3 This labyrinth has the strange effect of making Don Quixote him- self, Sancho, and most of their adventures, feel more real, as if they were historical. One gets so caught up in when the various narrators are accurately or inaccurately relaying information to the reader, that one forgets that there is not in fact any accurate information relation to relay. One gets into the mindset that there was a historical Don Quixote, and what we are getting in the novel is tales filtered through the ey es of several narrators. But all we have of Don Quixote are the fictional recordings; they are what he is, there is no real Don Quixote who lived behind them. But is there a more real Don Quixote that can be found by reading carefully and reinterpreting his adventures, ta king th e c ha r acter o f t h e various �53 51 that matter, the narrator of the prologue, or the Arabic translator, or Benengeli the historian ?3 The easiest thing would be to simply listen to Benengeli, and accept his purpose for the book, but in Benengeli's insistence on his history mainly being a stumbling block for chivalric novels, it seems that he must surely miss some greater themes found in what he is describing. We are led to most of these themes by the uncanny power of the novel's protagonist, who manages to exert a rhetorical force over the reader equal to that of the narrator and other reporters. It is difficult, moreover, to shake off the feeling that Don Quixote is doing something so subtle or strange that the narrator and Benegeli, along with nearly every character in the book, miss it completely. At the beginning of the book we are told (most likely by Benengeli) that Don Quixote's brains have dried up (part I, chapter i, 21), but this must be conjecture, since Benengeli is not in fact a fantastical wise man, but only a human historian; he cannot actually see into the knight's head. This may mean that Don Quixote is not mad at all, or at least mad in a very different way, or for very different reasons, than the narrator may claim. narrators into account? Don Quixote and Sancho point out in the beginning of the second part several "false" sections in the first part; mistakes by their historian (chapter iv, 481). Yet we get these reports in the second part still through the work of that same historian, Benegeli. This suggests that the entire novel must be read with a very discerning eye; that the reader must try to see through ~he ~istakes of Cervantes' fictional narrators in order to get to the real story. IL The novel is split between Benengeli and Don Quixote. We are drawn to listen to one or the other. But the fact that Don Quixote is so strangely compelling is an indication that Cervantes does not wholly agree with Benengeli. I do not think it is possible to write such an uncanny madman unintentionally. Even if Cervantes himself was not aware of it, there is something more to what Don Quixote says and does than simple madness. It will be beneficial to look at an example of how the words and actions of Don Quixote are elevated above simple madness to something uncanny and compelling. The first good one may be the adventure of the windmills. Sancho tries to point out that they are only windmills, but instead of ignoring him, or simply insisting on the opposite, Don Quixote says that Sancho cannot recognize the giants because he is "not well versed in the matter of adventures" (part I, chapter viii, 58), and implies that he is denying their existence out offear of facing them. Rather than allowing his own reality to be questioned, he brings into question Sancho's. When Don Quixote is tossed from his horse however, he does not continue to insist that the windmills are giants. It seems that Cervantes could have simply had him continue to rave about the windmills being giants; this would have had comedic effect. But instead Don Quixote brings up the concept of enchanters. Yes, he admits, the giants are windmills now, but they were, before, giants. This is a much more subtle and in- �54 55 teresting response, because it merges the two realities; Sancho's (and the reader's) with Don Quixote's. It makes it possible for Don Quixote's reality to exist while explaining why Sancho's seems so different. Don Quixote uses similar arguments when essentially the same thing happens in chapter xviii of part I, where he attacks an army of sheep . He concludes, expanding on the concept of enchanters, "This is how that thieving wise man, who is my enemy, can make things disappear and seem to be what they are not. You should know, Sancho, that it is very easy for those like him to make us see whatever they wish" (131, my emphasis). The knight once again addresses the disparity between Sancho's (and the reader's) perception and his own. And once again, and even more clearly, he calls into question the validity of our own (and Sancho's) perception of reality. This is perhaps one of the most important sentences in the book, because it not only casts doubt on the view of the reader and Sancho, but also that of Benengeli. It gives authority to Don Quixote. If Sancho can be deceived by an evil enchanter, then so could Benengeli, the historian. This would.mean 4 H e explain s th e problem ye t aga in in chap te r xxv of part I, speaking to Sa ncho, " ls it possib le th a t in a ll the time yo u have I rave lled w ith rn eyo u have not no ti ced th a t a ll thin gs hav ing to do w ith kn ig ht s e rra nt appear 10 be chime ri cal. fo olis h, senseless, a nd turn ed in side o ut? i\nd no t because th ey really a re, but because ho rd es of' e ncha nt e rs a lways walk a mo ng us an d a lte r and cha nge eve ryt hing an d turn thi ngs int o w hateve r the.)' please, ac- that, contrary to being mad, Don Quixote is, in fact, the only character in the book who is able to catch full glimpses of reality4 . To summarize his method: First, he points out something no one else can see or understand; giants, fantastical armies or castles. Then he acts on what he sees, attacking what appear to be windmills and sheep. When this brings up a disparity, though ,.........the giants, for example, appear very clearly to be windmills,......... Cervantes' does not simply have him continue to insist on his own world being true. Rather, in all these cases, Don Ouixote manages to blend the two realities ---the one he sees and the one everyone else does.......- so that it is possible for us to conceive of his being real and ours being the illusion. What is important to notice here is that there is no reason why Cervantes had to create such a subtle, uncanny, and elusive madman if the main purpose of the novel was to be a stumbling block for the books of chivalry. There is a reason that we are drawn back to what he says, compelled to listen to him even though it seems to be nonsense and his actions madness. Cervantes has left what the knight says on the edge of believability, and, because of the intricacy required to do this while also having the knight argue such absurd things, it seems Cervantes did this intentionally. This means Benengeli, the main narrative voice, is probably not in fact expressing the senti- cord ing to w heth e r th ey wish to favor us or destroy us; a nd so, w hat see ms to yo u a ba rber 's basin seems to me th e helmet of' Ma mb rino, a nd w ill seem a not her thi ng lo someone else" ( 195). \Ve sho uld be re mi nded of Don that obsc ure the m, and canno t be seen w ith th e s mooth ness a nd colo r of the right s ide" (pa rt 11 , chap ter lxii, Q ui xote's desc ri ption of e nchan ters ca us ing everythin g to be "chimerical. foolis h, se nseless, a nd tu rned inside 873). We sh o ul d remembe r th at D o n Q ui xote has, purp o rt edly, bee n tra nslated fro m Arabic, a nd that w r; tin g o ut '' w hen we read his desc ri p lio n o f lhe effect lh at tra nsla ti o n has on a book . Read ing a tra nsla tio n is lil<e "look· hi sto ry is a lso a l<ind o f' int erp re ta ti o n, o r transla ti o n, w hich ye t again brings th e pict ure Bene ngeli gives us into ing a t Flem ish tapes tries f'ro m the wro ng side, f'o r altho ug h th e fig ures a re visible, they a rc cove reJ by the threaJs q uestion. �r i 57 56 ment of Cervantes, which leads us to Cervantes and Don Quixote, who have some interesting similarities. It is quite apparent that Cervantes knew a great deal about chivalric novels, since Don Quixote knows a great deal about chivalric novels. There is also the matter of the prologue narrator, who seems similar to Cervantes. It is not he but his friend who brings up the book as an attack on books of chivalry, and he (the prologue narrator) describes his wits as "barren and poorly cultivated" and says they begot a child "dry, withered, capricious, and filled with inconstant thoughts never imagined by anyone else." This description echoes that of Don Quixote's own mind being dried up in reading books of chivalry from dusk till dawn (p.a rt I, chapter i, p. 20-22). In the same chapter it is also noted that Don Quixote most likely would have become a writer himself, had he not had greater and more persistent thoughts (p. 20) which draws another connection with the writer Cervantes. Finally, Cervantes is almost certainly the narrator in the the prologue to part II. He tells two stories about madmen, to be relayed to the author of the false Quixote. In the first story, it seems reasonable to say that the madman stands for Cervantes himself. It is about a madman who goes around inflating dogs with air, using a sharpened reed "fit ... into the right place" and then sending them waddling off. He asks the crowd of onlookers at the end of the story, "Now, do your graces think it's an easy job to blow up a dog?" "Now," Cervantes asks the other author, "does your grace think it's an easy job to write a book?" (456). So Don Quixote is called mad, but Cervantes also compares himself and his writing to a madman and the actions of a madman. But most of this seems absurd. -why would Cervantes want to give any credence to Don Quixote's assertions that a world of dragons and giants actually exists? And what is Don Quixote's ...._, intention in playing these strange games with reality? We have established that Don Quixote, using the chivalric idea of enchanters, has argued for a drastically different version of the world than most people see. We could compare it to the systems of Ptolemy and Copernicus. They both provide an explanation for the world; it only depends on where you put the motion, in the earth or in the rest of the universe. Similarly, the events of the novel can be explained in two ways; it only depends on where we are persuaded to put the madness. Do we place it with Don Quixote, or is it the rest of the world that is mad (or, that is, deceived by enchanters)? By bringing up the second possibility Don Quixote snatches some authority in the book, wrestling with Benengeli for it. We have also noted similarities between Don Quixote and Cervantes. It may be helpful now to ask what it is that Don Quixote wants. -what could compel him to do and say the strange things that he does? If we can find this, then we may also be able to find what Cervantes wants to tell us. Don Quixote says he desires eternal fame, and immortality, but everyone wants those. What seems to compel him, specifically, is something about the Cave of Mon- �T I 59 58 tesinos. In chapter xxxii of part II, the duchess says that she understands Dulcinea to be, "the most beautiful creature in the world, and even in all of La Mancha" ( 670) In the strange order of this sentence, La Mancha seems to encompass the world. In the title to chapter xxii, it is said that the Cave of Montesinos "lies in the heart of La Mancha." If La Mancha encompasses the world, it seems that the Cave of Montesinos, for Don Quixote at least, lies at the center of everything. III. What follows is an interpretation of the Cave of Montesinos. I am not wholly convinced of it myself, and am not certain that it is possible to provide a complete interpretation of either the cave or the novel as a whole. At least by setting up an interpretation it is possible to have a somewhat clearly defined starting point, a possible way t o understand the novel, which we can then demolish and move on from, in hopes of finding a more apt interpretation. Don Quixote often thinks back to whatev er it was that happened to him in the Cave of Montesinos. In Chapter xxv of part II, he asks Gines de Pasamonte's monkey, at Sancho's bidding, whether "certain things that had occurred in the Cave of Montesinos were dreamed or true, because it seemed to him that they were both" ( 627). He thinks about the cave before the adventure of the enchanted boat (chapter xxix, 647), and Benegeli conjectures that he believes more of it to be true than false. When the Merlin of the duke and duchess mentions the cav e, Don Quixote is Trinity I Henley Moore �61 60 amazed, because "he could not be certain if what had happened to him in [itJ was true or not" (chapter xxxiv, 688) (This again must be Benengeli guessing at the source of the knight's amazement). After Sancho relates his own strange adventures in the sky, Don Quixote tells him "Just as you want people to believe what you have seen in the sky, I want you to believe what I saw in the Cave of Montesinos. And that is all I have to say" (chapter xli, 727). In chapter lxii, Don Quixote asks the bronze head of Don Antonio, "Was my account of what happened to me in the Cave of Montesinos the truth or a dream?" (870). That is a difficult question to answer. There is also the third option: that Don Quixote is lying. It seems to me most likely that it is a dream. Admitting it is real would require a drastically different interpretation of the w hole nov el, and our w orld, one which takes giants into account. While Don Quixote's rhetorical skills and use of the concept of enchanters leave this possibility open, it seems unlikely. He falls asleep in the cave, and comes out sleeping, and many aspects of his experience have a dreamlike quality. A very interesting interpretation could come from assuming the cave story is a lie of Don Quixote's making; indeed, at the beginning of chapter xxii, in which he goes into the cave, Don Quixote says of certain illusions carried out at the wedding of Camacho, "They cannot and should not be called deceptions since their purpose was virtuous" (597). The statement seems to be in too appropriate a place for its placement to be coincidence. Taking the cave story as a dream, one particular aspect comes to the surface. Like Odysseus and Aeneas before him, Don Quixote gains instruction on what he is to do when he leaves the under-realm he is in. Don Quixote reports of Montesinos: "He .. .told me that over the course of time he would inform me how the spell on him, and Belerma, and Durandarte, as well as all the other s who were there, was to be broken," (612) . But we are never told, and it seems no one else is either, what the instructions are. I had at first as. sumed that Sancho woke him before he could gain the instructions, but Don Quixote never complains of this, and it does not appear to be the case. We can speculate on what Don Quixote was told by looking at what the consequences of breaking Merlin's enchan t m ent would be, and by looking at certain aspects of the cave if it is taken as a dream. Don Quixote is shown the dying Durandarte, "the flower and model of enamored and valiant knights of his time" (609). He is a symbol of everything chivalric. Now, strangely, it seems that Don Quixote's breaking of the spell will mean not freeing Durandarte and his companions into the world, but the death of them all. Montesinos thought Durandarte had died; he was buried, this is what was supposed to have happened to him. It is the enchantment that keeps them all alive (the rest should have died of old age long ago, instead of continuing on like the sickly Lady Belerma) . Since we are assuming this is a dream, everything in t h e Cave of M ontesinos is nothing more than �61 63 Don Quixote's own imagination speaking to him. Benengeli tells us, "His fantasy filled with everything he had read in books, enchantments ... " (part I, chapter i, 21). Don Quixote's mind is the cave or the enchantment that Montesinos and the rest are trapped in. To let them go, to break the curse, Don Ouixote must give up his knightly aspirations. It seems then that when Don Quixote asks things like "Was my account of what happened to me in the Cave of Montesinos the truth or a dream?" what he is trying to get at is, "is what Montesinos told me true, must I give up chivalry, or was it only a dream (not a true one)." At the first inn Don Quixote comes to after the cave, he sees it as an inn, rather than a castle as is his custom. He tries one more adventure of his own, that of the enchanted bark, but no more. After his adventure in the Cave of Montesinos he seems t o no longer have the inclination (whether it is purposeful or from madness) to mistake ordinary objects like windmills and inns for things much more spectacular. By the end of the novel, Don Quixote has given up his chivalric goals. This is what I say Montesinos told him: you must sleep (indeed, it was the need for sleep that drew Don Quixote to the meeting with Montesinos, and the lack of it, according to Benengeli, that drove him to knighthood) and let us go. In chapter lxxiv (935) Don Quixote sleeps for a very long time, and wakes up "sane." I do not know what we are to draw from this. It may be helpful to note that Cervantes did not write any chivalric novels, b ut h e did write a pastoral one, La Galatea, which is mentioned in Don Quixote, and he was planning to publish its sequel after the story of the man from La Mancha. Perhaps Don Quixote had to go through the spectacular madness of knighthood to be able to die sane and good. In this interpretation, it is the chivalric ideas themselves that tell Don Quixote that they must be let go. Maybe Cervantes is trying to tell us that chivalr ic novels and virtues must naturally give way to pastoral ones. This is what Don Quixote's friends are ready to attempt at the end of the novel; they all want to become shepherds, after Don Quixote plants the idea in them. There are problems with this interpretation. Why does Don Quixote say the experience of the cave was pleasurable? When he wakes up he tells Sancho and the cousin "May God forgive you, friends, for you have taken me away from the sweetest life and most pleasant sights that any human being has ever seen or experienced. In truth, now I realize that all the pleasure of this life pass like shadows and dreams" (604). Then when he is recounting the tale, the cousin says "Your grace should continue, Senor Don Quixote, for I am listening to you with the greatest pleasure in the world." He replies, "With no less pleasure do I recount it" ( 606). This should remind us of two other stories told by Don Quixote and the innkeeper, both given as reasons to read chivalric novels (in chapters xxxii, pp. 269-270; and 1, pp. 428-430 of part I). They are about knights plunging into seeming danger and ending up instead in wonderful, enchanted realms, greeted by wise men or maidens. �65 64 Don Quixote and the innkeeper both say that if one reads such tales they go mad·with what seems a very peculiar kind of pleasure. If chivalric novels are nonsense, there is something about them, especially stories and experiences like the Cave of Montesinos, which makes for deeply compelling nonsense. The canon, in his discourse at the end of part I, criticizes chivalric novels, asking, "What beauty .. . can there be in a book or tale in which a boy of sixteen, with one thrust of his sword, fells a giant as big as a tower and splits him in two as if he were marzipan?" yet this and other supposedly absurd examples he gives call to mind not only chivalric novels, but the Bible, in this case, the story of David slaying Goliath. This leads us to ask, is there not more to chivalry in Don Quixote than just learning it must giv e way to the p a storal life? Again, there is something uncanny about the knight's arguments. He seems to be alluding to something just beyond our reach. The best place to examine this would be in Don Quixote's long response to the canon's attack on chivalric novels, in part I, chapters xlix and 1, pages 425 to 430. He h a s several a rguments for why one should read chivalric novels, and they verge on the inane and silly, but never quite tip into it. The key question to ask when reading the speech is what does Don Quixote mean by "true"? It may seem like it sometimes, but I do not think he is talking about historical truth, as the canon is. He may not even be talking about a kind of Aristotelian, poetic probability. I will end with a quotation from the middle of the speech: "That is really good!" responded Don Quixote. "Books that are printed with a royal license and with the approval of those officials to whom they are submitted, and read to widespread delight, and celebrated by great and small, poor and rich, educated and ignorant, lowborn and gentry, in short, by all kinds of persons of every rank and station: can they possibly be a lie, especially when they bear so close a resemblance to the truth and tell us about the father, the mother the nation, the family, the age, the birthplace, and the great deeds, point by point and day by day, of the knight, or knights, in question? Be quiet, your grace, and do not say such blasphemies, and believe me when I tell you what you, as an intelligent man, must do in this matter, which is to read these books, and then you will see the pleasur e you derive from them" (428) . We have learned that Benengeli is not to be completely trusted as a narrator, and that his stated purpose for the book is different from the book's actual purpose. We have also found a possible place to begin to understand the novel, the Cave of Montesinos, and one possible conclusion: that the chivalric novel, and chivalric life, naturally gives way to the pastoral one. But Don Quixote also leaves us with good advice. Just as we must learn mathematics to read the book of nature --- not simply hear about it from others or in translation---- so must we read the books of chivalry ourselves in order to understand what he has found in th em, and what he is after. If we do �66 67 read these books ourselves, and find what Don Quixote may have found, that may require a great change in our understanding of what goes on in the Cave of Montesinos, what it would mean for Don Quixote to break its enchantment, and what actually happens for the rest of the novel after he comes up out of the cave. There are many questions left unresolved that this essay tries to address. They could be picked up directly from where this essay ends, specifically by reexamining the novel in light of the Cave of Montesinos, and with a careful eye on the opinion of the Benengeli versus the truth, since we were able to chip away at the authority of the narrators. Why does Don Quixote use the strange device of enchanters to play with our perception of reality, assuming he is not simply mad? What does Montesinos tell him? What is his experience in the cave, a dream, a lie, or something else? Why or how does he die sane? What does he mean by "truth" when he claims that chivalric novels are true? And why, though he is as intelligent a man as the canon, who is able to resist them, is Don Quixote driven, dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn, to read chivalric novels in the first place? Private Court, State Circle I Adam Maraschky �WWW 69 68 Intimate Matters Intimate Matters Trand!ated 6y Daniel Kraft T. Carmi 1 1 NI7 r.JI7'li1 .J' NI7 .J!J i1J7l'D, i1NDl'D. You untangle all the oaths, all the vows within me. Nn r.J1npn Nn .JI7.J- '7' r.J.J!J i1lJ'1V1I7 i1'1VJ1I7. You erase my handwriting from every old draft. NI7 r.J7.JlI7 Nr.JI7. NI7 r.Jr.J'li1 ,, You speak the truth. You remind me .J' .J; i1N7D .J7r.J that every man is deceptive and there is no truth like mine at this moment. 1N'] Nr.JI1 .JNr.JI7' .Jl..:IJI. NI7 IV1N;I7 N1I7': .Jr.Ji1 rr.J] Jr.JIV7 l..:IJI? You ask me: how long does a moment last? i1ND NI7i1 rDl NI7 .J; i11V,VJJ'D 1Vi1'1 ;7z Do you remember all the clocks you've owned? r.Ji1 i11VJli1 Jl.JIV1? i1ND NI7i1 ;77Ji1 NJ r.JN.J7? What time is it now? Are you owning or losing? NI7 r.J7.JlI7 r.J~l7J' Nn r.Jnr'vi1 .J~11J' You speak from my throat. You clutch my throat .J'7 l.Ji1 .JJ7F7. 111, i1'7 i1rNI7 i1l)?~iJ N1I7' .JNIV IVN'] .Ji1JIY1N'] .Ji1 N!Jl. with a hand like tender wind . 0 h, this hand that kindles me like fire with no wood and no ashes. .J; i1 i2 J.;J. ,r.J m. r.JJl1;D 'JN i1"I1' All who come close must die. Never have I been .Jh ;717.J ;J/.Yr.J'. so close to myself. �70 71 2 2 17.fJ~lD 17rNn, )71JJ NJ' N117.J. N117J This craving to say I love you JlN717 N17 17;/lJV'D .Y7))>D .J.lJ.Yn], to see the wrinkles sink into your forehead JIV1J1JJ N17 ..'.11.!P nnvlV .J.;71.J.J, 17!1n717rl7, )71JJ NJ' N117.J. N117J, to hear my body silent within you this fear to say I love you IVlJN 'IVlJJJ 17)>)17 .. p1) IVN'] )1 177 in case the night hears a voice without an echo IVr;JJ:f 17N1Jl 1JlNl7 in case a mirror says where is your face? N~i) !JJ'7Z 17.fJ~lD 17rNn 17!1n717rl7 J11J] 17'D IVi?.1'7 1171N IV{.], IVlJN 'nl.J. )JJ'J' 1171N IVJ'. ,. T . . this craving this fear to say the sea is clear and it is yours in case I see it dry up and it is mine. �WW 73 72 3 r.J17J> 171)7 un?lf. Jl.JIVJ NJ> n;p .Jt_.Jl7] .0?,J, ND Nn N>J7 rJ.JlnlJil NlJlfl> ;7, .JIVili?l IV?.J .il>il fl!JJIV JN>7 ,1J7h> NI1 lJ~.f1.J~ )nntJ .JIVrJ7 . 3 My memory weakens. Now I depend on your memory. If you do not remember~ what I said to you when your line was busy and how I taught my letter to be signed with your name 11Jil j)JlN>D ;)>)17. IVN>] )J >JD 1il1N ;N )>)17 and what a night is called that has no day and is no night JN>7 .n;1 ilNJn>Jn J/7 .J> !JIVD1.Y1lil and how the letters grew until they renounced their shapes 11Ji11 _y)>) p1;> .JIVNfl lJDil )J Nr] and what the tone of my voice is when your ear is attuned JN>7 .J; IVN)il IV~?J, Jil>?J7 .J> )r:J>lJ] 11Ji11 ilJ777 .Jn77 IVJ,0~ JN>7 Jl?)~!Jj)171n and how all your questions become symbols for me and what wanders in my sleep and how my eyes open N.J; N?)t 17N7n 7.Jl .J> JI?)~] ,JJl>J> JJl>J> .JJ,1?)~1: J/7 .J)Jn .J) illJlNJn ND Nn N>J7 rJ.Jln N>] )> >t; N>] ,, IVD, NJ>qT. but they see nothing because your eyes are in mine and my eyes are in yours until all sights have ended~ if you do not remember then I have no hand, I have no name, my memory is lost. �WW - 74 75 4 NJ 1 rJ!Jn7111J 17. NJ 1 NJlJl )J, NLJ13.i) 11J!Jn71J] /PJD ll.1;)1° IV!JJ1> >JJJJJ 1p1) 1 )N 1 1VlJJI. NJ 1 NJlJl ) ] , NLJ13.i) m!Jn7 rJ1 i11VJJi1 IV..f i) p1) 1 )N 1~ 1 1J 1• NJ 1 NJlJl )], NLJ13.i) m!Jn7 rJ1 i11JJJ IV,_f J°NJ 1 NJJl NIVV N7D rJ!Jn7111J 1 7. 4 I am always afraid. I tell you love and I am afraid of the day when my lips will stir and my voice will not be heard. I tell you love and I am afraid of the hour when my voice will not recognize me. I tell you love and I am afraid of the moment when I say happy is the man who is always afraid. �WW 77 76 5 ':JJ11' ::nl~') Nl7 J/~r.J' N'JJ 1~'17'. ':JJ17' )?;(~) N1Jnl7-~j71 7j;;·i1.v~~ Nl7 l:!lr.J]., '~J.;).[J ~i?JJ~]l? J)N.[jD Ni1 NfJ~J., 17N' IV'.f Jl7~. l:!lr.J~ ill PD, ~~"D JI) ill:JD PlvJ~'D ;~j'r:i l?.n J!J) j/!Jil p)J~ J/l!JJ IV) l:!lnl'l7 r.Jil ):JD J)J? ':JJ17' Jil~'J Nl7 J/~r.J; N';?r/??;< Nr.1117' JJ:, il~'''· 5 I could have saved myself if I had wanted. I could have eaten breakfast and starved you·r name, sat in a concert and deafened you. Of course I could have. Sun, mountain, and sea, gazelles on the ridge attending to the moon, the smell of roast coffee, the fog of dawn --what is for them and for you? I could have saved myself if I hadn't said to you: save me. �78 79 The Bird who Waits - his song Vincent Tavani This is the land promised to all who wait. Thrust these hands into the warm loam, the earth's moist womb with that heavy soil smell of late spring: dirt worked under still-growing fingernails, in creases of my hands. This is the grave where I have been sown along with all that I've saved. The worms like old bathwater against the cold food of skin: they crawl to keep their outside-bodies warm, and their insides in. I, like them, scrawled, if in my head. These are the worms I receive. Flowers I love, but the bouquets I never gave, the name never sung that inside me bloomed when I ought have flown and flung it out like bread on water. Now another nameless molehill mansion, am a ribcage flowerbed; this is the land. Here bones that always craved to be hollow have by time their marrow made blithe and dry, in purer flesh entombed. I've heard that juniper can heal the heart, but like a baby bird, I'd never tried ingesting outside-me, this have-some-heart. - I've often said I've flown: I've often lied Out for a better part, I, a hand with leaves to fill the pretty glass I found, am here dissembled on the ground. They disappear like liquid, these poems disbe lieved, if she - kaleidoscopic broken bottle - can not hold what I already poured her to appear like lilacs. But I after the burning swallow - be bold! - then shining eagle-like to meet her fly. "Here are the feathers that made me fly." Oh OH, you liar! all you have is vomit: poems and sonnets like gin and tonic that make you trip, that strip you dry. Shall these bones sing? Well, poet, heal thyself, if in rhyme you wake alone, tangled in leaf-woven wings, smelling now of now acidic pme. �80 I fear the maddening wines of dirt-moist spring. When in December, the barren Earth was old, cold and proper; but in June, youth blooms and spreads her healthy skirt. And then remember the dirt's sown secrets, am aboveground to be told. For I refrained to try my hand at gardening those stained-glass growing things, not till I re ceived my plot. Now, here is the lot: loveless hopeless marrowless wmgs. �ENERGE!A ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE P.O. BOX 2800 ANNAPOLIS, MD 21401 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper (bound book) Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 80 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Spring 2011 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Spring 2011. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Connolly, Stephanie (editor) Schuler, Kaitlyn (editor) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2011 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Spring 2011 Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/af9804651fb0ad1c34145dd4b17ea8ec.pdf adc2c4eb8e2ce5455876820f5bd55a8f PDF Text Text p I I I ! ' I - - - - - ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE LIBRARY 131 1 1 1 1 1 9-61 i~1 ~1 rn1 ~1 1 ir1i1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 11 / �• energe1a spring 2012 �contents • Explaining Joku Ciara Barrick 9 Smoke in the Snow 13 On the End of the Fir<1t Book of ApoLfoniud' Conics Cesar Vallejo editor 7 Brendon Lasell energe1a Wesley Schantz 22 Black Stone upon a White Stone Stephanie Connolly staff Genevieve Allen Nathan Goldman Danielle Nels on Ian Tuttle trar14fateo 6y Daniel Rooriguez 25 27 M. W. Fogleman Marcel Proust Affirmatwn<1 Mutiny On Variatwn 28 Sefectwn<1 from Du cote de chez Swann faculty advisor trar14fateo by Jacob Garrett Fawn Trigg Aalin Bellinger Sefectwn<1 from ''Heart Breaking Open: An Arc of Sonnet<! 11 Louis Petrich 41 Stooping for Excellence in Iraqi Higher E'ducatwn Robert Schuerman cover by Carlin Felt: Portrait 37 57 O'd'd Enough to he Even A WhoLLy Sonnet �7 Explaining Jokes Wuley Schantz artwork Carlin Felt 8 42 LandcJcape Treed Keeley Pratt 11 Le graffiti dancJ le Metro de Parid 29 DM Hegelhaw in Stuttgart, DeutcJchland Henley Moore 12 Untitled Brendon Lasell 15 19 Figure 1 Figure2 Michael Green 33 Eiffel from the Pont Alexandre Ill Megan Faulkner 47 64 Croquet 1 Croquet Louis Petrich 48 59 Bw!ogyLab A Faculty Picnic Shikshya Adhikari 63 Morning PrayercJ Adam Maraschky 67 Rebecca Hey there, handy clerk, young man, dear brother Nicholas, how is it living alone? Seriocomic heroic stereotype, With the astrology books by your bed For reading young wives' horoscopes, lying To them, for them, with them, bidding husbands Truss themselves in attic bathtubs, awake Below while they wait out the flood asleep~ How is it smarting with the coulter brand? Or was that your intention, bargaining On burning first for the sake of the joke, Buying an indulgence from him later? Would you mind explaining, just between us, Between trysts, how you lived so long ago And still were fooling like we're doing now, And still we're laughing at the resemblance? �9 8 Smoke in the Snow Ciara Barrick le:: ; ·'=""" •·{-: Landscape/ Carlin FeLt We smoked filtered cigarettes in the grey daylight as the snow silently fellfrom it s high precipice. You sniffled quietly, flipping t he collar of your pea coat up to cover your ears. He rubbed his calloused hands together rapidly and rocked from his left suede shoe to his right. The blue smoke drifted straight up above our heads. Watch the smoke drift through the town between the snowflakes, unique in each w ay you can see. Now it belongs to the cigars of three bigbellied, middle-aged Italian men. They lounge with their ankles resting on their knees and their cigars instruments of declaration. "No Giuseppe! He was with my daughter!" A car whizzes by and the smoke flutters further down the street. It's captured by the panting children underdressed on the wintry sidewalks as they exhale, their snot wiped with class along a lime green polyester sleeve. Dick chases Jane through the crowds before the bakery, little lungs expounding little tufts of cold smoke. Now it's flooding out of the bakery window and sirens are heard approaching from far off in the distance. A large woman, whose upper half is mostly chin, chest, and breast, bursts through the back door with a rolling pin r aised above her head and a singed apron. The smoke billows out of the doors, up the street along the apartment building's brick walls. Now it belongs to a twenty-something, mascar aed ex -girlfriend �10 11 who holds a lighter beneath his love letter outside her window in the bitter air. Pieces of his passion float to the cement underworld, leaving only a trail of smoke for her to regret missing. A mustached Mexican pushing a dolly cart of crated crap from the market to his truck kicks up the pieces. A cigarette hangs safe and loose from his lips as his feet scuffle over some forgotten words. The smoke falls over his shoulders and into the espresso cups of three married women seated outside on a day far too cold but wishing to reminisce on days when snow kept them from class, not the carpool. The steam warms their faces but leaves their noses red. We watched from the corner as you nudged me and offered me a light. Le graffiti dans le Metro de Paris/ Keeley Pratt �13 12 On the End of the First Book of Apollonius' Conicd Brenoon La<JeLL Near the beginning of his Conicd, Apollonius cuts cones with planes to generat e three Untitled/ Henley Moore different kinds of conic section: parabolas, hyperbolas, and ellipses. He shows that each of these sections can be understood by means of its relation to two straight lines, which he calls an upright Ji2e and a tranJverde diameter, 1 and an angle (the angle between the ordinated and the diameter) . After completing the initial construction of these conic sections in Proposition 13, he demonstrates the next 37 propositions without referring directly to the cones they come from. Instead, he uses only the upright and transverse sides and the given angle to prove a variety of complicat ed theorems about parabolas, ellipses and hyperbolas. Only then, in Propositions 52 through 58, does he return to the cone. In these propositions near the end of the book he show s that it is always possible to construct a section of a cone with any given upright side and transverse diameter and any given angle between its ordinates and diamet er. Why did Apollonius end Book I in this way? In proving Propositions 52 through 58 he uses many of the propositions between 15 and 51. This might suggest that he needs to work through 1 In a p arabola w e do not strictly speaking have a transverse diameter; we simply have a diameter. �14 15 most of the propositions in Book I to show that for any upright and transverse there is always a conic section. We might then understand the whole first book as intended to show this. But it turns out that he did not have to use any proposition in the Conu.1 beyond 11- 13 to prove 52- 58. He could therefore have shown immediately after Propositions 13 that it is possible to find conic sections with any given upright and transverse side, and never returned to the cone after that. We therefore have to ask again: why did he wait until the end of Book I to prove 52- 58? Perhaps he judged that the constructions he uses in these propositions are better than anything he could have done immediately after Proposition 13. To show that something is true is different from showing why, and the constructions Apollonius uses may be better at showing us why there are conic sections with any given upright and transverse side. In any case, to explore this question it helps to compare the constructions Apollonius gives in Propositions 52- 58 with the ones he might have given immediately after Proposition 13. Here are some constructions that use only Propositions 11- 13. The hyperbola Let there be two bounded straight lines AB and BC perpendicular to each other, let AB be produced to L, and let there be a given angle ABH ; it is required to find in the plane t h rough the lines AB, BC an hyperbola whose diameter will be the A F p Figure 1/ Brendon LtUeLL �16 17 straight line ABL and vertex B, and upright side the straight line BC , an d where the straight lines dropped from the section to BL at the given angle ABH will equal in square the rectangles applied to BC having as breadths the str aight lines cut off by them from Band projecting beyond by a figure similar and similarly situated to the rectangle AB, BC. Let AB be produced to D so that BD is equal to BC . Draw a line BE perpendicular to the line BH and not in the plane ABH. Let AE and DE be joined. Draw line BF from B in the plane through AB and BE such that angle ABF is equal to angle BED (which must be less than angle ABE, by Euclid's Elements I 32) . Extend line BF beyond B to a point G. Draw a parallel GK to BE through G meeting AE extended at K . Let AD, extended if necessary, meet GK at L, and draw FM from F par allel to AD and meeting GK at M. Draw a line PLQ through L parallel to BH. Draw a circle GQK with diameter GK in the plane through PLQ and GK, and let this circle meet PLQ at P and Q. Let a cone be conceived whose vertex is the point F and whose base is the circle GQK. Since the lines PLQ and GK are parallel to the lines BH and BE, respectively, and BH is perpendicular to BE, it follows that the line PLQ is perpendicular to the line GK. Since a cone, whose base is the circle GQK and whose vertex is the point F, has been cut by a plane FGK through its axis, and also by another p lane ABH cutting the base of the cone in a straight line PLQ perpendicular to the b ase GK of the axial triangle FGK, and the diameter BL of the section meets the side FK of the axial triangle at the point A beyond the vertex of the cone, it follows (by Apollonius' Proposition I 12) that the resulting section PBQ of the cone is an hyperbola whose vertex is the point B where a side of the axial triangle meets the cutting plane, whose transverse side is the line AB, and whose ordinates meet the diameter at angle BLP, which is equal to the given angle ABH. Now angle BED is equal to angle ABF, and angleABFis equal to angle GFM. Moreover, because FM is parallel to BD and BE is parallel to GM, angle GMF is equal to angle EBD. Therefore triangle GFM is similar to triangle DEB. Consequently, GM : FM: : BD : BE. Again, triangle ABE is similar to triangle FMK, and therefore MK : FM :: BE :AB. Therefore GM : FM comp . MK : FM :: BD : BE comp. BE: AB :: BD:AB ::BC :AB. But GM : FM comp. MK : FM :: rect.GM, MK : sq.FM. Therefore rect.GM, MK : sq.FM :: BC : AB. But also (by I 12) rect.GM, MK : sq.FM :: upright side : AB. Therefore the line BC is equal to the upright side of the hyperbola PBQ. Q . E. F. �18 19 The ellipse Let there be two bounded straight lines AB and BC perpendicular to each other, and let there be a given angle ABH; it is required to find in the plane through the lines AB, BC an ellipse whose diameter will be the straight line AB and vertex B, and upright side the straight line BC, and where the straight lines dropped from the section to AB at the given angle ABH will equal in square the rectangles applied to BC having as breadths the straight lines cut off by them from B and falling short by a figure similar and similarly situated to the rectangle AB, BC. We again set BD equal to BC, taking Don line AB or AB extended. We proceed as for the hyperbola, drawing some line BE perpendicular to BH, and connecting D and E . We draw BG below B such that angle GBA is equal to angle BED, and extend it above BE until it meets AE extended at F. But in the construction for the ellipse, unlike in the case of the hyperbola, we need to make sure make BE is not too long. For to guarantee that GB extended will meet AE extended above the line BE, we need angle GBA (which is equal to angle BED) to be greater than angle BAE. If BE wer e too long, then angle BED would become too small. To know how long to make BE, we need the following lemma. p Figure 2/Brendon L{l,jeLL �20 21 Lemma: the hyperbola case. Note that there is no need to If break it up into different cases depending on whether BC is greater than or less than AB, as Apollonius does. sq.BE< rect.BD, BA, then J3ED >IBAE. Proof: If angle BED were equal to angle BAE, then triangle BED would be similar to triangle BAE, and so BD : BE :: BE: BA, and therefore rect.BD, BA= sq.BE. If BE were any smaller, then angle BED would be larger and angle BAE would be smaller, so that angle BED would be larger than angle BAE. Q.E.D. So we make sure to construct BE so that the square on BE is less than the rectangle on BD and BA . Note that once we construct the ellipse that the rectangle on BD on BA is the rectangle on the upright and the transverse, and this rectangle is (by I 15) equal to the square on the conjugate diameter. Therefore the condition of the lemma amounts to requiring that the line BE be less than the conjugate diameter of the ellipse we are constructing. This means that there is a limit to the shape of the cone that can provide us with a given ellipse: the cone must in a certain sense be broad enough . The larger the transverse diameter of the ellipse, the broader a cone we have to use. The construction then proceeds just as in The parabola In the case of the parabola, the construction is the same as for the hyperbola, except that we draw FE parallel to the diameter BL. �23 22 Piedra Negra Sobre Una Piedra Blanca Ce.Jar Vallejo Me morire en Paris con aguacero, un dfa del cual tengo ya el recuerdo. Me morire en Paris -y no me corrotal vez un jueves, como es hoy, de otofio. Jueves sera, porque hoy, jueves, que proso estos versos, los humeros me he puesto a la mala y, jamas como hoy, me he vuelto, con todo mi camino, a verme solo. C-esar Vallejo ha muerto, le pegaban todos sin que el les haga nada; le daban duro con un palo y duro tambien con una soga; son testigos los dfas jueves y los huesos humeros, la soledad, la lluvia, los caminos ... Black Stone Upon A White Stone Tran.1/ated 6y Daniel &drigU£z I will die in Paris from t he heaviest rain, a day which I already have to remember. I will die in Paris -I do not run away most likely a Thursday , like today , in N ovember. On a Thursday, for today, Thursday, prosifies these verses, my humerus bones have been put on poorly and, never like t oday, have I become sur prised, with looking down my road, to see my self anon. Cesar Vallejo has died, he was stuck by everyone for doing nothing at all; they beat him hard w ith a stick and toughened Him up with a rope as well; witnesses are the days of Thursdays and all the humerus bones, The loneliness, the heavy rain, all of my roads ... �25 24 Affirmations r M W. Fogleman [fl cJ..;{JJio~JJ.,1 <11.1f' ~ .;.fe...« 1 i ... ~·,._ if> ~f we ~ ~"J furp~ ~ <.<e rt.._ :t ~u..- .Is f,v, fv hi~. WiV """':1 ht. ""~· 5k<:11f- 111 L..;s sit.in 7 H~ ~(\J. {?. tt;. 0( Qef il'I .rkek.'-.$..J .>:elvu. l;rtlr hey.I ff...it d.J,f\ife l.Svw11/;icia of- Jr~.t")J or >pt/<?.!'('~ .,J,,,.,'<:..l, X .S:'\i I«.! wiHA rsr ...t«,fw,f. f4. ....;~) -~ c..Jt.~~1 A.,... f..r~ M.ro>s ~ fitU"\t.. p lie# o~ i'htr h:; sfi// ecl);li~ 1"\.7 ><NI? .DiJ J ":;I- $i,..pfy f~ SiJhs~c(! fr-e ~61<.¢ 1'1r.>t tt..u~ ...,..-..i.h., :H-,.;r s,~,,1.~·""t bvl- f/.1.-y i..o..te ~o'° ,C.,o/~tl-v> ~s; O>Mief".i.?n,1 f"k7 fn f~y bvf fa i ~ <UJJ ;...JeNl{- ~ hJ.efe'O/ s f4 ~ 'olltvb ;.,;lv'cA offvr Q.Fhr""4f1c~ i"-fo ,.,.,~ts l.J1't :r_ f"< '7 ~ """ S4(~ "f•"' ~ "'?"""', , I. <'Ai-v:""; "\ Ne.w WodJ! Wi/{ "!- vt·.1-~ d;~ief ,1'J1~1..vke, J<~ f"$ i., ...,.1oA1.,Jt 1 f'\P.f> <->f p...,... r il\.f?:. K'f naj,..,~ ~1 ~ di> ~uv>i°"J ~ l";)r 1 wJ Hi. ~.:if\j fo CJ"i~ r o" t7 fi.. u.r '? l'Nl - In our childhoods, in interim moments of solitude and silence, we knelt not to pray but to offer affirmations which became and went into the tide pools of the future. We may have forgotten these moments, their sincerity and conviction, but they have not forgotten us; they are the substance of our selves. Have I been true to that little boy ? Is his voice still echoing in the chambers of my soul? Did he have definite dreams or just simply scant sketches which sparkled in his skin? Have I sailed with or against the winds of change? Arn I pacing back and forth across the same soil, again and again, over and over, or am I entering a New World? Will I contract diseases of disturbance, dismay and disillusion, or can I push onwards, into the mist, with only the maps of my making to guide me? Arn I ready? �27 26 Mutiny I All :r of h<l,,V{ f'\7 ~qv 111 ff'\,.vslJ,e, O<J.Crl"J. ~ '1.itNf fY\vrr•wrec'~ ~v\-1"1/; fo,. ~ h;, h.,/J it· ~e,,,,H f-,._,,J, ~"'i""' 1 I r l"ia,,u 1r V'V;J,e,if , !~ (,J•\.$ a/\ly d7e ro<-h wh.eh :t fo"VIJ ~ ~ •\}"~) vAv,,r 1$ ~ ~>q1 &,A.W Wil\(. < d'ro,/''J c;.5 e,.d<!.f'\U! ~ ~ ~ t h'f • I I I I I f""'[1ff7 .. ;(\f~.11r t,,):i"\J J· . .d1... "..;i--;vl e.vv'f W1 {uer <.;\,.._1/p•"\ • /Yl~~l t>'\ M w)J-i, <?:~ 7/,._d 1 ~-,f ,..,,.. '- & f'tl~ Y"'" lAM J th. .I- T (<'-•/Ji a 1 {:... ;f-) sril ih..(e < /)er (,_,01 -r;;,., for fh. i"-clv/r~i.l- (!; / ' +:rrwi.fio"' t} ~ r"'-·'fe.i/1 bvl· --· bv f ~-~ f~.,, U ('>l\L1 ;:::w-JI '1,,,v . U.A ~-.} k. I+'$ ~6 kt;wt1; .J ~o'fh/- ;,_c!-/ So fi"'-'j/ f1.4 J.o vl t-v Peel vf lt f<> • • • • J c..,,<V.,d ~ ...,.~A ;,.;;Ii, c.., ~II~ «.I'"\ of 1Zhellii,',>jf7 J So 0 l/v...n 5r· .&(., c.A\J. 9;:lf --ev·d .erif CuAJ « V:~v-1 ( VI'\ 1tl-vo~l, . 1~ ,~N'.J· Pi, , 51..-rv. h.vr f-;vJ '( /1 orl-vrl '1~~ ~ ( ooft..ni . t All of my muscles have murmur ed mutiny, for I have ordered them to hold taut endlessly, bearing the weight of my self. I have made it myself, it was only an infant edge of rock w hen I found it unborn and with a hammer and chisel I have carved away what is unnecessary as evidence by the wisdom of the wind which whispers by. I carry it with every motion, with every act, so proud, so glad it's me and not you up there, so vain am I that I reach up to feel if it's still there, like looking for the indulgent confirmation of a mirror, but - but - there is only sand, how can that be? It's so heavy, I thought it so st able and self-evident and yet my fingers run through the sand looking for stone but finding nothing. �28 29 On Variation VARIATION ON A THOUGHT Notes (excerpt) "The eternal silence of these infinite spaces FRIGHTENS ME." This phrase - the force with which it wants to imprint itself upon our souls, and the magnificence of its form has made it one of the most famous utterances ever articulated - it is a Poem and not at all a Thought. For Eternal and Infinite are symbols of the ineffable. Their value is entirely emotional. They act only on a certain sensibility. They provoke: the particular sensation of the impotence of our faculty to imagine . Pascal introduces literature to the use and abuse of these terms which are very good for poetry and nothing else . He composes this sentence with a symmetric arrangement, a sort of formidable image of equilibrium, apart from which he places in opposition (and, as a man is isolated, lost in the heavens, negligible and thinking) the phrase: ... FRIGHTENS ME. Observe how the inhuman which reigns in the heavens is established, represented by this form of grand verse, of which words of the same function are adjacent to each other and reinforce each other in their effects: noun and noun, silence with spaces; epithet with epithet: infinite manifests eternal. This vast verse constitutes the rhetorical form of a system complete in itself, a "UNIVERSE" ... As for what is human, what concerns life, consciousness, terror, this is all held in one rebuttal: ... FRIGHTENS ME. The poem is perfect. - Paul Valery Das Hegelhaus in Stuttgart, Deutschland/ Keeley Pratt �30 31 Valery 1s claim in his brief essay, Variation on a Thought, is that this pensee by Pascal is not a thought, but a poem. Valery must know that this is, in the initial and factual sense, a lie~andyet he presses on. What justifies this claim? How does Valery think, read, and write in relation to Pascal? How should we? In the very title of the essay, we intimate the boldness of his activity: Variation. Valery restates the thought, proceeds to call it a "phrase" and then recasts it as a poem, making use of its words while abandoning their context and their original significance. It is of no importance that Pascal 1s book is entitled Pensees, not Poemes; nor is it worth noting that the Eternal and Infinite have meanings and "values" beyond the "emotional," namely the mathematical and physical, the philosophical and theological. Liberated from factual fetters, Valery reads, hears, and restates in the original thought something new~ he finds a poem. We might call this a beautiful lie. When we read Pascal 1s Pensees, we are readers of thoughts, not hearers of poems. We are good readers when we contemplate the meaning of a thought; we are average readers when we pause to confirm our comprehension; we are mediocre readers when we move on to the next thought, without any pause whatsoever. None of these readers speak the thought out loud, and so they are deaf to euphony. But Valery dwells in Pascal 1s thought like a person infatuated with a poem. He copies the thought down and carries it in his back pocket for peeking at. He cannot help but cele- brate the sounds on his tongue, letting the syllables tickle his throat and thoughts. Here he begins to hear the poem, recognizing emotional symbols, audible equilibrium and opposing imbalance, all knit tight in a careful construction. Valery presses on, unsatisfied with mere appreciation and the passive acts of replication, recitation and memorization. He advances past absorption and reflection int o the unknown by means of regeneration, a rebirth active and entire. The Variation is the child of this re-birth, the means by which Valery 1s process of hearing is reproduced in his reader 1s ear. The thought heard becomes a poem just as its reader becomes a hearer, admitting beauty and emotion, symmetry and symphony, life and breath to what was only ink on the page, black and dead. Two specific attributes of Valery 1s Variation limit our conception of the activity of variation: hearing and attribution. By considering and broadening them, we will come to justify his claim, and appreciate his essay as a prime example of a genre, and perhaps art itself, rather than considering it merely a singularly interesting (or deluded) artifact. First, hearing. We have seen hearing as a means towards interpreting Pascal 1s pensee as a poem, but more generally, hearing is list ening, the basis of speaking and conversation. One does not need to literally hear a thought to list en and respond to it. Nor does the product of list ening, a response, need to be a poem. Second, attribution. This particular thought, this pensee, can only be transformed into �32 33 a poem by an essay like Valery's, which explicitly connects itself to its source before transcending it. But variation itself does not require this attribution, nor does the reader need to make the connection between the variation and it source, for it is often the case that the variation has become a source in itself. One might argue that all thought, all art, all poetry is variation. Milton is a variation on Dante, Virgil, and Homer before him, and each of these men harness voice itself; we cannot imagine Picasso without cave drawings; this pattern is not parasitism but progress, not deviation or defilement but the culmination of dialogue. Variation is creation. In sum, Valery's essay is indeed a variation on Pascal's pensee. Valery understands what Pascal was trying to achieve, but he is not confined by it-it is a provocation. True thought, true creation begins in variation; it is indebted to its predecessors; it accepts and admires them while seeking its own place in humanity's annals. As thinkers, artists, and humans, we look to our ancestors to understand them and to admit their thoughts as the beginnings of our own. It seems we have found answers to our questions about Valery's essay, but this is not our end - it is our beginning. We have been summoned to perform the activity of Variation. Eiffel from the Pont Alexandre UV M ichael Green �34 35 Selections from Du cote de chez Swann Marcel Prowl Longtemps, je me suis couche de bonne heure. Parfois, a peine ma bougie eteinte, mes yeux se fermaient si vite que je n'avais pas le temps de me dire: «Je m'endors.» Et, une demiheure apres, la pensee qu'il etait temps de chercher le sommeil m' eveillait; je voulais poser le volume que je croyais avoir encore dans les mains et souffler ma lumiere; je n'avais pas cesse en dormant de faire des reflexions sur ce que je venais de lire, mais ces reflexions avaient pris un tour un peu particulier; il me semblait que j'etais moimeme ce dont parlait l' ouvrage: une eglise, un quatuor, la rivalite de Franc;ois Ier et de Charles Ouint. Cette croyance survivait pendant quelques secondes a mon reveil; elle ne choquait pas ma raison mais pesait comme des ecailles sur mes yeux et les empechait de se rendre compte que le bougeoir n' etait plus allume. Puis elle commenc;ait a me devenir inintelligible, comme apres la metempsycose les pensees d'une existence anterieure; le sujet du livre se detachait de moi, j'etais libre de m'y appliquer ou non; aussitot je recouvrais la vue et j'etais bien etonne de trouver autour de moi une obscurite, douce et reposante pour mes yeux, mais peutetre plus encore pour mon esprit, a qui elle apparaissait comme une chose sans cause, incomprehensible, comme une chose vraiment obscure. Selections from Swann d Way tran.:Jlated /Jy Jacob Garrett For a long time, I'd lie down to bed at a good hour. Sometimes, scarcely after my candle had been put out, my eyes would shut so quickly that I'd not have the time to say to myself: "I sleep". And, half an hour later, the thought that it was time to search for sleep would awake me; I would want to put down the volume that I believed to have still in my hands, and to blow out my light; I had not ceased in slumber to make reflections upon that which I was reading, but these reflections had taken a turn a a little peculiar ; it seemed to me that I was myself of that which the work spoke: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between Francois I and Charles V. That notion would survive during some seconds of my waking; it did not shock my reason, but weighed like scales upon my eyes and impeded them from realizing that the candle was no longer lit. Then it would begin to become unintelligible to me, like after metempsychosis the thoughts of a previous existence; the subject of the book would detach itself from me, I was free to apply myself to it or not; at once I would recover sight and I would be well surprised to find surrounding me a darkness, sweet and restful for my eyes, but perhaps still more for my mind, to which it appeared like a thing without cause, incomprehensible, like a thing truly darkened. I'd ask myself what hour it could �37 36 Je me demandais quelle heure il pouvait etre; j'entendais le sifflement des trains qui, plus ou mains eloigne, comme le chant d'un oiseau dans une foret, relevant les distances, me decrivait l' etendue de la campagne deserte ou le voyageur se hate vers la station prochaine; et le petit chemin qu'il suit va etre grave dans son souvenir par l'excitation qu'il doit a des lieux nouveaux, a des actes inaccoutumes, a la causerie recente et aux adieux sous la lampe etrangere qui le suivent encore dans le silence de la nuit, a la douceur prochaine du retour. be; I'd"hear the whistling of trains which, further or closer away, like the song of a bird in the forest, noting the distances, would describe to me the expanse of the deserted country where the voyager hastens toward the next station; and the small path that he follows being engraved in his memory by the excitement that goes necessarily with places novel, with acts unaccustomed, with the recent chat and with the farewells bid under a strange lamp that follow still in the silence of the night, with the sweetness of the next return. J'appuyais tendrement mes joues contre les belles joues de l'oreiller qui, pleines et fraiches, sont comme les joues de notre enfance. J e frottais une allumette pour regarder ma montre. Bientot minuit. C'est l'instant OU le malade, qui a ete oblige de partir en voyage et a du coucher dans un hotel inconnu, reveille par une crise, se rejouit en apercevant sous la porte une raie de jour. Quel bonheur c' est deja le matin ! Dans un moment les domestiques seront leves, il pourra sonner, on viendra lui porter secours. L'esperance d'etre soulage lui donne du courage pour souffrir. Justement il a cru entendre des pas; les pas se rapprochent, puis s' eloignent. Et la raie de jour qui etait sous sa porte a disparu. C' est minuit; on vient d' eteindre le gaz; le dernier domestique est parti et il faudra rester toute la nuit a souffrir sans remede. I would rest tenderly my cheeks against the lovely cheeks of the pillow which, plump and fresh, are like the cheeks of our childhood. I would strike a match so to look at my w atch. Nearly midnight. That's the moment when an invalid, who has been obliged to leav e on a voyage and must sleep in an unknown hotel, awoken by a fit, rejoices in making out under the door the rays of the day. What happiness that it's already the morning! In a moment the domestics will rise, he'll be able to ring, one will come to bring him succor. The hope of being relived gives him the courage to suffer. Just then he believ es he hears some steps; the steps approach him, and then move away from him. And the ray of the day which was under his door has disappeared. It is midnight; someone came to put out the gas; the last domestic has left and he must remain all night in suffering without remedy. Je me rendormais, et parfois je n'avais plus que de courts reveils d'un instant, le temps d'entendre les craquements organiques des boiseries, I w ould go back to sleep, and sometimes �38 d' ouvrir les yeux pour fixer le kaleidoscope de l'obscurite, de gouter grace a une lueur momentanee de conscience le sommeil ou etaient plonges les meubles, la chambre, le tout dont je n' etais qu'une petite partie et a l'insensibilite duquel je retournais vite m'unir. Ou bien en dormant j'avais rejoint sans effort un age a jamais revolu de ma vie primitive, retrouve telle de mes t erreurs enfantines comme celle que mon grand-oncle me tirat par mes boucles et qu' avait dissipee le jour, - date pour moi d'une ere nouvelle, - ou on les avait coupees. J'avais oublie cet evenement pendant mon sommeil, j'en retrouvais le souvenir aussitot que j'avais reussi a m'eveiller pour echapper aux mains de mon grand-oncle, mais par mesure de precaution j 'entourais completement ma tete de mon oreiller avant de retourner dans le monde des reves. Quelquefois, comme Eve naquit d 'une cote d'Adam, une femme naissait pendant mon sommeil d'une fausse position de ma cuisse. Formee du plaisir que j'etais sur le point de gouter, je m 'imaginais que c'etait elle qui me l'offrait. Mon corps qui sentait dans le sien ma propr e chaleur voulait s'y rejoindre, je m' eveillais. Le reste des humains m' apparaissait comme bien lointain aupres de cette femme que j 'avais quittee ily avait quelques moments a peine; ma joue etait chaude encore de son baiser, mon corps courbature par le poids de sa taille. Si, comme il arriv ait quelquefois, elle avait les traits d'une femme que j 'avais connue dans la vie, j 'allais me donner tout entier ace b u t : la I'd have wakings no longer than an inst ant, time enough to hear the n atu r al cr eaking of the paneling, to open my ey es so t o stare at the kaleidoscope of the dar kness, t o taste, by the g r ace of a momentary gleam of conscience, the sleep w her ein was plunged the furniture, the room, the w hole of which I was but a small part and to t he insensibility of which I would soon reunite. O r perhaps in sleeping I had rejoined, without effort, a nev er returned t o age of my earlier life, recov er ed such childhood terrors like the one of my great-uncle pulling on my curls that had been d ispelled the d ay, - date of a new era for me, - w her e someone had them cropped. I had forgotten t hat ev ent during my sleep; I recalled the memory as soon as I had succeeded in waking myself so t o escape my great -uncle's hands, but for a measure of precaution, I'd completely wrap my head in my pillow befor e returning to the world of drea m s. Sometimes, just as E v e was born from Adam's rib, a woman w ould be born w h ile I slept from a twisted position of my thigh. F or med from the pleasure that I w a s upon the point of tasting, I imagined to my self that it was she w ho offered it t o me. My body which sensed in her breast my ow n h eat w ould want t o rejoin itself t o h er, I'd wake. The rest of humanity appear ed t o me distant after this woman w hom I had left , w ho w as there barely a few moments; my cheek w as still w ar m from her kiss, my body ached from the w eight of her w aist. If, as it hap p ened sometimes, sh e had the traits of a w oman th at I had know n in \ �40 41 retrouver, comme ceux qui partent en voyage pour voir de leurs yeux une cite desiree et s'imaginent qu'on peut gouter dans une realite le charme du songe. Peu a peu son souvenir s'evanouissait, j'avais oublie la fille demon reve. life, I would give myself wholly to this aim: to find her, like those who leave on a voyage to see in person a long dreamt of city, and imagine to themselves that one can taste in reality the charm of the dream. Little by little her memory would fade away; I had forgotten the girl of my dream. \ 1 �---43 42 Selections from "Heart Breaking Open: An Arc of Sonnets" Aalin Bellinger 2. So, Lord, it is to be by fire and night Your pillar points through pain my faltering feet; My proud eyes blanch blind at the fierce light While flesh shudders at shock of crucible's heat. With heart's high hope dispelled to dwindling dark And fantasy flushed in truth's light cast clear, Burned feet first find this desert rock too stark To taste the hidden medicine trickling here. 0 Lord, have I forgotten how You held me, Through the soul-slapping waves of childhood's day, Strengthening my limbs in the cold sea, While all the time my heart against You lay? Just so, Lord, in this burning desert heat Work out in me a strength of heart more sweet. Trees/ Carlin FeLt �44 45 9. 8. 0 Panegia, teach me to detach My clinging heart from this new desperate love; Send me courage and method to unlatch My miser chest locked in from Grace above. Make me strong and free to let my soul Flow in and out with a relation 's tide, To love my friend so deep and yet be whole When circumstances call her from my side. I wish to be there for her, but my need Inflames my inner sense that gives and takes; So while I yearn to follow close her lead, I must carve my own way for both our sakes. 0 Mother intimate with Christ your son, Guide me how streams of love may rightly run. 0 Panegia, be with my close friend, Whose glance unfathomed cuts me to the heart; Take care of her to whom I'm blind to send Swift healing, comfort, strength to every part. Unguessable the grace that makes us two, So different utterly, create a space Where several harmonies of I and you Blend, resonate, and hold their place . And yet I, ignorant what storms or calm Blow out or breath in peace to her domain, Burn still to feel more keenly what the palm Of her soul only ever could explain. 0 Mother, from my depths receive this prayer, To hold my unseen friend in your wise care . �46 47 14. 0 Lord, my life lies open in Your hand. You know, I know, my needs for love on earth; Upon You and Your cross I cast my worth, 0 Word by Whom was made all life and land. I lie upon the sunny coats of sand That with each lifting wave find sweet rebirth And in this dance the dying breakers mirth Sparkles I praise I start to understand: The knowledge, Lord, that You are all in all, In each particular and the cycling whole, And the uniqueness of each beating heart Your gift, is safe; mysterious, small, Unfolding slowly in the growing soul, The harmony fulfilling whole and part. Croquet 1/ Megan Faulkner �--· 48 49 Stooping for Excellence in Iraqi Higher Education Louil Petruh Biology Lab!Louid Petrich Much of the talk about liberal education by those of us who wish to promote it at home and abroad tends in the direction of platitudes. Alistener who did not know better from experience might think that liberal education itself were as boring as the promoting of it tends to be. How much worse is the risk of sounding trivial or impertinent when one's audience of initiates has merely to look out the window to see revolution spreading like brush-fires in the desert wind, while determined dictators try to stamp out the fires. Even the most interesting activities of liberal education lose their hold on participants when the local dogs of war are observed to be straining again at their leashes. Here at St. John's College, we do not bother ourselves about the dust of the chalk that our demonstrations of Euclid leave behind in our classrooms. But if we were given to worry about whether the College itself will be reduced to dust before the freshmen graduate, who would be demonstrating Euclid at the board? And what would those demonstrations truly be demonstrating? Last year (2010-2011), at the American University of Iraq in the northeastern Ku rdish city of Sulaimani, I taught freshmen Iraqis (mostly Kurds, some Arabs) to read Euclid, Darwin, �50 51 Galileo and other authors of mathematical and scientific books as part of the two-year core curriculum of liberal arts required of all students. Such a curriculum is unprecedented in Iraq, unless you go back about 1000 years. All of us who taught in the core had to become the defenders and promoters of its ambitious content. Each day that I taught there another layer of that ancient land's dust had to be wiped away from the books so that eyes distracted by the glare from outside events might be persuaded to read them with interest and care. Who could blame one of the Iraqi members of the University Board of Trustees for storming out of a meeting one time, saying, "Not another word about Socr ates!" Even one of my American colleagues, a professor of business management, information technology (and mathematics), ended up using his copy of Euclid's Elements as a door stop to his office, thus to demonstrate that he concluded this g r eat book was good for just this function under those conditions. My office door continually swung open to admit one or more of my sixty or so students. They came to see me in groups of ten to fifteen if they wished to persuade me of something: W e think y our questions a r e too hard. If y ou w ant us to succeed you should ask easier questions. This was their way, as I learned, of negotiating potential conflicts: let one pow er p r esent itself to the other power so that the lesser m ight recognize itself as such and r espectfully defer to the great er. Sometimes I could find w ay s to defer in good conscience to reasonable demands: "I will give you take-hoine exams from now on and y ou m ay consult the books and w ork t ogether t o a n sw er the questions. If y ou still do not succeed, t her e w ill b e opportunities for extra cr edit. " (I do not know how we would hav e gotten by without extra credit. It functioned under my dispensation like grace t o sinners.) At other times I told t hem they should have brought mor e of themselv es into my little office -at w hich t hey exited to und ertake their prescribed dut ies in good humor. The students ast onished me to hav e preserved a sw eetness of temperament through the bitterness of their history. They were quite impossible to cure of the kind of collaboration that we call "cheating" or "plagiarism," and w hich t hey call "friendship" or "using the internet." They possessed a great capacity for honor, accompanied accordingly w ith an acut e sense for wrongs done them. Any w eaknesses of character that t hey could tu rn t o their advantage, they did , and some of my colleagues on the faculty paid a heavy p rice for weakness. It was best to stand while teaching them. You had to know w here to look not t o lose heart at t he ever present prospect and evidence of failure. As they looked out the window s in distraction t o t he affair s of the world, I mad e my horizon the mission of the u n iversity, w hose core w as the liberal arts, and there I looked to measure my success. The streets of S u laimani witnessed daily demonstrations for months against the entrenched party interests, and occasionally the street s become violent. The two major Ku r dish parties ordered their militias to occupy strategic positions �52 53 around the city to maintain order. A Peshmerga raid on an al-Qa'ida haven near our housing compound killed five terrorists, as if to remind the restive people not to overthrow their protectors. (The Peshmerga were once Kurdish mountain fighters who have evolved over the years into the professional military of the autonomous Kurdish region. The word conveys "those who stand before death with a knife clenched in their teeth.") We received daily security reports about what to expect and where not to go. Our contingent of body guards was doubled when Osama bin Laden was killed. They sat in the vans next to us, their AK-47's resting in their laps like the briefcases and ·book bags in ours. One of them was trying to learn some English, so I tried to make small talk. He was shy. We took different routes to the university for our security. My several students from Baghdad found all this boring by comparison to home. Sulaimani to them was like Peoria to someone from Manhattan. No bombs went off. One thing remained constant among students wherever they came from. Pressured by parents, relatives, and their own habits of mind to get the good grades and credentials necessary to become engineers, information technologists, or business managers, they demanded to know why they needed to read (for example) Charles Darwin. We are not going to become doctors or biologists, they knowingly declared. Will Darwin be on the exam? "Yes, you are being examined on this author," I replied. What kind of exam? "You may think of it as multiple choice, but you will supply the choices·." How many questions will we have to answer? "You may choose from among them to answer a few or just one - but do answer it well." There will not be enough time. "If there was enough time to make it possible for this conversation to have issued from species that have evolved from fish, there will be enough time for y ou to reflect on that process in the exam." I learned how to enjoy the students for asking me such questions. As Pascal says somewhere, the golden objects of learning are not always high and out of reach, but rolling around at our feet. It is only necessary to be willing to stoop for them. Yet stooping without picking up a satisfactory answer and having to stoop again and again did not please them as sport. Why are you always asking us about things you don't know? How do you expect us to know? We are the students; you are the professor. (Indeed, the sign on my office door said, "Louis Petrich: Associate Professor in the Core." I shall not sit that high again.) They had a point, so I tried to answer the question they kept asking me, in one form or another, all the time: Why are we reading these books? "We read Charles Darwin not to become biologist s," I professed one day, after giving much thought to the matter, "but to distinguish and appreciate the different paths that life has taken over the course of natural history. For example, there is the life of the social insects in the hive - materially secure, well-ordered, the struggle for existence decided in their favor. The path t hat we Homo sapiens hav e taken to regulate the awfulness oflife-not to be �-· 54 55 defeated by it-is a thing we call 'culture,' which unlike the bee hive is devoted to knowing the geometry of its spaces and to delighting in the beauty of colors and forms even in the face of dangers from all sides. Have you heard how Archimedes is reported to have died? He was so determined to finish the demonstration of one more geometrical theorem as the Roman sword hung over his head at the siege of Syracuse that he did not notice when it made its descent. (Ouod erat demonstrandum, 212 B.C.) His preoccupation with geometry (which provided him the know-how for an occupation as a great engineer) is not merely an eccentricity. Preoccupations ·make us human, different from chimpanzees and rats, who learn to solve puzzles and negotiate mazes to earn their bananas and sweets. The choice that you face as students at this university of liberal learning is not between thinking forever like a biologist or an engineer. Your choice is between learning to think freely and bravely for yourselves, or not to think much at all. In either case, the sword is hanging there, yet for some things it has no edge. Think on those things. Does not Holy Scripture say as much? We are all being examined on the multiple choices we make among the higher, lower, and middle paths of life. The paths that life can take are available for our inspection in literature, philosophy, history, and science. What a pity if your shelves do not hold these books. How will you know the path to take?" I apologize if my professed answer sounds platitudinous. As I said at the beginning, this is hard to avoid. I am, after all, a believer in the answer, and yet I must report that my students continued to believe in pressing the question. And so we contested the matter of their education for a year. You will not read about our contest in the news, but when I hear people speak about the outcome of the war in Iraq, I know that our contest at the American University of Iraq is a part of that whole outcome, a good part. Let me tell you about a young, veiled woman named Ziza, who always sat in the front row of our mathematics class. She never said a word, but paid strict attention to every demonstration and wrote down whatever I said or wrote on the board. At the end of the semester I collected the students' math notebooks, in which they were supposed to practice the art of demonst rating and to ponder its difficulties. Ziza used a ruler, compass, and different colored pencils to draw the diagrams and highlight the steps in the proofs, one after another throughout. Her notebook was a thing of manifest beauty. It was, in fact, a book, whose making had taken many more hours than I had intended, yet without any reckoning to me for credit of those hours, as others reckoned to me for much less reason. As I perused the pages of Ziza's craftsmanship I felt happy, yet without quite knowing why I should, for I could not say that she was learning to think mathematically on her own, rather than reproducing with great care and pa- · tience the thinking of others. When I turned to the first page to write something appr opr iate in �57 56 praise of her work and to encourage her to become more public in her learning, I saw in the center of the page a dedication, written in English and Kurdish in beautifully flowing scripts, and surrounded on the margins by the flourishing of geometrical figures that populate Book I of Euclid. The dedication said simply: To the Glory of God. We often hear it said that liberal education is the pursuit of knowledge and beauty for their own sakes, as goods in themselves. That saying was not good enough for Ziza. I did not write anything on that page. I did not write anything at all in her book. Many of my male students habitually carried prayer beads that they audibly fingered in class and everywhere else. I learned to ignore the sound, or to regard it as part of the exotic, like the call to prayer that loudly issued each day around noon from a mosque a block away from the university. I learned not to go to the washroom at that time~too many men crowding in to clean their hands before prayer. I wondered if the pursuit of knowledge and beauty is also a general calling to be followed by those who hear it and recognize the need to keep something in themselves clean for the purpose of pure learning. One of my male students, Bouwar, a Kurdish nationalist, always dressed in traditional attire (the shrwal), an elegant, trim robe with a scarflike belt around the waist, noble and assertive. He lacked only a scimitar to complete the image of the tribal leader and mountain warrior. (Weapons, by the way, were not allowed past the two entrances througli the concrete blast walls that surrounded the American University of Iraq. The signs proclaimed it, and the Peshmerga were stationed there to strictly enforce the ban. Otherwise, I should have other stories than this one t o tell you.) Bouwar liked to interrupt my professing of the things we now know about nature to ask sharp, impatient questions that felt to me hostile to modern science, particularly to Darwin. What's the evidence for that? How do they know that? Is that a fact or just a theory? Do you believe that, Professor? Are there Moslem scientists who believe that? He also fingered the prayer beads as he questioned me. To my imagination, Bouwar could have been a superbly groomed Spartan, and I an infidel Athenian. Bouwar wrote an essay for his history professor that he gave to me as well, since I had argued that Darwin turned biology into a k ind of history. The title of his essay was: "The Great Deceivers." I instantly imagined that the essay contained an attack on Darwin and other theorists of modern science. By the second sentence I realized that much I had imagined about this y oung man was wrong. His thesis was that the prophets were all deceivers, Mohammed being the greatest deceiver of the lot. I was stupefied and in awe, since these are the kind of thoughts, which uttered, can get you quickly killed in that part of the w orld (and other parts, too, less quickly). As I read the essay I recognized where his pointed questions in class were tending. He was covertly digging for solid evidence to use against the authority of the �58 59 prophets. Concerned for his future well-being, I gave him and the class Galileo's "Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina" on how to read Holy Scripture in light of scientific discoveries, so that the oneness of truth manifested in nature and revelation might be maintained by a man of reason and faith. The courage of those who calmly accept the uncertainty of how they will earn their living as students of the liberal arts ought to be all the little courage one needs to follow that calling for a while at the university. Surely this is much less virtue to ask of ourselves than we dare to ask of our Moslem brothers and sisters in the bright ·causes of enlightenment and liberty. A letter that I shall keep among my remembrances of my year in Iraq was written to me by a young man named Bakir, an Arab from Baghdad, which a long time ago was the center of learning and wisdom in the West. But seven y ears ago, Bakir's father and uncle w ere mur dered in Baghdad by a squad of Shiah during their attacks on the Sunni, and from their home the remainder of his family had to flee for their lives to Damascus. (I wonder where they liv e t oday, now that Syria has taken its turn as a place from w hich t o flee.) I should mention that the students at the American University of Iraq all had stor ies to tell of death, torture, exile, imprisonment, or the fear of these things, stories that hav e been told befor e, so typically they did not tell them again , unless one wer e fresh or curious enough to ask. Bakir w anted to return to Baghdad some day to help make it great A Faculty Picnic/Lowd Petrich �60 61 again. That was why he intended to study politics at the American University in Sulaimani, where he could also write for the school newspaper, join the debate club, and without fear give expression to his conspicuous thymos. He could not understand why he - Bakir, the future Sunni politician should be forced to study modern life science, at the center of which he found a godless theory. This angered him. I asked the class to consider the motto above the oracle at Delphi: Know Thyself. Where does this self of ours come from? How shall we come to know it? What is its name? Is it bred into the genes of the only surviving species of the genus Homo, which some scientists speculate may have exterminated the Neanderthals and other related species long ago? Is that the story of who we are and why we are prone to anger and violence? Bakir began to listen to the arguments of life science when he saw the political connections, and so one day late in the semester he wrote me the following letter: As long as you are our professor and are lecturing us for the purpose of a superior education, I would like to have a public debate with you at the university: you are with Darwin's theory and I am against his theory. Then both professor and student will have the opportunity to convince the audience about what we both believe. I don't want-like many students-to have a contradiction within myself. So if you publicly refute me and convince me, I will believe in this theory. I think you can understand my situation when I believe in something and one day an American pro- f essor at school comes to me and tells me that what I believed is wrong. Darwin shocked the world by his theory, and I was shocked to hear you say to me that I am not who I thought I was! And I lived my life with a lie. So, imagine my situation currently. What we are going to decide is very essential, Professor. If this is really a university where students are allowed to have challenging personalities, then I am glad to be one of these students. And I challenge you. His words made me think of a Platonic dialogue and chivalric duel. I declined the format, and instead organized a class debate in teams of students on the question of Darwinism. The things that were said in that debate made an awful mess of Darwin. But one thing stood out from the mess. Bakir and his colleagues were not going to be persuaded of their origin from animals. They did not so much mind the idea of animals evolving from animals, but not human beings, not them. From this stance they would not budge. In some respects they were thinking like the pigeon fanciers in Darwin's opening chapter of The Origin who proudly believed that their fancy, prize-winning pigeons were each a special kind, instead of varieties of one species. I felt that this was closedminded of them and that I had failed as their teacher. But I have thought more about Bakir's challenge and stance in that debate since then. His beloved Baghdad, like Socrates' beloved Athens, had gone down the tubes, so to speak, from much war and tyranny. But his human soul, ,I �63 62 like that of Socrates, did not have to follow his city as it went down. In that messy debate about Darwin, the students did not allow themselves to be distracted from the soul's prizes by the recorded or purported events of natural history. To be free of stamping by the events of history-not to be stamped out by time -may that be a prize of the liberal learning that has begun in Iraq? We must hope so. Or else we must meet the challenge and teach them, as once, long ago, they taught us. That challenge is bigger than you think. An abridged version of this essay was delivered as · an address at a conference on liberal education in Tbilisi, Georgia in June of 2011 . Morning Pray ers !Shilcdhya A'dhilcari �64 65 Odd ·Enough to be Even Rohert Schuerman I hardly have an inkling how a bird song sings so sweet When not one jot of ink gets penned upon a noted sheet Nor have I come to fathom, how a millipede accords To navigate each step it takes to harmonize the hordes Nor do I fully see the sense, when my myriad leggd' friend Is by that song bird, made a meal, to meet his fate ful end Croquet 4/ Megan FauLlcner And yet, an intuition, like some solitary sea Attuned to be the many, in one single symphony Plays upon my reason .. which, I've come to understand Calls the tune, invisible, to turn the world at hand Leads across a bridge of time, in, this eternal land Where paradox, meets metaphor To find an irony In every answer.. questioned by The likes of me .. and you .. �66 67 A Wholly Sonnet I too awoke to see my world as wrong, Like life entire was up and passing by And soi wondered, had I lost the song? Until I sought out somewhere I could cry To tell how real the time is present, now Its story grows while welling up inside My need to pray.. but no, I don 't know how. Though still, my soul, itself, no longer hides Its sound gives sense to all I fail to see For everywhere I look, that's nowhere clear, But, . of a wholly what it means, to Be. While this idea's beyond me, I draw near To heed its call which sojourns with the wind Though too, lies still, in wisdom for to lend. Rebecca/ Adam Mar(Lfchlcy �energeia st. john's college p.o. box 2800 annapolis, md 21401 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 67 Pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Connolly, Stephanie (editor) Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Spring 2012 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2012 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Spring 2012. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Spring 2012 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/e3a52d4b29151522e8bb86bd443de62c.pdf e8b22b0954034c8caa7c70c82d69230f PDF Text Text SPRING 1982 :' �CONTENTS ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. Editorial Staff: Barbara Cooper Matthew Davis Christian Holland Susan Maguire Richard Miller Fritz Monsma Marion Sharp Joe Sachs CHRONOLOGY AND BEING FOR ACHILLES HERACLITUS AND AJAX ON FEEDING THE FLOCK (INCLUSIVE) WITH A GRAIN OF WHEAT JUNIOR/SENIOR MATH PRIZE PAPER 1979 TWO POEMS FROM LE MISANTHROPE Abe Schoener l Liz Waldner 6 R.A. Schainbaum 9 translated by Janet Durholz IO NEWTON'S AND ADAM'S APPLE Howard Zeiderman 12 VIEWPOINT Patti Nogales 23 Stephanie Nelson 24 David Stephenson 29 Ruth A. Johnston 31 LIKE FLIES TO WANTON BOYS. Another Paper about God, Man, and the Universe SOME THOUGHTS ON "MAXWELL'S EQUATIONS" SONNET A CHORUS FROM THE BACCHAE translated by Merle Sokolik 32 THE B DEDUCTION AND ITS RELATION TO FREEDOM (Or Kant, Can Do) Matthew Davis 34 THERE IS VERY LITTLE POETRY IN ONIONS Dan Farrell 43 P.H. Gagnier 44 Lisa Eckstrom 45 THE WRECK OF ELPENOR RECONCILIATION IN THE BACCHAE: Remembering Who We A~e Who Are Not Gods But Men PHAINETAI MO! translated by Terri-Ann Hahn 51 I ON CHAPTERS 11-17 OF PART II OF DON QUIXOTE 11 Paula Rustan 52 I[ !:1 TA-POCKETA, POCKETA, POCKET~ ••• Moliere, Thurber and the Comic Idea 111 1! Fritz Monsma 55 JI: I! -- --- - ~--·----- ---~- - --- -·--- i1[~ �Chronology and Being for Achilles, Heraclitus and Ajax Abe Schoener Diel' s. fragment 30 of Heraclitus names all things in their thinghood.. I f we can read this fragment successfully, we will understand something of the Greek thought about things, the being of things, and--most tempting--the being of being. Here is the fragment: , I f t ' Panta hen is the union of the many and the one, but a , union--since it is panta hen and not just to hen--which preserves the manyness. As the tendencies toward unity and plurality strive with one another, the cosmos lives. If the strife stops, the cosmos dies, the tension is lost. When we see kosmos as this tension we can understand the singleness of the two kinds of "same" we saw before. Kosmos is thinghood insofar as each thing is because of the strife in it; and kosmos is· wholeness insofar as each thing strives with every other one. It is thus the quality which separate things have in common, and also the very coming together of the separate things. It both orders and destroys their mutual distinction. This conflation of contraries is not nonsense: it is the most beautiful harmony. Now we can understand kosmos as "cosmos. " Once we -see kosmos as the tension-filled order that both creates and destroys individuals, we can see the world (or universe) as kosmos. Not as the obvious example of kosmos, but as the most difficult. The world both demands and rejects being called one, and does so with more insistence than any o,ther thing, so it takes the greatest wisdom to see it as kosmos. We learn that we must never explain the Greek kosmos through our notion of world, but can only hope to understand the full meaning of "world" through the challenging contradiction of kosmos. H xooµov TOV aUTOV anaVTWV OUTE TL~ 8Erav o~TE TL' &vep~nwv tnoLnoEv, ' ' ' ' ,, aAA '.:r aEL xaL EOTL XaL EOTaL' riv ' ' nDp &ELsWOV, anTOµEVOV µETpa xal &nooSEVVUµEVOV µETpa. ("Kosmos," the same for all things, was neither made by one of the gods, nor by one of men--but it was always, and is, and ever will be everli¥ing fire, constantly kindling and qqenching itself and the measures of the world.) When Heraclitus says "kosmos," he does not mean "cosmos" or any other word which names something like our "universe." He means the order which is ton auton hapanton--the same for all things. This sameness is twofold: it is the sameness of all things with each other (that is, their common thinghood); and it is the order which brings all the different things together (their being part of the same whole). If we read further in Heraclitus, we find these two aspects of kosmos are one and the same. They are the harmonie of things in strife: the togetherness in conflict df things which oppose and resist each other. Kosmos is thus the same as the tension of panta hen, the greatest strife and thus the greatest harmonie. We have al ready caught some of Heraclitus' understanding of the being of things. Their only being is in a twofold tension: an inner tension (like the 1 �I . !@, .I lyre's), and an outer tension (the tension between world and thing, panta hen). There is no being of a thing without the being of the opposites striving "inside" of it, and no being without the being of tjle kosmos with which the thing strives for its own individualty. This cosmos was never created. It is thus self-caused1 that is, its being lies entirely within itself. Nothing else is responsible (aitios) for it. What is responsible for its being is its manner of being--that is, as fire. This is clear from what is -contrasted with "not created": (~o ~ne made it, but it always was ... ) If I # .. , , ou TLS ErroLnaEv, aAA t :l analogy. He means the being of all things is the being of fire. They. are the same--and so, all things, insofar as they are, are fire. Philosophy is at this point way beyond what are called "material causes." Heraclitus does not name pur as material cause, but as primal cause-==that is, as ousia. If we examined the Pre-Socratics carefully, we might find that they never had "material cause." Did Thales perform experiments to determine whether all things were made up of water? No--this was not the way of the Ancients. When Thales said, "All is water," he was the first to say that the being of all things is one--and that that one being ·is the cool uniformity of water. Thales was talking ousia, not materia. We said before that the essence of things was change, that stasis was death. When Heraclitus calls fire aeizoon, doesn't that contradict our claim? Aeizoon sounds like the unchanging eternity of the Immortal, the life that does not change into death. But it is not, and a clue is DK 62 ("Mortals are immortals, immortals are mortals: the first live the death of the latter, and the latter die the other's life"). F-rom it we learn that the gods have no life, only death. Zoe always includes death, so aeizoon must mean "always dying" as well as "always living." We have al ready seen these two opposites together in fire: part of its life is to burn itself out, it cannot flame except by cons'uming its source. But every burning-out leads to a conflagration, for every quenching prepares new material to be burned again. Fire's being is to live and die at every moment, and for the living and the dying to be one and the same activity. For Heraclitus, this is the being of being: If riv aEL •.• Its being is its aitios. Its being can be "cause" because of the strange nature of its being. The fragment says that: "the being · of kosmos is fi r.e." .As we read it we expect the fragment to run: "it was never created, but was, is and always will ·-be." Instead it supplies a predicate to einai, and says, "it is fire." The predicate is a surprise. In Heraclitus, we learn to take surprises seriously: they must become part of our reading. This surprise achieves a definite effect: it makes us take what we were expecting to read and what we actually read, as the same thing._ Thus: to be is to be fire einai is pur einai. To understand the sense of pur einai, we have to understand pur, fire. It is more than familiar to uS:-- Fire is bright and hot. It rages, roars, fumes, changes color, licks, spurts, and spreads. It hisses, smokes, smoulders, consumes, and inevitably burns itself out. It changes constantly--a strange characterization of being. But for Heraclitus, it is the only one. In the absence of change, strife, and tension, there is no life--there is nothing. This nothingness is not only death but non-being. The raging of fire is the opposite of that "non-being". But when Heraclitus says that the being is "being fire," he is not just speaking by rrDp ElvaL· arrTOUEVOV UFTpa Ma~ &rrocr8EUVµEVOV µETpa. When birth and death not only coincide but coexist eternally as the being of being, then history and even time itself become impossible. The fragment catches this in the words we misleadingly sununed up as "einai" : en aei, kai es ti, - ·~-.-.-.. 2 ---:-- - kai estai. "The cosmos always was anc!·is and· will be "fire"--wa~, is and will be all at ~· We could read the ve.rbs separately--not insisting on their coincidence--.but this would be ignoring the subtle craft of Heraclitus. When he says "was," "is," and "will be" together, where "is always" would have done, we must be careful not to lose his jarring message in the easiest--and less attentive --reading. He says: in the being of fire, was, is and will be are all the same. This conflation of present, past, and future does not actually deny time, but only a "chronological" conception of it. When future falls into past, time cannot be seen along a time-line. But is this nonsense--time not fitting on a time-line? It is not nonsense-- in fact, it is something we will soon learn to call "Greek". By Aristotle's time,· chronos may well have become chronological, but for Homer, _and even Sophocles, time (chronos) was no series of times, but a place. We will see two examples of this: one in the Iliad, one in the Ajax. In the last book of the Iliad, the conciliation of Achilles and Priam culminates in the giving of time. Achilles and Priam meet and their tears mix. They find wonder1ful sympathy for each other in this moment, and Achilles agrees to return Hector's body to Priam. This return seems to be Achilles' great deed, the one that reveals a new and beautiful Achilles to us.. We remember the return of the body as the book's climax. But Priam himself will correct us, as he did Achilles. The return will not be fulfilled without one more gift,, one greater even than the body of his son: keep him in our palace and mourn him, and bury him on the tenth day, and the people feast by him, and on the eleventh we would make the grave barrow for him, and on the twelfth day fight again, if so we must do." Then in turn swift-footed Achilles answered him: "Then all this, aged Priam, shall be done as you ask it. I will hold off our attack for as much time as you ask me." (Trans. Lattimore) T~v o' nµEL8ET' ErrELTa yEpwv ITp~a)..IOs -\JEoELoris • "d. µ~v on µ' E-\JEAELS TEAEOaL Tacpov EMTOPL OL<p, <!ioE ME µoL rn:r;.wv' 'AXLAEU' MEXaPLOl.JEVa -\Jdns. 7 " I I JI '.I OLOva yap ws MaTa aOTU E~AµE-\Ja, Tn).o-\JL o • u).n a~EµEV E~ opEoS, µa).a ot TpwES OEOLaOLV. E:vvnµap µ£v M' auT~v E:vl µEyapoLs yoaoL µEv T~ OEMcXT~ 0£ ME -\JarrrroLµEV OaLVUTO TE ).aos, E:voEMaTn 0£ ME TvµBov E:rr' auT~ rrOL naaL µEV, T~ ol ouwoEMaT~ rro).EµL~oµEv, E~ rrEp &vayxn." I "J'. .I Tov 0 ' aUTE rrpoa~ELrrE rrooapMns oCqs; 'AXLAAEVS • II,, f 1 , EOTaL TOL MaL TaDTa, y~pov ITpLaµ ' I ws I au MEAEVELS" axnaw yap rroAEµov TOOOOV XPOVOV Oaaov civwya.s. 11 t I t (lines 659--6 70) Before the act can become good, Achilles must grant Priam time: tosson chronon hosson anogas. This--t°ime is a space, a space opened up in the turmoil of the war, in which the funeral can take place. Achilles' ability to open up this~ space for Priam is the heart of his brilliance and divinity. Homer points ' this out: when Achilles answers, he · is call dies. This is one of the few uses of chronos in the Iliad. It is also the very last, and because of its place in this In answer to him again spoke Priam the godlike: "I£ you are willing that we accomplish a complete funeral for great Hector, this Achilleus, is what you could do and give me pleasure. For you know surely how we are penned in our city, and wood is far to bring in from the hills, and the Trojans are frightened badly. Nine days we would 3 1: Ii !, �I 1 change it works, but for the changes it undergoes. What was not cause when it once occurred in the past is now cause; · what was once an act of friendship when it occurred is now an act of enmity (ee.661-665). The past--as a series of definite events--has undergone change in this moment. It has thus become indefinite: even the past is now full of new possibilities, just like the present and future. That is why Ajax calls chronos "unnumberable and great": not because of its infinite length, but because of its great depth. At every moment, past, present, or future, it holds open an infinite depth oi possibilities. In time, nothing is impossible: 1. 648, ouk est' aelpton ouden. But this does not mean "given enough time, anything is possible"; it means "in any time--in any moment --unthought-of possibilities lie waiting." After all, when Ajax says this, it has only been a few years since he won the sword which changed his life, and only a few hours since that change has become manifest. "In time" does not mean in the length of time, but in the bottomless depth of every moment. In its every moment, time--the ground of every happening--offers innumerable possibili ties. This is the wisdom Ajax has learned in his god-sent distress; this is the wisdom he gives to us before he goes to his death. His wisdom is not the trivial cliche "things change drastically over the years," but the surprising and even crippling message: "count on the sureness of no event; not only the future, but present and past as well hold unbelievable possibilities." At this very moment in the play (see line 647), time reveals the invisible and hides the bright and shining: it seems even to hold the denial of a thing's phusis. For the hiding of the phanenta (647)--the by nature revealed--~s nothing other than the denial of their phusis as phanenta. So time even holds the possibility for the impossible: the denial of a ~hing' s eternal being, its phusis. If time is to exclude no possibility, it must be bottomless at ~very instant. great scene, this use is the "definitive'' one. Here the depth of its meaning is called on, and this is what it gives up in response: chronos is the opening up of a place in the world for things to occur in. It is the place in which things happen--in which happening happens. It is the ground for being. This· ground is a place, but not a definite location. A location has an address: chronos does not give an address to events (e.g.: 1079 A.D.), it gives them an opening. Consequently, chronos has nothing to do with a time-line: the events in this place do not participate in succession by virtue of the place. This means that the place itself is not ordered: it is not laid out in successive compartments, nor is it any grid. It is very different from Isaac Newton's "tempus"--the conception of time which most colors our own. The opposition of chronos to succession is caught vividly in a few lines from the Ajax: Great and unnumberable time produces all things hidden, and hides all things revealed--and there is nothing that can't be expected. ' " ' ' , , anew-& , o inxpo~ xavap1.,.(}1.mTo~ )(PO\JO~ ~VEL. T, a6nAa xal ~Cl\JE\JTCl xpVTITETCll.." ){Q0){ EoT' aEATITO\J OU6EV ••• ( AIA'[, 646-8) Ajax himself is speaking here: it is his last speech before he leaves his camp to commit suicide. In the speech he discusses what has brought him to this point of suicide, and what might lie before him still. We might say that he is concerned with his present, past, and future. We will see how different that concern is for him than it can be for us. As Ajax recalls what has brought him to this pass, he must be naming the passing of time in chronos. Chronos then seems to be chronological, for it refers to all that has passed in succession up till now. But as we read on, we find that the passing time is not remarkable for the 4 Because of its infinite depth, every moment must be the same as every other. We cannot even consider the past as "determined" because its possibility has become actual. The Ajax teaches us that the past changes constantly: this is the thought at the heart of this speech. Time never gives up its depth. Even when it becomes definite (we must say the Trojan war was a special time, for instance), the definition neve·c completely determines what goes on in it. Thus time opened up a place for Ajax to accept Hector's sword in friendship, though that time should have had no place in the 'War. Events can still happen in succession, but that succession is not in the essence of time. Because time is the eternal confusion of every possibility, in past, present, and future alike, there can be no line of succession in it. Succession is only possible when there is definition, but not mixing and remixing. Because time excludes succession from its essence, it is not only makros, but anarithmetos--for Ajax and all the Greeks. looks like a pleonasm should thus be scrutinized · carefully--and probably read literally. If we read en aei etc. literally, we get something much more worthy of Heraclitus than the verbose "it is, always has been, and always will be ... " We get: Its being is, always was, is, and will be--at once. This means that was is the same thing for fire as is, or will be. There is no difference between past and present, no possibility for a time line. More Heraclitean nonsense? No--now that we have considered chronos for Sophocles and Homer, we know that this talk is no nonsense, it is good Greek. It is a deep and difficult understanding of being, one that sees the being of being in chronos, but outside of "time." Time as time-line, and thus history, excludes being because being happens in a vast undifferentiated ar.d bottomless chasm. That chasm is chronos: what we called earlier, the "ground of being." For a being that changes constantly, whose essence is fire, this is the perfect ground. Since fixity is death for being, a ground that offered only strict and permanent determination could only be barren. Now, the fixed events of history belong no longer in time (chronos) but in chronologies--the study of non-being. Heraclitus affirms this whole view in the kosmos fragment. When he gives the being of cosmos, he does not say "It is fire." He says: I ' t t ' ' " •1\J Q£l., MaL EOTL KQL EOTClL n0p ' , ClEL~wov. It always was, always is, and always will be fire--at the same time. For the being of the cosmos past-being, present-being, and future-being are all conjoined. This is hard to accept: we would not think that en aei kai esti kai estai in anyway impliea- the conjuct,ion of past, present, and future. There are two reasons for supposing that in Heraclitus the expression not only implies it but explicitly demands it. The first reason is usage: estj aei would have meant the same thing in Greek as "it is, has always been, and always will be"--our natural translation for en aei etc. The six word phrase is thus pleonastic in such an interpretation. The second reason comes from Heraclitus: he is never pleonastic, but always sharply terse. Anything that 5 �On Feeding the Flock (Inclusive) With a Grain of Wheat Liz Waldner I Give us this day our daily bread. Matthew 6:11 Take no thought what ye shall eat. Luke 12:22 I am the living bread which came down from heaven: the bread which I will give is my flesh which I will give for the life of the wo~ld .. Jon~ 6:51 · Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abides alone, but if it die, it brings forth much fruit. John 12:24 Whereunto shall I liken the kingdom of heaven? It is like leaven which a woman hid in three measures of meal until the whole was leavened. Luke 13:20 simon, do you love me? Yes, Lord. Feed my sheep. John 21:16 j l t 1 I Taking the above ingredients so freely given--in good measure, packed down -- I hope to make a little cake like Alice's (with a tag reading Eat me attached), which once tasted will move the reader to essay a little baking of his own-in short one suitable food for the likes of us sheep. consider necessi ties--will be added unto us. Everyone knows we must eat to live,· and probably everyone agrees with Jesus that the life is more than food. From age to age and from place to place, however, people have differed in judgement of what food and what life are. Jesus startled everyone with his ideas; he called himself living bread and said that unless we eat of him we have no life in us. He told the multitude he'd miraculously fed the day before not to run after food that perishes, but to labor for that "which endures unto life everlasting." He said, "He that loves his life in this world will lose it; he who hates his life shall keep it unto life . eternal." Perhaps every nation of the world (excepting those few so cold that starches don't grow) recognizes bread as food if not the . v~ry staff of life; it seems that recognizing the bread as such--true bread sent from heaven, meat (food) indeed--is what's problematic. That is, I·'m guessing that not a few of those claims made by Jesus Everyone knows we must eat to live. Eat often and much, and we store what we cannot eat now to provide for tomorrow, as did Aesop's industrious ant, as did the rich man whose ground yielded such abundance that he needed larger barns to keep his harvest. We reckon many provisions secure much life and so are anxious to preserve what we have and to acquire more. Jesus knew that we must eat to live. Satan used his hunger after his forty days of fasting to tempt him to turn a stone to bread. Jesus answered him, "Men do not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God." Jesus said that our Father in heaven knows, too, that we have need of food, and taught his disciples to pray asking each day for their daily bread. He called the rich man's prudence folly, and asked us to take no thought for our lives, to lay up no treasure for ourselves here on earth, but rather to seek the kingdom of God, to be rich toward God; then "all these things"--those which we're used to 6 I 1 I t I 1 :1 concerning himself as living bread which the Jews found hard to swallow--how can this man give us his flesh to eat?--once transformed from hard grains of astonishment by a patient pulverizing pondering will yield a meal itself suitable for the leaven of understanding: the puzzle is not how to eat living bread, but how to get it into our hands. An understanding--or chewing, if you will--of the latter is the making of the former. If we eat living bread, then we have life in us, do not hunger, and do not die. If we love our lives--fill bigger barns or banks with 1the means to eat ordinary bread--we die. To eat living bread is in some way, then, to hate our lives in this world, and hating our lives brings this bread into our hands. How can this be? First, living bread is bread that nourishes us when we give it to another. Any bread is the free gift of earth's fertility; the single grain given into the ground yields many. Many may eat of that which abiding alone could not have fed one. In the same way living bread is a free gift and miraculously feeds a multitude, but it feeds the seed, the grain which gave itself, as well. Living bread is made of the human sacrifice of abiding alone, of prudently providing for one's own well-being. Living bread, which is true bread sent to us by our Father to nourish the life of the world, life everlasting, is ours for the asking; it cannot be bought, nor earned, but is simply to be sought after. Jesus, God's word made flesh, sent into the world offering that flesh as bread for us to live by as he lives by God, sai~ that eating him we would live in him and he in us. To eat living bread is to accept life given as a gift as food, blood spilled as drink, to take into oneself for one's own fulfillment the fruit of some other's sacrifice of his potential fulness of being, a fruit which can bring forth abundantly after its kind, and live our abundance to another that he, too, might eat living bread: living bread is undoubtedly leavened. The giving and receiving of living bread and the working of leaven in a bushel of meal are like one another in that they both depend on reciprocity. The power to raise, to make bi·g, to feed many, is made manifest by the lifeless meal. The few grains of yeast hidden work all through the meal imparting its ability until the whole is leavened. But left alone the yeast will starve and die; the meal bereft of nutrients fed by the yeast will collapse, less than before. The least become most, the most become least--unless the greatest ever give to the least. A pinch of leavened dough leavens another bushel, and lives in it. As told in the parable of the pounds, the living bread we're given is not to keep, but to invest, to multiply, to make great--and that's done by giving it away. Even Moses' manna spoiled when anxiously stored. Our being given this powerful bread depends on our asking for it, and our asking for it on our giving it freely; our having it, and therefore our eating it, on giving it, too. Or no? Let's think ourselves grains of wheat. If we choose to love our Father, to love one another even as Jesus loved us, in whatever way or to whatever degree we can by laying down our lives for another, then we make of ourselves meal for leavening, nourishment for the life of the world. Until we do, we are ordinary bread, scarcely able (if at all, really) to feed ourselves. We hunger. Sooner or later something in us akin to the appetite for ordinary bread sniffs out the bread of life--perhaps in a loaf given us by another's unrecognized sacrifice--and asks to be fed. Earthly parents don't give their hungry children stones when they cry for bread, said Jesus; how much more will your Father in heaven give to you the Holy Spirit. I wonder if this is not the power to leaven, to make the single grain abundantly fruitful, to nourish those who give of their substance unto life everlasting, to feed unfailingly one's hunger forever. It seems to me that having been hungry for living bread is enough; our asking is our eating. In us its leaven working already prepares us as 7 �food. Recognizing it as food indeed moves us to feed others. The woman whom much has forgiven loved much. I think it's not far fetched to supply: the woman whose great hunger has fed, fed much. In this sense then, we never have in our hands this living bread except)to give it. We are, grains, and giving ourselves. we are broken into meal: the Spirit in us makes us great to be food for many. Having living bread living in us, we hunger to be hungry, to give more of ourselves that · we might be altogether leavened: that we might see, all of us, the kingdom of God. -When we pray as Jesus taught we ask for the coming of that kingdom, for the doing of God's will on earth, for our bread, and for the forgiveness of trespasses, ours and others'. That the leavening of the Spirit which reveals God's very mind to us had to be brought into the world, given as gift nurtured in Jesus' death and resurrection is made plain in the reciprocity expressed here, the participation in which sets free our yearning for the coming of God's kingdom, for the doing of his work on earth, for living with forgiveness toward others. Love begets love when recognized; recognizing God's great love given withou.t regard to our worthiness, 'we are moved· .to dismiss the hurt, the lessening suffered.· at the hands of others, doing the bidding of 'the Spirit within us, which forgiving enables us to know living bread as the true bread, and those who trespass against us as so hungry that they know not what they do. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep, that they might eat; his Father loves him: he is well fed. Junior/Senior Math Prize Paper 1979 .f RA. Schainbaum I r j ' 1 f j J j J I This problem has to do with taking a door around a corner in a hallway. If a corridor w wide has in it an ideal door, a rigid line of length L, how narrow can X, the corridor at a right angle to w, be if it is still wide •enough to let in L? towards the lower side of W decreases ' or its horizontal distance from c increases. (2) Let f(0)=y (see figure) be the function that gives the least ¥.. for any angular position of L. The greatest f (9) obtained in bringing L from corridor W into corridor X is also the least posSib'l'e'X for the 91.veD w andI::9 For i f !_ were atallSmaller, -0could only increase to goo if L were- not a rigidly straight line. But L is a rigidly straight line, and L can-only be brought into corridor x- under the condition that 9 be allowed to vary from 80 (the initial position of 9) to goo. Clearly, the greatest y_ obtained from f (9) is also the least maximum for any possible displacement function of e. (3) Let g(z)=y (see figure) be the function in which y_ depends on the distance z from corner C along L to the lower side of corridor-W. As - the -before ' the least ! was equal to greatest f (9) over the range from 90 to goo so -.~--~' it also equals the greatest g (z) over the range from W to L. Sin~it is geometrically apparent that g (z) is continuous between W and .!!' that g(W)=g(L)=O, and that-g(z) is greater than ~· between ! and · .!!; so g (z •) is greater than all g(z), if~ is the only z for which g' (z)=O. i (1) For any given angular position of the line L, its (L's) displacement •(measured from corner .!!' perpendicular to the corridor length) y towards the opposite side of corridor- X is always least when its displacement (measured from corner L, perpendicular to the corridor length) towards the lower side of corridor W is greatest (i.e., it equals !) , and the horizontal distance of.!! from corner Eis least (i.e., c is employed as a fulcrum) . For whatever· the angular position of .!!' y_ must increase as either L's displacement 1. * * * By similar triangles: I y = g(z) = L-z z Ii 'I I, 111 II 8 9 __J '____ 111 11 I; 1 I lit �l Lw2-z3 z2(z2-w2)i, . (2/3) (1/3) Therefore, g(w L ) ~ g(z) for all z such that w ~ z ~ L. 2. g' (z) 3. Setting g' (z) = O, then: 5. z'=w(2/3)L(l/3), which value of z is uniquely obtained. 4. l .J Substituting w( 2/ 3 )L(l/ 3 ) for Zin 1, then: y (2/3) ' i j' I = L (2/3)-w(2/3). ' Thus, the least x=w(( L >213 -1> 312 But since L > w, then: w3 < w2 L < L3 w < z' < L. Hope, 'tis true, doth comfort us And soothes awhile our pain; But, Phyllis, if naught follows hope, It comforts us in vain. Kindness ever didst thou show, But less shouldst thou have shown, And not so far have spent yourself To grant me hope alone. If my zeal is forced to burn Eternally 'til you relent, Then to a cruel death I shall turn, Which all your cares cannot prevent, For, lovely Phyllis, hope is my death, When for hope alone I draw my breath. i w Q.E.I ALCESTE. Si le roi m'avait donn~ Paris, sa grand' ville, Et qu'il me fall~t quitter L'amour de ma mie, Je dirais au roi Henri: Reprenez votre Paris, ,, J'aime mieux ma mie, au gue, J'aime mieux ma mie. (1. 393-400) Two Poems from Le Misanthrope translated by Janet Durholz ORONTE. L'espoir, il est vrai, nous soulage Et nous berce un temps notre ennui, Mais, Philis, le triste avantage, Lorsque rien ne marche apres lui! Vous e~tes de la complaisance; Mais vous en deviez moins avoir I Et ne vous pas mettre en depense Pour ne me donner que l'espoir. S'il faut qu'une attente ~ternelle ' '1 Pousse a bout l'ardeur de mon ze e Le tr~pas sera mon recours. Vos soins ne m'en peuvent distraire; Belle Philis, en d~sespere ... . Alers, qu'on espere touJours. (1. 315-318; 321-324; 327-332) 10 If the King should give me All Paris for my own, To leave my darling true love, And sit upon his throne, I would say to Henry: "Take your Paris back; The throne is nothing to me, sir, If my own true love I lc,ack!" ! I __J l______ 11 �Newton's and Adam's Apple Howard Zeiderman matical--scientif ic aspects are a work of consununate genius - a model for us all since then; the theological allusions are a source of constant embarassment which we charitably overlook. What I propose in the following pages is an exercise .in imagination. I propose to read the Principia as if it were written by one man: and not two. To do so involves investigating a possible Newtonian response to -Leibniz; the world is not a -clock but rather a calendar. If the style sometimes appears an argument instead of an intellectual fantasy, it is only to facilitate the exposition, much as Descartes did in Le Monde. The following is therefore merely a story, a springtime diversion. Had Newton wished to justify the ways of God to man, or at least to Leibniz, he could have answered that they had radically different conceptions of God and, therefore, of his relation to the visible material world. Newton's reply could have been that for God the visible world was a sign to man. The spiralling apart of the planets revealed the eventuality of the Last Judgement. Man's past and future was in a sense writt~n in the stars. Unfortunately, as George Herbert lamented, God's writing could be read only if man knew how to spell. Newton could have charged Leibni·z of having attempted to read God's purposes in the number-names of the Ars Combinatorialis. Newton's cryptography, however, was different; he deciphered God's words in straight lines and curves. The Principia, not logic or arithmetic, is the proper orthographical guide. A decade before Newton composed the Principia, Milton published Paradise Lost. Mil ton's justification of . God's ways to In a letter to Clarke, Liebniz criticizes both Newton and Newton's God. The criticism is simple but pointed. This so-called 'God' acted as a poor watchmaker might because the watch he created--the world--must be continually rewound~ Leibniz's attack stems from the two focal points of the Principia: the revelation of the inverse square law animating the visible world of planets, tides, and stones; and the fact that there are more than two bodies (masses) in the world. In a world where the force law is the inverse square, two isolated bodies would continue in a particular orbit forever, a self-identity through time attractive to Leibnitz. Introduce a third body, however, and this harmony changes. Th~ee bodies moving under the aegis of the inverse square, each to each, results in a change in the apparent total force law. The effects shift toward these which would be caused by an inverse cube law. The bodies spiral out from one another endlessly; the world, as Yeats remarked in the "Second Coming," is such that the center cannot hold. Competent readers of Newton would generally dismiss Liebniz's conunent as somewhat irrelevant. Newton was a scientist. As such, he should be attacked only on scientific grounds. Whether he believed in God was a personal matter. These considerations, though . perhaps tokenly present in the scholia of the Principia, are not present in the propositions themselves. Newton, in other words, is not dissimilar to many modern scientists. Because he is split between two conflicting inclinations, proper reading of the work occurs only by respect:~iBJ such a division. The mathe- man takes the form of an epic which is the culmination of all other epics. The three short chapters in Genesis chronicling man's creation and fall are expanded into twelve books depicting the fall of Lucifer, and through his intercession, the fall of Eve and Adam, as well as the promise of their redemption. I hope in this short piece to show that Newton's Principia is involved in a similar task. This means that the visible world, which is depicted and made possible in Prop. 66 as the three body problem, if read through Newton's orthography, is the detailed and constant reminder of man's fall and possible redemption. In the 18th century, the Bishop ·Berkeley suggested that Newton's Principia was a Bible for materialists and atheists. What my suggestion means is that in composition the Principia was intended as an amplification of the good Bishop's Bible. It was the long awaited reading of God's purposes in his fallen creation. To see this does not mean finding an occasional image of some crucial Biblical or theological moment in a scholium. Instead it involves recognizing that the details of the Propositions and their interconnections display the accepted truths of the Christian religion. our task is to read through the propositions so that we can recognize why the inverse square law is the visible account of the Creation, Fall, and Last Judgement. II In this exercise we, therefore, will attempt a non-mathematical reading of a seemingly mathematical work. ~uch an attempt is obviously precarious. It requires the translation of axioms, propositions and force laws into theological terms which are now antithetical to them. Without an explicit license from Newton, this effort can appear quite gratuitous. And no such license has been issued, i.e. published. The bulk of Newton's work consists of unpublished theological manuscripts, conunentaries on Revelations, and the prophets. Perhaps in a document held in 13 12 -!_ _ _ _ _ __ _ some Borgesian library we could find the warrant for this endeavor. However, we might not. If we combed such remnants and found nothing. it would then be necessary to explain why Newton never supplied a "key" to his work, why it was written only for those with eyes to see. In the General Scholium Newton does indeed connect the visible world, God's works, with his own account in the Principia. However, this may imply no more than that the system, as a whole, reveals some aspect of God's purpose. It certainly need not lead us to expect a connection between the details of propositions -and the details of the Creation and the Fall. We know that Newton believed he lived in the "end of the times", that the day·of judgment would come when the dispersed Jews accepted the Gospel, and that he himself was born on Christmas day. Though Newton did not accept Christ as "of the substance of God," we cannot, therefore, infer that Newton believed himself to be the last Christ, who was writing a Bible acceptable to the Jews. We only know that such a belief would not have been impious. We know that Newton held that the number of the Antichrist was 666 and.we can open the Principia to find the full detail of the three-body problem in Prop 66. These numbers, however, cannot be connected even though as I will suggest, the relation between Satan and falling,spiraling orbits involves the relation of the inverseJcube to the inverse square. We have often heard the story of Newton under the tree hit on the head by the falling apple. If what I propose is a proper reading of the Principia, that story is obviously 'true' and, in addition, significant. However, its truth places before us as a question 'the nature of a fact'. In short, this is what I offer: If I believed what Newton believed and if I had written the Principia, this would have been how I composed it. Whether Newton did is a different matter and may be unknowable. However we must then go on to ask ourselves whether such 'knowledge' is important and therefore we reapproach from another direction the question of the �- l 1 The two beings ·have, however, no reciprocal connection. In other words, the third law is not present. We are in a realm, whatever it is, which is prior to the third law. Many suggesti.ons and images have been given for this model of analysis. However, if one asks oneself in the context we are articulating what is a massless center of force which acts but is not acted upon by what orbits it, the obvious answer is that the center represents God; the mass then depicts a created being. God acts but is not acted upon and the result is the literal drawing of the immemorial metaphor of created things orbiting around the Creator. What Newton's mathematics is enabling man to do is to find the literal sense of Christian 'metaphors'. The first two propositions hold irrespective of the nature of God's action, of the force law with which he acts. In the first two propositions, there is neither geography nor history, differences of place nor differences of time. The two parts of God's sensorium, -absolute space and absolute time, are made visible in the description of equal spaces in equal times. Beginning with Proposition 3, we receive the method of reading the world in more detail up to the culmination in Proposition 6. Proposition 3 allows one to recognize that there is a center of force, to recognize that there is a God, even if now an additional force comes into play. Prop. 4 allows one to calculate the force law connecting one with that center. Prop. 5 enables one to find the location of the center from the mass's orbit. Prop. 6 enables a specific force calculation. There is a surprising repetitiveness to these propositions. Three and four together are enough to calculate the force if one is on a circle and if one can recognize one's velocity and distance at a moment, any , moment, since every moment is the same. In other words, in accordance with our suggestion, one can use three and four if one knows oneself and one's distance from the center. Propositions 3 and 4 characterize a possibility of the nature ot a fact. In this issue I treat section 2, which ends in the creation of Adam, Prop X. Section 3, the creation of Eve and the Fall must remain something for the future. Before we treat the creation and the Fall, a few preliminaries must be set out. Newton, in his Preface, reverses the relation we have come to expect between geometry and mechanics. Surprisingly, in Newton, mechanics is prior: rational mechanics, the mechanics of the Perfect Artisan, draws the lines which geometry treats. The Newtonian laws and propositions connecting equal times and areas (prop. 1,2, and 3) draw these lines and make them into figures. They are true of ali .. 'possible' worlds irrespective of the force law, to use Leibniz's terminology. The first_ law draws the straight line, the second makes the curve possible. The third law, action and reaction, inscribes in all conceivable worlds, those under various force laws, the possibility of writing equations. To begin· our fantasy now involves finding theological equivalents. The three laws will then permit the visible world to serve as continual reminders of our invisible life. The first law allows one to keep to the straight and narrow. Every Newtonian object has both a mass and a velocity. The mass represents what one is, the velocity represents what one does. How one received one's velocity is an open question which relates to one's past. The first law is the representation of the self-sameness of the being. The second permits the possibility of deviation, rise and fall, it is to have a will of one's own. The third law permits punishment or redemption as it is the inscription both of 'an eye for an eye' and 'do unto others'. In propositions 1 and 2, we meet the first crucial aspect of Newton's exposition. We consider a center of force which has no mass and a mass in orbit which cannot effect the center. In other words, Law 1 rules the mass, which is altered in direction by the presence of Law 2 operating from a center of force. 14 pre-lapsarian world, where reason, knowledge of what one is, and piety, recognition of one's distance from God, are sufficient to keep one in orbit. Proposition 5 and 6 are quite different. The characteristics of the moment are not quite sufficient. The actual orbit, which need not be a circle, is necessary. History must, in a fallen world, replace self-knowledge. We will leave open for' now the relation between history and self-knowledge in Newton. History, the orbit, replaces self-knowledge. The question which is crucial is, what it is in a fallen world that replaces piety and which in conjun.ction with history brings one to wl;l.ere one should be. The traditional answer is faith. I will show that Prop. 6 of Section II corresponds in the Principia to Christian faith. These remarks fill out in somewhat greater detail the stage setting for all 'possible' worlds and how to reach a pre-fallen and fallen world. The particular· force laws which may be involved in our world first emerge in prop. 4 in a preliminary way. Four forie 15ws ~e mentioned there. They are R , and the actual one we see in the R , R planets and falling stones, R- 2 , and which in their fall are the story of the Fall. ~at '1Je wi_l} show is that the force laws R , R , R tell a story through their interrelationships which necessitates and is rendered visible in the appearances of masses acting and reacting according to the inverse square law. The first force law mentioned is most unusual. It is one in which the 1 force increases as the distance, F a R . The further away one is from the center of force, the greater the force exerted. It is as if the light from a source became more intense the further one was from it. In a mechanical explanation we would expect the force to diminish in some form as one moved away from its source. This force, however, increases. There is such a force in our world, Hooke's Law, but that deals with a spring, which · is not this sort of case. The force that we are considering involves creation out of nothing. We will take this force to represent the force with which God acts on the creited world. In our account of the fall, R corresponds to God, who must an~ can know how far each being is from him. However, any force which is direct as the distance could capture this sense of creation out of nothing. So we a_._re faced with the q~estion 3 why God is R rather than, say R or R . We will so?f return . to thi5 _is_sue after we consider R . "1. R is a force a little less than R , God, and though equally unmechanical is nonetheless quite rational. It is a uniform force. One which is self-same in a crucial respect. In ·this case, force does not depend on the distance but only on what is acted upon. The same mass is acted upon by the same force at any distance. Space is irrelevant, all that is crucial is what a thing is, i.e. 1 its mass, it's essence..: 1 In the_fase of R as in the case of R and R distance is relevant and has the consequence that the effect is either more or less than the apparent cause. In this case, the effect is entirely equal to the cause. Such a force responds to the what but not the where. If we ask ,what entity has the traits which characterize this force, the answer is clear. It is Reason and from Milton we can glean what Reason is; it is the first created beings ,0 the Angels. We will therefore take R to represent Reason. The question of the .. relation 1 between R and R is now the question of the relations between God and Reason. i.e. the first Fall, a situation described by Newton in Props. 7,8, and 9. The second creation, the creation of Adam, occurs in Prop. 10 which is the last proposition of Section 2. It is now time to return to thl question of associating God with the R force law since any law Rn where n > O can represent creation out of nothing. The first point is that if God's relation to his angels is ordered so that if God is Rn n-1 the angels are R , then if n > 1, the angels could also create out of nothing. The other point deals with the relation of his creatures to Him. God's creatures 15 �1 need to be able to recognize their difference from Him, i.e . . we must be finite. What we see and think must only be ultimately what He thinks, but yet it must ultimately be that. If th~ world were operating according to an R force law there, would be no difference between the non-ultimate and the ultimate, no difference between what appears and what is. The .visible world would be mathematics. . If the wo3ld operated according to the law F a R , the actual orbits could not be reduced to circles of curvature. The world would be completely imcomp~ehensible. One world would be purely intelligible, the other would be opaqu2 and miraculous. We therefore take the R. to r3present God's intellect and we associate R with .God's grace. The third force law presented in prop. 4 is the 'inverse as the distance' law, R-l It is a mirror image of the first law ai:id rather than increasing as the distance, it decreases. This is the most mechanically explicable of the three forces we have .considered, since one expects that the further away from the source of force, the. less force will be exerted. It is a force law which requires neither knowing how far nor to whom the force is directed prior to its action. What we have here is the representation of the force law between men, each man acting in the literal image 1 of God, Hfs reciprocal. As God is R , ma~ is 2 l/R 1 . In terans of our discussion of R , R , R , and R as God's grace, ~<rd' s intellect, God's power .and Reason, R becomes man's Will. In the fourth proposition what we have are three thinkable force laws and a fourth which, Newton points out, is our visible force law: the inverse square. Since this concerns what is visible, it s~2ms feasible to extend the list and add R as the mathematical correlate of perception. This then would give us the conclusion that man's perception is the image of God's intellect and would supply an internal justification of reading . the visible world as the story of God's intellect. -- There is one -more force law for which one must give account: the inverse cube. Since it is the factor which causes the dissolution of the world, we might, for the moment, let it correspond to the inverse of grace i.e. · despair. '(,Ur ques1:_\on is how the three laws R1 , R , and R bring into being through the fall, the visible world which displays the story of that fall in its force law, visibility, and interconnections. In other words, the visible world of the inverse square is the appearance to us of the creation of the world, its fall, and its eventual redemption, a moment which we are told in Revelations will be signaled by the dissolution of the heavens. Newton wrote a commentary on the book of Revelations. Our claim is that the force laws Rn do not concern 'possible' worlds, one of which i~ 'actual'. Rather the laws from -R 3 to Rfit together to tell the story of our world, visible and invisible. III The Fall of Lucifer occurs in Prop. 7. There we are shown a body orbiting in a circle around a center of force which, in corollary 1, is on the circumference of that circle. The figure of the orbit is two circles with a common tangent point occupied by the center of force. p This is the orbit which Lucifer and the Angels described prior to the Fall. It is an orbit whose center is neither within the orbit nor outside it. It stands as the mathematical diagram of the theological fact that God is in Heaven with his angels. He both is and is not with them; there is distance and yet no distance, as there would be were he inside or outside that orbit. He is precisely at the tangent point of all such double circular orbits. This allows for the possibility that the Angels can be different--ordered hierarchically--and yet none be farther from God than any other. . Since these orbits are circles, each point is similar to every other and the difference between, the orbit and a point on the orbit is' ·imperceptible. The Newtonian account of Heaven is therefore, viewed in the plane, the following figure. One might reflect on the oddity that each body generating its own orbit would fall into such a peculiar configuration. Such reflection would not account for the presence and the action of that force at the tangent point. However, it would indicate that the reasoning we described as Satan's is false. Reason would recognize itself limited. Satan does not look to the others and falls. The force law which proposition 6 would give us -Sor this orbit is the inverse fifth, R . Since we are flaiming that God acts according to .R , this appears a discrepancy. But it is not. Prop. 7 asks the general questi.on of the force law connecting a body in a circular orbit with a center of force. It considers an equation for any point in the circle and in the first corollary draws the specific vers!gn for the center on the circumference, R • It does not here present the question of the specific value of Rn where the force is at the center of the circle, i.e. when there is a definite and constant distance between the body and the center, which was not the case in the. creation of the Angels. Newton at this point does not feel such a need. Had he felt that ·need, the general 1 equation of prop. 7 for that case gives R • Satan's rebellion of prop. 7 erects an immeasurable distance between himself and 'his creator. The center of force, God, is pushed out of Satan's world, placed infinitely far away. This infinitely distant center of force is treated in the next proposition which articulates the Fall. In the following discussion I assume that Proposition six which I claim represents faith is unavailable to Lucifer. From the perspective of prop. 4 and not prop. 6, which is needed to calculate the force law, there is no center. We can now present what would be Lucifer's i.e. Reason's--response to such situation. From prop. 2, he, on the orbit, can discern that there is no center either inside or outside. It is from the point of tangency that equal areas are described in equal times. But can that point be the center of force? Any attractive force, so Reason reasons, tends to become infinite the closer one gets. If the center were on the orbit itself, then when the body reached that point the force would be infinite and the orbit would not continue. Since there clearly is an orbit, such a center of force.cannot be there. The orbit, Reason concludes, must therefore be self-generated. Through Prop. 6, we see ~his analysis is wrong and that the orbit continues. What prop. 6 permits which this reasoning does not, is the conclusion that an infinite force results in a finite effect i.e. the mystery of creation. What we have here is the mathematical equivalent of Milton's Lucifer in Bk. I who claims his own self-generation. Without proposition 6, the only way to discern a center of force on the orbit would be to consider the other orbits. a A? Proposition 8 shows an orbit with the center of force infinitely far and the body on a circle. This orbit is unstable. Once the point is reached where the 17 �.., tangent to the orbit is on a line parallel to the force lines, the body begins to move in a straight line at continually increasing acceleration. It moves along the tangent. This is the fall itself. · The force law operating here is the unverse cube which for the first time makes its appearance. The inverse cube is what was mention~d before as involved in the dissolution of the world. The situation of this proposition is that when Lucifer reaches the tangent poi~t of the previous proposition--the place where God was--he begins to move in a straight line continually accelerating according to the inverse cube. The body of Prop. 8 approaching the tangent point of the double circles is acted upon by the infinitely distant force according to the inverse cube of line AB, or A' B' , a ·line dropped from the position of the body ordinatewise to the diameter TW. When the body reaches the point T, the lines A'B' have vanished and are replaced by the increasing lengths along the tangent TP.The body is therefore act3d upon by a force which is inversely as TP . This is the distance between Satan and God as.He was in Prop.7. II ~ limits. He, therefore, must reason, since acceleration is detectable, that ~e exerts force on himself. As such he is not only self-generated but self-generating. Without Prop. 6, however, he can not argue to the inverse cube. He must continue. to believe that he acts on himsetf according to what he is, i.e. the R law. The movement of Satan in the fall is along a line of tangency to his original orbit. In discussing Newton's first law, we pointed out that motion along a straight line was the equivalent to what one has become. It is uniform velocity and constant direction. What we see in Satan's case is constant direction, away from the tangent. point where God was, but also continually increasing velocity. It is the fusion of Law 1 and 2 .a:nd is .. the eq_uivalent to th~~ sin of Satan--pride. Pride we are told, leads to despair and in the next proposition we find just that. Because of Satan's fall a new line has been generated in the world. The previous figure was: A' A The new line is the tangent line to the point of tangency between the double circles. It runs at right angles to the line of the centers of the double circles. Satan could recognize this, his own fall from T, if proposition 6 were available to him, but ~e are assuming, for now without explanation, that is is not. We can say that because it represents faith, it is not available to him but is available to us readers. The crux of proposition 6 is to relate the finite and the infinite through the nascent ratios and calculate a force law in regard to a specific center. Having fallen from the orbit, Lucifer no longer has the possibility of viewing the other angelic configurations and reasoning to reason's Satan's fall draws the figure of the cross, a figure his fall made necessary. Had Satan any movement except along the line away from God, he would describe circles around the original point in his fall. At the infinite distance, he would describe an infinite circle. However, since he has no such movement, he does 18 -·------------------- not. He remains fixed in the infinite point, infinitely far from God. What we see in prop. 9 is the center of force by which Satan was accelerated in prop. 8, the inverse cube, now acting at a finite distance. proposition. In prop. 7, God was considered with the angels in a place which was no place, i.e, the tangent point between all their orbi:ting double circles. God in prop. 7 was with these created beings in heaven. In prop. 10, we find the .second creation, the creation of man in God's image. It is in respect to man and the second creation, to beings at a finite distance from him, that God acts directly as the distance and that is the force.law displayed at the end of section two. God' s relation is such that he is no longer in the same place as his creature. _ He is initially at the center of a ellipse/circle where manor Adam is on the orbit. The force law is direct as the distance. In the previous creation, prop. 7, we were faced by circles. The variety of the general force law in question there, the inverse fifth, left no room for any degree of variation. One either remained on the double circle or one fell. In the second creation, that changes. By God's having moved his creature to a finite distance, there comes into being a certain latitude. Adam can move in a circle or an ellipse and still remain in orbit around God in the center. The difference between the circle and the ellipse depends on the relation between the distance from the center and the body's tangential velocity. The ~atitude mentioned· means that if where one is and what one is are not in harmony, one still need not fall. One can desire, fall back, and still remain in orbit. Newton does not end Section 2 with Proposition 10, but with a Scholium. The Scholium acts as a transition to the next Section which begins with the creation of Eve. In this scholium, the ellipse of Prop. X first becomes a parabola and then a hyperbola. For the parabola to arise out of the ellipse requires that the center of force be moved infinitely far away. The parabola is an ellipse which is missing one point. It is a representation of a being's desire, a being which views himself as essentially incomplete. The force law which causes this figure is what we observe in the fall of apples at the The result is a peculiar image of a force' law '1e previously considered for God--i.e. F R . That law was not the law of the world because it described pure grace. The inverse cube is its opposite. Acting on finitely placed bodies, it causes them to begin a spir~l which, regardless of their original velocity, eventually brings them to the center of force, Satan, if there is any motion at all in that direction. It is the distorted image of grace~ it is despair. However, we have just seen that Satan is infinitely far from any body whose distance from God is finite. He, therefore, can have no effect from his location at the very base of the tan~ent line. However, if we ask ourselves what that base is, we see it is the. foot of the cross which came into being in the transition from prop. 7 to prop. 8. It is only if mediated by God's grace that Satan can ·act and God is grace is alone what is sufficient. Satan imagines lJimsel!f to act according to what he was, R • However, he actually attempts t~ 3 act, unknown to himself, accot;ding to R • His imagined actia_p is made possible through God's grace, R • The result of the magnification of the inverse cube by· the direct cube is RO, which because it · acts without reference to distance can aqt even at an infinite distance. In other words, we have Newton's initial rendering of the claim that God's grace brings good out of evil, which would be . the justification of God's ways to man. We are now ready for the second creation, and Newton presents us with that in the next· 19 �, surface of the earth. As Newton says, "This is Galileo's theorem". The ellipse, which is caused by a force acting directly as the distance, has been transformed into a parabola acted -upon a force infinitely distant. As he stated, "the force will become constant." However, we have just seen what this force might be. Satan is a force infinitely remote from Adam which opera es just as this force should, i.e. F a R • If one now re-introduces God at the center of the ~ld ellipse acting according to the R force law, the parabola becomes a hyperbola where we have a centrifugal instead of a centripetal force. We have here the representation of Adam's flight from God in the desire for something else which would complete him. Adam is requesting a mate. The end of Newton's section 2 corresponds to the end of the second chapter of Genesis. Throughout this discussion, we have not considered the sixth Proposition. Satan, we claimed, traversed the 7th, 8th, and 9th propositions because Prop. 6 was unavailable to him. He had to rely on unaided reason whereas we could calculate the precise force laws. Previously we said that that proposition corresponded to faith and we must now consider that claim. Proposition 6 enables us to mediate between the appearances and the force law which governs them. It is in other words what makes the Principia possible. Had Satan possessed it, he would have recognized he was not self-generated. Prop. 6 deals with nascent ratios in Newton's Latin; in Greek that would be with the logos of Genesis--the word which was "In the beginning." It enables us to view an orbit, an historical fallen appearance, and discern the reality behind the product of lines in the figure is equal to the law of force. In its non-ultimate form, the figure is this: & 0 s and the force is inverse as the product. SP2 QT;;z QR In its ultimate form, the figure changes somewhat. As Newton says in Cor. 1 of prop. 6: "the centripetal force will be inversely as the solid SP;;z . QT;;z QR if the solid be taken of that magnitude which it ultimately acquires when points P and Q coincide." The figure indicated is the one in which "QR_ is equal to the versed sign of double of the arc QP whose middle is P." The figure with the double arc 9p is: it. In order to apply proposition 6, one must reduce the finite orbit at a point to a circle of curvature. A circle of curvature is a circle which has the same curvature at that_ point as the apparent orbit. The circle of curvature is a reduction of the orbit at a point to the pre-fallen world of prop.4. Once this is done a figure is drawn in the circle and It is the cross on which Christ was crucified which mediates between our fa],len world of the inverse square spiralling to the Last Judgement -and our pre-fallen state. It is therefore b_ecause proposition 6 for Newton is the Christ that that proposition is unavailable to Satan. - 20 directed to the center of force are parallel. Obviously someone convinced that Newton's Principia is a work of mathematical physics would insist that these are not real issues. He would admit the same contingency in this work that he would anticipate in the world which that work describes. It is not clear whether this dispute can be resolved at this level. It would require investigating the genesis of the concept 'descriptive'. Scholium Virtues and vices of this reading A brief statement of the virtues and vices of this attempt may be helpful. The principal advantage of the approach is that it insists that every part in the composition be respected and questioned about its role. Mathematically Prop. 8 and 9 appear to be unnecessary where they are. A corollary of prop. 7 is used later in section 3, but prop. 8 and 9 a re not. I do not know if they are used anywhere else. Are they? The situation is even worse in section 3. The scholium which ends that section first appears in Prop. 7, Cor. III. It is used in the 'same otherwise' proofs of Propositions 11 and 12. However, for no reason at all, it suddenly reappears a fourth time after Prop. 17 to complete the section. One must ask oneself why, and no mathematical response is to the point at that stage. This approach also allows one to begin to reconsider the relation between the proofs proper and the versions entitled 'the same otherwise'. These are generally viewed mere~y as alternate proofs. The two in section three, however, prop. 11 and prop. 12, share a similar strategy. They both derive the force law th rough Prop. X of Section 2. The proofs proper do not use that proposition but argue directly from Prop. 6. The different versions appear to bring up a distinction between an apparent force law and an actual one. The ' same otherwise' proofs in Section 2 occur after Prop. 7, 9, and 10. They all emplpy Cor. 3 of prop. 6 instead of Cor. 1 _which is used for the proposition. Cor. 1 of Prop. 6 uses the cross; Cor. 3 does not, but rather a line perpendicular to the tangent. One wonders what to make of this difference. In section 3, Prop. 13 does not have a I same otherwise I . In section 2, Prop. 8 lacks one. Here too one wonders why. This is particularly the case since Prop. 13 is the parabola,_ a figure whose diameters are all parallel and prop. 8 is a circle where all_ lines The vices of such an effort are legion and obvious to anyone. To stop ourselves from speaking of force laws as holding of possible worlds, a Leibnizian characterization, I made an effort to show the Newtonian force laws in a different light. This required presenting an account of R3 and R2 as God's Grace and God's Intellect. I doubt that the suggestions presented are sufficient to convince anyone. An argument is necessary which would involve a treatment of Lemma I I of Section I and the Scholium which follows it. Such an effort is beyond the scope of the sketch which is being presented. This brings up another issue. In such an attempt, a premature guess which is incorrect appears much worse than it really is. It takes on this aspect because everything is, at best, merely implicit. One, therefore, fears that anything is possible. I did not use the now infamous SPQRT which in a giddy mood I once imagined represented the assertion of the Roman rather than the Greek cross in the sixth Proposition. I have no idea whether the shape of the true cross really concerned Newton or whether he had a sense of humor. It is tempting to_ connect Prop. 6 both with Prop. 66 and with the number of the Antichrist, 666. However to show that 6, as the first perfect number, was associated with Christ and to apply it to this" ·text would appear, right now, indulgent, and make the entire effort su~pect. The whole procedure, therefore, hin'ges on the exercise of restraint and that itself is a problem. The most one can hope for at this stage is to have made 21 �the claim that the Principia is a work of mathematical physics ambiguous. To do more would require displaying that our notion of mathematical physics has its true origin, not in the Principia, but in Kant's Critique, and is hardly possible in a last sentence. a function of the mass of the affected body and since there are an indefinite number of these, any force emanating from a center must be infinite. This, however, is a different problem from the one being addressed though it may indicate that for Newton the action of God is necessary in any situation where force is present. God would be necessary because no mechanical explanation could account for an infinite force originating from a mass. 1 In this discussion of the force laws I am not considering the effect of mass but only of distance. Because any force, direct or inverse as the distance, is also Viewpoint Patti Nogales We have not left it as we found it but it seems to me that way; though twelve yea,rs of living have softened the harsh lines the naked floor throws back coldly an echo of my despair. I would like to say "fare thee well" to my room but I look to find four unresponsive walls, an only1- once - before - seen floor, a silent door. Where is my room? Did it leave with the desk hauled out the door, or with my reading chair, my pictures or the bookshelves eased into the back of an old green truck? At what moment, with the loss of which part did the whole disappear in the bustle of the last days? It is lost like a sigh of warmth in a cold winter, In a sigh it was born and died my sigh~ So when we softly close the door. for the last time and look back, we will see, not as we found it, a strangely familiar house at the top of a hill. July, 1978. 22 23 �Ah! cruel, tu m'a trop entendue. Je t'en ai dit assez pour te tirer d' erreur. · H~ bien ! connais done Ph~dre et toute sa fureur. (671-673) Like Flies to Wanton Boys another paper about God, man, and the universe Stephanie Nelson Oh that is cruel, you understand too much. My words already leave no room for doubt. Well then, know Ph~dre, know all her fury's forcer love, but loving still, my eyes refuse Myself all sanction and all innocence. You think this madness that controls my mind Is born of weakness. The poison is not mine. A plaything for the Gods, your proud contempt Is nothing to my loathing for myself. · The Gods can speak for me - these Gods who lit The fire in me which has consumed my house. Cruel Gods, who pride themselves in such a feat To have seduced a helpless woman's heart. Think back, you know that fleeing from you then Was not enough - I drove you from my sight. I strove to be inhuman in your eyes, And to resist my love I sought your hate. What have I gained from all my useless care? You hate me more, I love you none the less. Your misery at last just lent new grace And fed the fire I fed with my own tears. All this in just a glance your eyes could see, If they could bring themselves to look on me. (671-692) In a play full of people attempting to justify their actions, to themselves and each other, Ph~dre stands alone· in accepting her crime for what it is. Certainly it is the question of her innocence, and not of Th~s~e's in condemning Hippolyte, of Hippolyte's in fleeing or loving Aricie, or of Oenone' s in attempting to save Ph~dre, which is the focus of the play. Any guilt of their's is overwhelmed by the horror of Ph~dre' s love for Hippolyte. But the sheer immensity of Ph~dre' s shame should have led her, had she been anyone else, to excuse herself and lay the blame for her actions on the gods (these gods do not deserve capitalization). This, exactly, she will not do. Phedre sees the gods for what they are (or at least for what Racine sees them as being). They have, without reason, placed her in a position where her only choices are to act, and act culpably, or to die. She acts, and blames herself, not the gods, for her action. If at any point Phedre might be said to be justifying herself it is in the speech which I have translated. I will try to show that is is not absolution that Ph~dre is seeking. 24 .. J'aime. Ne pense pas qu'au moment que je t'aime, Innocente ~ mes yeux, je m'approuve moi-~me, Ni que du fol amour qui trouble ma raison Ma lache complaisance ait nourri le poison. Objet infortun~ des vengeances Phedre begins looking at Hippolyte and calling him "cruel." Until this speech Phedre has used the word "cruel" only in reference to the gods. After this she will use it to describe both the gods and Hippolyte, but no one else. In the course of her speech Ph~dre speaks to Hippolyte, to the gods, and then again to Hippolyte. She addresses each in turn as "cruel." She accuses them not of malevolence, but of· indifference. The horror of the god's behavior towards Phedre is not that they bear her some sort of grudge, but that she is too insignificant for them to bother. Their persecution of her is entirely disinterested. They are not concerned with either Ph~dre or her sufferings. The gods do not judge men any more than men 'judge' flies in killing them. As Theramene says to Hippolyte "Le ciel de nos raisons ne sait point s'inforrner." (1.115) The gods are 'not even able to listen. To Ph~dre Hippolyte is a god; he is both as noble "Tel qu' on d~peint nos Dieux, ou tel que je vous voi." (1.640) - and as unfeeling. Phedre knows that Hippolyte could not have failed to understand her declaration of love. He too readily claims he has. Whether Hippolyte cannot, or will not, hear Phedre, she sees that his only desire is to remain ignorant of her suffering: " ... Par combien de detou rs/L' insensible a longtemps ~lud~ mes di scours!" , (1. 743) It is clear to her that Hippolyte does not care any more about her reasons than the heavens do. But Hippolyte is a man, not a god. Phedre demands from him the recognition due a human being, who does have reasons, and has the ability to judge and be judged. This recognition is what the gods have refused her. Ph~dre tries to force Hippolyte to understand her, and her love, not in order to escape judgement but to claim it as her right. Indifference is the cruelest blow of all. c~lestes, Je m'abhorre encor plus que tu ne me d'testes. (673-678) Ph~dre's confession of her crime requires only one syllable. Her need to make Hippolyte understand has overcome any desire in her to win him through passionate declarations of love. She challenges Hippolyte by not excusing herself. She claims that it is possible for a man to act, and at the same moment to understand that his action is wrong. Hippolyte's understanding of guilt cannot admit this. He has referred to Th~s~e' s seductions as "erreurs" (1.23) and to Thesee's actions as "failings." ["faillir" (l.100)] Guilt, for Hippolyte is th.e denial, or, as he is partial to his father, the falling short of moral laws. Th~s~e' s crimes, and trespass ·in general, are the result of a deficiency, a deficiency which can be made up, for example, by killing enough monsters. A man such as Thes~e, in Hippolyte' s eyes, could never condemn himself as guilty while deceiving his lovers; he can deceive them only because he has deceived himself too well to understand his guilt. The inconstancy of Th~s~e' s vows can be 'fixed' by Ph~dre because his inconstancy is not a force to be tamed, :but an error to be corrected. Uncorrected, a man who can deny one limit, finally can deny all. Hippolyte tells Th~s~e, "Quiconque a pu franchir les bornes l~gitimes/Peut violer enfin les droits les plus sacres" (1.1094) . What Hippolyte says is quite true, but not always for the reason he understands. When Phedre abandons her reason to Oenone she does it because "De . I l 'austere pudeur les bornes sont passees" 25 �(1. 766) • It is not because she has been able to convince herself that her acts are not crimes, that she has passed into greater crimes. She is so aware of her guilt that she is unable to act unless she abandons her judgement completely. This she cannot do. She can only tell Onenone "Je t' avouerai de tout; j e n' esp'ere qu' en toi." (1. 811) Ph~dre' s crimes finally do not result from her blinding judgement, but from her need to abandon it. Hippolyte defends · himself before Thesee by reminding him of what Hippolyte believes is the cause of his innocence, his " ... haine des forfai ts qu 'on ose m'imputer" (1.1108). As long as he hates this crime he cannot commit it. His hate however is no stronger than Phedre's. This is the Hippolyte Phedre speaks to when she says "Je m'abhorre encor plus que tune me d~testes." Ph~dre abhors herself because she understands, despises, and yet has committed her crime. Hippolyte detests her because he believes she recognizes no limits. His immediate reaction to Phedre' s declaration of love is to demand " ... oubliez-vous/Que Th6see est mon pere, et qu' il est votre ~poux?" (1. 663) Hippolyte cannot understand the horror or tragedy of Ph~dre' s crime because he does not understand that it is not always men's judgement that motivates their actions. Les Dieux m'en sent temoins, ces Dieux qui dans mon flanc Ont allume le feu fatal ~ tout mon sang; Ces Dieux qui se sent fait une gloire cruelle De seduire le coeur d'une faible mortelle. (679-682) If ·it is not Ph~dre's compliance ["complaisance"] which has made her act against her reason, what has? What but \. the gods? Phedre calls on the gods as her witnesses. But what kind of witnesses are they, who have caused the misery of the woman they are called upon to defend? The supposed greatness of the gods, the gods Hippolyte believes in, and to whom Ph~dre for a moment has tried to appeal, stands in terrible contrast to their real nature. Their "gloire cruelle" Ph~dre sees, is no greater than the pointless torments children impose on one another. Ph~dre's contempt for herself is for her weakness; she despises the gods because they are petty. When Ph~dre speaks of the gods she accuses not only Venus, but all the uncaring and uncontrolable forces which act on men. What does it matter to Ph~dre if the gods have lit the same fire in her that they lit in her mother and sister, or if it was her inheritence to fall in lqve? She cannot control it; she in no way deserved it. Nature or fate is no less "cruel" than the gods, although we are less inclined to accuse them of cruelty. Phedre cannot condemn the gods any more than we can condemn our genes. They act on us, they are all powerful!, and since they are simply not of the world of right and wrong, they cannot be accused of being unfair. Men, however, understand what it is to 'deserve' and somehow that understanding is the best part of men. Pascal wrote, "Mais quand l 'uni vers l'~craserait l'homme serait encore plus noble que ce qui le tue, puisqu' il sai t qu' il muert •.. " (Pensee 200) Perhaps we could add - because he knows whether he deserves to die. The gods, like the (empoisonn~) air Ph~dre is forced to breathes,are beyond her control and her condemnation. She can nonetheless recognize that she is in some way superior to them. It is Phedre who understands only too well. She despises herself because she acts against her judgement. She despises the gods because they have no judgement. Toi-~me en ton esprit rapelle le I passe. C'est peu de t'avoir fui, cruel, je t'ai chasse. J'ai voulu te parattre odieuse, inhumaine; Pour mieux te resister, j'ai recherch~ ta haine. (683-686) 26 '' ' Perhaps the saddest words in Phedre's speech are "qu' au moment que je t' aime." "Je t'aime" is not past, it is now, at the very moment in which Phedre talks to Hippolyte. Phedre can despise the gods for their cruelty; despite herself she cannot despise Hippolyte. ... There is no one else in the play whom Phedre feels she must make understand and judge her. It is ,, enough that Thesee or Oenone know her crime; only to Hippolyte does she plead "connais done Ph~dre." But Ph~dre is a play not only about passion and judgement, it is also about the inevitable solitude in which they occur. Perhaps if Oenone had understood why Phedre had to die, if Hippolyte had heard Phedre' s cry to be judged, if Th~s6e had not had " ... de son [Hippolyte's] coeur si peu de connaissance," ( 1. 1429) Hippolyte would not have died. Men are isolated because there is no one to witness the truth of what they say. Men cannot testify for themselves "Toujours les sc~lerats ont recours au parjure." (1.1134) Hippolyte learns the result of trusting in the concern of the gods - " [Les Dieux] ont trop d' in&r~t ~ me justifier" (1.1352) becomes "Le ciel m'arrache une innoc~nte vie." (1.1561). And finally men have so little knowledge of each other that they are unable to know, let alone speak, the truth for other men. Phedre calls herself, the gods, and Hippolyte to witness. All fail. She learns what Hippolyte does not when, in defending himself to Th~s6e, he finds that " ... la terre, le ciel, que toute la nature ... " (1.1133) are not enough to testify for him. Perhaps ~lying he realizes that this is because "la terre, le ciel, et toute la nature," like Hippolyte, do not want to listen. Phedre again calls Hippolyte "cruel" but the irony of even trying to call to witness is so bitter that she cannot help but recognize it. The proofs which would serve to convince an objective judge are precisely the acts that make it impossible for Hippolyte to be objective. "Mes inutiles ... soins" are perhaps not only Phedre' s attempts, now long ago, to resist Hippolyte, but the attempt she has just made to make him understand her. In a sea of past actions "tu me haissais;" and "je t'aimais" alone are in the present. Now, at this moment, you hate me more, not despite, but because of my attempts to make you understand. There are no judges for Phedre except herself. Forcing Hippolyte to see the truth can only make it more impossible for him to judge. The gods have given Ph~dre, as they do Th's'e, exactly what she wanted. Ph~dre' s plea for understanding only makes her, in Hippolyte' s eyes, more "odieuse;" and "inhumaine." .. Tes malheurs te pr~taient encor de nouveux charmes. J'ai langui, j'ai s~ch~, dans les feux, dans les larmes. Il suffit de tes yeux pour t'en persuader, Si tes yeux un moment pouvaient me regarder. (689-691) But "je ne t'aimais pas mains". Even while Phedre realizes that Hippolyte hates her, she loves him. Phedre knows that Hippolyte is.unable to understand her. If kn6wledge governed men's actions her speech would end with "tu me haissais plus." But all of Ph~dre's understanding cannot stifle her longing to have Hippolyte recogni~e her. That longing will not allow Phedre to abandon a hope that she knows it is impossible to satisfy. All she has left to abandon is her reason. Hippolyte will never look at Phedre. Phedre knows this and still cannot stop herself from begging him to see her, just as she can condemn her love for him but cannot stop herself from loving. Her speech is a microcosm of her love. Once she has' given her hope substance by speaking of it, her judgement can no longer overwhelm the force of a De quoi m'ont profit~ mes inutiles soins? Tu me haissais plus, je ne t'aimais pas mains. (687-688) 27 �f -, passion she has done her best to kill. Overall, once Ph~dre has allowed herself to hope that she could love Hippolyte, and in this speech, once she has hoped that he might understand her, she cannot prevent her hope from working out its own fatal conclusion. Nor can she prevent herself from condemning the actions she performs motivated by this hope. \ Phedre' s speech from this point on will build until, horribly, it combines her understanding of her guilt and her need for Hippolyte's recognition. The only resolution to her fatal passion is that it be Hippolyte who, in judging her, punishes her guilt. Only then can her judgement and her passion be reconciled. The fatality of her love is that it is both deadly and seeking death. Hippolyte alone can end the war within Ph~dre. But Hippolyte cannot. He is too young and too naive. He is horrified by Ph~dre's confession, and naturally so. Because he is a man, and a particular man, he cannot do what Phedre is asking of him.· Men are not capable of forgetting themselves in order to understand another. Ph~dre is asking Hippolyte to be what Th~s6e, the gods, and finally Hippolyte cannot be - both noble and understanding. Perhaps it would be sufficient if just one man could be both. Hippolyte cannot. Only Ph~dre can understand both herself and her passion, but alone the only resolution she can reach is the one that will lead to Hippolyte's death. Some Thoughts on "Maxwell's Equations" '" David Stephenson We usually meet with Maxwell's equations in something like the following form if we meet with them at all: curl E =- div D p db dt curl H div B = L -+ it will give rise to another field in directions perpendicular to but curving a round it: hence the use of the word "curl" in the first two equations. The elegance and power of these equations is manifest. They display an even greater symmetry in space free of charge and current, so that L and p a re zero, and without material bodies so that B = H and D = E. Such a concise and pregnant expression of natural law can. only be admired. But these equations were not written by Maxwell. He did list some dozen equations in quaternion form at the conclusion of a chapter entitled "General Equations· of the Electrodynamic Field" in his Treatise. Among them are some more or less equivalent to the four posterity attributes to Maxwell. But they are quite different in form. How then did our four usurp their paternity? Who did write them? and why did Maxwell lack his successor's economical or aesthetic predilections? Though not afflicted with the Pythagorean tesseraphilia nor a confessed admirer of Aristotle's cardinal virtues or elements, Maxwell did apparently succumb to the charm. of the number four in another short treatise: "Note on the Electromagnetic Theory of Light," in which he derived a plane electromagnetic wave equation, which we may write: dD dt 0 These are the field. equations out of which immediately springs the assurance that electromagnetic waves can exist and travel in space. For with E and D signifying electric inten5;1ity and flux, respectively, H and B magnetic force and flux, and p and L electric charge and current densities, the first two equations imply a reciprocal stimulation of magnetic and electric fields that will spread outwards once provoked, like the waves in a pond. The third and fourth equations, on the other hand, cover the quiescent case, locating the source of an electrostatic field in electric charge but denying any local source to magnetism. The terms curl and divergence were invented by Maxwell (although he preferred the term "convergence" for the latter, the negative of the divergence). ~n his "Mathematical Classification of ,Physical Properties" in the The Scientific papers of James Clerk Maxwell, he shows himself to be particularly concerned that these new names express something of their mathematical meaning to the imagination. Thus in selecting "curl," he says, "I have sought for a word which shall neither, like Rotation, Whirl, or Twirl, connote motion, nor, like Twist, indicate a helical or screw structure which is not of the nature of a vector at all." If a field pointing in one direction is altered 28 from four "theorems" or "principles". Two of these "theorems" resemble · verbal paraphrases of the first two of our · equations; this is as close as Maxwell ·comes to our quartet. The demonstration 29 �---------- is simple and lucid; yet Maxwell seems to have preferred the richer, if more prolix, exposition in the Treatise. One of the reasons why Maxwell included more equations than absolutely necessary in his Treatise may have been simply his desire to be explicit. The economy of mathematical notation in general depends on its tacit reliance on our understanding of the meaning of its symbols. Part of that meaning may derive from implicit relationships among them, so that each symbol can conceal a whole train of equations. The brevity of our original set of equations proves to be somewhat illusory. Only someone already initiated into the mysteries of electromagnetism knows, for example, that B and H are proportional to one another. Maxwell, however, writes out the simple equation B = µH for all to see. For similar reasons Ohm's Law joins the parade. But Maxwell's pedagogical frankness is not the only reason for the multitude and appearance of his equations. They do differ in form as well as number from ours. Consider the fourth of the equations given above: extended plot. So the symbol A must be connected with the symbol E in yet another equation. The connection between E and B provided by this new vector then eliminates the need for our curl E equation. Maxwell is very interested in what this new A symbol might represent. A rather extended analogy with mechanical phenomena leads him to the conclusion that it should be called the "electrokinetic" or "electromagnetic momentum," and that its time derivative equals the electromotive force that produces electric currents· in circuits that are in motion relative to the magnetic field. In earlier papers he had associated it with Faraday's "electrotonic state": a state of tension assumed to account for the peculiar action of electromagnetic induction. It thus contributed to Maxwell's understanding of one of the most puzzling phenomena of electricity and magnetism. Anyone nurtured in Newton's school would have trouble explaining the direction of the action of electromagnetic induction. For centripetal forces alone can never account for the fact that when a wire crosses a magnetic field a current springs up in a direction perpendicular to that field, and none whatsoever in the field's direction. Without, as far as I know, confessing this outright, Maxwell implies that the magnetic flux B expresses a rotational property of some kind, and the "momentum" associated with A may be a kind of angular momentum in space. Rotation does, after all, seem to be characteristic of magnetism; even light can be twisted by it. In the place of symmetry we now have a kind of ladder from vector to vector, beginning with current and rising to the electromagnetic momentum A: div B = 0 This can easily be translated into everyday language: magnets have no true poles, no distinct centers or localized sources of magnetism. Maxwell presents this idea in a totally different way. It is a well known mathematical property of the divergence and curl that div curl A = o always for any vector A; that therefore if the divergence of one vector is always zero, the vector could equal the curl of another vector. Therefore Maxwell states our fourth equation in what amounts to the following form: curl A = B This is the first of the electromagnetic equations presented in the Treatise. Wit~ it Maxwell introduces one more vectorial quantity A into the company of forces and fluxes with which alone we have so far had to deal. A new character requires a more curl 1 B = curl H µ curl A 30 I., + dD dt ~.·' electromagnetic vibration. It was left for Einstein to "murder" that one--or did he? Thus began the distillation of Maxwell's electromagnetic equations, refined ultimately into the present concise, balanced, elegant quartet. These four say what.it is necessary to say, and no more than is necessary. Perhaps, therefore it is only nostalgia that longs for the richer and more fanciful panoply of Maxwell. However, there is an ironic footnote to this history; the vector A turns out to be significant in two very modern sciences: quantum mechanics and relativity (cf. Feynman's Lectures, vol. II, ch. 15 & 25). In some respect therefore Maxwell turns out to have been an unconscious prophet. · Now it must be admitted that A (sometimes called the ·"vector potential" of the current 1., to name the relationship implied by the above equations) is a rather mysterious quantity because it is not measurable directly, and can be eliminated by suitable combination of these equations. Maxwell's disciple, oliver Heaviside, with little hesitation confessed that he "murdered" this function along with the electric potential function v, ( E = - 'VV), "with a great gain in definiteness and conciseness." Thus may an Englishman teach a Scotsman ruthless mathematical parsimony. And Heaviside does come up with a symmetrical set very much -like our own. Nevertheless the destruction of this mystery did not eliminate another one: the "ether" itself, the matPrial substratum of Sonnet Ruth A. Johnston Seen moment by each moment am I known, Yet unknown in a moment's blinking eye Unruled by time the hidden changes lie, And eyes must fail to see how I have grown. My eyes indeed grow weak, with nothing gained From oft-repeated tries, oft-failed, to see The outline of what someday will be me; From challenging their limit, over-strained. Viewers stroll by, their careless gaze upon The nascent painting's rough and mottled face. The canvas prays the work may go apace; The painter smiles and strokes his colors on. Judge lightly, then, as knowing half the tale; The end cannot be seen beyond the veil. B 31 �translated by Merle Sokolik Shall I, by Bacchus overcome, yet once again into those night-long rings of dance set my white foot while thrusting up my neck unto the heavens, like a fawn that revels in the green delights the meadow holds for her when she has fled from fearful hunt, from under watch, above the well-strung nets, and yet the huntsman hastens on his dogs? She leaps across the river-bordered plain in whirls of strain and haste, delighting in the spac~s empty of all men and in the leaves of the shade-giving wood. ~p' tv naVVUXLOLS xopoCs , I I ~now ROTE AEUMOV n16' a~a~aMXEUOUaa 1 6~~av ELS aL~Epa 6pOOEpov PLRTOUO ' ws vESpos XAEopaLs EµnaLso~oa AELµaxos n6ovaCs, nvLx' a'v cpoSEp&v cpUYQ ~npav £~w cpuAaxas , , ' ' ' -" EURAEMTWV UnEp apxuwv, ~wl1oowv cl xuvay£TaS . ouvTELv~ opaµnµa xuvwv· µox~oLs T. WM~6poµOLS T. a£AAaLs ~p~OMEL nE6Cov napanoTaµLOV, n6oµ£va SpOTWV €pnµLaLs OMLapoMoµOLO T, EpvEoLv oAas. t ' - ' , What is shrewdness? What is a finer god-paid gift among the mortals, than above the heads of foes the hand should lift its greater strength? The fine finds love-forever. Though it is slowly brought on, power of the gods should still be trusted. For it straightens out those men with maddended views that honor ignorance and do not magnify the works of gods. But they with intricate.cover disguise the too long march of time and hunt down the profane. So never do we need to know and care for what is stronger than that held as custom. The expense is yet so slight to hold that this has force: whatever is divine, the thing held long in time as custom and the thing always come forth in nature. TL Tb oocp6v; TC Tb x&AALOV nap& ~Ewv ytpas £v SpoTots Tf Xdp' Un~p MOplJq>Ci.S TTuY. ~X~P~V MpE~OOW MaT~XELV; ~ TL MaAdv cp~AOV ~EL. How-fortunate the one who from out of the sea has fled the tempest, should he reach the harbor. Fortunate the one who finds himself above such strains. The one goes past the other, prosperous and able, in another way. Yet many are the hopes for many men. Some hopes attain prosperity for men while others go away. The· one whose life is fortunate for all his days, I call him blessed. d6aLµwv µtv o's EM ~aAcfocras EcpUyE XECµa, ALµEva 6' EXLXEV' EUOaLµwv 6. o's {lnEp~E µox.Swv . £y£vE.&'· ETEpa 6' ETEpos ETEpov oAS~ xal 6uvaµEL napnA~Ev. µUpLaL 6' ETL µVpLOLS E~o~v EAnL6ES aC µ~v 0 TEAE~TWOLV (862-911) opµaTaL µOALS, aAA' oµws nLOTOV ( TL) Tb ~ELOV o~£vos· anEU~UVEL 6~ SpoTWV TOIJ S T' ayvwµooUVaV TL ]JWVTO.!; xat µ~ Tb. ~ELOV au~ov­ TaS abv µa~voµ~vq 60~~· MpU~TEUOUOL 6~ noLMCAWS 6apbv xpovou n66a xat ~npwoLv Tbv ~oEnTov. ou y&p MpEL006V ROTE TWV VOµWV yLyvwoxELV XPh xat µEAETcrv. xou~a y~p 6an&va voµLsELV Lox1!,v Too' ExELv, v ,, ' , 0 TL ROT ' apa TO 6aLUOVLOV, TO T EV XPOV~ µaxp~ voµLµov aEL cp'1JEL TE nE•nUKOS, 32 n I • I EV OAS~ SpoToCs, aC 6' &n£Sncrav· TO ct MaT' ~µap OTW SLOTOS EU6aLµwv, µaxapLsw. TL Tb oocpov; TL Tb x&AALO\) nap& ~Ewv y£pas €v SpoTots ff xEtp' &nlp xopucpas TWV EX~pfuv xpELoow xaTtXELV; " 1 , ' , 0 TL MaAOV cpLAO\) aEL. I n What is shrewdness? What is a finer god-paid gift among the mortals, than above the heads of foes the hand should lift its greater strength? The fine finds love-forever. A Chorus from the Bacchae I 33 �The B Deduction and Its Relation to Freedom I. (Or: Kant, Can Do} The question one should always ask oneself when approaching the B Deduction is "Why is a deduction necessary?" To answer this question, we must recall quickly the Transcendental Aesthetic and the opening of the Transcendental Logic. In the Aesthetic Kant proves that time and space are not, as we had always assumed, things outside of us, but rather that they are the pure forms of our sensible intuition. In other words, they are internal, something with which we condition our experience. We receive a sensation from something outside of us (the "thing in itself") and our intuition, made up of the so-called "receiving rooms" of space and time, orders that sensation spatio-temporally. This does not mean that these pure forms of intuition do anything. They are merely receptive, and· do not make images. As Kant points out, that which they receive could be nothing more than a mass of dots which is then ordered spatio-temporally. But in order to think, we need of some kind of object to think about; we cannot think about a mass of dots, a metaphor for what Kant calls· usually a manifold. This problem leads us to the opening of the Transcendental Logic. ·If I am to judge any object in my experience, if I am to say anything about that· object, I must have a concept of that object. For example, if I say "That book is large," I show that I have a concept of some object before me ("book"), to which I am attaching the concept "large." Or, put in another way, I have seen many books and have formed the concept "book" under which a particular book falls, and I have seen books (or perhaps just things) of different sizes and among them this particular book seems "large." Therefore, I have brought together two concepts, book and large, and have made a judgement about some particular incident in my experience. As Kant says: Matthew Davis I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers; How ill white hairs become a fool and a jester! I have long dream'd of such a kind of man, So surfeit swell'd, so old, and so profane; But, being awak'd, I do despise my dream. Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace; Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape For thee trice wider than for other men. Reply not to me with a fool-worn jest: Presume not that I am the thing that was; For God doth know, so shall the world preceive, That I have turn'd away my former self; So will I those that kept me company. -King (Prince) Hal to Falstaff in Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part.!.!_ I have therefore found it necessary to deny knowledge, in order to make room for faith. -Immanuel Kant, Preface to the Second Edition of The Critique of Pure Reason Transcendental Logic, the Transcendental Dialectic. In the Dialectic Kant addresses the principal problems which have plagued the philosophy he so radically alters in The Critique, and primary among these problems is whether freedom exists or not. I do not think I am overstepping any sensible bounds if I say Kant wrote much, if not all, of The Critique to solve this problem. Therefore, I should say: in this paper I intend to give a brief account of Kant's B Deduction with a forward glance at the Dialectic's primary problem, th'at of freedom. In this paper I intend to give a brief account of Immanuel Kant's B Deduction. This deduction is the cornerstone of the first half of the Critique of Pu re Reason, or, more specifically, of the section entitled the Transcendental Analytic, the first division of a larger section, the Transcendental Logic.. Kant explains his philosophy of "limitation" in the Analytic; this is, simply stated, what we can and cannot know. The B Deduction makes this explanation possible. But, caught up in this difficult section, we often forget the other division of the 34 35 In every judgement there is a concept which holds of many representations, and among them of a given representation that is immediately related to an object. (p.105) It is plain that these judgments are not in the things outside of me but that they are in me. In order that I may judge the objects outside me, I must use my concepts of those objects. But it is important also that I have objects to judge. More will be said about this in a moment. We can abstract all empirical content from the judgment "the book is large" so as to discover whether th~re are any a priori, non-empirical types of judgment which underlie this judgment. The· statement, therefore, is about a particular (book) and is affirmative; it is making an assertion about the book. What is the particular (book)? In this case it is something (large). But an affirmative statement about a particular cannot be derived from experience, since we have abstracted from all experience to better see the nature of a judgment. Therefore, there. must be certain ~ priori concepts ("functions of judgment") which I bring to experience so I can make judgments about it. Kant states at the outset of "The Clue to All Pure Concepts of the Understanding," section two: If we abstract from all content judgment, and consider only the form of the understanding, we that the function of thought judgment can be brought under of a mere find in a four heads, each of which contain three moments. (p. 106). This list Kant calls the "Table of Judgments. " But we have assumed up to this point that there are objects about which we can make judgments. For a judgment to have validity, there must be objects to judge. Where did these objects come from? Certainly not from the · intuition, since it is merely a receptive faculty, doing nothing more than spatio �-temporally ordering sensation(s) which come into it. It is clear that there must be a "putting together" (synthesis) of the manifold of the pure intuitions, and that this synthesis must take place in some way that my judgments might be valid, so that my experienc~ might make sense. The synthesis, Kant tells us, will have to take place according to a set of concepts, which he calls the "Table of Categories:" 1 The same function which gives unity to the various representations in ~ judgment also gives unity to the mere synthesis of various representations in an intuition; and this unity, in its most general expression, ~e entitle the pure concept of the understanding. The same understanding, through the same operations by which in concepts, by means of analytical unity, it produced the logical form of a judgement, also introduces a transcendental content into its representations, by means of the synthetic unity of the manifold in intuition in general. (pp.112-113) This table of categories, analogous to the table of judgments, we bring with us to experience. But how? We have two faculties, intuition and understanding (the home of concepts), one utterly passive and the other active, one a mass of spatio-temporally ordered dots waiting to be put together and the other a set of concepts which can only begin activity when they have something to think (act) upon, i.e. an object. They must be brought together so that thinking is possible. Hence the need for a deduction. II. The B Deduction is in two parts. The first part deals with the synthesis of the manifold 1 given in ~·priori intuiti.on . in general , and thus for any thinking being; the second part deals specifically with those thinking beings who have a priori sensible forms of intuition called space and time, us. We will begin with the first part. In the setting out of the need for a deduction it was clear that a way must be found for the understanding to unify the manifold of intuition. This synthesis of the manifold of intuition in general, what Kant calls the "combination," cannot arise fro~ any combination itself, for that would be contradictory. Something must have been put that combination together, and from the very concept "combination" we a re aware of some unity acting upon some manifold, so we must search for that higher unity. Kant says at the outset of section 16: It must be possible for the 'I think' to ~ccompany all my representations; for otherwise something would be represented in me which could not be thought at all, and that is equivalent to saying that the representation would be imp~ssible, or at least nothing to me. This is plain. If I am to become aware of the "world" around me I must be able to think about it. The higher unity we are seeking must therefore be that which generates the 'I think,' that which allows me to combine the manifold in general. Were I not able to do this I would have no coherent thought; some things would be "nothing to me." Kant calls this unity "The Original Synthetic Unity of Apper- _ ception," or "Pure Apperception." He calls also the generating of the 'I think' an act of spontaneity, and therefore an a~t o~ the ':1nde4standing, for the intuition is passive. But pure apperception is also "the transecendental unity of self-consciousness." Kant calls it this for two reasons. First, it is necessary that I.be coherent enough to attach the 'I think' to all representations, and I would not be able to do so if I did not have one self-consciousness; some representations would just go flying by my many diverse selves. Second, it is a fundamental principle in Kant that I synthesize before I analyze. For example, if I say the colors of a bowl are red? green and blue, then I must have al ready synthesized the representations of those colors with the bowl (a "given" manifold) in one consciousness. Any analytic act presupposes a synthesis, and that synthesis presupposes the unity of self-consciousness, the combining of the manifold of representations in general. Pure apperception, therefore, underlies all thought; it makes all connected thought possible. This is why Kant calls it "the highest principle in the whole sphere of human knowledge" (p. 154). But how does this pure apperception make us capable of knowledge? In section 17, Kant says this: object (determinate space, or in this case, line) , or object in general. As Kant says: "The synthetic unity of consciousness is, therefore, an objective condition of all knowledge" (p. 156). But how is this determinate object related back to the synthetic unity of apperception? The perplexing problem at the outset of this essay was that we had a table of judgments but no objects to judge. Now, because of the synthetic unity of apperception, I am able through judgment to say something about a manifold of given representations, representations which by judgment are united into an object. The synthetic unity of apperception guarantees that my judgment will have objective validity (i.e. be about an object), for it guarantees the continuity of my self-consciousness, it guarantees my ability to draw a line. Therefore, a judgment (a statement that something 'is') can unite a manifold of representations, be they a manifold in general or in particular, and that judgment brings judged manifold of representations into self-consciousness to join other judged representations. For this reason Kant calls judgment "the manner in which given modes of knowledge are brought to the objective unity of apperception" (p.159). But there is something more here. We know that we only have twelve ways we can judge, the table of judgments. Therefore the given manifold which is judged must be constituted in such a way that it can be judged. Judgments, therefore, can only be made of intuitions (or intuition in general) that have been determined according to something which will allow of judgment. These determinations are necessarily the categories. Since I have only twelve ways by which I can judge, it is necessary that the given manifold (or one intuition) be constructed by the pure apperception so that I can judge and think. And I can only judge and think via the categories. This, then, is why Kant went to so much trogble to introduce the table of categories. This is the conclusion of the first "Knowledge consists in the determinate relation of given representations to an object; and an object -is that in the concept of which the manifold of a given representation is united." This means simply that knowledge consists in the determination of an object, an object being merely a gathering together of representations. But we said above that . all syntheses of representations required the unity of self-consciousness, and therefore it is, as Kant says, "a condition under which every intuition must stand in order to become an object for me" (p. 156). This will become clearer if we look at his example. If I draw a line in space, in, order to keep drawing it (as a line) I must be conscious of the complete action and each step involved in it. If I did not have the transcendental unity of self-consciousness, I would not be able to bring the line, or any object, synthetically fnto being, for I would forget the first moment of the action even before I arrived at the second moment. The transcendental unity of self-consciousness, therefore, guarantees the continuity of my· synthetic thought, my ability to first know an 37 �In other words, that synthesis deals with intuition in general, with space and time al ready combined as wholes; it does not deal with the separate manifolds of space and time but only with them after they have become unified. So, something is needed to synthesize the manifolds of space and time in the sensibility itself. This activity Kant calls the figurative synthesis. The imagination, which is a part of the understanding, carries out the figurative synthesis. Kant calls the imagination "the faculty of representing in an intuition an object that is not itself present." This means that the imagina'tion acts spontaneously to determine intuition and make it an object, so to speak; to unite the manifolds of space and time into one general intuition, making them palatable for consciousness. Since this spontaneity is given through the understanding (the source of activity), it is necessary that the respective manifolds be combined in accordance with the synthetic unity of apperception. The spontaneity of the synthetic unity of apperception is therefore the same spontaneity which sets imagination to work on the intuitions. This, then, is an application of the categories to objects in sensible intuition, and the categories are thus given objective reality, becoming more than just mere "forms of thought." They are, for us, real. We have, however, known since the start of the essay that the understanding cannot combine the manifold of intuition, that a concept (having no object) cannot reach down into the forms of intuition and combine them. How does the imagination do i t7 A footnote to the deduction (B 160, a) is particularly helpful here. In the footnote Kant tells us that he was lying in the Aesthetic. There he made little of the distinction between form of intuition and formal intuition so he could talk of geometry and such matters. Here, however, the distinction in important. Form of intuition means the uncombined manifold of representations which comes into my "receiving rooms" of space and time. half of the deduct~on. And although it is by no means obvious, it is a refutation of Hume, who said that our representations were connected merely through habit. But to even have that connection I must be self-conscious. And thus Kant has established that our manifold of representations can be connected through judgment in objects; objects which, due to the synthetic unity of apperception, I can judge fearing no chidings of "subjectivity." As Kant remarks at the end of section 19: Thus to say 'the body is heavy' is not merely to state that the two representations have always been conjoined in my perception, however often that perception has been repeated; what we are asserting is that they are combined in the object, no matter what the state of the subject may be (p.159). This leads6 us to the second half of the deduction. Why is the second half of the deduction necessary? For Kant, thinking and knowing are two completely separate things. Knowledge as such is only possible for us human beings if an object is given in our sensible intuition. It is all right if we think a concept that has no object in intuition; we can think anything we like. But knowledge is something else again. Since it is clear from the first half of the deduction that we are the authors of our experience, it is impossible that we should know anything beyond that experience, that we should know, for example, a "thing in itself," something unconditioned by space or time. Therefore, objects for knowledge must be given to us in our pure forms of sensible ·intuition, and the second half of the deduction will concern itself with how this comes about. In section 23, Kant speaks of a thinking being who has a sensible intuition other than ours (not spatiotemporal). He introduces this being to show that the synthesis performed by the pure apperception is purely intellectual. 38 Formal intuition means the unity of these representations, a unity given by the unity which figurative synthesis, a according to the footnote "precedes any concept." But how? Space and time as forms of intuition a re homogeneous. Since all their parts are similar, no concept is needed to give them shape (a shape to space?). They only need a synthesis, a uniting, and this is the synthesis performed by the imagination, prior to any concepts. Therefore the formal intuition is the groundwork for determinate intuitions (intuitions through concepts) within it, such as, to use Kant's example, the setting of three lines at right angles to one another from the same point to represent space. The formal intuition must underlie even our own representation of it through concepts. The activity of the imagination, spurred by the pure apperception, is thus the basis of ou~ connected experience. Since the imagination is the faculty of representing any object (but in greatest generality space) that is not itself present, and since it determines time (inner sense), its continued synthesis of time being the very act through which we are aware of time itself, it shou1d be evident that the imagination can go on indefinitely producing "pictures" for me to think about. But I do not necessarily have to think about them. It is true that the imagination works in accordance with the synthetic unity of apperception, but it is certainly not true that I have to attach the 'I think' to every object in my experience. The action of the understanding on the sensibility through the imagination allows for my eventual empirical consciousness. I will say more on this subject in the discussion of the synthesis of apprehension. But this does not mean that I must attach the 'I think' to every object in that empirical consciousness, only to those which I choose. This, then, is the full meaning of "capable" in the first analytic statement of the deduction. The reason I do not have to say 'I think' about every object in the room around me is because the imagination synthesizes without a concept, but I am capable of thinking an object through a concept if I please. This is, I think, the fundamental distinc, tion between the "putting together" (without conceptg;) and the "grasping" (with concepts), the two phrases Kant uses in his general definition of synthesis. From all this it should be clear that we can only have knowledge of appearances. We have no contact with what gives us our original sensation, the "thing in itself." To become aware we must think, and the B Deduction shows us that thinking is an enormous process. At the center of the process, of course, is the task of constituting our own objects (which are nothing but appearances, per se), and this action, enabling our thinking, shuts us off from whatever the world might be "in itself." Although thinking in this sense seems somewhat bleak, it is precisely because we have appearances that experience is cogent. They will also be the basis of Kant's later discussion of the possibility of freedom. I will address this subject in the third section of this paper. Now, however, we must look at the final step in the B Deduction. The final step Kant calls the "synthesis of apprehension." This synthesis brings us empirical consciousness, i.e. perception. It is the final stage of consciousness made possible by the transcendental unity of self-consciousness, pure apperception. For this synthesis to come about it is necessary that space and time be united by the imagination. I can only perceive in space and time, and therefore space and time must be united through the figurative synthesis so that I may become conscious of them as a united manifold, or formal intuition. In order for this to take place, though, the imagination must be aroused by the original synthetic unity of apperception. This original synthesis, though, unites intuition in general according to the categories. Therefore, all our experience will conform to the categories, and therefore the categories have been united with 39 I' �More specifically, from the B Deduction we know that all experience is subject to categories and is in time. To posit freedom, the ability to initiate a chain of events in this experience, is to posit something that is not subject either to the categories or to time; it is to posit a series of events with an antecedent cause not in experience. The B Deduction, however, shows us that we can never know if this freedom exists, that we can only know the appearances that we have constitu~ed. Why should we posit freedom at all? Every event presupposes a sufficient cause ~ priori, but if we do not posit this sufficient cause (freedom) somewhere in the chain of events, there are only relative causes; in other words, each cause presupposes another cause for it which exists al ready. The assumption of mere relative cause, of course, is the same thing as saying that every cause "just is," and has always existed, that there is no completeness to any series. To take the other side of the argument is to admit that all causes "just are," and that we are fooling ourselves when we say that freedom must necessarily be. This assumption is merely an attempt to get some rest. We cannot go beyond experience and know anything, so we simply must be satisfied in saying that the change in the status of substance has always been. To posit freedom means to destroy cause and effect as the absolute law of nature, and so the other categories. As the B Deduction tells us, this would throw coherent experience right out the window. But if we say that there is no freedom, then we must accept that there is no sufficient cause for any event. This denies our first principle. So we are right back where we started. There is, however, a solution to this antinomy, and the essence of that solution is in the B Deduction. For a moment, therefo~e, we will retrace our steps. Kant tells us in the B Deduction that although the synthetic unity of apperception, or transcendental I, is at work in us, how it works i!:; unknown to us. How can we know? We have knowledge only of intuition and our experience made possible. To use Kant's example, if I have an empirical intuition of a house of which I become conscious, then it is a perception. At the basis of this empirical intuition must be the necessary unity, i.e. formal intuition of space and time. The house must be in space and time for me to perceive it. But space and time have been united through the figurative synthesis, providing the space and time for the house. But the spontaneity of the imagination igniting the figurative synthesis is the same spontaneity of the pure apperception, which unites intuition in general according to the categories, and therefore my experience will conform to the categories. It is important to note here that I have thought the concept 'house' so that the freedom of the imagination to unite space and time into a formal intuition without a concept is pr.eserved. This is the connection that we sought at the outset of this paper, and the outcome of Kant's B Deduction. Kant concludes the B Deduction with a discussion of nature. It is evident that we are the authors of nature, that it will conform to our categories, such as cause and effect. How, then,. is freedom possible, if all experience must conform to certain laws, such as cause and effect? Freedom cannot be freedom if it is in conformity with laws. The third pa rt of this paper will attempt to answer that question. III. What is freedom? I t is .the ability to start a series of events, the ability to be the first cause in that series. But the B Deduction tells us that the categories condition our experience, and one of . those categori~s is cause and effect. Every event without exception will have an antecedent cause. If this is true, freedom is ruled out, for there can be no end to the series, no first cause. This the the problem of the third antinomy. 40 experience, of things which are objects in our intuition. We have, therefore, only knowledge of our empirical self, the self that i"be see in mirrors, the phenomenal self. Nevertheless, we are undoubtedly aware of the transcendental I and our intelligible selves: we are, for example, the only animals aware of our inevitable physical end, tbe only animal who constructs philosophical systems. This awareness is a direct product of the transcendental I, that "thing in itself" which fosters our self-consciousness. It is, therefore, because of the transcendental I that I have awareness of both a noumenal self as well as a phenomenal self. And it is through this noumenal self that my faculty called reason is able to conceive o~ 1 what Kant calls "transcendental ideas." · Briefly, "transcendental ideas" are those things which we use to assert the completeness of a series, to say "all." From.what has been said it is evident that this completeness cannot be given in experience; for example, there is no sum total of causes and effects there. But it is our own faculty of reason, based on the transcendental self, which strives to limit the series, even this limit must necessarily be unconditioned. These transcendental ideas, of course, are necessary to me as an active being; were I not able to say "all" at times my activity in daily life would be almost none at all. It is only because I am able to posit these ideas, based on the existence of my noumenal self and reason, that I am able to act. One of these ideas is freedom. For without the assumption of freedom, I could never assert myself as the cause d: any series of events, nor could I take responsibility for my acts. Necessarily freedom must be what Kant calls a "regulative" principle rather than a "constitutive" principle. The idea of freedom cannot contribute in any way to my knowledge, as do "constitutive" principles, it can only serve as a guide for my existence as an active being, it can only be "regulative." So it must be with all the transcendental ideas. How does Kant make the coexistence of the transcendental idea of freedom and law-governed experience possible? He has, in a sens~, already done it once. In the B Deduction, the unconditioned transcendental I spontaneously acts upon intuition in general to produce the effects that we know as experience, to create the appearances. Kant likewise calls freedom "the power of beginning a state spontaneously." It is the activity of something unconditioned which produces· effects in what we know as experience. But the B Deduction shows, as has been said before, that objects in our experience are appearances. They are not · "things in themselves." This is Kant's solution to the antinomy. If the objects of experience were "things in themselves," then we would be left with the insoluble antinomy. Since the "things in themselves" would still be subject to cause and effect, freedom would not be possible. But since our experience is merely appearance, we can posit the unconditional without contradiction. And we can likewise posit our noumenal side as freely acting with effects only to be known in the appearances. We are, after all, the first cause of those appearances. It is necessary to point out that Kant has allowed only for the possibility of freedom. It may be, and we will never know one way or the other, that freedom does not exist. Kant is careful to remark that we can always reduce every action that seems free to a (certainly endless) series of efficient causes. But for our practical life the "regulative" principle of freedom is indispensable. It is freedom, our connection with the unconditioned in ourselves, which allows for our appreciation .of beauty as well. Freedom, in the end, allows for our totality as men. The long argument of the B Deduction makes freedom possible. On the one hand, Kant has radically changed philosophy; its new limitations are clear. He has indeed ordered it to "leave gormandizing." But on the other hand he has preserved its importance to our practical life as well. 41 �see, still catches our eye. This, I believe, justifies the enormous labor of the B Deduction. He has also saved just a little of its mystery: the things most important to us, among them freedom, remain ideas. ·And their peauty, though perhaps harder to There is Very Little Poetry in Onions Dan Farrell Footnotes 1. 2. 3 .- 4. 'i i! '! ,, :1 I' 5. 6. I take this to mean "overall" manifold, rather than particular manifolds of space and time or judgements of particular groups of representations. A cheap word in Kant meaning just about anything. I suppose a general definition to be "things (in a weak sense) gathered together by any kind of synthesis." This is an analytic statement saying "I must be able say 'I think' about what I think." Special emphasis should be placed on the pure apperception "generating" the 'I think.' It does not do the attaching. All of section 20, read carefully, is helpful here. Thus the power of a simple analytic statement (footnote 3) is revealed. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. Page 170, Kemp Smith. Page 111, Kemp Smith. There are probably many answers to this question. The answer- that follows is the least satisfying. In Kant, "phenomenal" means things as appearance, "noumenal" things in the realm of the unconditioned. I have glossed over an important distinction here. Objects in experience when given as a whole can be said to be reducible "ad infinitum." If we are just given a member in an infinite series; however, and seek in that series more members, then ltle must at some point posit an unconditioned end to that series. My thanks to Mr. Carey, Mr. Kutler and Mr. Lenkowski. 42 I have always looked at a poem in a way that will help me learn what it means. The poet is trying to say something and the task of the reader is to reconstruct the message. There is a phrase that teachers introduce early in high school: "levels of meaning". I don't know if we are to think of layers of the onion: of meaning (each layer or 'level' of the onion is a whole and it can be eaten separately) or what. Please allow me to pursue this idea excessively. There is a great danger in looking too closely at a poem's meaning. The poet gives -us a garden filled with wonderful fruits and vegetables, flowers and bees, mud and bugs, and onions. Now I can go to this garden and eat all the onions I like and digest every layer of the tiniest scallion, but I'll end up with bad.breath and a very unsatisfied hunger. I'll probably step on a few bugs and get annoyed about the mud oozing between my toes on my way to the onions (which are in the center of the garden, of course; think of where the tree of knowledge of good and evil was). But not even mud between the toes is enough to sidetrack me: I have onions to eat. What is most remarkable about my careful method of eating o,nions is that it takes a long time to realize that almost any layer of any onion tastes the same as any other. The cause of my slow wit in this matter is the· absolute certainty I have that the onions are the center of the garden, and if I understand the onions I understand the garden. There is no reason for me to think this, but I still go on eating onions and if they all taste the same I only assume that my sense of taste is too weak to discern their differences. Happily, by some miracle (magic?), I now realize my folly arid am willing to change my attitude toward poetry. It is more rewarding to experience poetry as it is, instead of reducing it to one manageable aspect. There is an impulse toward knowledge that led me to the onions in the first place. The basis of that impulse was the desire to become a better person. Perhaps it is best if we forget Aristotle's "All men naturally desire to know," and replace it with "All men naturally desire to improve themselves." This may not be true, but at least it will help me experience poetry. Now I'm ready to discuss poetry as something that is magical. Shakespeare, Sonnet #64 When I have seen by Times' fell hand defaced The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased, And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main, Increasing store with loss and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. I -don't know much about what this means. This, of course, is good because I'm trying to get away from that sort of thinking. The most obvious and most interesting thing about this poem is that it is very difficult to read. Phrases like "Time's fell hand," "Rich proud 43 �gaining advantage on the kingdom of the shore. Once the word 'shore' is mentioned my attention shifts to it and I see an ocean clawing toward the shore. I don't know what this image is supposed to mean, but when I read it I'm at the shore where the poet wants me to be. It seems that magic in poetry exists because the poet does not strive to tell us anything. He hopes he can show us something. He doesn't want. to tell us that time is relentless; he shows it both in the rhythm and in the images he causes us to make. At the beginning of this essay I wrote how thinking about meanings hinders the experiencing of poe·try. Meaning is too concerned with words in themselves to be of any use in poetry. Poetry is not concerned with the words at all! What a poet wants to do most of all is to resurrect a "Gosh, look at that!" attitude. He does this by pointing, suggesting, but not by spelling out. When it succeeds (and if it is real poetry it will) it has performed its magic. cost," and many others are obstructions to the flow of the poetry. This is probably due to the lack of short vowels and the abundance of double . consonants in these phrases. They are made of words that take much time to pronounce. These phrases may seem to prevent any sense of music from becoming apparent, but this is only true if the music of a poem is something to be found solely in sing-song nursery rhymes. Instead of a flowing rhythm this poem has a relentless rhythm, slow but invincible. The images in this poem are not only mentioned, but shown. Images are closely connected to meaning, but there is an important enough difference between them so that I don't feel guilty talking about them. There are enough examples of unimaginative writings that have plenty of meaninq within them. These writings do not offer ·a.n -invitation to the reader to experience~· within the imagination, the truth of what is being said. In this poem we are given a hungry ocean. We are not told, "the ocean yearns for " This is unimportant. The hungry ocean is The Wreck of Elpenor P.H. Gagnier This land was framed without mountains or hills, But wide, bare, came broken open to the slow sky, And rolls in moist, humous rows like sea swells Stilled under wind and sliding clouds, to lie At length along this road ditch. Sweet with water And swishing reeds, it breathes its lucent green On the first steaming mud. Puddles scatter The sun among exhumed stones newly clean, Strewn in cryptic disarray. And here, stretched out on this pregnant bank, threading the stares Of crows, redolent unspooling, unstitched, Grey, I strew a perplexity of prayers. Thus defective I await my return, While all around the drinking earth breathes, "Churn." 44 Reconciliation in The Bacchae: Remembering What We Are Who Are Not Gods But Men Lisa Eckstrom of Dionysus, gentleness and horror intermingled, and we have seen the limits by which we differentiate the two disappear. Opposites by which we define certain t~rnis become ambiguous. Thus Identity (a thing is x and is not y), Sexuality (it is male or female), Mortality (there is life and there is death) , and perhaps of greatest consequence, Power (there is strength and there is helplessness) have become te.rms whose definitions are uncertain. For death the gods exact, curbing by that bit the mouths of men. They humble us with death that we remember what we a re who a re not gods but men. We run to death. As a prelude to the messenger's tale of the death of Pentheus, the chorus sings lines about mortality. Apprehension builds as we start to see the divine sever itself from the mortal. Perhaps we realize that we too are earth-born, and that we are not gods, but men. We shudder when we hear the chorus sing: "O Justice, destroy the evil earth-born· sprawn of Echion ! " because we remember that we are earth-born as well and share his curse. We marvel that the chorus has forgotten that they are earth-born; they sing as if they are not mortal, even while reminding us of death. To run to death as votaries of the god is still to disregard it, and thereby to disregard the ultimate limit of mortal beings. When the chorus no longer identifies itself as human with human limits, our sympathy is drawn to those who have human limits: Pentheus, Agave, and Cadmus. Whether one wants to label this quality in the chorus as insanity, or religious mysticism, one must agree, that they see themselves outside many of the limits by which we define human life: death, relationships with other human beings, and a certain revulsion toward murder. We, the audience, begin to feel our association with the earth-born, with those who are human still. We grieve. As the play has progressed, a fusion of opposites has taken place, and we as audience have experienced this fluidity in which one thing is simultaneously its opposite. We have seen in the character '1 :11. ·' 1 ' i1 This uncertainty climaxes in the death scene. The audience can no longer define a character's identity as "he is x and is not y." We see the identities of Pentheus and Dionysus fuse to the. extent that there is only one on the stage, who is neither Pentheus nor Dionysus, but some amalgamation of the two. The Bacchants see a 1 ion a top the tree , whom we, the audience, know to be Pentheus. The stranger has disappeared. What has happened? The chorus has identified a lion as one of the manifestations of Dionysus; thus the Bacchants see a form of Dionysus atop the tree. If the god Dionysus is in any way atop the tree, he is residing in the earth-born frame of Pentheus. The messenger speaks: I ,, 1 :I' i1! l I .11 11!1 1 ·' Ii 1 11: ,,I' I' And the tree rose towering to heaven with my master huddling at the top ... when the Stranger vanished, there came a great· voice out of heaven---Dionysus it must have been--Both the voice of Dionysus, and Pentheus, are in the aether. Perhaps it is Pentheus who calls to the women to destroy him. 45 ! I I , �11r i: ,,, I They do not recognize the voice as Dionysus' initially, and they do not recognize the being atop the tree as Pentheus. What they see and hear _is the confusing tormented fusion of the two. Pentheus has not been seized by the god suddenly, but instead, the two have been woven progressively tighter until there seems to be only one in the eyes of the Bacchants, and to some degree (in that we see only one being on the stage) in the eyes of the audience as ~ell. This weaving of mind upon mind, limb upon limb, is analogous to wrestling. In wrestling, two separate entities come together into some sort of unity. As limbs and bodies intertwine it is often difficult to see the two entities apart from one another. Perhaps they never become one, but in the confusion of their contortions, the vision of the on-lookers and perhaps of the participants themselves is often unable to distinguish which arm or which leg belongs to which wrestler. It is in line 400 that Pentheus first accuses the Stranger of wrestling well with words. Pentheus then grapples with the bull, and then he hears the messenger's words describing the activities on Cithaeron. There is a progression through which he is both active and passive, wrestler and listener; but for Pentheus, listening itself is a form of wrestling: the Stranger wrestles with words. As knowledge increases, Pentheus must deal with it---the knowledge is inescapable in its elusiveness. Yet, must he wrestle with it? Why could he not listen to the messenger's speech as a mere observer, not a wrestler? Why does he view his conversation with the Stranger as a wrestling match? If he wrestles because he wishes to be in control---is to observe, not to be in control? Or is to observe always to wrestle, to somehow come to grips with one's vision? ~entheus proclaims: "it is hopeless to wrestle with this man. Nothing on earth will make him hold his tongue." With each question and reply in the conversation between Pentheus and Dionysus, the two have become increasingly like wrestlers intertwined. As Pentheus discovers more about the Dionysiac rites on the mountain from the messenger and from the Stranger, he becomes more entangled. We are not sure if he wrestles with an outside force, or with a dread fascination emanating from himself. P~: D.: P.: D.: Tell me the benefits that those who know your mysteries enjoy·, I am forbidden to say but they are worth knowing. Your answers are designed to make me curious. No: our mysteries abhor an unbelieving man. If Pentheus is the unbelieving man, perhaps he wrestles with the believing man within himself. But what is this dread fascination, from where does this believing man come? Perhaps he is that part of the soul which whispers to us the unintelligible rhymes of the eternal world. Pentheus proclaims that it is hopeless because the two are intertwined in such a way that they can never be separated without violence and damage: and yet, with all their writhings and positionings, the two can never become one in such a way that they can rest at peace and not be two separate entities struggling against one another. There seems to be a peace, transient though it be, in the dressing scene. Pentheus and Dionysus begin to be indistinguishable from one another; they form a knot which is drawn ever tighter. The distinction between he-who-leads and he-who-is-led is lost in the confusion. Pentheus is being prepared as a victim for sacrifice, as he is to replace the customary bull (Dionysus). In being prepared, he is made to look as Dionysus looks. He puts on the long flowing robe, the fawn skin of a Bacchant, and a wig of long flowing curls (significantly after he has cut the curls off of the Stranger). He dances and holds a thyrsus. This change in Pentheus is brought about when he succumbs to the "fascination" which finds that to watch something bitter is sweet. 46 If opposites can be said to be one in the world around us, they can only be said .to be so in their eternal context: only divine beings can sustain opposites in unison. When two opposites fuse within an earth-born being (which may happen when we are full of d~vine frenzy, what many might call madness ) the earth-born cannot sustain them as an immortal can. In the confusion he is necessarily ripped apart. Man's earth-born-ness acts as a curse: it drags him down to earth where the opposites must separate. Earlier in the play, when the stranger was trapped by Pentheus, he was replaced with an animal that was one of the manifestations of Dionysus. Now Pentheus is trapped, and he too is replaced with an animal, but only while atop the tree, only while off the earth, and significantly, only in the Bacchants' eyes. The audience's vision separates from that of the Bacchants at this point. Atop the tree, this strange combination of Dionysus and Pentheus exists. Once the tree is cut out from under him, he touches the earth again and is separated from the divine. He makes the proclamation: I am Pentheus! He is again identified as earth-born: he is mortal and he is destroyed. Thus, if motion up to the top of the tree (and motion up the mountain) seemingly brings the individual up to what is divine, it concurrently thrusts one back upon the earth. Movement which would assimilate one to divinity can only result in crashing against the ~arth. (814) As he has conversed with Dionysus, and listened to the messenger, he has begun· to wrestle and merge. To see the bitter as not only bitter, but sweet as well, is to see opposites merge. When Pentheus says that it is bitter to see the Bacchants, but pursues it because what is bitter is also sweet, can he ,be far from seeking to understand the god Dionysus, who is most gentle and most horrible? Pentheus' fascination pulls him further and further. Not only is he willing to go secretly as an observer, but he is willing to go openly as a participant. In his willingness to be a participant, he is not only willing to see the bitter· as sweet, but somehow to be one with these opposites, to be as a Bacchant, that is to be gentle and horrible. The unbidden offer to go openly marks a change in the conversation. The conversation is not such that Pentheus is asking the questions and Dionysus is making ·vague replies as before, but instead, Dionysus is leading the conversation and Pentheus is making vague replies. They have switched roles, or perhaps are at that intersection where the two roles meet as one. When Dionysus clothes Pentheus, Pentheus begins to lose his masculinity. His identity is so ambiguous that his sexuality no longer plays a part in the definition of who he is. As the beardless young man puts on the dress of a woman, and a wig of curls, he is both male and female (as Dionysus is); he has become opposites instead of viewing them. It is an incredible thing to see that perhaps male and female are the same; it is more incredible to. become both. Going to the death scene, it is imperative that Pentheus have fused these two opposites within himself, for if he is to be sacrificed as an immortal he must partake of the eternal world in which opposites are one. As earth-born, he must .be either male or female: he cannot be both. Only to the degree that he is freed from his limits as a mortal can he assimilate opposites. 'I ' i I ,, ' In the play, only Dionysus can sustain the opposites of life and death, which make up the ultimate limits of earth-born life. In being sacrificed and eaten, the god lives. To be earth-born means that when one is sacrificed, one dies. Pentheus though earth-born is viewed as if he were the immortal Dionysus---ready to be hunted down and destroyed that Dio~ysus may live. But Pentheus is not immortal; he shares the curse 'of the audience: if he is destroyed, he does not live. Life and death may be two entwined parts of one whole, but that 47 ". �"whole" is not a possibility for the earth-born. Though we may view it, and begin to realize that life and death are one . in the eternal world, we are constantly dragged down to earth. Our curse as earth-born is to exist and act in a world in which what is destroyed, dies. However, the divine world intersects with ours. It is this fusion that is precisely confusion. If we are to understand what occurs around us, we must have some vision of this whole, as well as the opposites which compose it. If there were no "whole,'' if there were only opposites, we could make choices that Euripides seems to say we a re unable to make. If power and helplessness were only opposite, choosing to be powerful would not also involve choosing to make oneself vulnerable to one's enemies. The divine world intersects with ours, making the earth sometimes act as if it were the realm of immortals, as well as mortals. If the "whole" did not make any difference, choosing to live would not mean willingly risking death; there could be no power in deciding to be solely powerless. 'Agave prefers . leading the hunt to weaving on her loom because she perceives herself as powerful in the leading of the hunt. She is powerful: she and her followers fell a tree with their bare hands, they kill a lion. Yet her power stems from her submission to the will of Dionysus. Her will does not enter into decisions concerning her own actions. As Agave is powerful, she is helpless. We, the audience see the fearless hunt-leader Agave having no control over her own actions: we see her kill her son. Dionysus seems so attractive to women because he heightens their passivity until it becomes a power of frightening force: He lifts them out of helplessness by making them adore it. The women are disturbingly passive in their hesuchia. They have abandoned any desire to control their own actions. Yet this lack of self-direction yields lack of worry about self. It frees one from human fears and restraints; it grants one a peculiar freedom. This freedom is similar to the freedom of the insane, a freedom that one receives when one stops being a person. It is almost immortal. Power and powerlessness are interwoven in the women who are themselves weavers. By giving up any illusion of human power, they gain a divine strength, which in the end renders them powerless and pathetic. Power presides in Pentheus and Dionysus. -The power of Pentheus is earth-born (he is a king); the power of Dionysus is divine (he is an immortal, free from human constraint.) Yet, there is an aspect of Dionysus which seems the epitome of powerlessness: ·what sort of power is there in a god who allows himself to not only be priest {power) but sacrifice (powerlessness) as well? Is there a correspondin~ sacrificial aspect to monarchy as well? In assuming power over people, one may become subject to them. When Pentheus and Dionysus meet, each tries to assume power; they meet as distinctive representatives of the earth-born and the divine. Initially, when Pentheus has Dionysus imprisoned, The fusion of power and passivity is especially striking in the women, the thiasos. As women, before the arrival of Dionysus, they were helpless. At their looms, they had little say in how their lives were played out. Yet, upon gaining power in the contact of the thiasos, they become mighty warriors, who rip apart wild beasts with their delicate hands, who loot a city, and rout an army of men. Yet, their power emanates from total passivity: they obey the St ranger as unquestioning slaves. They no longer inject their wishes as human beings into their actions. They have no nous. The category of right actions, unless one is entirely submissive to a voice or god one designates as right action, involves use of nous. The Bacchants abandon their nous and their will. They do nothing to preserve their individual lives: their unarmed attack on an army of men who are equipped with swords and shields shows a bravery that is a disdain of death. Pentheus assumes the role of the ·priest and Dionysus assumes the role of victim: Pentheus has Dionysus bound and modifies Dionysus' appearance by clipping his curls to make him acceptable. He not only views the Stranger as sacrifice, but would sacrifice the women's blood as well. As Pentheus speaks, the replies of Dionysus are unclear: it is the priest's words that matter, not those of the victim. The stranger then escapes; it is no longer certain who is in the position of power and who is not. A sacrifice is no longer a sacrifice if it eludes the grasp of the priest: It has become free. When Pentheus wrestles with the bull, he no longer has control over what is Dionysus---he instead becomes entangled, becomes one with the immortal beast. In the scene that follows, we see Dionysus and Pentheus share the two principal roles which in the "whole" a re one: Priest and Sacrifice. Pentheus becomes the Sacrifice (Dionysus) which is to be sacrificed by the Priest (Dionysus). In both Pentheus and Dionysus, priest and sacrifice are one: as Dionysus prepares Pentheus for sacrifice by dressing him as a votary of the god, we see Sacrifice and Priest merge into a horrible vision in which that which destroys is the same as what is destroyed. have beheld opposites that are the same. We have been lifted higher and higher away from earth in order that we might have vision. We have entered the aether realm of myth. Yet, we are earth-born, our place is not above the earth, but on it. Before Pentheus cries "I am Pe~theus" we have begun our descent. As our vision begins to separate from the Bacchants we hear the words with which this paper began: They humble us with death that we remember what we are who are not gods but men. We remember what we are, as Pentheus does. Before he was told that he did not know who he was or what he did: now with much grief, he knows: he is mortal. Hesuchia ends and the knife of the sacrificial rite runs deep for both Pentheus and ourselves. We feel pain and it is bitter. We know our curse as ge-gones. If there is some sweetness in our grief it is riot because misery and joy are the same, but instead there is some joy in being able to grieve deeply. Our grief offers a path of reconciliation with ourselves as ephemeral earth-born beings: there can be no true grief if the cause of grief is simultaneously a cause of joy. There is a dignity in our grief which is peculiar to those who cannot live as if opposites were one, and yet a re required to· do so. We remember what we are who are not gods but men; we are humbled but not humiliated, for we have our grief, a gentle luxury. Keats' famous lines come to mind: If Euripides intends for the audience to view opposites as one, why do the opposites sever from each other at the climactic scene? Why is our vision as audience different from that of the Bacchants? They see Pentheus as a lion: we know that they are mistaken. Why do we hear Pentheus cry out that he is Pentheus when he touches the earth if the Bacchants do not? As audience we have participated in this sacrifice to Dionysus as a thiasos. We receive our directions from the priests on the stage. To watch is holy sport. We have become passive listeners: if our listening has brought forth a dance it is a dance of the emotions, being called forth by the wondrous actions on the stage. Ours has been a hesuchia in which to watch something bitter is sweet. We 11'1 1'1 lll'i II: "I My spirit is too weak; mortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick eagle looking at the sky. Yet 'tis a gently luxury to weep. I I I 48 49 ! II �Phainetai moi Notes translated.by Terri-Ann Hahn 1 Is the poet such a believing man? Do we wrestle with his words and with his myths? It seems that he must wrestle with those very myths which seem to emanate from himself? conception of the Artist and his Work? What is Euripides' motive in choosing the strange myth of Dionysus? Why not write about Zeus or Athena? Why present Dionysus in all his savagery? Why is the theatre the realm of Dionysus? How does the poet participate in it? As maker/god? as audience/man? 2 How is the divine madness of the poet different from that of a Bacchant? Does the vision of the poet offer a kind of freedom similar to the Bacchant? Does that freedom reside in the poet or in us, the receivers of his vision? What is this freedom and how does it come about? If myths are some faint image of the "primordial consciousness of man" what can it mean for a poet to use them as the basis of his work? In myth, he records this consciousness. But he often alters it, or selects some elements and discards others. What can this be construed as? What effect does it have on his own soul to examine what must be construed as something like "primordial consciousness"? Why does Virgil write that Daedalus though he keeps trying cannot record the image of his own son? Why must Daedalus keep trying? What does ~is son represent? What is Virgil telling us about his own ~aLV£TaL µOL xnvo~ Cao~ ~~OLGLV ~ wvnp, OTTL~ EVaVTL 6 ~ TOL LGaaV£L xal XAaGLOV ~av ~WV£L0a~ unaxoDEL £µµ£V ,, t " ,, ' 3 from The Golden Bough, p. 392 "The legends of the deaths . of Pentheus and Lycurguas, two kings who are said to have been torn to pieces, the one by Bacchanals, the other by horses, for their opposition to the rites of Dionysus, may as I have already suggested, be distorted reminiscences of a custom of sacrificing divine kings in the character of Dionysus and of dispersing fragments of their bodies over the fields for the purpose of fertilizing them. It is probably no mere coincidence that Dionysus is said to have been torn in pieces at Thebes, the very place where according to legend, the same fate befell king Pentheus at the hands of the frenzied votaries of the vine-god." aAA& x&µ µtv yAw004 ( µ') Eay£, A~XTOV a' a~TLXa XP~ nDp unaaEapoµnx£v, 6~naTE00L a' ova' EV opnµµ'' EXLppoµ8EL0L a' clXOVaL, by Sappho He must be divine, sitting there opposite you, your face turned toward his face, as he listens, to your speech, sounding so sweet, so near, and to your lovely laughter. These are the very things which have excited the heart in my breast to passion. For when I take even the briefest glance, this voice of mine yields nothing further, my tongue has broken down. With only a look delicate fire burns, running 'round beneath my flesh, so that my eyes no longer see, my ears resound with noises. Yea, sweat pours down over me and a trembling catches me all over (greener than grass am I!) so that I appear little short of death, Agallis-my joy! But, all this must be borne, since I sit alone. 50 51 �On Chapters 11-17 of Part II of Don Quixote Paula Rustan ' I This time even Sancho -- Sancho who dared to endure the fulling-mills; who inspired by Don Quixote's cry that as a Knight he is equal to a hundred, attacked the Yanguesans; Sancho who charged furiously at Cardenio the mad man in order to defend his master from harm -- this time, the most loyal squire in all the world, flees, leaving Don Quixote to face his most perilous adventure, alone. It is so much easier to understand why the gentleman in green and the carter were forced to run; after all they did not and could not be expected to believe in Don Quixote as Sancho did -- Sancho, who not even twenty-four hours before had declared to the Squire of the Wood that he loved his master "as dearly as his own heartstrings" (as dearly as yourself, Sancho) and for thi's reason alone could not think to leave him. It is true that Sancho cried like a baby as he rode away, believing that this time his Knight would surely perish, but just the same, as his Master prepared to fight lions, Sancho urged his Dapple on -- faster and faster. From the moment Don Quixote sees the cart coming down the road, he begins to prepare himself for an adventure. The gentleman in green tries to calm Don Quixote down by telling him it is only just a cart, and judging from the little flags which decorate it, this particular cart must be carrying the property of the King. Don Quixote in turn patiently explains that he knows by experience that he has "enemies visible and invisible" and he goes on to say, "I do not know when or where, nor at what time or in what shape they will attack me." Although we may (along with the gentleman in green) see Don Quixote recklessly challenging a couple of indifferent lions, we know that he himself believes that he is about to challenge_ the power· of those relentless enchanters, who not only have just deprived Don Quixote of the full glory which was due him in ·his victory over the Knight of the Mirrors; but also, and far worse, have deprived him forever or so it seems from looking upon Dulcinea. Thus, it seems to us natural at this point in the history that Don Quixote is at last driven to prove to these enchanters, whoever they may be, that his spirit has not been broken by their ceaseless and cruel tricks. Don Quixote is powerless to lift the spell of the enchantment from Dulcinea; he is helpless to turn Sanson Carrasco back into the Knight of th~ Mirrors; but he can and does challenge the lions (who are sent by the same enchanters) in defiance and to show that his "courage" and his "resolution" still prevail. At least, this is what we first assume especially in light of these cemarKs which Don Quixote makes to Sancho upun the completion of the adventure: What do you think of that, Sancho? Do any enchantments prevail against true valour? The enchanters may indeed be able to rob me of good fortune; but of resolution and courage, that is impossible! But isn't there much more at stake here than just a battle between Don Quixote and his enemy, enchantment? This is unquestionably the most dangerous of all his adventures and it is the first and only adventure since the fulling-mills wherein Don Quixote recognizes that he may be utterly destroyed in the attempt. "If I die he re ... " he says to SancHo, "You will repair to Dulcinea -- I say no more." 52 always longed to become and might have become if only circumstance had been kinder to him. They are both 50 years old, both natives of La Mancha, and they both love hunting. They ride their horses dressed up in their respective finery -the crucial difference between them being that Don Quixote rides as a knight errant and Don Diego de Miranda has never allowed a book of chivalry to so much as "cross the threshold of his door." As Don Quixote faces this gentleman in green, he is forced_to face up to what he himself is and what he is not. He realizes that life for Don Quixote will never be, cannot be what it is for the gentleman in green. Don Quixote de la Mancha, Knight Errant, will never be content with "quiet pointers and good ferrets." The gentleman in green tries to persuade Don Quixote to leave the lions be, reasoning that the lions mean him no harm. Don Quixote answers him in this way: "leave every man to do his duty. This is mine, and I know whether they are coming against me or not, these noble lions." And, clearly, for Don Quixote the lions do come against him. He must challenge them, because he must prove to himself and to the world that he is not afraid to die to die as a Knight Errant, that is. Don Quixote, up until this moment, has held on to the hope that his madness would some day lead him into the arms of Dulcinea where his life would truly begin. But, he is changed largely as a result of his meeting with the man he might have been, the gentleman in green. No longer will Don Quixote gaze sadly at corpses, thinking that death.will soon come to him and that it will be infinitely more tragic because he has never really lived. To fight lions is to proclaim to all that Don Quixote de la Mancha is living life, is fulfilled, not in the same way as Don Diego de Ia Miranda, but finally as a knight errant. Don Quixote has undergone a vital transformation. We have lost forever "The Knight of the Sad Countenance" and we have The adventure is perhaps most remarkable because Don Quixote is transformed by it and he knows it. He " has been so altered that he declares for himself a new ame a ·more fitting name -- not because n I ' h it is a gesture appropriate to a knig t errant in general, but because he is in some way renewed. "The Knight of the Lions" ·is not the knight we saw so long ago by torchlight gazing sorrowfully upon a corpse -- a figure so striking then that Sancho was moved to call him "The Knight of the Sad Countenance." This old title, according to Don Quixote, "shall hence-· forward be so transformed, altered, varied and changed, " and so it seems shall the Knight himself. Three other adventures occur in these chapters: the encounter with the Wagon of Death; the battle between Don Quixote and the Knight of the Mirrors; and, lastly, the meeting with the gentleman in green, whom Don Quixote calls "The Knight of the Green coat." Each one of these encounters helps lead Don Quixote to the Adventure of the Lions. I'll try to say in what way, starting with the last, first: we are told that the gentleman in green is a "sensible gentleman of La Mancha," that he is fifty years old, that he is wealthy, and that he enjoys hunting and fishing. We also hear that he is fortunate enough to have reached the age of fifty and still be surrounded by his wife, children and devoted friends. He gives liberally to the poor and is apparently devoted to his religion. In short, he gives such an account of himself and of his many virtues, that Sancho jumps down from Dapple and kneels at ,this gentleman's feet, convinced that he must truly be a Saint. In the first moments of their meeting, Don Quixote stares at the gentleman in green and the gentleman in green stares at Don Quixote. The gentleman is amazed at the appearance of _the knight and concludes several times that he must be mad. Don Quixote, after gazing upon this stranger and after listening to his story, recognizes that the gentleman in green epitomizes the man whom Don Quixote has .53 !11' !! �I ,j ,i gained "The Knight of the Lions." I hope that we will attempt to understand better why this has happened to our Knight and what it means. It is my belief that the Enchantment of Dulcinea, the encounter with the Wagon of Death, and the Adventure of The Knight of the Mirrors all have something to do with this change in Don Quixote, for each of these adventures compels Don Quixote to turn his sight inward. For example, after their encounter with the Wagon of Death, Don Quixote informs Sancho how he thinks actors and authors benefit mankind. He maintains that they are at best mirrors which reflect back to us our actions, our thoughts, ourselves "Indeed" says Don Quixote "there is no comparison which presents to us more truly what we are and what we ought to be than plays and players." It is shortly after this, indeed, it is in the very next adventure that Don Quixote and Sancho encounter two actors, namely, Sanson Carrasco and Sancho's neighbor, Tome Cecial -- two players cast in the roles, respectively, of a forlorn-in-love knight errant and his squire. Sancho and Don Quixote , as they gaze upon and converse with the The Knight of the Mirrors and his squire, get a good look at themselves and perhaps it is for the first time. Don Quixote not only finds himself in battle with a faceless knight who refuses to reveal himself; but, worse yet, the tunic of this faceless knight is covered with a thousand tiny mirrors. It must be supposed and imagined that as Don Quixote gazes upon his adversary, he sees his own image reflected back to him a thousand times or more. This paper began by accusing poor Sancho of unfaithfulness. But what of us, the faithful readers of this history? Would we remain beside Don Quixote as the cage door is opened? If Sancho could not, Sancho who in a sense personifies all the tenderness and faith which grows in us as we read and reread the adventures of this knight, then we, lesser friends than he to Don Quixote, certainly we could not. We say we believe (some of us do at least!) just as Sancho professes to believe -- but would our faith stand up to lions? I doubt it. Don Quixote cries out to the carter who is desperate to get his mules away before the lions are released, "Oh man of little faith." I am afraid that Don Quixote would be forced to say . the same to us. But, in turn, I would like to ask him, what must we have faith in so that we too may fight lions? 54 Ta-pocketa, Pocketa, Pocketa ... Moliere, Thurber and the Comic Idea Fritz Monsma · love is not really compatible with a message. I see that in Tartuffe there are characters on all sides of the villain, that they have all relationships to him. None of them can stand against his villainy. What message can there be here, unless it is that chaos rules? I feel the play mock me when I scrutinize it and try to find its answer to the problems it puts forth. George Meredith wrote "An Essay on Comedy", and in it put forward Moli~re as the finest comic poet. His theory was that comedy is a kind of medicine for society, a psychiatrist's couch on which an entire culture can lie at once. His essay is not correct, but .it is a good first step to understanding Moli~re. I want to borrow his idea, distend it a bit, and give my account. " .•. To hell with the handkerchief," said Walter Mi tty scornfully. He took one last drag on his cigarette and snapped it away. Then with that faint, fleeting smile playing about his lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful, Wa~ ter Mi tty the undefeated, inscrutable to the last. James Thurber, "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" Moli~re's comedies are enigmas to me. They are well turned and temperate. Their strongest effect is perhaps to make me wish for more urbanity. I have seen a hundred plays and movies which made me · laugh more than Tartuffe did. But I do not want to say that Moli~re's plays were no~ written for comedy. They are not a belly-laugh, but rather a slow grin. I can not say either that they have a great dramatic power. Yet at their best they are engaging theater. Set against funnier and more gripping plays these works fail. But on their own terms they succeed. I should ask whether these plays have a meaning. I will tell you that I cannot find one. They seem, first, to be timely plays. They were written for Louis' court, and I have a sense that pa rt of them stayed there. Perhaps these courtly plays do not speak to humanity. Tartuffe does not question whether . the life of Tartuffe is a fine or base one. This problem should interest us, but this play is rather a warning against false Christians. That warning is not so pertinent now as it has been. My intuition, secondly, tells me that Moliere has a comic poet's love for chaos. Such a Ii ;,I I i ii!' I: 'I iii !I' ]!' :!! I 1111 1111 There is a flatness to the characters in Tartuffe and The Misanthrope. They are, in particular, given to speaking in universals. Dorine says, "They whose own conduct is most ridiculous are always the first to slander others." A real human being, with ordinary feelings of ambiguity, might say the same thing, but not with so many superlatives. The people in Moliere' s plays make a strange, positive race. Sweeping statements are in their mouths constantly, like an accent. This brings them down a bit in our eyes. They are less than we are, not having thought so carefully about things as to have our reservations. It pushes them up, too, this confidence, but as plastic figures. Having abstracted the.l,.r speech from the ordinary human mix-up, the speakers become abstracted too. The 55 !111 1.11, ,,, !ii II I, �~- ' I .,, I I ' I I I i Ii 1: f /: I I I ·• universals iIJ their talk begin to make them suggest opinions dressed in costume' and strutting across stage. At times they are like animated placards with the titles of the plays written on them: the miser, the impostor, the misanthrope. We are not very often in the dark about the kind of person we are seeing on stage, what sort of title to give him or, usually, what is wrong with him. We t·cust our assessment, and Moliere never betrays that trust. We are not forced to fill in the man behind the mask. The interaction· of these characters is balanced and inconclusive. They circle .one another like porcelain ballerinas on . top of a music box. It has been said that if the curtain were to rise again after the fifth act of The Misanthrope, the play could quite naturally continue for five more, and end in the same place. Philinte' s last line, ·and the play' s last is; "Come madam, let us leave nothing untried to deter him from the design on which his heart is set." He was making the same attempt when he spoke his first line. Alceste has fumed through five acts, and his one action is that he has broken with Celimene. He may stay away from her, al though he has not been constant in his resolve. If he does stay away, I suspect he will find another to replace her. He will not go off to the wilderness. As ce"lim~ne points out, he always wants to be contrary, to stand out and above by moral wrath. He will stay to argue with Philinte about leaving. Philinte and Alceste bracket the central issue of the play. They are the two extremes of stoicism in the face of hypocrisy and vice. The Misanthrope and Tartuffe are full of this pattern. Elmire is an upper class woman. She is sane and resourceful concerning Tartuffe, but she brings herself down with blackmail, and she is, in the end, ineffectual. Dorine is a servant. She too is resourceful, and deceit and conniving seem to sit easily with her. But het: low estate keeps her out of the family. She, of all the characters except Tartuffe, is most like a 56 r.- mover, and yet she can not draw the respect among the members of Organ's household that she needs to bring about the coup. She alone is detached enough, during the darkest hour near the end of act five, to be sardonic. Her sarcasm is a sign which shows us that, even if she had been successful, she would not have made a satisfying end to the play. Moli~re's bourgeois audience ought to have seen that such people could not be counted on to solve their problems. Damis is a righteous, guileless youngster. Organ is an old man, once sensible, and with an old man's honest concern with religion. Tartuffe plays these two against each other skillfully. Middle-aged Cl~ante is a mean between them, self-possesed and sane. He has no actions, only staid words. These characters change only superficially in their play. They are unable to resolve the problems in themselves or between themselves. In The Misanthrope the actors turn around on another in circles that are always the same size. In Tartuffe the circles get smaller as Tartuffe leads the players down into the gutter. Having said this much about Moliere's style and the for:m of his plays, let me give a short summary of George Meredith's "An Essay on Comedy". Much of the essay is about particular societies and their comedians. A culture must have two things to support true comedy. First, it must have a regard for common sense, and second, a . near equality between its men and women. Such a society will foster the comic, and he will repay them by giving them more of the heal th of common sense, and by pushing further the equality of their sexes. When the comic has these two things, the more sophistication among his people, the better. It is this that provides fodder for his wit. The folly that comes with high culture is his meat. His spirit loves to expose all presumption: aged coquettes, poor relations full on the dignity of a noble name. He is not simply interested in jokes. He must avoid the bacchanal of hearty laughter as much as the stern face a moment that oqr airs can survive in the face of the harsh world, and, turninq about, shows us the reality of this harshness. In its lowest form, comedy is cute; it is tiny puppies with huge eyes. It· is an oxymoron where we simply posit that the lesser is the stronger. The cute thing is something that does i:iot threaten us, to which we attribute a certain superiority, that is, a superiority to what does threaten us. Norman Rockwell once painted a pinafored black schoolchild, off to her first day of unsegregated kindergarten, surrounded by a guard of the state militia. Our hearts are drawn to the little girl; we see goodness of heart juxtaposed to strength of arms. We cling to goodness of heart; the world would be easier on us (so we imagine, since we all feel some confidence in our heart's feelings) if this were truly the stronger. This is a simple positing of what is contrary to fact, a static act of will. Hence what is cute does not cause the. mental flipflop which would make us laugh. True comedy gives us a reason to embrace the small. Whatever the housing it comes in, comic wit always contains a seed of grace or cleverness that truly touches our soul. We laugh happily at the cleverness of a man outwitting his bullies. We laugh sadly at a man when his quirks, full of familiarity, stand up while surrounded by the grand, the powerful, and the sensible. Chaplin's film Modern Times has many examples. Chaplin is harried by the assembly line he works on; he must turn bolts before they go past him on the belt. We laugh for cleverness when he, being chased around the line by a hulking co-worker, angry at some misdemeanor that Chaplin has committed, points to an unturned bolt on the conveyor, so that the man must scurry back to twist it before it passes altogether. Chaplin has beaten the man on his own ground, and turned the man's machine against him. For a moment we see justice. In the next moment though, things have turned, and Chapl.in is chastised for his running amok. We laugh of puritanism. He wants to deflate pomposity, and through his characters to puncture his audience. But he never wants to take his victims down below common, dignified humanity. It is. not poverty that is ridiculous, but poverty trying to be what it is not. It is satire that makes its targets contemptible, and this office will be left to the satirist. The comic is more like a man who opens his oven door too soon on a ·scuffle, only to discover later the nobility of soggy eggs. If true comedy can find its deeper mark, it will purge our lunacy and bolster in us a hearty, fraternal love for our fellow. · I do not think that this explication of comedy is right. But the idea that comedy is medicinal may help us understand . Moli~re. . . Comedy has never had much respect for common sense. Meredith cites Don QUixote as an example of the comic. I, too, agree that it is a fine instance. Meredith's formula would say that we laugh at Don QUixote because of his idiocy, but we respect his humanity. I do not want to discuss the novel here, but I would say that we delight in his aspirations rather than his vulgarity, and have scorn for the Duke and the Duchess for their cruel, wrongheaded love of common sense. Meredith has comedy take down its victim and then embrace him in. his naked embarrassment, like a man who laughs a ruddy, joshing laugh with his son because, even though the son is ridiculous, the man's love for him does not diminish. Meredith asks a lot from the comic audience. I think we revel in folly, and take delight in the proper sort of lunatic because we wish his idiocy would triumph in life. There is a theory that says that humor comes from the shock to the mind when it is presented with what seems like a weighty idea, but which we almost immediately see is an empty.notion. This explanation, which is as true as any I have heard, tells us why comedy is so closely connected to joking. Comedy fosters the airs we put on, and our self-indulgences. It lets us believe for - J7 - · - - -. ,-- I . Ill !I 11 �'""' I .i (heartily) when his employer brings in his feeding machine (designed to eliminate the inefficient lunch break) . The mac.hine pours soup down Chaplin's front, feeds him bolts, spins an ear of corn in his mouth at tremendous speed, and, after each of these, wipes his mouth rather bluntly with a sponge. Chaplin's face lets us see for a moment that familiar inefficiency is better than efficiency. We might hope that there would be such strong evidence whenever the productive spirit tries to rub out one of our homey pleasures. We laugh again, mournfully, when we see Chaplin in the bathroom at the plant, sneaking a cigarette, and next we see a huge video screen, lighting up with the face of ~is employer, which orders hiif! back. to work.. Such a plea!?ure, obviously enjoyed, would have been triumph for us if it had been allowed. Finally, we laugh when, running out of the plant away from his angry superiors, he stops at the time-clock to punch out, and, running back in having found the police outside, he stops to punch in. He maintains his flustered life even while he is so painfully under the thumb of his methodical employers. In each case we see for a moment an o·cder that we think is superior in action, and, almost immediately, the power of what makes that order no more than a wish. Meredith mentions exposing ancient coquettes as stuff for comedy. But we all would like to see age defied, and an innocent love of frippery last. This desire, followed soon by the truth, makes better comedy than the truth alone. In the movie version of Gone With the Wind the dashing Rhett Butler hears a noise when Mamie, his old, overweight black maid walks by. "Mamie", he says, "what's that rustling sound?" Mamie lifts up her black cotton skirts to show that she is wearing what was a present from him; a red taffeta petticoat. We can not supress a smile. We do not laugh at this woman's folly. We laugh at her wonderful impudence in the face of fat and old age. James Thurber is perhaps the great master of this, the funniest of the forms of -comedy. There is a story about himself, breaking his glasses and not going to get them fixed for three days because he .is so pleased to be able to see hazy and strange objects while walking down ordinary streets. There are several stories about words that get twisted in the mouths of foreigners or colored maids. Thurber is usually sad at the end of the. story, to have found out that what sounded weird and macabre is actually quite mundane, and sadder still if the wayward tongue has gone and can not slip again. Above all there is The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. I can find no simpler example of what I mean by comedy. Mitty's valor in the face of all reality is truly touc;;hing, and his wild thoughts and attention to the least detail of the · cliche's of heroism are endlessly funny. There is a third, more sophisticated kind of comedy, and this is where Moliere lives. The mental turn-about is made with bulkier things than it was in the last form, and the transition can not be made so deftly. The essential discrepancy here is between our life inside the theater and our life outside it. Outside the theater we have a somber piety towards religion. Inside we see how religious men can betray us. Outside the theater we sometimes feel a righteous spleen at hypocrisy. Inside, we see spleen with its pants down, we see how self-serving it can be. This form of comedy does not aim at truth: the poet is not a muckraker. It wants to shake our sensibilities, to see if it can knock off the crust of respectability that grows over the merely old, or the mask of misanthropy or humble piety that is sometimes worn over vanity or greed. When this sort of comedy is impish, it is like the following scene from the Marx Brothers' movie, A Night at the Opera: Harpo, the mute, honking brother, is approached by a bum, who asks for help tow a rd a cup of coffee. Ha rpo reaches down into his clown pants and pulls out a steaming cup of coffee and a saucer, and, handing it to the bum, walks away. I think that this is comic not because Har~o has a full cup in his pants pocket a 58 ·typewriter was delivered to her by mistake (sample dialogue; "Oh no George, my virginity is a priceless thing to me.") The family manufactures candy and fireworks, and prints up leaf lets which, by happenstance, are filled mostly with quotations from Trotsky (God is the state. The state is God.) Of course, much of the play's humor comes from a juxtaposition of the two families. At times the philosophy of the play seems to be the title's; that you can't take it with you. But characters in the comedy say things like; "Five years ago I just wanted to have fun. I used to think that was enough, but now I just don't know". The work never decided the question. What it does do is present· the audience with the possibility of living to h~ve_fun. (Trouble is taken to show that it would be poss lb le for this family to live outside of the theater.) The absurdity of this play comes from its showing the achievers on the bottom, stripped of the respectability that America had given them. The sting of it comes from the possible superiority, and even stranger the possible existence, of this situation. Tartuffe is similar. Its ending, where the king takes the role of God, must be taken as ironic. The play's true ending is that Orgon is sent to prison and his family to the gutter. Moli~re shows us a man who uses piety to disinherit an upperclass family. It shows us how piety can be everything that its reputation is not. It is true, or at least very likely, that Tartuffe shows us not what Moli~re thought was possible, but what he thought was a common occurance. Tartuffe is a black comedy, and its wit suffers for this. The Misanthrope is a working model of court society. The characters may seem hollow, and a few struts may show, but it helps us understand ho~ this rather spurious confederacy works. Hypocricy is essential to Alceste. It is what he craves most, and he is willing to squander a duke's ransom losing a lawsuit so that he can rail_ ag.ainst it. He admits to (although this is perhaps what makes us laugh). Everybody knows that that bum doesn't want coffee. He knows, though, that if he asks us to help him to a pint of Thunderbird, he won't get his dime. We understand him, and he us. But we will nonetheless play the game. The comedy in this scene bullies a thoughtless convention. Meredith mentions many times that the equality of women is important to the comic spirit, but he never says why. The reason is, I think, that women desenfe equality in many ways, but do not get it because of the empty traditions of society. This is perhaps why Moliere makes the most sensible characters of both Tartuffe and The Misanthrope female. This idea does· not seem comic today. This is because women have all but achieved lequality. Meredith did not see that it is essential_ that women be nearly but not quite equal, so that comedy could be made out of the discrepancy between good sense and habit. Twenty years ago a successful comedy might have been made merely by having black actors play white roles, and white black. The laughs might have come from the seeming absurdity of the situation, but the sting would have come from its plausibility. Now that the lie that blacks are an inferior race has been exposed this comedy would have no punch. Nor would it have had an effect when blacks were fully slaves. Only if the question of black equality were loose and stirring up trouble in society could the idea be the basis for a comedy. George Kaufman and Moss Hart's comedy You Can't Take It With You is about the engagement bf the son of the president of a respectable New York City business to a secretary at that firm. The young women is the sanest member of a somewhat lunatic family. The patriarch of the family spends most of his time playing darts and going to university commencements. The mother has, at the start of the play, been writing her own plays for eight years, since it has been that long since a 59 �,J Orgon that he has no gre.at taie.nt for poetry. Yet he can not bear tci .be anything less than absolute judge of anything, and when he is absolute judge, he condemns. Orgon' s sonnet is not so very bad, nor Alceste's rustic ditty very good. But, having been asked his opinion, he can not restrain himself. Philante says he expects no good qualities from men. If this were true he could have no friends, or perhaps no more among men than among wolves. But he is peculiarly affected by his contrapositive, Alceste. He is bent on disuading him from his retreat into the desert. He would not feel this compulsion unless he thought Alceste a man of worth. He is attached to Alceste's forthrightness. This virtue engages him; it is a standard py which he hopes he can square himself and (or perhaps, even in his own mind, in spite of) his leaky views. These two friends need one another reciprocally and serve one another admirably. Celim~ne is a delight to the audience. Her gossip scene with the two marquis is perhaps the high point of the play. Comedy was made to endorse such frippery. The audience can indulge itself there. . It is no wonder that Celim~ne is the hub of the circle ·of the people of this play, that she p.ot only pulls in Alceste, but most of the other men and their hangers-on. She is what high society offers; beauty, spritly talk and clever slander. She indulges herself knowing that she, too, is a target for gossip; her libel comes from a true sportsman's spirit. We bear ludicrous society for her refinements. The Misanthrope is a white comedy. It showed Louis's court how shaky compliment and insult are as pillars of society. It took their code of conduct and broadcast that it was farcical.· The joke is that the loudest opponent of hypocrisy lives a life of utter falsehood. And Celimene, the great magnet of the court, does her entertaining mostly by putting others down. By this account, one could almost think that Louis's court could throw away its pompous idea that an insult is a grave thing. I should think that a member of high society would come away from the theater, having seen The Misanthrope, ready for a little airy and innocent gossip. He would, however, have to fear a law suit. Like the bum and his cup of coffee, society will never say what it really wants, nor tell the truth about what hold~ it together. The sad ending to the play has to do with Celimene. She deserves something for being the spectacle that draws the crowd. What she deserves is what she has at the opening of the play; a troop of adoring men. The men who want to live the life of the court ought to be willing to share the main attraction. But no man in this play is willing to have a part of Celimene' s ,affections. They stay only as long as t.hey have some. hope of getting them all. In the end, they all try to damn her to a solitary life. At any party, the band gets to drink free. They are, after all, providing the entertainment. The same principle should hold for Celim~ne. 60 ... ·- · - .·---··-·---~------------------- �A Note on the Cover In "Kepler and the Mode of ·vision," in theJuly, 1980, issue of The St. John's Review, Curtis Wilson wrote: Melancholy is pictured in curer's famous engraving of 1513 or 1514, the Melencolia .!· Here we see a winged, presumably celestial being, staring fixedly, evidently in despair. The scene is lit with an eerie light from the moon, a comet, and a lunar rainbow. Strewn about in bewildering disorder are the tools of geometrical and architectural construction. She, the celestial being, is afflicted, we surmise, with a sense of spiritual confinement, of insurmountable barriers separating her from a higher realm of thought. Durer's conception of that highest realm is presented in another engraving which he made at the same time as the Melencolia, and distributed with it as its appropriate counterpart: St. Jerome in his Cell. Here Jerome, comfortably :: ' ~---------·-~-~- --. -- - ·- - seated in his warm, sunlit cell, which he shares with his contented animals, is absorbed in his theological work. Even the skull looks friendly. Jerome's incorporation into the strictly mathematical projection of our perspectival system, though it reveals his contentment, in no way reveals the secret of it, which may remain for some of us inaccessible ••• For all we know, the perspecti vi ty revealed by the fact that we opine, and that opinion is not knowledge, may be the correct perspective. In any case, our perspectival viewing reveals a world into which we, along with others, are launched as essentially equal citizens. We recognize others, equally with ourselves, as potential measures of the truth. The claims of others call us out of our particularity into discourse, into the search for Right Opinion. This is a category unknown to skeptics, a human category revealing both our poverty and our power. �i I St. John's College Annapolis, "'.\1ary1and 21404 ~ ! I I Pnnted at· the St. John·a College Print Shop in Annapolu � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. 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(Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) Staff: Talke Breuer Carloss Chamberlain Barbara Gesiakowski Jana Giles Chris Howell Michael McShane Sarah Waters Co-Editors: Laurie Cooper Joseph Macfarland Faculty Advisor: Jonathan Tuck Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published three times a year and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis. The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community-essays, .poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Note: A brief description of the author accompanies all work not by current St. John's students. Please include some such statement along with your submission. Thank you. �Philosophical Striving Derek O'Brien I CONTENTS PHILOSOPHICAL STRIVING Derek O'Brien 1 PHOTOGRAPHS Greg Ferguson 12 THE ROLE OF PROPOSITION 1.11 IN APOLLONIUS' ON CONIC SECTIONS Brian Sullivan 14 LOVE Mary 17 WENG AT WORK: #3 Leslie Sheppard 18 PHEDRE'S SELF DISCOVERY Andrew Sloniewsky 19 SONNET #9: A CONVERSATION WITH MOTHER, AND AN UNTITLED POEM Dahra Latham 22 THE GAME OF CHESS IN NATHAN THE WISE Mark Ressler 24 APRIL RESIDUE David Walter 26 NEWTON, AND AN UNTITLED DRAWING John Bertram 27 PRIZE WINNING SENIOR ESSAY (1986) A VISION OF THE HAGIA SOPHIA Clayton DeKorne 29 I would rather no one put this essay down thinking it not addressed to himself, or herself, but to "philosophers." What I will attempt to show here is that philosophy, in its true sense is the natural state of the human being; even more, the turning away from philosophy is actually an escape man makes from his very existence. But I first must point out that what I consider to be the genuine philosophic state is not the same as is commonly believed. Indeed, I find the common notion of philosophy carries with it a tragic misconception as to the very direction it should take. Yet this misconception is nothing shameful. It inevitably arises in our outset and only "works its way out" through continued philosophical activity. To show this we will have to follow out this activity from its very beginning to the pdint where the true nature of philosophy arises, by itself, into our view. Thus I begin not from this or that "philosophical viewpoint," but with the way in which I find philosophy begins within myself -- that is, with the desire to know. By this I mean nothing vague, but an actual feeling I experience, one which simply comes over me. It is such a feeling which causes me to ask questions like "Why am I here?" or "What should I do with my life?" Further, it pushes me to look for answers to these questions. Thus, it is a feeling which "bothers" me and which drives me toward activity. But the philosophic desire to know is not t o know relatively in this or that way, but in a universal way--that I have a sense that such a point of view actually exists. Thus, inherent in the philosophical desire to know, in philosophy itself, is the idea of its object: truth. From this we consider philosophy simply as the striving for truth, and insofar as one does this he or she is a philosopher. But how is this striving to take place? How is this goal to be accomplished, a goa l which I seem to know of , so far, only by my desire for it? From the outset I face the question, "What is truth, and what is my relation to it?" The only thing I can do in this posit ion is move blindly. I can only guess "take a stab" at what truth is. We .see this happen historically in the birth of sep~ arate "philosophies." Each one makes its own guess at the universal with the general statement "Everything is "; e.g., "Everything is matter," or "Everything is motion." Were such first attempts seen for their limitations to explain all things, then philosophic striving might find a direction through them toward the universal. But the more common tendency is to cling to these guesses as if they were the truth. In doing so, one must force everything into his system, and what does not fit, that is, what one finds to contradict his opinions, must be disregarded as being "unphilosophic." To explain this tendency of "clinging" we must first distinguish between the desire to know on the one hand and the desire to have knowledge on the other. By the first is meant the spontaneous feeling I have which drives me, in a way blindly, 1 �toward knowledge. It is this feeling which produces philosophical striving. The second desire, though it sounds ~lmost identical, is completely different, perhaps ev~n opposite to the first. It is not a desire which simply comes over me but one which grows out of self-reflection. I wish to see myself as having knowledge, or as ~eing knowledgeable, i:ot to be "lacking" in knowledge. This _ desire does not produce in me a. spirit of striving. Instead, it wants this striving to be done with. It is the desire for a state of rest. This kind of self-judging holds within it an unwarranted shame of, and contempt for, not-knowing. From a quasi-perfectionistic viewpoint I "look down" upon the lack of knowledge as ugly. And perhaps, in the sense that this lacking is simply hard to look at, there is some validity to this view. But, as we shall soon see, it is just this not-knowing which must be outrightly acknowledged and faced in a uncompromising way, if philosophical striving is to continue its course. But what I have ref erred to here as the "tendency to cling" deserves much more elucidation. Indeed, the harm which this "tendency" causes to philosophy at every level cannot be understated. The negative reflection I take upon my state of not-knowing (a state in which I clearly must begin), the desire to see myself as ·a "knowledgeable person," the impatience this produces in me toward achieving my goal, and the attempt to comfort this impatience by resting upon a pseudo-truth, all of this is not merely a wrong turn I make in philosophical striving, but an active and force~ul turn directly against it. These tendencies are not unphilosophical· striving, but an active and forceful turn directly against it. These tendencies are not unphilosophic, but anti-philosophic. What we have discovered here is the supreme enemy of philosophy, an enemy hidden within philosophy itself. It constantly frus trates genuine striving for knowledge. Here it cuts off this striving by stating "Those questions are 'unphilosophic. '" There it blocks the striving by stating "you ~re not philosophizing in the 'right way.'" It does this to keep up a fantasy that it has already somehow accomplished the philosophic task; that it has already found the truth. This hypocrisy, when seen from the point of view of common sense, often results in a complete abandonment of philosophy. The desire to know comes to be seen as a "silly dream," and the task of striving for truth as a waste of time. Philosophy becomes something done in "Ivory towers," completely separated from the "real world." But, insofar as those who take this view find the desire to know within themselves, this becomes a contempt for their very own thinking. These problems and their cause are not unique to philosophy, but are found rooted in the nature of striving itself. All striving is accompanied by a fear of failure, a fear which fights directly against it. With any task I set myself on, I take the risk that I might fail in its accomplishment. My striving might result in nothing. If my striving is to be wholehearted, this possibility must be faced. My desire to know does not bring with it the guarantee that I will be able to achieve knowledge, or that this knowledge even exists. Further it is becoming more and more clear that a wholehearted striving for · truth would constitute an immense struggle; perhaps the greatest one an individual can undertake. As great as this struggle turns out to be, just as great is the risk that the effort will have been spent in vain. Failure is a painful possibility which striving must come up against. Thus philosophical desire inevitably leads to what we may call philosophical despair. There are three ways with which I can deal with this despair. The first is to pretend as if I have already achieved my goal, or, what is essentially the same, pretend as if it is certain that I will achieve it. This is done, in a way already shown, by clinging to a pseudo-truth, or to a pseudo- guarantee that I will reach the truth. This is the way of Naive Philosophy. 2 ,,,, The second is to simply tell myself that the goal is an impossible one to reach. I do this by clinging to the idea that truth does not exist, or at least if it does that it is entirely separate from and beyond me. This is the way of Skepticism. ' Both of these ways cope with philosophical striving, and the pain inherent in it, by killing it, or more precisely, beating it down, since the desire to know does no: cease. "comi~g upon" me •. In the first case I do this by turning my back upon anything which might contradict my precious pseudo-truth. In the second I must continuously repeat to myself "it is hopeless." Both are means of escaping the possibility of failure, the first by telling myself "I can't fail," the second by not even attempting · to succeed. The final way I have to deal with Philosophical Despair is simply to face it. This is to face my present state of not knowing and the possibility that, in spite of whatever striving, I will always remain in this state. Let me point out that when I use the word 'despair' I am not being metaphorical at all. This is very important. It is living pain we face here; indeed, it is intense suffering. If we are not simply to make an "empty gesture," thereby sneaking our way back into Philosophical Naivete, we must make this clear to ourselves. It would be wrong to put down the tendency to cling as being simply a "bad habit." There are strong reasons why we cling to certain beliefs, "philosophies," systems, ideas, etc., and these reasons must be looked at. This clinging not only provides me with the false notion that I have attained the truth, but also with the notion that I have found a place for myself within this truth; that is, it provides me with a sense of meaningfulness. Thus, in facing Philosophic Despair, in facing my not-knowing, this meaningfulness, along with everything else, is thrown into question . I will not be able to avoid asking myself: "Does my life, my entire existence, have any meaning?" And to ask this honestly is to face the possible answer: "No, my existence is utterly meaningless." What could be more difficult than this? This is a good place to make clear a subtle yet very important distinction between the way of Philosophic Despair and Skepticism. Both entail a giving up of the pseudo-truth, and pseudo-meaningfulness, to which I cling, and in this sense Skepticism may be seen as a step toward Philosophic Despair. But Skepticism stops short and clings to the "giving up." It is only through Philosophical Despair that I go on to actually ask this question about my meaning or meaninglessness, and to search out the answer. Both Philosophical Naivete and Skepticism avoid this extremely difficult task: the first by ignoring the question, the second by ignoring the answer. It is clear that the sense of meaningfulness which my clinging gives me is somet hing very comfo r table. It provides for me both a sense of place and a sense of di rection. If I give up this clinging, I come to experience an agonizing sense of being totally lost. I become engulfed in the question, "Who am I?" or more precisely, "What am I?" With this question comes an almost irresistible urge to grab for an answer, any answer at all, anything to give me a sense of belonging, anything to escape this painful suspension in not-knowing. If I resist this temptation, if I do not turn back here, if I willfully plunge deeper into despair, I find myself utterly alone. More than this, having given up all of my pseudo-guarantees about the way things are, the future takes on for me the character of the completely unexpected. I can have no sense of what will happen next, of where I will "end up." I feel entirely dirfctionless. It seems as if I am dropping into a black abyss of "What am I to think?" There is a break in my argument which cannot be avoided here. 3 What I will at- �, tempt to show in the second half of this essay is what I believe we discover through philosophical despair. In doing so, I will primarily use the ideas put for th by Edmund Husserl, because it seems to me that his is the same "attitude" or "path" we will come upon. The sense I do not wish to give is that we now get "the answer," that this is what our despair has guaranteed for us. This, of course, completely destroys the nature and value of the despair itself, since despair must be the giving up of all guarantees. Our "discoveries," insofar as we anticipate them, are not really discoveries at all. A criticism might be made that I am, in what follows, resting upon Husserl, that is, clinging to "Husserl's Philosophy." This deserves serious attention. Thoughts which are the product of the most genuine striving for truth can, and very often do , "flip flop" on us and become objects to which we cling. The fact is, insofar .a s we cannot face Philosophical Despair , this clinging will be something we simply cannot help doing. On the other hand, insofar as we have faced this despair we do not have to worr y that the thoughts which are presented to us will manipulate our beliefs. It is the desperate need for ~ truth which is manipulated in this way, and it is just this nee~ which Philosophical Despair painfully gives up. All of this will be mad,e clearer as we go on. II Once I have felt this despair, or once I have gone through this despair, or better, once this despair has run fully through me, I awaken to find, for the first time, that this terrifying abyss, which I have kept myself from falling into by clinging to anything I could, is an illusion. I do not fall into black nothingness. My consciousness does not die. Instead, things come to me . I "see this piece of paper," I "feel this chair," I "hear this noise." These things cannot be part of any "system of the way things are," not even part of the "scientific obj ec ti ve world," because all such "sys t ems" and "worlds" I have given up . They are simply things I find pr esent t o me . Indeed , when I "look up" I find presented to me an entire field of sense, an i n finite field filled with things . More than this, this field of sense is not new to me . All of it is presented with a sense of familiarity. This "Here and Now" is no t given to me blankly . Along with it I f i nd an inf i nite field of memories which relate my present state to an entire past. I can recall other "places I have be en", "people I know", "things I have done", etc. And, on the other side, I am given a sense that all of these things present to me will not simply disappear ; that is , they will continue on into a fu t ure . Indeed, what is present to me is an entire world in which I live, th e Life- Wo r ld as Husserl calls it. It is the world "in which I live and br eathe" , "in which I deal with other people", "in which I find likes and dislikes" , "in which I cope" , "in which I catch myself daydreaming", "in whi ch I brush my teeth ", etc . It is so present to me that I don't even have to think about it , so pr e s ent t hat i t has always been there for me . As Husse r l states : Is not the life wo r ld as s uch what we know be st, wha t is always taken for granted in all human life , always familiar to us in it typology through expe r ienc e ? (The Crisis, p . 123) To push the point: the Life-World is not present to me as entirely new. 4 What is new, what is now radically different, is my relation to it, for now it is simply present to me. I am no longer compelled to say what this Life-World before me "actually means." I do not have to define it as "an objective world of things in themselves," or "a world of matter," or even as "a world of pure illusion." I make no claims at all as to its existence. It is simply "there" for me, "there" as phenomenon. I find myself in a state of "non- position taking" toward my experience Husserl's Epoche. I have stepped out of the "current of ever new experiences, judgments, evaluations, decisions" which are always "directed toward objects in the surrounding world." I have become a "disinterested observer" or the Life-World. I am no longer "naively absorbed" in it. This does not mean that I no longer experience the world. It means that this experiencing self has now come under my view. This is not a "view", an "interpretation" bestowed upon the world. Every view about ... every opinion about 'the' world, has its ground in the pregiven world. It is from this very ground that I have freed myself through the epoch; I stand above the world, which has now become for me, in quite a peculiar sense, a phenomenon. (The Crisis p. 152) But this "peculiar sense" must be elucidated, for, from a naive point of view, this state of the epoche can be severely misunderstood. Natural misconceptions arise in the face of this separation between myself and the Life-World. I am struck with the fearful notion that I am now to become cold, distant, and impersonal to this world. But, insofar as one really does attain this state, this rejection is not necessary at all; in fact, in the end, the exact opposite turns out to be the case. If we reflect back we find it was actually in my previous state of clinging that I was rejecting the world. The beliefs about this world to which we cling determine everything we see; that is, if we are going to be able to keep these beliefs as the "truth" we will have to close our eyes to any experience which might contradict them. In this way I really imprison myself within an ordered structure through which all of my experience must fit. In the act of clinging I place blinders upon myself. I must actively ignore at least part of the Life-World. But it is just this clinging which I give up when I enter the epoche; or,more precisely, i t is only by giving up this clinging that I can even arrive at this state. I am not here rejecting the Life-World but fully accepting it for the first time. I remove the blinders which have been hiding this world from me, and hiding me from it. This there is no longer anything to restrict me in my experience. I let the Life-World come to me as it will. And much more c ome s t o me than s imply perc eptions . I also d i scover dreams, wishes, fantasies, emotions, etc., in their own modes of presentation. Thus I find in my experience "this pain", "this attraction", "this pleasure in the company of a friend" . Further, even thoughts and judgments can~ to me. But they are now present only as relative and subjective since I no longer cling to them as the truth. We can now explain the initial misconceptions and fears concerning the epoche. The misunderstanding rested on a naive sense that this is a state into which I force myself, an attitude I try to attain so that I may see things in the "right way." But, clearly, this forcing would destroy the epoch itself, since it would then become simply another ground to which I cling. This state is not one in which I see things in this or that way, but one in which I simply find myself "seeing" that is, experiencing. But we have yet to make clear what an extraordinary position this is in which one finds himself. He sees now, for the first time, what awesome control his pseudo - truths have had over him. In his stubborn clinging, he had actually been placing a philosophical authority over himself; an authority which checked and directed his 5 �every thought. When one no longer depends upon it to cling to, this authority simply disappears. He no longer has .!£ think in this or that way. In fact, he no longer has to think at all. He has reached a state of philosophical autonomy. But along with this new found freedom of thought comes a responsibility in thought. He realizes he can no longer rest upon "knowledge" which is given to him. Any knowledge he is to claim he will have to have discovered for himself. Thus his attention turns from supporting 2beliefs to seeing what is really there before him, what he really knows: phenomena. With this now uninhibited attitude we can begin paying attention to the world present to me. Let us, then, patiently observe this field of sense I find myself within. Among this multitude of things, one, say "this chair", "catches my eye" and my attention turns towards it. Already we may notice that "this chair" is present to me as a thing, even if it is in the most general way. It is something which I am conscious of. But "this chair" is not present to me simply as I perceive i t in the strictest sense -- that is, as only blank data given to me. Though my experience is always in the present, the living now, I am somehow aware of more. First of all, "this chair" which is present to me now is present as the same thing which was present to me in a now just past. Further, if I "move my head," I find my perceptions change, but I do not thus perceive different things. They are still present as perceptions of "this chair." But say I "close my eyes." Now "this chair" is no longer present to me. Yet ~ti~l in s~me sense I retain it as "that which was just now present but now no longer is. And if I reopen my eyes, what I find present is not a new "this chair" but "the same thing which had been present to me before." Or even suppose that when I "reopen by eyes" I do not find it to . be present again. Still it remains for me "that which was 'there' but not no longer is 'there; '" that is, I am aware of it as the thing which has "disappeared." I find this to be the same with anything I "turn toward . " Throughout the ever changing flow of my consciousness, the thing upon which my attention has focused remains for me this one thing. I find that whatever I experience is present to me as what Husserl calls an intentional object: "A unity which 'appears' continually in the change of the modes of its giveness." (p. 80). This I simply did not notice before I had reached my state of the epoche, since then I was so concerned over what the thing was that I could not observe how it was a thing for me at all. As we shall discover more and more, this intentionality, this fact of experience , is the key to explaining what was before simply unexplainable. We find that all of experience has what we may call, after Husserl, a Horizonal Structure. I experience nothing as being completely contained within what is strictly present to me. I always have with it an awareness of there "being more," a "beyond" which is not present. With everything actually given, horizons are awakened; thus, if I see the front of a motionless thing-like object, I am conscious, within the horizon, of the back of the object, which I do not see. (Experience and Judgment, p. 82) It is only because of this that my interest toward an object can grow, for if it were given to me "completely" and "all at once" then what would there be for me to "look for?" Now I can turn toward the object with a sense of discovery, making it my "theme." In this firm orientation on the object, in the continuity of the experience of the object, there is an intention which goes beyond the given and tends toward a progressive plus ultra. It is not only a progressive have-consciousness-of but a striving toward a new consciousness in the form of an interest i~ the en- 6 ~ richment of the 'self' of the object which is forthcoming eo ipso with the prolongation of the apprehension. Thus the tendency of the turning-toward continues as a tendency toward complete fulfillment. (Experience and Judgment, p. 82) With this sense of "striving" toward an object" we clarify the nature of striving itself. All striving is toward something to be attained and thus beyond what I "have;" that is, what is present to me. Thus, for there to be striving there must be intentionality. Given this sense, I strive toward my original object. I "walk around to the other side" of it, so that this now becomes present to me. I "touch" it. I "look underneath" it. In doing so, more of the object becomes present to me than when I first tur ned toward it. I am "fulfilling intentionalities." Thus my initial hori zons are expanded out to ever new horizons. But, even though the horizons are new, even though the object is continually changing for me, they still remain the horizons of this object; that is, this one thing remains as that which is changing. But so far we have only focused upon what I find "in" the object present to me, its "internal horizons." But I discover beyond the fact that it is always present to me as itself, that it is never present to me !?.z_ itself. If I now "look away" from my first object, though retaining it intentionally, to what is "next . to" it, I am given its relation to something else. "This chair" is smaller than "this table." Thus I am pointed toward the relational determinations of the object its "external horizons." As we have already noticed in passing, the things which are present to me I find not only in relation to my field of sense but also in relation to what I take as an entire life. Nothing is ever present as entirely new to me. The object is present from the very first with a character of familiarity; it is already apprehended as an object of a type more or less vaguely determined and already, in some way, known. (Experience and Judgment p. 113) With this relation of type or likeness we begin to see that I do not have only particular objects present to me. We discover a new realm of experience. A realm of unity which we will find to be separate· from that of particulars, but also, in a remarkable way, tied to it. This new realm can be shown in our use of words. Suppose that within my field of sense I turn toward an object A and, "pointing it out," name it as "this book." La t e r , ano t he r objec t , in its internal dete r mina t ions, to t he fi r s t , which I have "retained in grasp," and discover object A to be like object B. I thus name this second object "that book." -But from here I may place objects A and B in the background and take up as my theme the likeness itself which has "arisen out of" the unity of my experience of the particulars. Thus I no longer refer to "this or that book," but to the "concept of book," or "book in general." When I use the work "book" in this new way I am no longer "pointing to" an object present to me, or even to a plurality of objects which I have grouped together. What I mean by the word; that is, what I intend by it, is that which all of the particular objects have in common -- that which unifies them. And this refers not simply to the particular objects I have found in my experience, but any possible particular I could have an experience of, any one of an infinitude of particularizations I can imagine. We should make it clear that in my use of words here I am not, as might be suspected, "doing something to" my experience. I d0 not "make up" the concept. It is 7 �,, simply a unity between objects I have discovered within my experience, indeed it is this unity which explains why I use the same word in the first place. From this point of view, concepts are no longer mysterious things which simply "pop into my head." They are instead things present to me, as perceived objects are, but in a different manner. Concepts are unities I experience. Let us elucidate this new manner of presentation. First we find that "this concept" is present to me as an intentional object. What are strictly given to me here are particulars, but, though they are separate from each other, they are each present as a particular of this unity. Thus concepts have a horizonal structure. What is intended by the concept is an infinitude of various particulars falling under this unity. But, obviously, I do not have this infinitude present for me. Therefore, I am not given the concept "completely" and "all at once , " but am aware of a "beyond;" indeed , an "infini t e beyond . " This is an awareness of all of the possible particulars which I do not "see." As soon as an open horizon of like objects is present to consciousness as a horizon of presumptively to consciousness as a horizon of presumptively actual and real possible objects, and as soon as it becomes intuitive as an open infinity, it gives itself as an infinitude of particularizations of the SAME universal. (Experience and Judgment p. 328) Thus I may direct myself toward the concept with the sense of discovery. From having first turned toward the concept in "uttering" it, since using the same word toward separate objects "pointed to" their unity, I now "strive toward a new consciousness" of it, "as a tendency toward complete fulfillment." But clearly I don't strive toward the concept in the same way as I do toward an object of perception. I can't "walk around to its other side," or "touch it." Instead, I approach it in thought. This takes place as I "try to say" what the concept " is. " In doing this I "run through" or "go over" variations wit hin t he concept to discover, in my single line of thought, what remains constant. This is a paying attention to the unity of the particulars. The essence proves to be that without which an object of a particular kind cannot be thought, i.e., without which the object cannot be intuitively imagined as such . (p. 341) In this way, by "exercising the concept" or "playing with the idea," I become more f amiliar with it. M etaphor i cally speaki ng, I am " seeing its different sides, " and thus it becomes more "sensible" to me. But since the concept intends an infinitude of possible variations, my "making sense" of it must be an infinite process. There are, as it were, an infinite number of "sides" to "see." Here we find the unique nature of my relation to the universal. Toward it my striving is never completely satisfied. My goal, as such, is never quite attained. I never come to possess the truth. Instead, what my striving does give me is an ever growing universal sense. A sense which tends toward its complete fulfillment, i.e. truth, as an "infinite ideal goal." If I am to continue my philosophic striving I must content myself with this, and the "all or nothing" attitude upon which Naivete and Skepticism are based must be. given up. · But more must be said about this universal sense and the way in which it grows. So far it might seem as if it is strictly through thinking that this growth takes place, that in striving toward truth I now cut myself off from the Life-World and find myself in a "pure" realm of thought. This is simply not the case. In fact, 8 this separation is really naivete slipping back upon us. To show this we must turn back to the fact that it is from the unity of my experience of the Life-World that concepts arise for me in the first place. But does this mean I should then turn all of my attention here to "find" the universal? No, for we find, on the other hand, that this Life- World is familiar to me only by virtue of the fact that it conforms to concepts I have. What we discover here is a peculiar relationship between the realm of thought and the Life- World (Which we may also ref er to as the realm of action since it is in this way that I fully immerse myself in the particularity of this world . ) . The universal is not to be "found" in either . Instead it grows out from a motion between the two; a "shift of attention" between unity and particularit y. If I attend only to unity and turn my back upon particulars, my concepts sit stagnant. They are unities, but empty ones. My universal sense always remains in a state of naive simplicity. If, on the other hand, I attend only to particulars and turn my back upon uni t y , then, in simply ignoring the fact that it is present to me , the concept sits "untouched . " I might experience a great deal, but I experience it all as disunified and senseless . My universal sense remains always in a state of skeptical chaos. Thus it is only through experience of both unity and particularity that my uni versal sense can grow. This growth takes place through a continuous flux back and forth between the realm of thought and the realm of action. In this flux, my concepts are constantly being expanded from their previously naive states by the admission of ever new variations, and, on the other hand, the particulars I make preserit to myself become ever more familiar to me under "richer" concepts . But all of this should be made clearer. Let us take, for example, then, the concept of friendship. I might spend enormous thought over this concept, contemplating the nature of the "perfect friend." Yet, if I remain strictly in the realm of thought, if I neve r actively engage in a friendship with all of its complex moments, the variations which fall und er t he concept , which give the concept its infinite determination , never be I am come present to me. I do find a unity, but its true nature remains hidden. left, pe rhaps, with the naive notion that friendship is "always being nice to some one . " On the other hand , I might eagerly seek out companionship with others, and in doing so come upon genuine moments of friendship. But, if I remain strictly within the realm of action, if I never think about what I mean when I call someone my "friend , " then the moments are left scattered and senseless. My "friendship" is ac cidental. I am a "friend of whim," a "friend" when it suits me. But how is such an indi f ferent relationship really friendship? It is possib l e, though, for me to both engage in a friendship and think about it. When I do this, I find my friendship takes on qualities I hadn't expected, such as perhaps keeping my friend fro~ being too dependent upon me. This leads me to question what friendship really is. As this sense increases, I am able to recognize more and more the limits of my friendship; moments, say, when I subtly manipulate my friend for my own gain. This pushes me to correct such habits. Thus, both in thought and in action, I come closer and closer to true friendship. The concept becomes more and more "alive." My sense of what it really means for me to concern myself with the existence of another person grows. Let us retrace our steps . Philosophy b egins in the r e alm of thought and at first believes , naively, tha t it should r emain there . This is due to the misconception that its task is to possess 9 �,,,, the truth in right concepts or correct thoughts. This task is eventually proved impossible by experience, and philosophical despair is encountered. If philosophy in its true sense is to continue, this despair must be faced . When this is done philos ophy is raised to a new level, one of autonomy and wholehearted striving. Freed of his need to cling, one sees himself as he is in the Life- World, the world of common sense which naive philosophy originally turned its back upon. But he discovers that his experience takes place both within a realm of action and a realm of thought. The philosophic . task is no longer to possess the universal but, in a continuous flux between these two realms, to grow toward the universal; this is the never completed growth of universal sense. From the point of view of the epoche, I do not see myself as frozen within a world, but as an active part of the world. I find in thi. world not simply pers ceptions given to me, but also my relations with others , my emotions , my effects upon the world. Do these things not deserve my attention? Should they not also be sub ject to my thought? Should I spend no effort to try to make sense of them? What we have uncovered here is the misleading character of the question "Is the human being primarily an active being or a thinking being?" The fact is he is both ! Action and thinking are interwoven throughout human life . Action gives him experience which can become the "material" for thought; and thought, in turn, gives him a greater sense for what actions he should take. In this interaction his concepts come ever closer to the particulars wh~ch fall under them. His universal sense grows . We can see now that the unnecessary choice he makes between these two realms of existence is really a choice between two means he may use to escape this struggle. In taking refuge in one or the other he can avoid facing his imperfection, his limitations, his not-knowing. But sadly, in taking such refuge, he never becomes aware of what tremendous sacrifice he makes. In clinging to one realm and turning his back on the other, he cuts himself off from his own existence. He performs an act of pure self-sacrifice. It is only by giving up the need he feels to be grounded here or there that man is able to accept his being in its entirety. This sheds light on all of the parallels we drew between the practical and the philosophical spheres. The moral epoche and the philosophic epoche are one and the same state. It is a state of "free-floating" attention between the two realms of his existence. But this freedom does not, as we constantly fear, lead to his becoming totally lost. All of his thoughts do not fall apart into nonsense. All of his actions do not become amoral. It is the opposite reaction which actually happens . Because his two realms of experience are no longer split, he can no longer comfortably think one thing and do another. Thus, not a single thought is taken any longer to be "just a t hough t, " no r a single action taken to be "j ust something I happen to do . " Nor , for that matter, is a non-action taken as "just something I happen to not do," since non-action is now also recognized as a choice. Thus philosophy, the state of the epoche, is a state of responsibility. In being able to attend to both realms of his existence, man becomes painfully aware of their distance from each other. This produces in him a spirit of striving to bridge this distance by giving up misconceptions on the one side, and redirecting actions on the other. In this way he grows toward a unity of thought with the Life-World: a perfect unity of self . But, since this distance is infinite, this growth never reaches complete fulfillment . Again and again, from the point of view of the epoche , man will encounter his hypocrisy. His only choice is either to give up his growth or to face a constant state of striving. This is not "metaphysical gibberish . " It is simple common sense. One night in a poolhall, two players at the next table caught my attention. The younger was los ing every game, and obviously becoming frustrated. As his frustration grew, his game 10 became worse and worse . Finally he missed a shot one could hardly help making. "God damn!" he said , dropping his stick . He looked up to the older player and asked , "What's wrong with me?" To this, his opponent offered him no flattery that he was sure to get better, nor told him to give up . Instead he said matter-of-factly, "All you can do is keep on trying." Endnotes 1 We may draw a number of parallels here to my practical sphere of existence. Here I desire and strive toward the Perfect Will, but the fear of failing in this leads me to moral despair. I can deal with this despair by 1) clinging to a pseudo- morality made up of rules which I simply assume are right (moral naivete), 2) giving up entirely on trying to direct my actions toward a right (moral skepticism), or 3) facing the despair. In following the final path, I become lost, only here the abyss I face is one of "What am I to do?." 2 The moral parallels continue: Here , following despair, I find an infinite field of possible actions before me, but I have stepped out of the current of inclinations and obligations. I find myself in a state of moral epoche . I free myself from a moral authority which I had placed over myself, and, no longer having to do this or that, I reach a state of autonomy of will. But with freedom of action comes responsibility in action. No longer resting upon others' ideas of right and wrong, I can no longer blame anyone or anything for my actions. Everything I do is now based on my own choice. All .quotations in this paper are taken from Edmund Husserl, Experience and Judgment, trans . James S. Churchill and Karl Ameriks, Northwestern University Press; and Edmund Husserl, The Crisis of European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology, trans . David Carr, Northwestern University Press. 11 �12 13 �The Role of Proposition 1.11 in Apollonius' On Conic Sections 2. sq. LK:sq. L'K'::ML,LN: M'L', L'N' (Eucl. I.7) 3. But LN=L'N' (since ACuFG and LNttZN, by Eucl. I.34) 4. with LN as common height, sq. LK:sq. L'K': : ML:M'L' (Eucl Brian Sullivan VI.l) • 5. But ML:M'L'::FL:F'L' (Eucl. VI.4) 6. sq. LK:sq . L'K'::FL:F'L' In examining the structure of a work which intends to persuade us through a series of logical propositions, we must take great care in determining the true dependence of proofs upon one another . The use of the enunciation of an ear lie r proposition in a later one may be misleading in this respect : It may occur that a logically prior fact may follow what is, in the order of proofs, its posterior. By "prior" I mean 1. closer to first principles in following from them more directly (following with the necessary introduction of the fewest intervening new facts) aQd 2. more essential to the study, in being that upon which all later facts proven depend completely for their demonstration. Propositions Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen of Book I of Apollonius' Conic Sections may be considered misleading in terms of their priority within the structure of the book . Apollonius presents these three as the definitive propositions for the parabola, hyperbola, and ellipse: he distinguishes the sections by their relationship to the axial triangle perpendicular to their plane and then demonstrates what might be considered the most essential property of each section itself (that is, without reference to the cone) -- the relationship of any ordinate to its abscissa. From these three propositions Apollonius derives all later facts about the conic sections, and thus it would seem that by our second criterion for a logically prior fact, they are the most essential property of the conic sections. But if these we re the essential p r opositions fo r discover ing t he p r ope rt ies of the conics, it should be impossible to discover a more basic property than theirs or to discover any properties of the conics without passing through their steps or using their enunciations. And yet this is possible with all three propositions: Propositions I.20 and I.21 concerning the ratios or ordinates to one another may be proven entirely independently of I.11 - 1.13, though Apollonius derives them from these three . And with I . 20 and I. 21 proven it is then possible to prove all of the properties of the conics that depended formerly upon propositions eleven through thirteen for their demonstration. And yet these propositions for I. 20 and I. 21 i n d ependent of I . 11-1 . 13 are much shorter and simp l er than what Apollonius gives as their antecedents. This paper will focus on the par abola in investigating the interdependence of these propositions in their bearing on the structure of Book I of the Conics. Proposition I.20, which demonstrates that the squares on the ordinates of the parabola are to one another in the ratio of their respective abscissas, may be proven without reference to the parabola's "definitive" proof (I. 11) in this way: (Figure 1) Let there be supposed a cone with vertex A and with base BC cut by an axial triangle ABC . Let this cone be cut by a plane such that its intersection with the cone's base, line EGD, is perpendicular to the base of the axial triangle, BC, and such that the sections's diameter, FG, is parallel to one side of the axial triangle, AC. Let two random points K and K' be taken on the section and let the straight lines LK and L'K' be dropped from these points parallel to ED. Let MLN and M'L'N' be drawn through the sides of the axial triangle both parallel to BC . Then - E Since the ordinates for this proof were taken randomly, it is evident that any two such will b~ar in square a ratio ~o one another as their abscissas. A similar proof may be carried out for I.21 proving for the case of the ellipse and the hyperbola that the ordinates are to one another as the rectangles formed from the lines cut off by them from the ends of the transverse diameter. But once I.20 has been proven, it may be used to replace proposition I.11 in all propositions concerning the properties of the parabola that call for it. (The propositions from I. 52 do not essentially concern themselves with the properties of the parabola.) For instance Proposition I.26, proving the existence of a family of monosecants parallel to the diameter of any parabola, may be proved using I.20 rather than I.11. The proof shows (figure 2) that given a line EFL drawn parallel to the diameter BGAC one can necessarily find some ordinate CH greater than an ordinate wise line (EG) drawn from the parallel to the diameter, for if EG is shorter than the parallel must intersect CH below H and thus also must intersect the section. Apollonius proves that CH is greater than EG by making the rectangle of the parameter AD and line AC equal to the square on EG; so if an ordinate CH is drawn from point C to the section, its square will be equal to the rectangle DA, AC and thus greater than the square on EG. Apollonius r e lies on Proposition I. 11 for the determination both of a particular paraola and of its parameter. (One cannot say "Let there be .. . " something without having discovered that "something" from first principles. One cannot say "let there be parameter AG" without knowing how to determine the parameter of some particular parabola.) The same proposition is crucial in showing that the rectangle on the parameter and abscissa is equal to the square on the ordinate. But our proof using I.20 demonstrates that it is not necessary to find the parameter of a particular par abola (albeit, a parabola randomly chosen) in order to prove the property of I.26: L 6 1. 2. 3. 4. Let there be drawn straight line XY dropped ordinate wise from a random point Y on the section. Let GE:AC(YX:XA then GE:AC(CH:AC since YX:XA::CH:CA by I.20 therefore GE(CH and line EF must meet the section. 1. sq. LK=ML, LN; sq . L'K' =M'L', L'N' (for reasons given in I . 11) 14 15 �Two other proofs prior to I.52 rely on I.11 in an identical manner (namely, I.27 and I.32) and may also use I.20 to be proven. Thus all of the properties of the parabola may be demonstrated without any reliance whatsoever on the "definitive" proposition for the parabola, since all of the propositions showing the properties of the parabola (with the exception, of course, of I.11 itself) may rely on I.20, which has been proven entirely independently. Even the property of I.11, that is, the equality of the square on an ordinate to the rectangle of the parameter and the abcissa, may be proven in a general way from I. 20. If the abscissas are to one another as the squares on their respective ordinates, then one may take anv common hei~ht H. and say that the squares on the ordinates are to one another as the rectangles formed of their respective abscissas and side H (by Euclid VI.l). Alternating this, it becomes evident that all ordinates must bear the same ratio to the rectangle formed by H and t heir resp ective abscissas. But H may have any length, and thus this ratio may be set at equality by merely adjusting H so that some rectangle formed by H and their respective abscissas. But H may have any length, and thus this ratio may be set at equality by merely adjusting H so that some rectangle formed by it and an abscissa will equal the square on the abscissa's ordinate. Thus it is evident that any parabola must have such a line H with the properties that are associated with the parameter. This is a "general" proof for the parameter in that it states that all parabolas have such a line H, rather than that parabola A (being from a specific cone and having a determinable relationship with its axial triangle) must have parameter H. I.11 expresses this property in the latter way. The "general" case is clearly deductible from the specific: If any parabola is of axial triangle A and distance from its vertex to the cone's vertex B it must have parameter C bearing a fixed relationship to the parabola itself. It clearly follows that for any parabola such a line bearing that same fixed relationship must exist. It is for this reason that Apollonius' proof for I.20 is not convertible; it is impossible to deduce the specific relationship (which Apollonius uses in the proposition) from a general relationship. The reason that I. 20 may be used to determine all properties of the parabola with the exception of I. 11 is that evidently, all of these properties are of the general category: none specifies a property of a specific parabola, but rather of the parabola as a species~ It is evident then that I.20 may be considered the logically prior fact of all those concerning properties of the parabola as a species. But at the same time one cannot consider I. 20 to be the most essential property of the parabola absolutely, for while I.20 need not follow from I.11 it is impossible that I.11 should follow from I.20. From I.11 all other properties of Book one may follow, though they do not depend absolutely upon it, while this cannot be said of I.20. 16 Love Mary How curious that one brief flash of light From one eye to another can create A flame that no mere tinder could ignite A fire that won't in rain or cold abate. A wondrous thing, that accidental touch Of hand to hand could strike a spark so strong A passion that, opposed by ne'er so much, Continues, as true hearts to each belong. Unusual, that one abrupt embrace Though clumsy, should initiate such bliss That two quite separate beings face to face Should find themselves united in a kiss. It seems that love is wayward, not unkind. And chance, for him that waits, a lover finds. 17 �Phedre's Self Discovery Andrew Sloniewsky The shadow of death hangs over both the first and last appearances of the queen in Racine's Phedre. Tormented and driven in the first scene, Ph'edre claims that she is trying to kill herself through exhaustion. The slowness of her method, however, and the fact that her decision can be easily reversed both point to a certain lack of resolve. In fact, Ph'edre is postponing her death because she does not know what she really wants nor, b( extension, who she really is. By the last scene, however, this has changed, and Phedre exhibits a true unity of soul. Standing within the steady light of self - knowledge, Phedre is able to face with calmness and dignity the darkness of her approaching death. In spite of her motion toward enlightenment, at least two qualities of Ph"edre's personality remain constant throughout the play. The first of these is the importance to her of her family relations. At various times in the play, Ph~dre mentions her grandfather, father, mother, sister and sons. A second enduring aspect of Ph'edre' s character is the highly poetic nature of her mind. Hippolyte in his chariot, herself in the labyrinth, and the final vision of Hades, are some of the fruits of this strong imagination. Although both of these characteristics are important parts of Ph~dre's personality, they are not the ones which strike the audience most immediately in her first scene. Rather, it is Ph~dre's psychological torment and confusion of soul which are most striking . Within her first ten lines, Ph~dre, exasperated by the painful knots in her hair, demands to know who has tied them. Oenone's response to her, that she herself ordered it done, symbolically points to Ph'edre 's confusion about what she wants . This confusion is based on three competing ideas of the good which are only fully unfolded later in the play, but which are nonetheless latently present in Act I, scene iii. Ph'edre' s deep and abiding desire to be morally pure is the first of these competing claims. This desire makes her hate her love for Hippolyte, regardless of the fact that her passion .has not become public. It is Ph~dre' s need to be pure which moves her to say to Oenone, "Gr~ces au ciel, mes mains ne sont point criminelles./Plut aux Dieux que mon coeur fut innocent comme elles!" (I,iii,221,222). Similarly, she later tells Hippolyte, "Je m'abhorre encor plus que tu ne me detestes." (II, iv, 6 78). This st Fong need to be virtuous is what gives Ph'edre her nobility and moral stature. Despite the sincerity of this wish to be moral, the effective power of this sentiment is not very great. When she first felt love for Hippolyte, Ph~dre's imagination and concern for family led her to think of her mother and sister. With them as examples, she immediately assumed that it was a great god, Venus, who had planted this love inside her. Having fallen into fatalism from the very moment she saw Hippolyte, by the time of the pl~y, Ph\dre has abandoned any real hope of banishing this love from her heart. The queen reveals her belief in her powerlessness many times, such as when she tells Oenone that, with respect to her mind, "Je l'ai perdu: les Dieux m'en ont ravi l'usage," (I,iii,181) , or when she tells Hippolyte that she is an "Object infortune des vengeances celestes," (II,iv,677) . In her first scene, Phedre's desire to be virtuous is closely related to another 18 19 �desire, and the two are only fully separated later in the play. This second impulse . . · is Ph' d re ' s d esire a 1ways t o appear virtuous . " La rogeur me couvre le visage : / Je te e laisse trop voir mes honteuse douleurs," (I ,i ii,182 ,183), she cries t o Oenone, after nearly letting slip her secret. The need to be respectable is tied to Ph'edre's concern for her family in at least two ways. First, respectability fears shame as a punishment, and the power of shame comes from a fear of being separated from a gr oup, of being made to stand alone. In Ph~dre 's case, this would mean exclusion from a group which is very important to her, her family. Secondly, if Phedre were to reveal her crime, she would cause her children to suffer the fate of being despised as offspring of a near-criminal. Together, the desire for respectability and for true virtuousness are fighting a third motive of Phedre's actions, namely her love for Hippolyte. This love is centered ar ound the young man's virtue, the fact that he is "fidele •.• fier , et meme un peu far ouche," (II, v ,638 ) . Perhaps Phedre is particularly attracted to this aspect of Hippolyte because she thinks herself married to a "Volage adorateur de mille objet s divers," (II,v,636 ) . It would be deeply ironic if this love of virtue were to inspire such vice. At any rate, this love for Hippolyte is fairly well controlled in Act I, scene iii by Phe dre's other two motives, though it can still burst out through the imagination, as it does in the vision of Hippolyte in his chariot, or as it does later, in the labyrinth image. All three of these c ompeting forces are exerting their influence on Phedre in her first scene, and bo th of the moral desires are pushing her to suicide. The need for true moral purity is speaking when Ph'edre says, "J 'en ai trap prolong{ la coupable duree." ( I,iii,217). Only a few lines later, it is fear of shame which speaks: "Je meurs, pour ne point faire un aveu si funeste." (I,iii,226) . In spit e of these impulses, Ph'edre chooses to die slowly, not having within her the kind of resolve which would persuade her to plunge a dagger into her heart. Why is Ph'edre waiting? It is death's horrible irrevocability t hat stops her. One would choose dea th only if one knew both what one must necessarily have, and the world ' s necessary inability to supply it . The irrevocability of death must be mirrored in the irrevocability of one's despair. The mere desire for Hippolyte, regardless of the fact that Ph'edre consciously thinks it evil and unattainable, lessens the force of the queen's first two motives. Because they do not represent all that Phedre desires, her will becomes divided and she is unable to decide to die. She cannot kill herself for moral reasons because she is not totally sure she wishes to be moral. Furthermore, because Phedre's love for Hippolyte has never been acted upon, and therefore has not left any unchangeable marks on the world, Ph'edre believes within her heart, despite her fatalism, that she might be able to overcome her lust or at least to keep it hidden forever. At the present she cannot kill herself out of guilt because she is not sure that the future will not wipe the guilt away. In only one scene other than the last does Ph~d re come close to killing herself. In Act II, scene v, having abased herself before Hippolyte, the queen begs him to kill her. It is not shame alone which motivates her to do this, however, but a strange mixture of shame and love. Phedre wants Hippolyte to exhibit that virtue which she so dearly loves, in an act which she describes in nearly sexual terms. This union of sexual passion and the need to be respectable is not stable and does not last long, f or Oenone is quickly able to bring Phedre back to her senses. The nurse's action is so far from being against Phedre's will that The'ram~ne is not sure whether the retreating Phedre is being dragged away or is actually running away (II,vi,714). It is only as the play progresses to its final scene that the number of Ph'edre's desires diminishes, not by a melting together, but rather by a process of selection. In Act IV, scen e iv, Phedre becomes furiously j ealous when she hears from Theseus 20 , that Aricie is loved by Hippolyte. Nearly mad, she is looking forward to having Theseus punish the princess when she realizes the magnitude of the evil which has grown within her hear t : Chaque mot sur men front fait dresser mes cheveux./ Mes crimes desormais ont comble la mesure./ Je respire a la fois l'inceste et 1' imposture. I Mes homicides mains, promptes a me venger, I Dans le sang innocent brOlent de se plonger. (IV , vi, 1268-1272) Ph'edre is horrified at her wish to kill Aricie, a wish more terrible than desiring to sleep with her stepson. Although she does not reflect on it in this scene, Ph~dre already has spilt innocent blood by this time. Because jealousy maddened her, she did not tell Theseus those things which would have caused him to revoke his prayer to Neptune and saved Hippolyte's life. It seems fair to guess that, because Phedre never again expresses desire for Hippolyte nor any jealousy toward Aricie, it is guilt and her desire to be morally pure which preoccuppy the queen's mind after this scene and push away all thought of passion. In the middle of her crisis, one of the other two conflicting motives, her love for Hippolyte is simply forgotten . Phedre's strong feelings of guilt at this point in the play are also a sign that it would be difficult for her need for respectability to overcome her need to be vi~ ­ tuous. Because of Oenone's lie to Theseus, these two motives had broken apart from their original unity. After Hippolyte's death, Phedre could simply live an honorable life, unscathed by the events of the play, as long as she does not allow her guilt to bother her too much. Ph'edre' s horror at her guilt in Act IV, scene vi sets the stage, however, for Panope's description of the queen's final struggle between honor and truth, in Act V, scene v. Ph'edre is said to be wearing a "mortel desespoir" (1463), and alr eady, "La paleur de la mort est ... sur son teint." (1464). Her children, who as members of her family symbolically represent the claims of honor, and who would be harmed by her dishonor, are alternately embraced by and then, in self-hatred, pushed away by the tearful queen . This awful description of the queen's inner conflict means that Phedre only truly discovers what she wants and who she is when she is offstage, in the time between her last two scenes. In her final appearance , Phedre shows that she has chosen truth over honor and death over life . She makes her confession in the most painful manner possible, by delivering it to the entire court. Ph'edre can kill herself now because her situation is radically different from what it was in Act I, scene iii. Now her guilt is tied to an objective fact, the murder of Hippolyte, which cannot simply fade away. Furthermore, in some way the queen must have realized that he r love of t he truth is a more important part of her than the need to be respectable. Unlike Euripides' pagan queen, who kills herself from shame, Racine's Ph'edre acts like a Christian and chooses to obey the claims of the individual conscience over the claims of familial duty. Perhaps it is her guilt which, paradoxically, allows her love of virtue finally to emer ge. Because her new condition as murderess is different from that of her mother or sister, she can now think of herself, not as just another slave of Venus, but as a guilty, yet free and undetermi ned individual. In any case, she is able to overcome her family-based shame at the end of the play because she has outgrown her familial self-image and the fatalism which accompanies it. Thus, through tragic events which have scoured away her inessential desires, Ph'edre has come to know who she really is and that being truly moral is important to her. 21 �Sonnet #9: A Conversation With Mother Dahra Latham I watch as if from far away The thunderous progress of your face Within a little minute's space From emptiness to screaming rage . I shall not argue with you now- Why should I , when your ears a re shut? No thought I muster can rebut The blue vein beating on your brow . The logic of your glazing eye Logic dethrones, and passion sets Above that power, that leaps from earth To chart the dances of the sky Upset the silent sky wi th jets And teach your human soul its worth . 22 untitled Dahra Latham Driving fast I stopped to gather roses while I could They we r e not rosebuds and were not pristine But full in bloom and somewhat touched by time And somewhat chewed by not invisible worms Though night was near and storm howled close at hand. Their petals were the final sha de of r ose From which all roses spring The thorns were such as only roses wild And gentle children know the way to forge. I wove my hands among them, wove small wounds Across my hands and up my unwhite arms Bleeding to feed the roses: I distrubed A drugged and drunken bee from lovers' slumber And off he whirred into the thunderous light. 'How better, little brother, Your honey than my mind to keep fo r fall The sweetness of such lovely days as these, Bitter with passage . ' 23 �,. The Game of Chess 1n Nathan the Wise Mark Ressler The game of chess is employed cunningly in the play Nathan the Wise, both in its character structure and as a metaphor for certain concepts tha-;-t he play presents. Chess is a game of conflict and may even be conceived as representing a war between two nations in systems, a situation much like the conflict between the Christians and Moslems in the play. Moreover, the conflict in chess is a direct conflict, permitting no cooperation, for the game is won, not by an individual struggle to achieve a position despite the opponent, but by a paralyzation of the opponent, by a real conquest. This aspect of the game is curious in the light of the question of religious toleration in the play; as with chess, the religious question seems to allow no cooperation between opposing ideologies. The Sultan in addressing his strange question to Nathan says, "Of these three religions only one can be the true one," [III 5, 42] and he believes that the three religions are distinct and separate in all aspects [III 7, 72]. After Nathan makes clear to Saladin the kinship between the religions and brings the Sultan to his concept of an overriding humanity, the image of the chess game is no longer used: Lessing has exchanged the game of chess for charades, in which all the players cooperate to solve the puzzle. Beyond a general meaning of the chess image in the play, Lessing uses the image in the specific area of characterization: all the pieces used in chess are represented in the play, not in number, but certainly in type. The king is the central piece for the game of chess; if he falls, the other pieces have no life. While holding so much power, the king may only move one space at a time and therefore cannot have a very active influence on the struggle. Saladin is a central figure for the characters in the play, just as the king is in chess. He spared the Templar' s life, and thus the Templar was able to have Rachel, without whom Nathan said he would have no need of houses. Nathan himself acknowledges Saladin's effect on his life through the Templar. Certainly Sittah as well as the Patriarch and Brother Bonafides would not be in this play were it not for the Sultan. For these reasons, Saladin is the king in the play in rank and function. Sittah, as opposed to Saladin, has a more active influence upon the action in the play, for she develops the plot to trap Nathan, she takes the initiative to support the Sultan's household and hide the fact from Saladin, and she brings Rachel to the palace. The queen in chess is the most powerful active piece, with no limit on its advancement or direction. In developing the characters of Saladin and Sittah, Lessing certainly seems to use the king and queen in chess as models, making Sittah more aggressive than Saladin, contrary to expectations. It is curious that in his game with Sittah, the Sultan wishes his queen to be taken. He says, "I never was too lucky with that piece." [II 1,33]. Perhaps this comment relates to Saladin's plan to marry King Richard to Sittah. The Patriarch clearly fulfills the role of the bishop in chess, moving diagonally across the squares of the board in his underhanded manner. Brother Bonafides, however, may either be a bishop or a pawn. As a bishop he and the Patriarch would never meet upon the same space, for one of the bishops in chess moves solely on black spaces and the other moves on white. The analogy would thus carry through since the Patriarch's concept of a churchman's circle of affairs differs from 24 Brother Bona£ ides' idea of his Christianity. However, Brother Bonaf ides does not move as diagonally as the Patriarch does; in this respect he could easily be a pawn, a humble man moving one space at a time, moving diagonally only to capture another piece at the Patriarch's bidding, but otherwise moving straight toward the other side of the board. The knight moves most uniquely of all the pieces, as does the Templar, the knight in Nathan the Wise. The knight takes two spaces in one direction then one space either to the right or the left of that direction, forming an L. The Templar as a character moves in a similar manner , moving ahead then to one side quickly, as when he rescued Rachel from the fire or when he visits the Patriarch about Nathan raising Rachel a Jew. The knight, unlike other pieces in chess, may actually leap over a barrier of pieces so that his path need not be clear for him to make his move, forming an image like the Templar leaping through the flames and over the barriers of his religion. The rook is symbolized on the chessboard as a stronghold, a storehouse. Surely Nathan could be characterized in this same manner, not only in terms of his wealth, but also in terms of the the understanding he possesses. The rook moves in a rectangular fashion, either horizontally or vertically on the board, and is therefore a valuable piece for support in both defense and offense. Nathan seems to demonstrate the same rectangularity and strength in his character. A pawn has a few interesting properties, despite its seemingly low value in the game of chess. Though it moves just one space at a time and is powerless if an ob stacle is placed directly in front of it, i f its path is clear and it manages to reach the other end of the board, it becomes any of the major pieces except the king as it chooses. Al Hafi exemplifies these properties more than any other character in the play; Saladin clears the path for him, and he reaches the other end of the board to become a rook, the Sultan's treasurer. However, he still retains his pawness, for he r e aches the end of the board a second time, becoming a man by travelling to the Ganges. When Al Hafi departs, Nathan claims, "I think, when all is said, the genuine beggar is the genuine king." [II 9, 89]. This statement agrees with the idea of the pawn's potentiality for change. It is the pawn's hope of change that lends it nobility, which hope may be the reason Al Rafi loved to play chess. While chess seems woven into the characterization, it also appears prominently in the first scene of Act II when Saladin and Sittah are engaged in a game of chess . The occasion of the game has its effects upon the plot, and Lessing uses the game to form an image of the effect of the game. In describing the game to Nathan, Al Hafi says, "His king could be protected with a pawn upon her check .... For this the rook had an open file, and she was done for." The king is Saladin, the pawn Al Rafi, the r ook Nathan , and Sittah is the opponent . In terms of the plot , this situation could be described in two ways. If Al Rafi had continued to keep Saladin protected from the knowledge of his dwindling finances, then Nathan would have remained free of obligation. On the other hand, if Saladin had listened to Al Rafi, who knew the game was not lost, Sittah might not have won, and the events following would not have occurred. This game, though, leads to the Sultan's conversation with Nathan, and it is through Nathan that chess loses its importance in the play. Nathan's ideas about humanity seem to break down the black-arid-white idea of religions symbolized by the two- colored pieces in chess, and through Nathan's investigations into the Templar's lineage, king, queen, knight and pawn cease to be seen in those classifications and come to be seen as family and friends. Thus, Lessing's most effective use of the chess image might be its removal, creating a contrast between the harsh world of chess and the ostensibly sensitive sphere of human relationships. 25 �April Residue David Walter In the crowed station sudden doors shut-The train makes its dizzy way downward; In the tunnels, there is nothing but dim earthlight And breathless winding motion downward. No end to the plunge--the eyes journey inward-No end to this stiff isolation, sterile passage, From the manlit clangor shut and shuttled forth And hurled into the earth's barren womb-And should I shave tonight, put on my best, Go out and drink in a darklit room; Until I return inside my own dark walls And strip my clothes, eager to pass the night. "NEWTON," John Bertram 26 27 �A Vision of the Hagia Sophia Clayton DeKorne There is a Great Church; it is a building though and not a code by which to live. It stands in the city of Byzantium, modern day Istanbul, as a monument to many ages. Today it is a museum, and it is revered only as a work of art and no longer as a temple. Prior to this, it served as a mosque throughout the tumultuous history of the Turkish nation since the day in 1453 when the Sultan Mohammed II entered the capital city of the Eastern Roman Empire. In the last two centuries of this unstable Empire, it served the Roman Catholic Order. And before, for nearly seven centurie~, this church had been the center for religious activity in the thriving Byzantine Empire. Construction of the Great Church began in 532. After less than five years building, i t was consecrated as the church of Holy Wisdom - Hagia Sophia - by the Emperor Justinian I. It was designed by Anthemius of Tralles and Isodorus of Miletus, two scholars of the arts and sciences whose genius is explored, in this essay, at least in part, by examining their great work of art. Their genius has produced not only a great monument to Justinian, to the Empire, and to Christianity, but has created a beautiful work worthy of the contemplation of many people from different religious and cultural backgrounds. Certainly the exceptional engineering feat required to erect a structure of such enormous size as the Hagia Sophia has attracted the serious attention of many admirers. Even the lavish decorations gained so great a reputation that the Abbot Suger wished to fill St . 1 Denis with ornaments of comparable worth. Yet the richness of the decorations is perhaps the least significant feature of the artists' designs. W2en the church was first completed, it was virtually free of iconic representations. Only some patterns, mostly floral motifs, were painted within the cathedral. Otherwise, it was like a blank slate to be filled with the exquisite icons and mosaics that began to appear throughout its interior in the course of the following nine centuries . But the valid use of iconic representation was a subject of grave dispute among the early Christian Fathers. Indeed, the decisions of the Iconoclasts made i n t he e ight h and ninth centuries contributed to the eventual separation of the Eastern Orthodox from the Roman Catholic Orders. Throughout this period, however, the form of the Hagia Sophia remained resplendent. Its form - a central dome ,surmounting a rectilinear base - is a paradigm for almost all Byzantine churches built after 550, even those built during the Iconoclasm. Some compelling examples of this are the chapels of the Goreme Valley in Cappadocia. Here iconoclast mon~s seeking to preserve their faith in austerity, carved dwellings with solid rock. The scale of the chapels is small in contrast to the Hagia Sophia, but the interior is patterned after the Great Church: a hollowed out hemisphere over a square nave is separated from low galleries on either side by rows of arched columns. Here the monks sought their spirituality in a severe and isolated environment . They rejected iconic art forms and yet preserved the form of architecture most suited to their contemplative pursuits. Similarly, the Moslem faith forbids the representation of religious figures, but the Moslems adopted the form of the Hagia Sophia as a place of worship. When the Moslems overtook Byzantium, they whitewashed over the gleaming mosaics and thereby UNTITLED, John Bertram 28 29 �transformed the Hagia Sophia into a mosque. And so, too, the greatest mosques of their faith built after 1500 are patterned after the Great Church.* These examples seem to indicate that, regardless of particular preferences, the form of the Great Church speaks to all. In the church, space and light are so abundant that these elements seem to stand apart from the structure itself and take on a being of their own. The ordered combination of space and light is considered here as the form of the church. Space and light are as much the medium of architecture as are stone, timbers, and metals. The form itself seems to have been intentionally crafted and also found to have a profound effect upon those entering the church. Hence, in examining the church, two points of view are essential: the first is the impression that the form has upon the observer or participant in the work; the other is the artists' intention in the design of their work. Only the unity of these two views of the church can provide, I think, a true account of such a great work as the Hagia Sophia. To gain an impression of the Hagia Sophia, I have relied on drawings and descriptions written by those who have spent a great deal of their time studying the church. Among these, the account written by the Roman historian, Procopius of Ceasara, is of special interest. Procopius' account is contemporary with the completion of the cathedral. It provides a thoughtful description of the author's firsthand impressions. Procopius writes as much of the effect the church has upon himself as he does of the church itself. In addition, I have consulted the geometrical works of the Hagia Sophia's principal designer, Anthemius of Tralles, and, in general, I have tried to gain an understanding of the theoretical aspect of his mechanical science. Finally, I present some conclusions that I see as demonstrating the unity of both the observer's impression and the artists' intention. i. A View of the Work The Hagia Sophia rises solemnly from the midst of the confusion of a bustling city . Its many half domes climb from a squabble of outlying buildings and partitions. This multiplicity of curvilinear roofs leads to the massive shapes of two piers that outline a single square surmounted by a single, central dome. From the exterior, the combination of the circle and square is a prominent motif. This can be seen distinctly from a distance. The four high corner spires were built by the Moslems, and one wonders if they expressly did so to accentuate the square plan. In doing so, they seem to have adjusted for the numerous low lying buildings which have appeared as the city grew and obscured the rectangular base of the original structure. If the intention cannot be proven, the effect can certainly be verified. At the center of this huge cube formed by the spires, the greater part of a large sphere, the dome, is seen. It seems to pour forth its cascade of circular roofs that are supported by the cornered sections of the walls. Procopius seems to confirm the impression of a square plan. Both its breadth and its length have been so carefully proportioned that it may not improperly be said to be exceedingly long 4 and at the same time unusually broad. This formulation indicates that the plan is perceived as a square of equally huge * The Selimiye (built 1567-74 in Edirne, the original capital of the Turkish Empire) and the Mosque of Ahmed (built 1609-16 in Istanbul) are two examples that exactly reproduce the form of the Hagia Sophia, even in size. 30 31 �,,. breadth and length. It is not worded, however, to account for an abstract shape. One's impressions of great magnitudes are not capable of precise measurement. However, as Procopius seems to imply, a sense of proportion is possible. But Procopius was also aware of the reality that exists behind the impression of this aspect. Therefore, both the rule which defines the proportion as well as the sense of proportion one acquires need to be explored. The church is not laid out on a perfect square. The foundation is slightly longer along the east-west axis than it is along the north-south axis. It has been suggested that the Great Church is built upon the foundations of another church, also called the Hag~ Sophia, which burned down shortly before the construction of the present church. In order to make use of what had already been laid, the designers of the new church may have found it necessary to conform to the previous plan. This claim 1b8s been disputed, however, in view of the outstanding importance of the new church. But there is a functional advantage in preserving, if not the foundation, at least the style of the older church. The original Hagia Sophia · (as most of the earliest Christian churches) is reported to have been built in the style of the Roman Basilica, which is rectilinear in plan and divided lengthwise into three sections. The outer aisles are separated from the central nave by rows of columns that serve to support the high central roof. Often parallel to these aisles are second floor galleries which open onto · the nave. But the ceiling of the nave is much higher than even these galleries. The functional character of this building is superb, accomodating a great number of people while leaving a central aisle open for processionals. Moreover, it allows for a directed ~~ze toward the end of the church where the service is conducted. 000 OD Cross-Section (east-west axis) The present Hagia Sophia has all these features and is undisputably a basilica in character. These features of . the cathedral's design, including the rectilinear base, are, I think, entirely functional in the sense just defined: to allow the most number of people to participate in the service. But this does not begin to explain the illusory effect of a square plan nor the other senses of proportion that might serve another function that is more aesthetic than utilitarian. Overall, Procopius describes the building as "a spectacle of marvellous beauty." 7 His sense for this beauty is bound to a recognition of the proportion of its parts and the play of light within it. Plan of the Hagia Sophia 32 It exults in an indescribable beauty. For it proudly reveals its mass and the harmony of its proportions, having neither excess nor deficiency~ .• and it abounds exceeding intunlight and in the reflection of the sun's rays from the marble. 33 �,. To see this beauty, however, one must go within. The entrances used by the congregation, whether Christian or Moslem, lie along the west side of the cathedral. On the face of the exterior porch (or narthex) is a series of five doors, three in the center and one at either end. Two pairs of windows are placed in between the central three doors and the outer-most two. The center-most doorway has always been called the· Beautiful Gate. As one passes over the threshold here, he leaves the city behind and, as it will be shown, he seems to enter into another world. Within the outer narthex there is a series of five more doors, equally spaced, leading into another narthex. This inner space is both twice as wide and twice as high as the outer narthex. It has been suggested that this increase ~n space prepares the way for the "more powerful spatial effect within the nave." This claim can be easily justified. The mass of the exterior announces the vast interior. One can imagine the awe with which one approaches each doorway in anticipation of the great space that must lie within. Hence, the expansion of space and perhaps even the 1: 2 ratio of the two spaces is noticeable. The doubling of a magnitude is more easily comprehended than any other multiplication. In the eventual analysis of the church, this sense of space a hap tic sense of an ordered, dimensional, but ostensibly empty space - is explored in detail. There are three sets of three doorways leading into the main body of the church. Those on either end of the porch lead into the aisles on the north and south sides of the nave. The center doorway, in line with the Beautiful Gate, is called the Imperial Doorway in honor of the emperors (from Justinian on) who entered here. This gate is twice as broad and higher by a third than the doorways flanking it. The view through the Imperial Doorway into the central nave is the most important perspective in the church. From this entrance the full scale of the dome's height an be seen, as well as the full length of the nave. Through the vast expanse, one's gaze is directed to the inside ofo"the face of the church (which would be the part which faces the rising sun ... )." Here the semi-cylindrical apse rises from the place of the altar to meet the half dome. The apse is the most light-filled space in the church; its windows are the only windows opening directly onto the lower region of the nave, and they seem both larger and more closely packed than the windows above them in the half dome. Thus, even from ·across the enormous space, one's attention is drawn to this area. From the Imperial Doorway the first impression of the interior forms is made. Procopius' description of "the face of the church" emphasizes the order and arrangement of shapes. He begins by describing the apse and the regions closest to it: A structure of masonry is built up from the ground, not made in a straight line, but gradually curving inward on its flanks and receding at the middle, so that it forms the shape of a half-circle, which those who are skilled in such matters call a half-cylinder; and so i t rises precipitously to a height. The upper part of this structure ends in the fourth part of a sphere, and above it another crescent-shaped structure rises fitted on the adjoining parts of the building, marvellous in its grace, but by reason of the seeming insecurity of its composition altogether terrifying. For it seems to float in the air on no firm basis, but to be poised aloft to the peril of those inside it. Yet actually it is braced with exceptional firmness and security. On either side of this are columns arranged on the pavement; these likewise do not stand in a straight line, but they retreat inward in the pattern of the semi-circle as if they were yielding to one 34 35 �another in a c~~ral dance, and above them hangs a structure of crescent shape. ' '1 This arrangement of geometrical shapes seems to mirror the order and arrangement of the Imperial Door. The niches on either side of the apse are, in plan, found to be identical to the apse. But turned in along the line of a semi-circle , they are perceived to be much narrower than the apse which is looked at straight on. The niches seem to be nearly half the width of the apse and follow, it would seem, the pat t ern of the three central doorways. Moreover, the height of the half domes, which rise above these niches and embrace them all, is greater by a th i rd. Hence, this too is in the same ratio (2:3) as the height of the two smaller doorways is to the Imperial Door. While the ratio of the doors is measured in the flat plane of the wall, the measure of the semi-cylindrical shapes is expanded to three dimensions. From ac r oss the expanse of distance, the shapes are seen in a visual plane. Therefore, they are not judged in their actual form, but seem at fi r st to be outlined on a two-dimensional plane. At the great distance from which the forms are viewed , the outlines are not clearly defined. This plane of vision is pierced by windows or by passageways between the columns. One's vision is carried t hr ough the outlines . Ye t there is no outside view to be seen, for the windows are at such a height that they frame only the sky. However , a sense of depth is added to the impression . This depth carries one's vision through the outline which wavers in the immense atmosphere of the church. Hence, one's sense of space moves the figu r es ou t wards into three dimensions. This volume is distinct from the similar impression first seen in the doorways and then mirrored in the next visual plane . The forms are judged by Procopius to "retreat ... as if yielding to one another as in a choral dance . " In claiming that the farms actually are moved by one's perceptions, Procopius' language is taken more literally than perhaps. Procopius intended. I exaggerate the literalness of it, however, to accentuate the possibility of sensing a shimmer ing , balanced movement of form . The imp r ession of t his mov ement or "dance" is created by the distance from which it is viewed and by an awareness of the actual three-dimensional volume of the forms outlined by a certain perspective . The depth and movement of space are enhanced by the exceptional light that enters the church. Ptocopius writes that the interior abounds exceedingly in sunlight and in reflection of the sun's rays from the marble. Indeed one might say that its interior is not illuminated from without by the sun, but that the radiance comes into ~1ing within it , such an abundance of ligh t enters this shrine. The sense that the light "comes into being" inside the church is probably due to the clear definition of the shafts of light that come streaming through the great expanse of space. These beams accentuate the sense of depth in the space within the church. As the light travels, it diffuses slowly into the interior. The shafts, however, reach the walls and floor in distinct outline and produce patterns of light that mirror the windows from which they came. And the reflections themselves create a r adiance of thei r own t hat itself illuminates the space around them. The windows are nol simply openings in the shell of the building. "Channels for 3 the admission of light" have been built into the structure. By means of these it seems that the intensity of light has been intentionally gathered, and that the direction of the light has been purposefully ordered. One can imagine, then, that the regular movement of light throughout the day and year provides another movement in addition to the shimmering radiance that charges 36 37 �the air with light 1 ~f its own. The church is aligned along an axis about 33 degrees south of due east . On the morning of the winter solstice, the rising sun shines directly thr ough the apse windows and sets in the evening beyond the Beautiful Gate. The circular domes with their channeled windows at different levels must seem to chart the paths of the sun, not just on the day of the winter solstice, but throughout the year. The strongest beams within the church mark where the sun is outside and can be distinguished from all the others . As the visible beams change direction and sweep through the interior of the church, they change the quality of light in the depths they illuminate . The forms themselves would then seem to move, as they change, from light to shadow. In effect, the light moves the forms that seem to "dance" with one another. On either side of the central nave are the aisles and galleries. In comparison to the height of the dome, the vaulted ceilings of the aisles are low. They are the same height as the inner narthex. This height is marked along the perimeter of the nave by an elaborate bronze railing. The height of the gallery ceilings is marked by a similar railing at a height again a third higher than the aisles. Between the nave and the aisles and galleries are rows of columns centered in the face of the north and south walls. The aisles do not seem separated from the nave by these columns and, Procopius sayf1 the spaces seen from the nave "actually make the effect of the width much wider." This extension adds to the impression of a square marked out on the floor. In addition, the symmetry of the aisles is aligned along the axis of symmetry of the half domes. This forms an equal armed cross with one axis below and the other axis seen most prominently higher up. Of the symmetry of the aisles, Procopius writes One of (the) colonnaded stoas has been assigned to men worshippers, while the other is reserved for women engaged in the same exercise. But they have nothing to distinguish them , nor do they differ from one another in any way , but their equtsity s e rves to beautify t he church , the i r similarity t o ador n it . Procopius suggests here that the symmetry of t he church in some way reflects a symmetry among the congregation in the activity of praye r. It s e ems possible that the symmetry of the church might have contributed to inducing the effect of equality among the people , at least while they were in the church , since it is unlikely that this equality actually existed as a general rule in Byzantine society . This effect would increase the other- worldly aura the church has by making otherwise habitual distinctions unimportant and thereby heightening the distinctions that one does find, namely t ho se among t h e fo r ms of the building. The rows of columns pierce the walls between the large interior piers and mark out the corners of a square on the floor of the nave. The open area int erlaced by arched columns outlines a square on the north and south walls. These define a cube that is associated with a semicircle on either side of the nave, suggesting a hemisphere. Above the squares on the north and south walls is a semi- circle of windows formed within the great arches that support the dome. The motif of the circle and square is outlined here in its most sensible form; it is outlined in space and light. Through the circle only light passes. Through the space between the arches pass humans and also a murky, diffused light from the aisles and galle r ies. This correlation exists throughout the church: all the windows have curved lintels, while all the doors have straight lintels. The circle and square motif is also found throughout the whole expanse of the interior space. The radius of the circle of windows is equal to half the side of the square of arches; the circle can be perfectly inscribed within the square. Its center, however, is displaced upwards. Similarly, the square drawn from the inside of 38 39 �the interior piers and equal to the width of the nave is found to perfectly circumscribe the circle outlined by the uppermost arch, as well as the present dome. The upper side of this square (or cube) over-scores the windows along the diameter of the first circle. Hence, the center of its circle is also displaced upwards, leading towards the dome. In addition, the side of this square is equal to the diagonal of the first square. It is therefore twice as great as the original square of arches. The circle inscribed within the greatest square (that which indicates the dome) can exactly circumscribe the square of arches. "1 The piers that mark the corners of the central cube support the four great arches: two above the semi-circle of windows and two outlining the ends of the half domes. These arches rise to meet the lower rim of the dome at four points. Between these points and along the four quarters of the dome, and in the spaces between the adjacent halves of the great arches are four pendentive domes. This ingenious co11struction of four spherical triangles evenly distributes the forces of the huge shell of the dome onto the arches and, hence, onto the four inner piers. Because the dome is not supported directly beneath the rim, but off to the sides, Procopius remarks: It seems not to rest upon solid masonry ••• All the details, fitted together with incredible skill in midair and floating off from each other and resting only on the parts next to l~em, produce a single and most extraordinary harmony in the work. The illusory effect of the dome "floating" is no doubt accentuated by the light entering the forty windows spaced equidistantly along the circumference of the dome. This corona of windows seems to detach the dome from the rest of the structure. 18 Procopius writes that through these windows "the light of day first smiles." The inside of the dome was once covered over entirely with gold. This highly reflective surface, it can be imagined, enhanced t~9 effect of this "first" light and radiated it down from a "height to match the sky." The dome of the Hagia Sophia has attracted a lot of attention, and it has almost universally been compared to the heavens. Procopius says "the spherical dome which makes the structure except~5nally beautiful" seems to be "suspended as if from a golden chain from heaven." The analogy is made stronger by the poet, Paul of Silentiary, in his work describing the Great Church. There, overhead, in the shadowy air, Arches the rounded helm of the heavenly ~ouse, 2 Like unto the burnished roof of heaven. 40 41 �While the dome is compared to the heavens, its lower arches are likened to the upper regions of the earth, according to Procopius. One might suppose that they were sheer mountain peaks. 22 And also the lower regions of the church have been compared to the earth. Throughout the first two levels, the walls have been faced with highly polished slabs of marble, cut along the stone's natural grain and arranged in patterns. The marble is of many different colors and varieties. Similarly, the columns are made of various kinds of marble, and their capitals have been intricately carved in an acanthus leaf pattern. On this stonework Procopius writes: One imagines that he had come upon a meadow with its flowers in full bloom. For he would surely marvel at the purple of some, the green tint of others and at those which the crimson glows and those which Natuzj' like some painter, varies with the most contrasting colors. And again Paul of Silentarius echoes this theme in his poem. He describes each "tablet" of marble by where it 2'4mes from: Cocytus, Phrygia , Locania, Libya, and as far away as the "Celtic crags." Paul writes as if gathered within the church were a world composed of many regions; every land is represented by a different tablet of marble. He continues, after his description of each kind of marble, But before the sheen of mosaic appeared The hand of the mason set into the wall the pieces of marble. He designed on the tablets Horns filled to the brim with the sumptuous tokens of autumn: All kinds of foliage, baskets, and - perched on the ends of branches Quiet birds. At the border, in beautifully plaited designs Vines creep circling around, their golden tendrils Weaving a graceful measure among the twined and inter- twined branches, Then swaying gently forward so that the encircling marble May shadow - but only a little - the mesh of woven tendrils Over the lofty columns, too, swelling out Below a rim of stone, grow masses of bright acanthus - which creeps across the damp earth - swelling in and out . All gold and light are the wandering, sharp- pointed leaves, And the marble surfaces are bordered with purple buds. Every 25one catches the light with a loveliness that touches the heart. Procopius admires the hand of Nature as an active artist in the church. Paul of Silentarius, on the other hand, stresses the work of a human artist, a tradesman distinct from the mosaic worker, as the agent at work to ensoul the church. Underneath the bite of the mason's chisel, the stone comes alive. Moreover, this life is presented in its autumn colors. The insipient death of these hues contrasts with the fecundity that yields so great a harvest. From these analogies made of the heavens and the earth united in a "harmony", one can imagine an ideal world conceived in the church. The church, as a whole, seems to be a living cosmos. The realization of "harmony" in this ideal world does not, however, come 42 43 �,. unequivocably: though the half dome and its "adjoining parts", the niches and the apse, seem to fit together in a way "marvellous in its grace" and even as a "dance", Procopius also notes how it seems by reason of its seeming insecurity of its composition, altogether terrifying. For it seems to float in the air on no ~~rm basis but to be poised aloft to the peril of those inside it. The "seeming" here is "terrifying", and this effect is pervasive as one moves through the church. The dome that seems to float off its parts is "suspended" 180 feet in the air (nearly eighteen stories) and is 107 feet in diameter. The arches and the half domes of the same diameter climb to nearly 120 feet. The apse "rises precipitously" to a height of over 90 feet. The aisles are almost 40 feet high, and the galleries about 25 feet. Within these dimensions, a person is diminished to almost insignificant size. The recognition of these dimensions, not in numbers, but in relation to a human being, makes plausible the language that describes the forms as "mountain peaks" that "rise to the height of the sky," in short, as parts of a whole world. Because one is so diminished, the awe, even wonder, which one must experience when entering the church is understandable. It is understood not as a simple enthusiasm but, on the contrary, as the fear and appreciation of something both "terrifying" and "marvellous in its grace." The entirety of one's sensual experience awakens both a terror and a sense of order. Hence, the beauty one sees is found to be both terrible and harmonious. One "sees" this beauty in himself as clearly as he sees it around him. It is conceivable, then, that one enters into an inner cosmos when he enters the church. He comes to a world of a rational and emotional realm of his being, united by the sensation of the forms around him. These realms comprise a state of mind. The term "world" is used to denote the completeness of one's experience - a state of wonder - that one finds in himself when his whole being is engaged. In this way , the church is said to signify a living cosmos with respect to the one who is inside it, as well as with respect to the external forms of the domes and walls. But the complete sense of awe has not been sufficiently explored . The rational realm, so-called, has only been described as a "sense of order . " This is still impressionistic, though it may be powerful. Hence, the term "cosmos" may not yet be a convincing, or even a true, appellation for the complete engagement of one's .being. It is fitting to describe the complete impression one has - a conflicting impression that is nonetheless united. The sense for order, as it has been described so far, is an awareness of the rational order involved in the fitting together of the parts of the church. The apparent order arises from that which lends "grace" to the fitting together of the parts: the proportions, the symmetry, the repetition of like forms (especially the circle and the square), the similar arrangements of windows and arches, the continuous procession of lights throughout the day and the year, and even the fine craftsmanship that has rendered the stone smooth and full of images of "a graceful measure." The ratios of 1:2 and 2:3 have been described as visually recognizable patterns that are recurrent both in the structure and in the forms. This r epetition of divided magnitudes is visible to everyone - not just to a few who are initiated into the secrets of geometry. Even if these ratios do not give rise to an idea of number, they do give rise to a notion of order. . The notion of order, as it has been described, is not necessarily a rational concept, though it does point to a rational principle. This principle is to be explored in greater detail. In doing so, the artists' intention must be considered. 44 By exploring the rational principle at work in the cathedral, the rational state of mind it gives rise to in the observer may be better understood. ii. A Mechanical View of the Work Anthemius of Tralles and Isodorus of Miletus were the two principal designers of the Hagia Sophia. They are both known to have been geometers. A few fragments of Anthemius' geometry survive, and from these one proposition will be considered in detail as a possible part of his world underlying the design of the church. Isodor~' is regarded as the author of the so- called Fifteenth Book of Euclid's Elements. This treatise gave the rules for the measurement of dihedral angles, and one can imagine the usefulness of this theory in the construction of walls . Isodorus is also said to be the teacher of his nephew , Isodorus the Younger, who reco2~tructed the dome of the Hagia Sophia after it collapsed in an earthquake in 558. Isodorus the Younger redesigned the dome at this time to make it higher, and thus a greater section of a sphere than it had previously been . In this shape the dome is much more stable; it stands today, despite numerous other earthquakes. This larger dome enhances the overall harmony seen within the church; hence, Isodorus the Younger must also be considered as a designer of the form of the church. All of the designers were a part of a mechanical tradition that was especially active in the Byzantine Empire. This was, perhaps, the most active science of the time. Justinian, in his peculiar devotion to Christianity, closed the "pagan" academies of philosophy in Athens. Nonetheless, a philosophic stance may have been assumed by the mechanics. The mechanical science developed by the Byzantines conceived a unique unity between the real and the ideal. For instance, the mechanical propositions to be treated in detail here are found to depend on an understanding of space in which concrete elements and abstract notions are combined. This space is considered to be distinct from the space of pure thought and the physical space outside the mind. The mechanical method that has conceived of this space has provided a means by which both mathematical and technological developments have advanced. It is likely, therefore, that a certain philosophical disposition both underlies and is promoted by the mechanical tradition.* Anthemius and his fellow designers of the Hagia Sophia have also displayed a distinctive aesthetic sensitivity and a clear understanding of structural theory. The combination of a theoretical and practical knowledge, as it is presented in their work, is found to establish the ground for contemplation by the way in which it prepares the mind. To demonstrate this mechanical method, two propositions will be examined: the first , by Ant hemi us , is part of his treatise on "burning mirrors." The manner i n which he sets out this problem - to construct a door or window through which the sun's rays are to enter - is pertinent to the construction of his church. It provides an account of the relationship between a structure and the path of light. The second proposition, by Archimedes, concerns the determination of the centers of gravity of objects. The conclusions drawn by this proposition will be shown to have an important bearing on the design of the Hagia Sophia. The enunciation of Anthemius' proposition reads as follows: * It is curious to note that Proclus may have been the teacher of both Anthemius and the elder Isodorus. (Swift, Hagia Sophia, p. 31, attributes this to Andreossey, Constantinople et le Bosphore, II, 115.) Proclus is known for both his mathematical commentary (i.e. of Book I of Euclid's Elements) and his commentary of numerous dialogues of Plato. 45 �,. It is required to cause a ray of sun t2 f all in a given position, 9 without moving, at any hour or season. To accomplish the task he has set for himself, Anthemius first identifies the point A as the "given position to be constantly illuminated". He then identifies the point B to represent the position of the window through which a ray of light will enter. B is in a line through A that is both a meridian and parallel to the horizon. That is, the line AB lies in a line directed north-south and level with the surface of the earth. 0 G Anthemius then determines the different positions of the rays of the sun with respect to the north-south line which enter the window at B at all times of the year. He considers that on the day of the equinox, the sun, traveling along the ecliptic, crosses the equator, which is perpendicular to the meridians of the earth. Therefore, at sunrise and sunset, an equinoctial ray will fall perpendicular to the line AB. Throughout the rest of the year, the point on the horizon at which the sun rises and sets is inclined to either side of the perpendicular . As the days increase in length during the year, the sun rises at a point on the horizon further north and reaches a maximum displacement from the perpendicular on the morning of the summer solstice. Similarly, as the days decrease in length, the sun rises at a point further south and reaches a maximum from the perpendicular in thi s direction on the morning of the winter solstice . s Anthemius identifies BG, "normal to AB 1130 , as an equinoctial ray, BD as a ray of the summer solstice, and BE as a ray of the winter solstice . The angle formed between the winter ray and the summer ray is the greatest angle possible between the winter and summer lights. That is, the angle on the horizon between the points at sunrise or sunset for the winter and summer solstices is greater t han the angle formed between the tropic points at the zenith (or between any similar points) of the sun's paths across the sky. Anthemius can therefore account for the entire range of possible positions of the rays of light which will fall through the window at B in a year. He then procedes to construct a plane mirror for each of these rays of light so that a ray entering the window will be reflected to the position A. He selects a point Z along one ray, the winter ray BE, at s~'e distance from B "according to the size of the reflector we desire to construct . " The distance BZ is the distance the ray , once it has entered the window at B, will shine before i t i s reflected towards A. The position of the reflector to be constructed is also de termined by the position of the ray ZA which will be reflected from it. Given the position of the ray entering the window and the position of the ray to be reflected, the reflector is inclined at an angle so that the angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection.* Since EZ represents the position of the ray entering the window, an~ ZA represents the position of the ray being reflected, Anthemius bisects the angle EZA formed between these rays so that the angle EZH = the angle HZA. And, since by vertical angles the angle EZH = the angle 0ZB, the ray BZ will strike the reflector at an angle SZB and be reflected at an equal angle, HZA. Therefore, a reflector lying along the line He will cause a winter ray to illuminate the position A. Anthemius goes on to determine the necessary positions for the reflectors which will cause a ray of the sun to illuminate A on the equinox and on the summer solstice. By positioning each reflector in the manner just described, so that the angle of incidence for a ray entering the window equals the angle of reflection, he describes a rectilinear shape, OMH9. The length of the sides OM, MH, H9 are de termined by bisecting the angles formed between each position for a ray of the sun. For example, the position of H is determined along the bisector BH, the bisector be tween the ray of the winter solstice and the equinoctial ray, at the point of intersection with ZH. And the position occupied by ZH , the bisector of angle EZA, is de termined by the selection of Z "according to the size of the reflector we desire to construct." Similarly, M is determined along the bisector BM between the equinoctial ray and the ray of the winter solstice, at the point of intersection with LM, the bisector of GLA . Howeve r, the position of LM, being extended to meet H, is dependent upon the position of Z as well. The rectil i near s ha pe so described wit h t he sides OM , MH, and H9 wi ll ref l ect the t hree rays indicated here to A. In order to reflect every ray within the range which these three rays represent, a "continuous mirror" is required to be made along OMH9, · comprised of an indefinite number of mirrors positioned in the manner that has been d;~onstrated . Anthemius alludes to the "repeated bisection of the said angles" (the angles formed between successive rays of the sun) which implies a sort of "method of exhaustion" to describe a rectilinear shape of an indefinite number of sides. But he gives a more p;ractical way to accomplish this task and thereby "to avoid the Tffort of continuous division tn constructing and putting together plane 3 mirrors." * In a treatise entitled On the Hypotheses in Optics, Damianus claims Heron of Alexandria, a mechanician, is reported to have demonstrated this property of light rays . It is probable that Anthemius, following upon a mechanical tradition, was aware of this or a similar wo r k . (c . f . Thomas, Greek Mathematics, II, p. 497) 46 47 �,. He first shows that the distance of the ray entering the window added to the distance of the reflected ray remains the same at every position indicated. The combined distance of the ray of incidence and the ray of reflection is therefore constant at any point along the reflective surface to be constructed. To describe the shape of this surface he concludes, "then we stretch a string surrounding the points A, B tightly around the first point from which the rays are to be reflected, the line will be drawn which is part of the so3~alled ellipse, with respect to which the surface of the mirror must be situated." ~nthemius is reported to be the first to describe this method of drawing an ellipse. 3 Anthemius demonstrates in this work certain theoretical properties of the ellipse. He shows that the ratio between the lines from each focus to a point on the surface of an ellipse remains constant. This result is identical with proposition 48 in Book III of Apollonius' Conics . In addition, as Huxley notes, Anthemius demonstrates his knowledge as a property of the ellipse that Apollonius did not show: The two "parts" of knowledge are distinct in the mechanical mind, and yet what is achieved by means of this mechanical science is a deliberate unity of the two "parts". For instance, in Anthemius' work, underlying the mathematical points, the foci, are tangible objects - a position to be illuminated and a window through which light enters. The lines joining these foci to the surfaces of the ellipse are rays of light, and the surface itself is an indefinite series of plane mirrors. These points and lines are not just abstract entities; they have a concrete basis in a physical world and are associated with a particular action. And yet this physical basis does not seem to be the end or cause for which this mathematics is set out. No r does it seem that the geometry has been applied merely to solve a problem. Rather,it seems that Anthemius unveils an underlying geometrical (and abstract) scheme of things. Rays of light falling t o the earth have a geometrical orientation with respect to a certain place and have certain properties of reflection that can be described by geometry. It might be said that Anthemius sees a world composed of distinct "parts" that have a certain correspondence between them. His mechanical method is meant to reveal this correspondence. The science of geometry is an attempt to find a rational account of an object's "being" in space. This acc ount is not only the identification of the regular or geometric shape of an object, or even just the identification of a principle of action, such as the optical property Anthemius describes. The geometry precedes from a deductive account of that object as a rational, knowable thing. The account Anthemius gives of the continuity of an elliptical curve demonstrates this unveiling of the rational essence of an object. The object he describes has a regular geometric form. Yet, it is not only an object of thought; this form also serves to describe the necessary shape for a mirror that will always reflect incoming light rays to a given place. The regularity of the curvilinear object is only recognizable as an infinite series of straight lines. Even as an object of thought, the curvilinear form is unintelligible without a geometrical analysis of its parts. By this, Anthemius has a complete knowledge of the object as a shape in thought and in phys ical reality. The correspondence between thought and reality here rests on a correspondence between the imaginable space of geometry and the sensible space of external objects. In Anthemius' work, however, it is not easy to separate these realms, though they are recognizably different parts of his knowledge. Yet it does not seem necessary to distinguish one space from the other absolutely. To do so would be to undo Anthemius' work. Anthemius achieves a unity of the space imagined in the mind and the space of an external world filled with rays of light. There is no analogy of one found in the other. There is, however, a relation between the two that is itself the space he conceives. Anthemius participates equally in the space of geometrical objects and the space of physical objects. Ideally, there is no distinction for him in his creation of a new mechanical space. Anthemius' proof demonstrates only one aspect of a possible complete correspondence between a theoretical and a physical world. His proof is an assessment of the relationship between a structural form and its effect on the path of light. In the complete correspondence, such as might be expected to establish this ideal in the Hagia Sophia, the measurement of weight, the measurement of area, and especially the measurement of volume would have to be accounted for in some similar way. Most of the remaining fragments of Anthemius' work concern the construction of various mirrors, such as the work just described. But one example demonstrates his interest in the centers of gravity of similar cones and cylinders. This work has been compared with Euclid XII-15 and is considered to be both "schoolmasterly" and even of a "repetitive and didatctic manner of exposition contrasting 3't}th the precise language of Archimedes and other Hellenistic writers of mechanics . " Yet the idea alone of centers of gravity is worth considering in respect to establishing a com~ plete correspondence between the theoretical and sensuous worlds. To examine first the mathematical treatment of this subject, it is best to examine Archimedes' method of abstracting from objects that have weight to identify the center of gravity at a mathematical point. However, I am directed to Archimedes' work not only on the basis of his authority and the apparent precision of his exposition. It is likely that Anthemius was particularly interested in the works of 40 Archimedes, and the "method of exhaustion" that Anthemius alludes to in his proposition is probably adapted directly from Archimedes. In addition, Isodorus the 48 49 that the straight line which joins the focus to the point of intersection of two tangents bisects the angle between the straight lines jo~ng the same focus to the two points of contact respectively. That is, the lines on which the plane mirrors are situated in Anthemius' description can be said to lie along the tangents to the curve. And the incoming rays of light which Anthemius defines are found t o correspond to "the straight lines joining the same focus to the points of contact." What is especially interesting in Anthemius' work, however, is the method he employs in his demonstration. This method is best described as a mechanical method. Mechanical has a remarkable sense for the Byzantines which is very different fro~ the connotation it often carries when signifying a merely practical, and even rudimentary, approach to problem solving. The Byzantine mechanics carried forward the whole of Hellenistic science into their era and were a very knowledgable class of scholars. It has even been suggested that the mechanics we57 the province of the elite scholars of this time, ranked even above the "geometers" Their rank is worth noting here not to show their superiority over others, but to illustrate a certain probable level of thoughtfulness among them which, I think, is important in understanding the Byzantine ideal. And this ideal is very different from the modern ideal. The mechanical method embraces both a theoretical and a practical knowledge; it combines theory and technique into one enterprise . One mechanic, Pappus of Alexandria (ca . 320) , describes this more explicitly: mechanics can be theoretical part and physics, the try and painting divided into a theoretical and manual part; the is composed of geometry, arithmetic, astronomy manual of work in metals, architecture, carg§nand anything involving skill with the hands. �Elder is said to have revised the editions of Eutocius' comment~~ies to Archimedes' On the Sphere and Cylinder and On the Measurement of the Circle. Therefore, it is probable that Archimedes' method underlies the design for the Hagia Sophia. It certainly is the foundat i on of the Byzantine mechanical method. The concept of a center of gravity is fundamental to mechanical thought. The center of gravity is a mathematical point identified within a geographical figure or within a system of equilibrium between more than one figure. Yet while the center of gravity is an abstract point, it is not disassociated from the weight of physical matter. The center of gravity is a mechanical property which admits both the mathematical and the physical. In his treatise On the Equilibrium of Planes, Archk~edes postulates the rules for the behavior of weights suspended on a bar balance. For instance, he states that equal weights balance at equal distances on the bar (Postulate 1) . The balance of this system is an "equilibrium" of weights with r espec t t o the dis tanc e s a t whi ch they are suspended from a center . "Equilibrium" is then generally defined as the balance of weights at "certain distances" from some point (Postulate 2 . ) This point is the center of gravity of the system. The center of gravity may be a point on a line which divides the line into separate magnitudes of length. Or it may be a point within a figure which divides it into separate magnitudes of area radiating from this point . That is, the figure is conceived of as an integration of lines passing through this point, and each of these lines is divisible into separate magnitudes. Yet in the strict mechanical t reat ment , these magnitudes of length and area of pure geometrical forms represent magnitudes of weight as well. Archimedes' mechanical treatment conceives of a magnitude having both a mathematical and a physical element. Archimedes' understanding of the correspondence between a length or area and a magnitude of weight is useful not only to the measure of the equivalent weights, but to the measure of equivalent areas and volumes as well. In his treatise entitled The Method, Archimedes explains the use of this "peculiar method, by which it will be possible ••• to investigate some of the problems in mathematics by means of mechanics. 1143 The mathematical pr oblems treated here are the quadrature and cubature of curvilinear figures. Archimedes' "method" can be generally characterized in the following way: he first either inscribes or circumscribes some figure, usually rectilinear, by another figure that is usually curvilinear. He then establishes a ratio between the parts of a line or section common to both figures that is divided by a t least one boundary of the inscribed figure . Then he sets up, as a bar balance , the extension of a diameter or an axis passing through the two figures on one end of the balance arm. And on the other end, he places a figure equal to the magnitude of the line cut off from the c ommon line by the inscribed fi gure. At some distance f r om t he f ulcr um de t ermi ned by the ratio of the separate parts of the common line, the portion cut off by the inscribed figure will balance the whole given line contained by the circumscribed figure . Archimedes then imagines that the two figures are each composed of an indefinite number of lines similar to the common line that has been identified. The ratio of this common line, as it is divided, is therefore representative of the ratio of one figure to another. That is, a system comprised of the sum of all the lines common to both figures, the whole of these lines being representative of the circumscrib ing figure, will balance, at a known distance from the fulcrum, a sum of all the lines composing the inscribed figure. Therefore, within this system the curvilinear figure can be found equal to the rectilinear figure at a determinable distance from the ful crum. And one can expect that in general it is true that areas composed of lines, or even that volumes composed of areas rotated around an axis, might be determined to be proportional to one another in the same ratio as the distances at which they balance. 50 Two important,. conditions characterize this method: the first is the way in which figures are balanced in a system about a center of gravity at a distance de termined by the rat i o of a line common to both figures. The second is the manner in which figures ar e considered as a sum of an indefinite series of lines , similar to the common line. To demons.t r a t e the "method" more clearly, I will paraphrase and explain in detail Proposition 6 of The Method. In addition to showing the use of this mechanical method in the measurement of weights and volumes, the c?nclusi~ns presented in the proposition lead to an interesting anal~sis of th~ Hagia Sophia. Several points are compelling about this proposition. First' Archimed~s presents here a mechanical treatment of hemispheres which are found to be contained by the domes and half domes of the church. Also, this treatment concerns the center~ of three - dimensional figures . Similar centers of gravity are found to b~ sensi~ly indicated in the Great Church. And finally, the peculiar use of the imaginati~n Archimedes depends on in the course of this demonstration may be helpful in conceptualizing the intended design of a work of architecture composed of space and This imagination conceives o'f a system of equilibrium between volumes 1 . ht c~!po~ed of an abstract, mechanical space that.seems to ~e endowed with properties of weight and yet is free of the solidity of physical materials. The enunciation to Proposition 6 states: The center of gravity of any hemisphere (is on the straight line which) is its axis, and divides the said straight line in such a way that the portion of it adjacent to the surface of the hem!4 sphere has to the remaining portion the ratio which 5 has to 3 . To find the tenter of gravity of the hemisphere , Archimedes begins by cutting a sphere through its center so that the plane of the great circle, ADCB, is found. Then he constructs the perpendicular diameters AC and BD. In the sphere, another plane is identified which contains the great circle with the diameter BD that is perpendicular to the plane of ADCB. On the plane of ADCB, he constructs the chords AB and AD. Using these chords as generators fixed at the vertex A, he describes a cone within the hemisphere BAD. The base of this cone is the great circle with t he diameter BD perpendicular to ADCB. Next, the diameter AC of the c irc l e ADCB is extended t o H so that the extension HA is equal to the diameter AC. The whole line HC is the bar of a balance, and its midpoint, A, is the fulcrum point . On the plane ADCB, Archimedes draws any line, OP, pare allel to the diameter BD. OP is contained by the semicircle BAD , but it is cut by the sides AB and AD at Q and R. The line, OP'. is therefore common to t he cir cums cr ibing figure, the semi- cir cle BAD, and the inscri~ed figure, the triangle ABD . One expects that a proportionate magnitude at H will balance the remaini ng magnitudes on OP. The necessary proportion is, however, d r ·i ed as a function of an a r ea and not of just a one- dimensional magnitude. e vA circle with diame ter OP is found parallel to the circle with diameter _BD and perpendicular to the axis AG . The plane of this circle is common to the hemisphere BAD and to the cone ABD . The r efore , within the plane OP , parallel to the plane BD, there are concentric circles about the center E. One, with diameter OP, describes a " 51 �,,,. The triangle ABD is a representative section of the cone, and it is an isoceles triangle whose base is equal to twice its height. Therefore, the perpendicular bisectors of its sides bisect the angles AGB and AGD. These bisectors are drawn as GX and GY. So, the four triangles within the great triangle ABD are all equal to one another. The triangle AXG and AYG, together where they are, form the square AXGY. The center of gravity of this square is at the midpoint of its diagonals, at the point p (I, 10 Equilibrium of Planes). The centers of gravity of the triangle GXB lie on the lines which bisect the angle GXB and the angle GYD, respectively (I, 13 Equilibrium of Planes). And these centers of gravity act upon BD as the bar of a balance at K and L, the midpoints of BG and GD. Therefore, the equal triangles, GXB and GYD, balance each other where they are about the midpoint of KL at the point G. Yet another system can be imagined that balances the square at one end and the two triangles at the other end. For, since AXGY is equal to the two triangles, these figures will balance each other at equal distances from the midpoint of GS. This point, V, equal to ~ AG, is the center of gravity of the entire system, the triangle ABD. And when the triangle is rotated about the axis AG, to describe the cone ABD, by symmetry the center of gravity must remain at the same point. Once the center of gravity of the cone is determined, the portion of the cone, M, that balances the cone alone, can be determined. That is, since AV=3/4 AG, then HA:3 / 4 AG just as the cone:M. And since AG=l / 2AC, and 3/ 4(!) =3 / 8, then 3/ 4 AG = 3/8 AC. Hence, M=3 / 8 of the cone and N=S / 8 of the cone. It remains to find the ratio of the hemisphere to the cone. This ratio is cited by Heath as given earlier in the treatise in Proposition 2. The same result can, however, be understood by using a slightly different application of the system that is used in Proposition 6. Because the angle AOC is right, AO:AE::AC:AO. Th~s, 2 compounded with AC:AO, gives the ~opoztion ~:AE::AC :AO. And, as shown above, becam~e AO =9E z+ QE and because AC=BD, therefore AC:AE::AC: (OE +QE ). Consequently, AC :AE:: the circle with diameter = 2BD: the circle OP plus the circle QR. And also, in the manner described above, the H cylinder with a radius BD, with its base centered along BD, will balance a figure equal to both the hemisphere and the cone with its center of gravity placed at H. The center of gravity of this cylinder will then be at the midpoint of the axis AG (I, 10 Equilibrium of Planes). If it is imagined that this center of gravity is moved to G, A at twice its distance from A, then half of the cylinder will balance the cone and the hemisphere at H. A new cylinder, equal to ! of the other cylinder, would equal 1/ 3 of the cone ABD (Euclid XII, 10). So, the portion of the figure at H equal to the cone will balance 1/3 of the cylinder with D its center of gravity at G. And the hemisphere will balance 2 / 3 of the cone. Therefore, the hemisphere is equal to twice the cone. In the original system of Proposition 6, if the hemisphere is twice as great as the cone, and if N, the portion of the figure at H that balances only the hemisphere, is equal to 5 / 8 of the cone, then 2: 5 / 8 ::HA:AW, where Wis the center of gravity of the hemisphere at some point along AG. And since HA=2AG, therefore AW = 5 / 8AG and WG = 3/ 8 AG. Thus, the center of gravity of the hemisphere is determined to be at a point that divides the radius AG in the ratio 5:3. The details of this proposition provide a thorough demonstration of the use of Archimedes' "peculiar method" to measure volumes and areas relative to one another in a system of equilibrium. This method relies on a theoretical concept of the center of gravity that has direct relevance to the material world. By means of this concept, he builds a system of equilibrium in thought with which to "weigh" ge ometrical forms. Not only can the center of gravity of an incommensurable 52 53 latitude of the hemisphere, and another, with diameter QR, cuts the cone. Hence, to describe the magnitudes to be balanced at H, the distances on the bar balance from A must be related to the circles OP and QR. If, in the semi-circle ABC, the chords AO and OC are joined, the angle AOC is right (Euclid III, 31). So, AC2A0:2AO:AE. This proportion, compounded with AO:AE, gives the p2opo2tio2" AC :AE: :AO :AE • And, because the triangle AOE is a right triangle, AO =OE +AE (Euclid I, 47). Further, since the tria~le f:GB, an ~soceles triangle, is similar to the triangle AEQ, AE=QE. ~herzfore~ (OE +AE ) and QE can be substituted into the proportion so that AC:AE::(OE +AE ):QE • OE and QE are radii of the circles with diameters OP and QR, respectively. And, since circles are to one another as the squares of their radii, the circle OP plus the circle QR are to the circle QR as HA:AE. By establishing this proportion, the first condition of the method has been set out. That is, the ratio of a line contained by a circumscribing figure and an inscribed figure has been found equal to a ratio of distances from a fulcrum point on a bar balance. It can be concluded at this point that the plane circle with diameter QR, with its center at H, will balance about A the two circles with diameters OP and QR, with their centers at E. The remainder of Archimedes' original proof is lost, but Heath, in his translation of The Method, supplies a conclusion that I think is faithful to the style Archimedes employs throughout his treatise. Heath begins by fulfilling the second-most important conclusion of the "method". That is, the hemisphere is conceived of as the sum of an indefinite series of plane circles .ffrallel to OP. Heath refers to these planes as "indefinitely thin plane laminae" , which speaks well to the manner in which they might be imagined to fill the volume of the hemisphere. Similarly, the cone within the hemisphere is conceived of as the sum of an indefinite series of plane circles similar to the circle QR. The relation of each plane to the distances on the bar then apply to the entire volume. "Hence", Heath concludes, "the hemisphere BAD and the cone ABD, in the places whe~g they are, balance about A (a figure) equal to ABD with its center of gravity at H." The figure equal to the cone ABD is then divided into two portions. Since both portions together balance the hemisphere and the cone together, one portion of the figure, M, is responsible for balancing only the cone. The other portion of the figure, N, is responsible for balancing the hemisphere alone. Heath places the center of gravity of the cone, at a point V on the axis AG so that AG=4GV. His reason for doing this is not immediately clear. A short analysis of the cone ABD, however, will reveal the sense of this statement. A . ----- ,,"" , ,, ,, c �iii. curvilinear form be established in this way, but its relative volume can also be determined.* In the course of defining this system -- the hemisphere and the cone "in the places where they are" -- are found to be in the same place. That is, they are both centered on the great circle of the sphere with diameter BD. The cone and the hemisphere must be imagined to have properties of weight so that they balance in the system. But at the same time, they must be imagined to have no substantial volume, so t .hat they occupy the same place. It can be said that the concept of weight is abstracted from material substance and given as a property of pure geometric figures. These figures are, then, forms composed of an inner concept of space. However, there is no free commerce between the concrete and abstract aspects of these forms; as they are, these forms cannot be applied to a purely physical or a purely theoretical world. As they are, these forms are conceived in a mechanical space or, rather, composed of a mechanical substance that exists between physical and theoretical worlds. Archimedes cle-fms that his method gives a "sort of indication that the · conclus~on~s a~e) true." In ~he Method ~ e calls a proposition a4E "investigation", and he distinguishes between this and an 1 actual demonstration". For every conclusion reached in The Method, Archimedes does offer an "actual demonstration", though most of these are found in his other treatises. For example, the conclusion to Proposition 6 is demonstrated in proposition 38 of On the Sphere and the Cylinder. In the "actual demonstrations", Archimedes often makes use of a system of equilibrium. But the primary difference between these and his "investigations" seems to lie in the manner in which the figures are conceived of as a sum of an indefinite series of magnitudes. Instead of simply imagining this to be so, he offers a more rigorous deduction of each series. In the demonstrations, he formally leads to the possibility of the "nth", or infinitesimal, magnitude in each series. This method won Archimedes fame as a precursor to the modern calculus. But, just as the conclusions to the propositions in The Method can be made "apodeictic" in some sense (though not without a great deal of effort) and, therefore, purely mathematical, one can imagine that the conclusions might be demonstrated in a purely physical way. Such a demonstration would reveal to the senses the truth of a mechanical principle. This sensuous kind of demonstration, it is . claimed here, was achieved by the designers of the Hagia Sophia. But while this demonstration may be found to lead to a mathematical conclusion, it is more probable that the intended conclusion has a more universal aspect. * Using the value TI to calculate the volumes of the cone and the cylinder, the relative volumes of the hemispheres and the cone, at the distances given, can be 2 verified. With a radius = 8, the volume of the cone 1T r h = 536 .165 and the volume of the hemisphere M = 3 cone 8 201.062 and N = = ~nr 3 = 3 5 cone 8 = 3 1072.287 335.103 And since N balances the volume of the hemsiphere at H, the volume of N at the distance HA = the volume of the hemisphere at the distance AW. That is, N(16) = 5361.648 and Vh(5) = 5361.434. 54 A Final View of the Work The designers of the Hagia Sophia worked to create a harmony. The harmony they sought is a unity of opposing forms of the circle and the square. The curvilinear forms are not set equal to the rectilinear forms in the church; they retain distinct identities in volume and in shape. But these forms are united in a balanced system. Cross-Section (north-south axis) If the interior volumes of the church are viewed as a system in equilibrium, the forms are entertained in the mind as they appear. No symbolic meaning needs to be imposed to conceive of a notion of harmony. One sees a balanced system of cubes and hemispheres. The upper region of the church contains the curvilinear forms of the half domes and the dome. In section, these are seen as three hemispheres. Their centers of gravity, marked by A, B, and C, represent three forms of equal size and therefore of equal "weight". Therefore, as a system, these hemispheres balance at the center of gravity of the triangle ABC, which is . he point D. t The triangle formed between the centers of gravity of the equal hemispheres is in equilibrium with the cube described in the lower regions of the church. This cube is defined by the square marked out on the floor of the church by the four piers that support the dome and by the height from which the great arches begin to rise to meet the dome. This cube is approximately ! greater than the volume of the half domes.* * radius of the domes = 53 feet. width of the nave = 107 feet. volume of the hemispheres = 3. 3 2 4 n r 3 3 volume of the cube = w = 12,25043 ratio of Vh : Ve is approximately 3:4. 55 935419.5 cubic feet �The arm of the balance can be imagined from the center of gravity of the cube (at the level marking the division between the aisles and the galleries) to the center of gravity of the system of the hemispheres. The center of gravity of the entire system would be * of the distance from the center of gravity of the cube. All the centers of ·gravity defined here lie in empty space, but they are visibly indicated by the structure. That is, the center of gravity of the interior cube is at the level at which the railing marking the division between the aisles and galleries runs along the entire perimeter of the nave. The center of gravity of the entire system lies within the space defined by the lower and upper limits of the galleries. Though a precise point is not identifiable, it is nonetheless sensible as a region of balance clearly defined by the limits of the upper and lower regions of space. The center of gravity of the hemisphere within the dome is indicated by the height of the corona of windows and of the hemispheres partially contained by the half domes at the level at which the quarter spheres of the apse and niches intersect the half domes . This level is also indicated along the north and south walls by the height of the lowest row of windows beneath the great arches. The center of gravity of the system of hemispheres is indicated by the window at the summit of the half- circle of windows on the north and south walls, and by the windows piercing the surface of the half domes to the east and west. If, as these indications seem to suggest, the interior volume of the church is recognized as a system in· equilibrium, the forms may seem to be composed of a space that is directly related to the forms of thought. In thought, the forms of a system of equilibrium are conceived in a mechanical space that lies between the purely theoretical and purely technical realms of the mechanic's world. This mechanical space has even been considered as a substance of which these forms are composed in thought. Hence, the actual space and light that compose the forms of the church are similar to the space of mechanical thought. Considered in this way, the forms of the church, as they are sensuously represented, are doorways into a realm of pure thought. As the mechanical concepts of the center of gravity have both a theoretical and a physical representation, the centers of gravity of the church have both a structural and an aesthetic significance . Structurally, the level of the center of gravity of the hemispherical shells is important. In the shell of the hemisphere there are both horizontal and vertical forces acting to move domes of such incredible weight. If these hemispheres were to move as a whole, they would move from their centers of gravity. The vertical forces of the three domes are transferred to the great arches and onto the four piers inside the church . The horizontal forces are , for the most part , transferred to the half domes and then to the arches of the niches. The horizontal forces on the strictly vertical north and south walls, however, are concentrated at a level near the center of gravity of the interior hemispheres. The center of gravity of the exterior shell of the domes is slightly higher than the interior volume. To support the forces concentrated at this higher level, arches have been built to span the diagonal from the four exterior piers to meet the faces of the north and south walls at this level. (See points r. ands. indicted on the cross-section of the east-west axis, above.) Also, the dome has been reinf creed by a series of exterior buttresses that reach to the l evel of its center of gravity. This has been done both to allow the shell to be pierced by the corona of windows (though the arches of these windows also support a great deal of this weight) and to support the dome at the level where the horizontal forces are the greatest. This level is also slightly higher than the level of the center of gravity of the interior volume . (See the points m. and n. indicted on the cross -s ection of the north-south axis, above.) The aesthetic sense one is to gain from the forms depends only on the interior 56 57 �~ volumes and not upon the exterior shell. Since the centers of gravity of the interior forms are indicated inside the church independently from the structural centers of gravity, it is likely that the designers intended to accentuate the effect of space and light. Inside, the centers of gravity are marked by that which is the complete antithesis of weight. That is, on the north and south walls and within the dome, the center of gravity of each hemisphere and of the system of hemispheres is marked by a region of light. In the half dome in the east, this level is marked by the opening of space into the quarter sphere of the apse. The effect, therefore, is a one of pure weightlessness, since the level where the most weight would be expected is transformed into light or into a greater volume. The recognition of the center of gravity prepares the mind for holding the notion of a harmony between opposing ideas, though one may not b e conscious of the center of gravity explicitly. Procopius' impression that the half domes "seem somehow to float in the air" while also imposing a "peril" might be explained by the seeming dissolution of . the dome's center of gravity. Similarly, this explains why the great dome is said to be ''fitted together with incredible skill in midair and (is) floating off from (the parts that support it)" while i t also "produces a single and most extraordinary harmony in the work." The singleness of this harmony is most intelligible as the center of gravity of the system from which, quite literally, one might imagine it being "suspended from heaven." This "single and most extraordinary harmony" is a characteristic of the whole volume of space within the church and its special coincidence with light. When one is aware of the "single" harmony, he is participating in the whole expanse of form contained within those walls. As soon as one enters the church, it seizes all of one's senses and leads his mind to wonder. From the Imperial Doorway, in looking up to the center of gravity of the system of domes, one sees beyond it through the windows at the base of the dome. (See line of vision xy indicated on the cross-section of the north-south axis, above.) As one moves into the center of the church, he comes under the full influence of the form of the dome. In the center, he can no longer see beyond the center of gravity to the corona of windows. These windows now surround one in a full circle above one's head . The windows in these, lying at the To either side he is aware of the half domes. level of the center of gravity, are now central to his vision of harmony. Here he can also see through the windows at the same level on the north and south faces . The angle at which these windows can be seen from the center of the church is about 41 degrees from the floor . This is also the latitude of the church, and so it marks the height of the pole star and the zenith of the sun on the days of the equinoxes. One sees through these windows the highest point in the sky to the north, and, on the equinoxes, the brightest light to the east. These details c ould no t be coincidental in a church designed by Anthemius. They serve, I think, to demonstrate the special significance of these windows. Beyond the visual indications, it may be that one is also engaged by a haptic sense of this single point of balance in space. In the center of the church, one must be aware of the space of the dome even if he is facing towards the apse or the doorway and not looking straight up. He is aware of the balance of the forms as a whole: the symmetry of the brightly lit half domes and the full dome balanced above one's head, as well as the symmetry of the shadowy aisles, both below the domes and extending in opposite directions in the form of a great three-dimensional cross. All of one's senses, perhaps, combine to produce this awareness. He remembers having just seen each of the forms individually a moment before. He is full of wonder at their presence for the terror is still quick in his blood. He sees the forms peripherally, perhaps, and the shafts of light from their windows cut across his field of vision. Maybe even the echoes of footsteps resound to heighten his awareness of a great space. Full of this sense of space, one's awareness expands to 58 meet the very shape of the forms balanced around him. In meeting this space of the hemispheres, one meets paradoxes. The space is clear and empty, but i t is filled with shimmering light and shadows; its quiet forms are filled with an impending terror; its scale diminishes one's being and y~t arches protectively over one's head. One is carried upwards by his vision to "weigh" the forms, and, at the single points of balance, all sense of weight disappears. One's senses engage the mind to resolve the paradoxes of this world he is in. The church by itself presents to a person just the barest form of thought that emerges from the feelings characterized here by awe and terror together: in a word, wonder. This particular state of mind has been characterized as follows: Whoever wonders no longer regards the whole of the external world as something which he has become clear about ••• Wonder only occurs when man, torn free from the most immediate first connection with nature and his own singularitl( now seeks and sees in things 9 a universal and permanent element. One gives up not only his wordly concerns when he crosses the threshold of the Beautiful Gate, but is compelled to give up even the simplest determinations of things. That is, one is not certain of the sense of weight of the domes, of his safety, or even of his individual worth. Most importantly, he is uncertain of the space in which he stands. . . The space inside the church is not the natural space of the physical world. It appears as the mechanical form of space that is present to the awareness as a s~ace between a world of objects and a world of pure thought. The space presented is a space of its own kind; it embraces neither one world nor the other, but provides a space through which to enter both. The word mechanical has an unfortunate connotation of a strictly technological quality . But there is no clockwork essence here. The mechanical science of Byzantine conception stands between the technique and handiwork of a constructed thing - a building, a balance, or a work of art - and its abstract design - the f~nal outcome of the thing which exists in thought prior to its creation. The mechanical space in which the work is conceived even stan~s betwe~n the ~ct~al, ~oncrete existence of a thing and the abstract, ideal certainty of it . It is in this space that the forms of the church were conceived, and it is in this space that they seem to exist now, fashioned there by the mechanic's art from space and light. One need not be a mechanician to recognize the forms as they are. The forms shimmerin g in light and shadow are, in their sensuous presentation, dual- natured. In . themselves they c ontain perplexities that concern their composition . By these, one is driven to a resolution in thought. In merely walking through the church's realms, one is disposed to a solemnity, a quiet reflection, and serious worship of the wholeness of things beyond even the · perplexities he sees. So agreeably do these forms mirro r the perplexities of the human soul, one cannot help but slip beyond .. I do not attempt t o name the specific representation of the ideal one must find. Procopius concluded wheneve5 anyone enters this church to pray, ..• his mind is lifted 0 to God. Yet the Sultan worshipped Allah here. And perhaps one may even be moved to embrace Beauty itself within the walls of Hagia Sophia. 51 Many spectres of harmony have "paced the pillared cloisters of the mind" , and each has had its name. But the names of something absolute merely distract one from the knowledge he seeks of it. Only when actively engaged with the specific forms 59 �,,, that are presented, whether to the imagination or to the senses, can one be aware of the possibility of such an absolute. To speak of such a harmony, one must speak of an idea that is connected to all human existence and to one's entire being if it is to be vital to human knowledge. The names, removed from their specific representation, may or may not retain their validity, instill a wonder, or lead one to a genuine vision of "a universal, implicit and permanent element." But in the Great Church, where one is awakened to a presence not itself absolute, but whole, it is certain a beginning is to be made. References 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. Abbot Suger, The Abbey Church of St. Denis and Its Art Trearures, ed. and trans. Edwin Panofsky (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976.) p. 65. Cyril Mango, "The Mosaics of Hagia Sophia" in Hagia Sophia by Heinz Kanler, trans. Ellyn Childs (New York: Frederick A. Praeger, 1967.) p. 47. Richard Krutheimer, Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture, (Baltimore: Pelican Books, 1965.) p. 247. Procopius, VII, Buildings, trans. H.B. Dewing, The Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1940.) Kahler, op. cit. p. 19-20. Emerson Howland Swift, Hagia Sophia (New York: Columbia University Press, 1940.) p. 18. Procopius, op. cit. p~ 13. Ibid. p. 17. Swift, op. cit. p. 38. Procopius, op. cit. p. 17. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. p. 21. Swift, op. cit. p. 18-19. cites Antoniadi, Hagia Sophia, I,73 on the alignment of the main axis of the church. He also gives the orientation of the sunrise on Christmas Day at 31°41' to the . south of east. It is unclear whether on the the morning of the winter solstice the sun rises farther south but it is likely. In any case, it is clear that the windows of the apse are sufficiently wide to collect the rays of the sun at a variation of more than 1°41'. Procopius, op. cit. p. 25. Ibid. Ibid. p. 21. Ibid. Ibid. p. 13. Ibid. p. 20. Cited by Kahler, op. cit. p. 11. Procopius, op . cit . p . 19 . Ibid. p. 27. Cited by Kahler, op. cit. p. 45. Ibid. Procopius, op. cit. p. 17. T.L. Heath, A History of Greek Mathematics, vol. I (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965.) p. 421. 60 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. SO. 51. Kahler, op. cit. p. 15. G.L. Huxley, Anthemius of Tralles, A Study in Later Greek Geometry (Cambridge: The Eaton Press, 1959) p. 6. Ibid. Ibid. p. 7. Ibid. p. 8. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. p. 9. Ibid. p. 10. G. Downey, Byzantine Architects, Their Training and Methods, p. 111. Ibid. p. 107. (c.f. Thomas, Greek Mathematics, The Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1956: p. 615.) Huxley, op. cit. p. 25. Heath, op. cit., vol. II, p. 518. Ibid. p. 540. T.L. Heath, ed. and trans., The Works of Archimedes, (New York: Dover Publications Inc., reissue of Heath Ed., 1897.) Ibid. Archimedes, The Method (Supplement to Heath Ed.) p. 13. Ibid. p. 27. Ibid. p. 11. Ibid. p. 29. Ibid. p. 17. Ibid. p. 13. G.W.F. Hegel, Aethetics, vol. I, trans. T.M. Knox (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974) p. 315. Procopius, op. cit. p. 27. George Santayana. Special thanks to Frederick A. Praeger Publishers, New York; Gehr. Mann Verlag GmbH, Berlin; and Mr. Raoul Laev, photographer; for their permission to publish, along with this essay, reproductions from the book Hagia Sophia by Heinz Kaehler. 61 �Non-Profit Org. BULK RATE U.S. POSTAGE St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 cw PAID PERMIT NO. 120 ANNAPOLIS, MD � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. 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For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Winter 1987 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Winter 1987. Original publication is incorrectly labeled as Spring 1987. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1987 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. 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(Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) Staff: Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland Talke Breuer Carloss Chamberlain Meetra Doorandish Barbara Gesiakowski Jana Giles Chris Howell Steve Jackson Rena Kuntavanish Sarah Waters Co-Editors: Laurie Cooper Joseph Macfarland Faculty Advisor: Jonathan Tuck Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published three times a year and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis and Santa Fe. The Fall issue contains a sampling of the student work from the previous school year which the prize committees of both campuses have selected for public recognition. For the Winter and Spring issues, the Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community-essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Note: A brief description of the author accompanies all work not by current St. John's students. Please include some such statement along with your submission. Thank you. �CONTENTS A CRITICISM OF SOCRATES' THEORY OF KNOWLEDGE Fritz Hinrichs 1 SENTO-GOSHO GARDENS Jennifer A. Lapham 4 PRIZE WINNING PO EM (1986) . THESEUS' PASSAGE Claudia Probst 5 THE BOUNDARY OF THE METHOD Sally Fine 7 ON WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS' POEM "HE THINKS OF HIS PAST GREATNESS WHEN A PART OF THE CONSTELLATIONS OF HEAVEN" Anne Leonard 9 A PARTIAL DEFENSE OF VICONIAN ETYMOLOGY AND TOUR GUIDE TO SOUTHERN MARYLAND Christopher Bailey 13 DISTANCE #2 Stacy Grimes 17 THE NEST Patricia Dawson 18 CHICAGO LABYRINTH Ellen Schwindt 19 SENIOR ESSAY (1986) HONORABLE MENTION ORIGINS OF COHESIVE THOUGHT Lawrence Seidl 20 FOR LI CH'ING CHAO Judy Kistler 35 SURF AND MISFORTUNE A STUDY OF OEDIPEAN TRAGEDY Jeff Kojac 36 A TRANSLATION OF JEAN DE LA FONTAINE'S "THE CAT, THE WEASEL, AND THE LITTLE RABBIT" James O'Gara 38 STREETLIGHT Walter Plourde 42 AN APPRECIATION OF APOLLONIUS 1.34 Henry Higuera 45 �A Criticism of Socrates' Theory of Knowledge Fritz Hinrichs In the Meno, Socrates is faced with the problem of how we can go about searching for virtue when we do not know what it is. He has to explain how we can search for some thing and know when we have found it when we do not know what to expect . It is similar to the problem we would have if someone said, "Go find my dog," and then refused to give any description of the dog. To solve this problem, Socrates refers to the belief expounded by the poets that our souls never die and have lived through many lives . This being the case, they can recall the truths they have gained in past lives . Our learning, therefore, is nothing but the spontaneous recovery of knowledge that was previously known. To try to substantiate this idea, Socrates asks Meno to bring to him a slave boy without any previous geometric knowledge. He then proceeds to ask this slave boy questions about geometric figures that he draws in the sand . Gradually he leads the boy to an understanding of a particular train of 8eometric reasoning. First Socrates shows the boy why his initial idea about the geometric figure is wrong, and then he asks the boy questions until he comes to the correct understanding of the figure. Because he never tells the boy anything, but only asks him questions, Socrates claims that the boy has recalled the knowledge of the figure from his own mind. Now, if all our learning were recollection, then one would expect that our learning would resemble the way we recollect things that we have learned in this lif e. This is one point where I find fault in Socrates' theory, fo r the process that Socrates uses to teach his student does not at all appear to be the same process one experiences when recalling other facts one knows one has forgotten. It can be seen that the boy never really recalls anything from his own memory; he only approves of the ideas Socra t es presents to him . If he truly were recalling the ideas from memory, Soc rates would only have to give him lit t le hints, and the boy's memory would do the rest, just as our memory does when we recall things that have become dim in our minds . Instead , we see Socrates lead t he boy through almost every step of the geometric argument, and the boy obediently following behind. This can be well seen in the second part of the discussion in which Socrates corrects the boy's misconception that one can double t he area of a square by doubling the length of the sides . Socrates erases his old square and starts with a new one to show the boy that the base of a square twice the . area of the square he dre·w would be the square's diameter . He shows this by constructing three other new squares around the one he had drawn and dividing each along its diameter to construct a new square that is made up of the diameters from each one. Because there were four squares, the new square is twice the original (four halves make two). This whole construction is made by Socrates with the boy contributing nothing to the argument beyond his consent . When Socrates finishes constructing the figure, he asks the boy some questions that require more of a reply than "yes" or "no." SOCRATES: Here are four squares. inner half of each of them? BOY: Yes. 1 Has not each line cut off the �SOCRATES: And how many such halves are there in the figure? [The figure made by the diameters of the squares.] BOY: Four. SOCRATES: And how many in this one? [The original square.] BOY: Two. SOCRATES: And what is the relation of four to two? BOY: Double. SOCRATES: How big is the figure then? [The one cut off by the diameters.] BOY: Eight feet. SOCRATES: On what base? BOY: This one. [The diameter of the original square.] (85a-85b) In this quotation, Socrates asks the boy six questions. In the first, the boy consents that a diameter cuts a square in half. In the second and third, he counts how many triangles are in particular squares. His response to the fourth and fifth shows his knowledge of ratios, and that to the sixth his knowledge of what a base is. I hope this quotation adequately shows that the reasoning the boy goes through does not originate from himself, but is the product of Socrates. What occurs in this dialogue is certainly a far cry from the boy's needing a little prodding to remember those things that are obscured by the forgetfulness of his mind. In 84d, Socrates infers that his method is closer to the interrogating for opinion than to instruction or explanation, but in fact the opposite seems to be the case. However, part of what Socrates says is correct. He repeatedly tells Meno that the boy's opinions are the boy's own; this is reasonable in the sense that Socrates never forces the boy to believe in anything. But the opinions are not the boy's in the sense that he made them up or had previously consciously held them. It is reasonable to say that the boy agrees with what Socrates is saying, but not that he already knows what Socrates is saying; if this latter were the case, Socrates would not need to be continually telling the boy how to deal with the problem of the square. Also, if we are to say that the boy understands something because he recalls it, how would we account for the mistakes he makes? For example, the boy proclaims that if the side of the square is doubled, the area will double. How could the boy come up with this idea i f he recalled it? This is what he recalled, so how can it be wrong if recollection is what determines truth? Socrates would probably answer this accusation by saying that the boy recalled incorrectly or that he did not recall at all. I think a hint to what his response would be can be found in line 82e. I will present two translations that from my inquiry seem to represent the two ways that this passage is typically translated: "Now watch how he recollects- things in order--the proper way to recollect." (W.K.C. Guthrie) and, "Watch him now recollecting things in order, as one must recollect." (G.M.A. Grube). The actual Greek is "GE1' 1 11 ) ' I _,. ( 1 (82 e ) ; t h e pivota 1 wor d • au-rov m.>aµ 1µvncrKoµsvov scps~ns, ws as 1 avaµ 1µvficrKso8a 1 is OEl . If Socrates admits there is a proper or correct way of recollecting, he is implying there is an incorrect way of recollecting. Now, if we call some recollection proper and some improper, then there must be something by which we are evaluating it by; there must be something higher. To make a judgment would be meaningless if there were no criterion. This is why I think Socrates is not using recollection as his ultimate source of truth, but is using something else, most probably reason, as his final criterion. The word os1 can be translated as proper or necessary (the two translations give examples of each). If it is translated "proper", then my idea is supported, but translating it "necessary" does not really escape the problem either. Why should something be necessary? Is it not because we have an end in mind by which we are evaluating the process? I think Socrates has shown that he is not really relying on what he calls recollection, but is actually using reason to get the results that he wants. There is another problem in Socrates' theory that needs to be addressed: when Socrates states that we learn by recollection, he is not really solving the problem of how learning came about in the first place. He may say that we learn now by recalling what we learned in the past, but that does not tell us how we learned in the past. The only thing that his theory does is to push the problem back into the past where it might not occur to us to think about it. This way of dealing with the problem would be like trying to answer the problem of the origin of life by saying that it had been placed on the earth by outer space life-forms. This method is evasive but not substantive. However, since Socrates seems to do so well using myths, I suspect he could have easily answered this objection by stating that when man first came into being he was endowed with perfect knowledge and has since lost it. Socrates is able to convince Meno of his theory because it does make a comparison that is superficially correct--when we remember something and when we see something is true, we tend to experience the same feeling of insight or perception. We experience the same sense of "Aha" when we remember and when we gain understanding, so it is tempting to see them as coming from the same source. But to equate them does not really answer the problem of where learning came from to begin with; moreover, when more closely examined, remembering and understanding have some distinct differences that rule out their being one. on 2 3 �Theseus' Passage Claudia Probst ' vi \ l\v: ~ ,ff-I\j j ~ ~ ~ j ~ ( r j t ~ i ~ ~ "'<j> ~ I \ ~ ~ \\ ~ ~ ~ t} Theseus, kneeling by the slain monster picked up the trail of a golden thread and followed it, wearily, through the dim eternal twilight of the labyrinth. He wound it over and between his knuckles, the sweat of his palm matting the thread, darkening the filament of his direction and enclosing the heat of his hand. He recalled his fingers entwined in his mount's mane, after grasping suddenly for lost balance when shame had made him sway in the saddle, on the day he saw his father surrender the city's youths to the Minotaur. Later his hands had traced the curving wooden ribs of the prison ship's hull during the voyage to Crete, and mesmerized his seasick companions with endless soothing caress. So long did his hands travel circularly on their backs, waiting for gasping nausea to subside, that in darkness he could name each by resting his hands lightly on their sides, touching for the duration of a breath. He felt the thread's tension, more than guide it impelled him, tugging at his memory -sunlight and sweet airTheseus longed to follow his eyes frontwards as Man, to probe then where a man may. He remembered in those passages the dark servant halls of his home, nights in his early youth when, trembling, he had eased blindly down stone steps fingertips brushing moss along rough walls groping his way to she his destination. Images of her bare limbs' movement, first stolen through a crack in the wall of the servant bath had rooted in his mind. And when he first clasped her to his breast, 5 �his pulse had quickened, hammering in his ears until her image, blooming, had threatened to burst from his head shattering the night with strong remembrance of sun on olive skin and the play of her muscles underneath, as she lifted an earthen water jar. Then it was no longer the still air of the labyrinth and memory that enveloped him wind-driven dew struck his forehead and he emerged again into the living worldTo find Ariadne, her hair unbound falling "'loosely golden in the blessed dawn . The Boundary of the Method Sally Fine In Book VI of th~ Republic, Plato discusses the geometer's use of the figures and the three forms of angles as hypotheses and asserts that the geometer uses these hypotheses as the basis of his argument. That is to say, the geometer takes certain properties as common notions and from those common notions stem the images in geometry . In addition to this assertion, Plato continues by asking if geometers use: visible forms ... and make their arguments about them [visible forms], not thinking about them, but about those others that they are like? They make the arguments for the sake of the square itself and the diagonal itself, not for the sake of the diagonal that they draw, and likewise with the rest. These things themselves that they mold and draw, of which there are shadows and images in water, they now use as images, seeking to see those things themselves, that one can see in no other way than with thought. (510e) Plato's account of the geometer seems an appropriate description of Euclidean geometry, but hardly applicable to the realm of geometry which Lobachevski provides. In Euclidean geometry we are provided with images that we consider to be intuitive . The pictures that accompany the propositions fit the image of the figure we have in our minds. The pictures fit so well that one might wonder if Euclid might be 'spoon feeding' us by appealing to our intuition of how space should be defined and described. It is easy to lose track at times that what we actually see before us when we work through a Euclidean proposition is not square or triangle, but the image of square or triangle. It is important, however, to remind ourselves of what Plato suggests, that as long as geometry depends on hypothesis, it can never really grasp square or triangle. I interpret this to mean that, unless we can move beyond hypothesis, we can never grasp the eidos of square or triangle, but must content ourselves with their images . In the imaginary geometry that Lobachevski gives an account of, the images provided certainly do not 'spoon feed' our intuition. Few things are more counter-intuitive than parallel lines that converge or a quadrilateral with three right angles and the fourth angle acute. The images that accompany Lobachevski's theorems seem almost incommensurate with the language of his geometry. It is very difficult to convince oneself , after years of being led to believe that parallel lines never meet and remain equidistant from one another, that the two lines depicted as converging can really be called parallel. Although we see the images before us on paper that illustrate converging parallels, in our minds we still imagine parallel lines that do not meet and do indeed remain equidistant. In Lobachevski we have a discrepancy, between the image on paper and the image in our minds, that we did not have in Euclidean geometry. How does one look at the images provided with the same language used in a completely different way and make sense of it? The first reaction, and certainly a legitimate one, is that the system that Lobachevski introduces is counter-intuitive. Well, yes, it does seem awkward to be 6 7 �given a quadrilateral with three right angles and then to be asked to prove the fourth angle acute. This does not come easy because in all of our previous experience, a principal property of the quadrilateral was that the angle sum was consistent. However, now that we are in the world of imaginary geometry, we no longer have that proportionality, and that is disconcerting. At this point I don't know whether it is right to question Lobachevski's idea of geometry or to question our own. Euclid gave us a beautiful system of geometry, but he never claimed it to be more than a system. He offered us images, and we took to them eagerly, again, forgetting that he offered us image, not eidos. Plato reminds us that the geometer can only offer us image in his discussion of the geometer's use of hypotheses. I don't think that Plato is judging whether the geometer is justified in using hypotheses, but rather he is pointing out the problem that all geometers face in being limited by the common notions. The boundary lies in being human, a limit that we cannot surpass. Euclid and Lobachevski, if nothing else, at least share this boundary. I think that the geometers themselves are much more willing to acknowledge this boundary than the students of their geometries. Why are we so unwilling to accept Lobachevski? First let us examine what it would involve to accept Lobachevski's system. The obvious thing that comes to mind is the denial of the necessity of the fifth postulate. Once one denies the need for the fifth postulate, one must acknowledge that Lobachevski's geometry is certainly as feasible as Euclidean geometry. Of course, this is much easier said than done. How can we possibly acknowledge a geometry other than Euclid's when we quite obviously live in a Euclidean world? Everything that surrounds us is Euclidean. Is it because we are surrounded by Euclidean images that we come to expect Euclidean images in our geometry as well? After all, what is our real problem with Lobachevski? His images are consistent within his system, so we can't find fault there. His theorems follow in logical progression and still we balk. Consistency and logic aside, his system still goes against our expectations. We have been habituated to Euclidean geometry, and that is what we expect. Although I readily accept the argument that Lobachevski is counter-intuitive, I am still puzzled by this intuition that we cling to so desperately. Do we really have the criteria to determine our world as Euclidean? I hesitate to make this claim when I consider, once again, Plato's discussion of hypotheses. It seems impossible to deny that there are certain things which are inexplicable and those things we call common notions. I want to call them self-evident, but after studying Lobachevski and re-reading Book VI of the Republic, I wonder if we only intuit them to be selfevident. This question is seemingly rhetorical, considering that we are bound by . image. If we could actually get to eidos, then we would truly grasp geometry. Apparently, the methodology in the activity of geometry is our problem. Plato seems to make an argument for the method of dialectic. In dialectic we begin with an hypothesis and match it with an antithesis. The struggle between the two eventually produce some sort of conclusion or falling out of a bigger idea. No matter what the outcome, one is able to get beyond the hypothesis. Some progress is made. With the geometry, however, we are bound by the hypothesis. No antithesis is presented in opposition to the common notions. We can build and build our system, but the hypotheses that Plato mentions time and time again remain. Using the methodology of geo-metry as we do, we can never approach eidos which is free of hypotheses. On William Butler Yeats' Poem "He Thinks of His Past Greatness When a Part of the Constellations of Heaven Anne Leonard I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young And wept because I know all things now : I have been a hazel-tree, and they hung The Pilot Star and the Crooked Plough Among my leaves in times out of mind: I became a rush that horses tread: I became . a man, a hater of the wind, Knowing one, out of all things, alone, that his head May not lie on the breast nor his lips on the hair Of the woman that he loves, until he dies. 0 beast of the wilderness, bird of the air, Must I endure your amorous cries? William Butler Yeat's poem "He thinks of his Past Greatness when a Part of the Constellations of Heaven" is a poem which is hard to understand on the intellectual level but which strikes deeply into the human heart. What stands out in the poem more than anything else upon a first reading is the tone, and the meaning itself is dependent upon the tone. The poem is sad. It is not raging, burning, passionate grief, but more gentle, implacable sorrow--embers of grief which will never go but will remain, ceaseless and unchanging. The very first hint of sadness occurs in the title; someone who has become a constellation, who has become part of heaven, is thinking not of present glory but of past greatness. The feeling is then brought out more in individual lines of the poem. In the second line, the second word is "weep." This, a tangible and open expression of sorrow, is coupled with "because I know all things now" and as such furthers the sadness. It is a human desire, wish, aim, to know, and this knowledge makes the line sad in two senses: first, things that are learned can be sorrowful and second, in the deeper way the fulfillment of a dream can be sad, even painful. Sadness occurs too in the fact that knowing all things, the speaker is no longer human; he is something different. With knowledge, humanity is lost, and that is reason for grief. In this line, there is regret, regret for having "drunk ale from the Country of the Young" and thus learned all things, leaving no mysteries or secrets, and regret for the actual things learned. The relationship between knowledge and sorrow is expressed in another manner in the seventh through tenth lines: I became a man, a hater of the wind, Knowing one, out of all things, alone, that his head May not lie on the breast nor his lips on the hair Of the woman that he loves, until he dies. 8 9 �Here the knowledge is of only one thing, yet that thing--loneliness--is so great, so powerful, that it brings sadness. The sadness is felt not only by the speaker, is not only empathetic grief for the poet, but is a reawakening of individual, human sorrow; everyone has known loneliness and estrangement. Indeed, the word that those four lines focus on is "alone." It is difficult to tell from the grammar of the eighth line whether "alone" modifies "one" or "man," but this difficulty is exactly the purpose of the vague syntactical structure: "alone" applies to both. The one thing a man knows is that he is alone. WP.ether a man or not a man, knowledge brings grief. The last two lines, "O beast of the wilderness, bird cf the air, must I endure Being a your amorous cries?" are an expression of the sorrow, a plea for surcease. man, he is denied the love and the companionship that the beasts have, and this brings grief and pain , pain that others have what he does not . The cry is not one of Even taken by themjealousy or anger, but of helplessness and deep loneliness. selves, the lines are sad, and as the last two lines of a sad poem, they round out the grief and the sorrow. Sadness is not the only emotion expressed in the poem, however . Another is one of captivity, of helplessness. This is evident not only in the language but in the structure of the poem; it has a fairly rigid ABABCDCDEFEF rhyme scheme, the only appropriate rhyme being between "mind" in the fifth line and "wind" in the seventh . Although the rhyme scheme is no t the most dominant expression of captivi t y , it serves to lock in the feelings and reinforce the captivity present in the imagery . The very first image of captivity occurs in the first line, "I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young . " Ale from the Country of the Young is ale which controls and changes a person, and although the drinking itself may have been volitional, the effects of the drink are beyond the power of the drinker . It is a subtle image, one which does not present itself at first for what i t is , but which sets the captive tone for the rest of the poem. The very next two images presented, the hazel-tree and the rush, are images of captivity or helplessness. In the lines I have been a hazel-tree, and they hung The Pilot Star and Crooked Plough Among my leaves in time out of mind the haze-tree is not acting but being acted upon . Long ago the tree stood, and the stars were hung by some unknown "they" amidst its boughs; it did not hang the ' stars itself, or even choose which one were hung. It stood and was used . Likewise the ru sh is helpless; "horses tread" it . A ho rse is an image of freed om , of wild grace , and the rush is that which is repressed, pushed down by the free. Like the t r ee, the rush is a passive, emotionless thing of nature which is only acted upon. And then there is the man, "a hater of the wind . " This hatred is a rejection of and resentment of freedom. Wind is wild, powerful, reckless, goes where it wills when it wills. Wind can destroy, wreak havoc, ruin. It is uncontrolled. One who hates the wind hates that total, raw power and does not know the exhilarating joy present in a wind dashing wildly through the trees. Unrestrained and unrestricted, the wind is a symbol of all that is free and of all that that freedom means. Hating what is free, the man is not free. The final image of captivity is expressed, like the sorrow, in the plea of the last two lines. The beast and the bird are like the horse and the wind; they are free, unfettered. It is to the "beast of the wilderness." the animal that lives wild, subject to no rule but its own, and to the bird of the air," that animal which lives among the wind, that the plea is addressed; these things which can love are free, and which are free, can love. Nor is the object of the plea the only way that 10 captivity is expressed; the word "endure" is one which applies to a prisoner. One who is free would not have to endure the amorous cries; one who is free could leave, or could vanquish the cries. But that the cries are endured is an indication that they cannot be escaped. Sadness and captivity are the dominant emotions, the first impressions which leap from the words into the heart. These are what the spirit understands. But there are things underlying these emotions, reasons for them, and they are buried deeper in the poem. Even understanding the tone, the poem itself is still an unresolved puzzle. There are two questions which seem to contain the core of the matter. The first involves the "Past Greatness" anrl the second the separation of the man from the woman he loves until after death. There is sadness involved in both questions, and a sense of being trapped. " Past Greatness" seems to refer to being a hazel-tree, a rush, and a man. These are all things which have been, which the speaker became, which are no longer, and for which there is some grief . None of them seems particularly great, yet there is reason for sorrow; they have one thing which a constellation does not. They have life. A hazel-tree and a rush have sprung from the earth, have been nurtured by the sun and the water and the soil, have grown and changed and developed and will continue to do so. Attached, they belong to the world and to each other and to all living things. They may be helpless, they may be controlled, but they belong, and this in its own way is far greater than being a constellation, fixed, immutable and completely unconnected. Better to have the stars amongst one's leaves than to be a star; for a star is not alive. In a way, the constellation is even more a captive than the rush and the tree, and this too is reason for sorrow. And why a man? What greatness is there in being a man, in hating the wind, in knowing one terrible thing? There seems to be no inherent greatness but inherent grief in this. Yet, there is something in the man which is as great as or greater than the hazel-tree and the rush. Perhaps it is as with the rush and the hazel-tree. Living, no matter how terribly, is greater than being a constellation. However, it seems that there must be something deeper than that. A man is not so connected to the earth and to the world as a plant or even a wild animal is. In addition to living, a man thinks and knows. Feeling sorrow, feeling captivity, are things which a man can do and a rush cannot. It is these, the feeling and thinking as well as the living and connecting, which make a man great. It is a sad, painful, captive existence, but it is an existence which is unique and wonderful. That seems to give some answer, inadequate though it may be, to the first question, the question of "Past Greatness." The second question, the question of love, still remains. Why cannot a man be with the woman he loves until he dies? The most simplistic, obvious answer--the woman he loves is already dead--just does not seem to do. The loneliness is part of it. The loneliness is two-fold in nature; first, the man is lonely because he cannot be with the woman he loves, but second, he cannot be with the woman because he is by nature alone. Only in death can the solitude of self be broken. This part of human nature, this loneliness, exists in several different ways. The human race itself is separate from other animals and from nature by means of language and rational thought and technology. Other animals have societies, forms of communication and of tools, but none so sophisticated, and no other animal can change the face of the earth in the way a human being can. This separates the human animal from the earth and from the other animals; to be human is to be separate. Further, every individual is alone. The soul of each person is unique. At the 11 �very center of the self is something which only one's own soul, and sometimes not ev en that, can understand. There is separation from other people and even from oneself. No thing, not even love, can cause the centers of two individ~al souls to ~oin­ c ide, and in s ome deep, almost terrifying way, every human soul is always solitary and l one l y. This seems to be the loneliness Yeats is expressing. . To say that a man cannot be physically close to the woman he loves is, on the literal leve l , r i diculous . Bu t it is metaphorically quite true; the laying of the head on the br east or t he lips on the hair are metaphors for human companionship, for unity, for mind t o heart and speech to thought. Only after death, when humanity is exchange d f or s ometh ing e l se, can such companionship be. The knowledge the man has is the knowl edge of his own loneliness ; he is captured by his very nature. What, then, is the meaning of the poem? It certainly cannot be captured in one single sentence or phrase . The essence of it is both sorrow for loneliness , and lack of free dom , but a l s o the greatness of life itself . The poem has to do with the struggle to find one's place in the world , and with the pain that knowledge brings, wh ether it be knowled ge only of one's nature or of all things. More than anything else, it shows the paradox of humanity: how hard but how essential it is to be human, how painful and how great , how separate and how connected. And this seems to be why the tone, expressed through images, is und erstood before the reasons underlying the tone. The poem is the speech of one human to another, the expression of common feelings. And so, like the human soul , the poem is a paradox; by its expression of human l oneline s s, it t ouches human connectedness. Thus there is greatness to think of wh en a Part of the Constellations of Heaven. A Partial Defense of Viconian Etymology and Tour Guide to Southern Maryland Christopher Bailey Preface By the terms ordinary etymology, scientific etymology, etc., I mean the use of scientific rules of word-mutation and language comparison to trace the development of wo r ds. Or at least I mean something like that. Any other words I use ought to be comprehensible from the context in which I use them; it's very likely that there ar e some which aren't, but I can't think of everything. The fundamental argument of this pape r is that ordinary etymology is not ade quate for the complete understanding of a word's history, and of its effect on the people who speak the language of which it is part; and that therefore Vico's attention to superficial similarities in words should not be lightly dismissed. This brief prefatory statement may be used as a map and compass to guide the reader out of the dar k and trackless digressions which lie in his way , and which might otherwise persuade him that the author of this essay has never quite decided what he's talking about . "Port Tobacco," says the Maryland Writers' Project guide to Maryland, "was the most important of the many Maryland ports on the Potomac ruined by the silting up of the creek at its landing. Made the seat of Charles County in 1658, it continued to be the center of the county government until La Plata developed around the new railroad down the peninsula. The Indians also considered it a desirable village site, as Captain John Smith's map shows; and by 16Rl it had enough settlers to be the scene of the uprising of Kendall's followers . " The name "Port Tobacco" is not a terribly unlikely one for a colonial Maryland port town, since tobacco was probably Maryland's most important export. But Captain Smith's map shows an Indian village on the same site before any English settlers had planted themselves there . One might have expected the Indian name of the town to survive, as the names of other Indian towns did in Maryland, and as the name of the river on which Port Tobacco was built-- the Potomac -- survived. I n fact the Indian name did survive. For these were the Potopago tribe. Their name was attached to their town, and when the English began to settle there, it was rapidly corrupted into its present form . It was quite natural for it to be so corr upted . The wonder would be, if anyone who was not making a special effort to speak distinctly should mention a tobacco port called Potopago, that any ordinary listener should not understand him to have called it Port Tobacco. Now, if one wanted to t r ace the etymology of the name Port Tobacco, one might go about it in the normal way . One might first look up port, and find that the Rev. Dr. Skeat tr aces i t back to the Latin portus , closely allied to porta, from conj e ctur al root par, to pass through, and thus eventually related to English fare. Then one could' do the same for tobacco (where one would have less luck, since, the word being derived from a West Indian language, its ultimate roots are inaccessible to the Rev . Skeat). One could do all that, and one would be no closer to the truth than when one started. Obviously, without the critical knowledge that the place was originally a Potopago Indian town, any derivation of its name will be at best only partly correct: 12 13 �And then, not much later (869) : "Tradition says that Homer was blind and that from his blindness he took his name , which in the Ionic dialect means blind . " If Vico is, as he seems to be, offering each of these as the derivation of Homer ' s name, t hen he ha s certainl y contradicted himsel f . The most f undamenta l laws of logic would seem to insist that only one of the t wo could be t r ue. Possibly Vico, composing these paragraphs at different times, didn't notice the cont radiction : perhaps one derivation seemed right to him the first time, and then later the other. But he did let both stand in the third edition . There are infinitely many other possible explanations of Vice's mo t ive in giving these two different derivations, but, skipping entirely the question of Vice's real motive, I shall try to invent a plausible defense for him . , If Vico acutally has discovered the true Homer in the Greek people themselves , then there must be some reason why the name Homer was associated with the Iliad and Odyssey , and not the name Orpheus or Dobzhans~In fact , we must look for~ason why any name at all was given for the author of these poems , when their real author was a whole nation. / Perhaps Homer became a so r t of poetic universal for epic poe t, as Hercules for strength or Achilles for swiftness, because there was once a rhapsode named Homer who was extraordinarily good at rhapsodizing . Thus, in the same way that stor ies-a~ su- perhuman strength might come to be associated with the name Hercules, eventually giving us a Hercules who travelled to all places at all times and did just about everything; so epic poe t ry of great quality might become associa t ed wi t h the name Homer. But even if this we re the true explanation, it might not quite explain why the name of Homer and not that of some equally proficient rhapsode became the poetic universal . In the case of He rcules, the name itself had significance . Perhaps it was thus in the case of Home r . Let us suppose that there are two rhapsodes in ancient Gre e ce, both equally admired; one of them is named Homer , the other Dobzhansky . Now, to the Greek ear, Dobzhansky might not suggest much . But Homer--Homer is a name fraught with associations . An Ionian would immediately hear the word as blind, and immediately would remember the rhapsodes he had known who were , if we can believe Vico (who takes his evidence from Homer), conrrnonly blind. The name would seem as appropriate as some I have noticed in businesses in Inverness, Florida, where on the same street one can find Grumbling Motors, Crook Real Estate, and Hood Bail Bonds . Those names don't slip out of memory easily . I can't remember the name of any other bail bondsman , though I have doubtless seen many who displayed prominent advertising signs; but the name of Hood Bail Bonds is ineradicably stamped in my memory. Similarly, one who happened to be thinking of the strung- together aspect of the rhapsodes' tales might be led to hear, though perhaps not altogether consciously , hom' eirein when the name Homer was spoken . If an English speaker heard of a poet name Stringtale, he might hav e the same reaction. Just so the name Shakespeare often suggests to us, without our being aware of it , a vigorous, thunderous, rugged sort of drama that a name like Jonson doesn't suggest . (In fact some of his contemporaries made the most of Shakespeare's name, believing that entirely too much spear- shaking went on in his plays) . In the same way, some theorists have suggested, any person's name carries with it a package of vague associations which partly determine the way we react to the person who carries the name . I have heard of some studies which seemed to indicate that school teachers had pr edetermined conceptions of their student s acco r d i ng t o the students' names . And I remember how I was often shocked in elementary school when I learned a teacher's first name . (She didn't seem like a Mavis to me, I might explain . ) Now , or dinar ily these associations of names with character types migh t be specific to me only, depending , perhaps , on events in my individual experience . (I might , for example , have known a Mavis in early childhood.) But there might be certain cases in which the name was likely to produce a similar group of associations in all the members of a certain culture--as Mr. Hood, Mr. Grumbling, and Ms. Crook can probably attest . This might especially he the case when the name resembled some common word or set of words . Contrast the effect of the name Homer with t he effect of Dobzhansky , and i t seems obvious why Homer would become the poetic universal and Dobzhansky would be forgotten . Homer simply suggests poet, and suggests it in more than one way . Thus Vico' s two "derivations" of the name Homer both would add to our understanding of how that name came to be associated with the author of t he world's greatest epics . As derivations in the strictest sense, they might not be historically correct, but they might help explain why the name was applied as it was in the same way that a knowledge of the meanings of port and tobacco helped explain the name Port Tobacco, t hough his t ory may t ell us that t he name is actual l y a corr up t ion ---of Potopago. And for that reason that one "derivation" need not exclude the other . For both may have operated on the common sense of the Greek people in driving them to select Homer as the name of their national poet. What is true for names we might suspect of being t rue for any word. For we find we have more to explain, even in ordinary wor ds , than simply how a basic root was changed into its modern form . Knowing the etymology of the word lift or the parts 14 15 for it would be misleading to give a derivation based on the meanings of the words in the name without noting that those words only came to be assigned to that place through corruption of its Indian name. On the other hand, it would be equally misleading to say that the name is a simple corruption of the name Potopago without taking into account the meanings of the words port and tobacco. For the town was a port where tobacco was shipped, and that is why the corruption arose in the first place. It would be just as useless to study the etymological history of the name !'_~!~p_ago as i t was to study the histories of port and tobacco. What is most necessary is an understanding of the conditions which led to the choice of the name Port Tobacco for that particular place. In his New Science, Giambattista Vico often uses the etymology of a word as part of his argument. He doesn't seem to have much of a method for his derivations: the one facto r c ommon t o mo st of them is incorrectness . If Vico wants to say that a certain word actually developed in history in a certain way, he ought to have some sci entific methods for determining that development . Otherwise he should keep his mouth shut. At least, that would be my attitude as a twentieth- century admirer of the accomplishments of scientific etymology . But Vico may not have seen etymology quite the way I do. He certainly was not aware of the scientific methods which came into use after he was dead. But he may not have had in mind the same purpose I have when I search for the one true historical root of a word . Anyone who pays attention to the etymologies in the New Science is bound to no tice that, within a few pages, Vico gives two entirely different derivations for Homer's name. First he says (852), By the etymology of their name from the two words which compose it, rhapsodes we.re stitchers together of songs , and these songs they must certainly have collected from none other than their own peoples . Similarly [the common noun] homeros is said to have come f r om homou, "togethe r ," and eir e in, "to link," thus signifying a guarantor, as being one who binds creditor and debtor to gether. This derivation is as far - fetched and forced [when applied to a guarantor] as it is natural and proper when applied to our Homer ci.s a tier or putter together of fables. 1 �from which elevator was coined will not explain to us why the first is used in one part of the English- speaking world and the second in another . The same goes fo r lorry and truck . or solici t o r and lawye r; and, taking a broader look way and chemin, since French and English are supposed to be derived from the same ultimate source . Why does one society choose one root to build its ways on and anothe r choose another? I have often heard it asked why the same word should have different meanings , but it seems to me just as interesting to ask, Why does the same meaning have different words? Ordinary scientific etymology is of no use in answering this question. A new etymological science would be needed to supplement the old. Perhaps no science at all could be adequate: perhaps thjs is a field for wild speculation . . I don't ordinarily like wild speculation as a method for finding answers to important questions, bu t i t i s a t l east mor e u s e f u l he r e t h an t h e o r dinar y etymolo gy . The r ules of vowel- shifting and consonant mutation and such are simply not applicable to this ques tion: one might ·as well try to answer it by referring to a yardstick or Ptolemy's Table of Chords. The laws of etymology have been spectacularly successful in showing the historical mutations of words; now what we need is a sort of transcendental etymology to fill out the picture. We already practice this transcendental etymology, although we really have no method for it. If we ask why the word ~ as a synonym for ~ has almost disap peared from our spoken language, no rules of word- mutation will give us an answer . Rut we probably can answer the question for ourselves by pointing out that the word has come into use as a synonym for homosexual, and that in our society homosexuality is an embarrassing subject . We used no scientific procedures to dete r mine that answer: it simply seems obvious to us from what we know of American society . Vice's method of etymology seems to us today to be crude and sloppy . And it is . For I believe Vico usually wants to tell us the way a word historically developed , and modern scholars could off er very convincing proofs of the wrongheadedness of most of his derivations . But perhaps in back of Vice's mind there was an unformed idea or assumption that the true histo r ical development of a wo r d was not its only important story--and perhaps not its most important for his purposes. The similarity of one word to another to which it bears no historical relation might in fact have a great effect on the use of both words, and might not otherwise be associated. Modern etymology might tend to persuade us to ignore such similarities as mere coincidences, but they ought not to be so easily tossed aside. I regret that I am completely unable to provide a scientific method for dealing with such similarities when they are noticed; but we should not close our eyes to extra-etymological considerations when non-etymological relations suggest themselves. And therefore we should not pass over Vic o' s "der ivations" as if the y were mere emb arrassments . M any of them may be totally worthless, but in some of them may lurk a social truth inaccessible to scientific Distance #2 Stacy Grimes ,, 0 wet day blanket-of-deep - forest - green day steam, my body is spice tea, I curl I am the Sun the Center, heat I am pulling o tugging o Venus I want smashed into betwixt me to be me but all and every ring around me rosy. Stasis, stance in this and in all wet days I am the Sun o shining Sun. etymology; and if he uncovered even one such truthrthen Vico's wild speculations were not entirely in vain . 16 17 �Chicago Labyrinth Ellen Schwindt feet thud on wettish concrete slabs of buildings building song no rhythm is forced by metronome of traffic light the loop rumbles softly a lofty thought sways in blue chiffon dances a spectral jazz sandal softens upon the area above my head my foot sweeps into someone else's space no one screams for air accepts suffocation with welcome coffee yes please lines becomes a sweeping ellipse of warmth dark purple apathy to fluorescence Emily creeps around the fringes repeating the bit about frogs unintelligably through saxophone slur of brown corner booths tea and roses drifting darkness is becoming sweeping around mouths open in effort to breath thick air eyes swell to almost open ended corridors of sea fog fading black 19 �Origins of Cohesive Thought Lawrence Seidl INTRODUCTION Philosophy is an analytic endeavor. It takes things apart and looks at them, and in a way this artificial mental reading irrevocably changes the things it looks at. One never loses the insights that are gained through philosophical analysis. Even if one chooses to give up philosophy, the pursuit of its questions leaves an indelible impression--i ts effect, as belonging to one's experience, is present in every subsequent endeavor. Perhaps the only real philosophical synthesis available to humanity is the acceptance of the ever more potently described limits of thought that thought itself struggles with. The acceptance might lead one to leave the study of philosophy and to incorporate it simply and completely, living the question rather than asking it. But here the challenge is in the asking. The question that brought me to this paper was: What is in the "space" between the steps in a logical sequence? The question forces me immediately to look a.t the language that such a series could be described in. Say, for example, that I examine a series of statements and judge that they follow logically, one after another. It is the logical rigor of the series that I am concerned with testing, and not the content of each statement, which, as language, depends on the rules of linguistic construction . How am I testing the logical rigor of the sequence, what do I mean by logical? This is a basic question, asked in simple language. "What I mean by logic" is an expression for one thing. It is the thing to which we refer when we use the word logic. We think of it usually as a criterion by which we judge . thought as ''making sense'i. Kant says, the science of the rules of understanding in general, that is, logic." Any series of statements seems susceptible to being made more logically coherent and rigorous, by filling in the "spaces" between with other statements, making a new series which more thoroughly explicates the necessity of the steps. The aim of this would be to understand better. This filling in can go on until it becom~s ridiculous--the understanding that resulted from the initial series becomes confused and the process begins describing itself. Language, when its logic comes into question, begins justifying itself, turning inward, and describing its own limits. Logic is not language--it is independent of its description. We can make a progression more logical with language, but we are limited by the dependen~that language has on logic. At a certain point, we will use up the empirical content; no more actual detail will be available. The logic of the progression will remain unexplica ted, and we will be left only with an unsupportable affirmation of the necessity of logically stepwise movement. For Kant, considering a series of statements as f o llowing logically is an example of the subsumption of the concepts contained in the statements by pure, a priori concepts of the understanding , that is, categories. His assertion is that this subsumption is necessary if there is to be any thought at all. In order to substantiate this assertion by showing it is logically correct, and thereby proving it is true, it would seem that he must explicate the necessity of the categories for thinking. Now the idea that thinking must be proved categorical is itself a categorical 20 thought. "The co~plet~ness and. art.iculation of this system [of pure understanding] can at the stme time yield a criterion of the correctness and genuineness of all its components-." On the face of it, categorical necessity wouldn't seem sufficient to prove that thought is categorical, just as language, a logical construct, doesn't ultimately serve to explicate logic. Logic and categorical necessity themselves require to be made necessary by something more coherent and more necessary from which they can derive their power. ' The search for this ground can take place only on the edge of meaningful language. The language of the search ts admittedly insufficient for the task of explaining its quarry, and at some crucial moments must rely on its ability to point, to imply the ultimate coherence and necessity that must validate thought. Kant's own language suffers these weaknesses, and yet it resounds with the power of its rational intent. The completeness and coheTence of the system speak for the power, while at certain points the rules of language represent an obstruction to Kant ' s clarity o f intention. The ultimately coherent source of logical necessity is the synthetic unity of apperception. In trying to make this unity an "object" of my thought, I must, it seems, deny the use of those elements of thought which depend on it for the necessity of their existence. This puts me very near the "I", in the immediate logical vicinity of the noumenal center of my being. It makes me feel alone. In what follows, I have presumed to begin with unity, itself the seemingly logical beginning of thought. I have attempted to explore Kant's treatment of this function of unity, and to give a sense of where we are in relation to the "I" we cannot know. I. A. Preliminary and purposely naive examination of the relation between unity and thought. Reason is the unified faculty which binds our mental activity into what we call thought. Its singularity reflects the unity of the thinking subject in which it is housed. Reason views the subject's body of knowledge as one comprehensive thing, a manifold of systems of understanding, each of which contains subordinate systems of concepts. Since systems and the concepts are themselves considered as whole things, this suggests that the manifold into which reason unifies them need not be considered as a whole at every moment in our thought. We are not thinking all our knowledge at all times. Our body of knowledge, and the subordinate wholes within it, are all susceptible to analysis. Indeed, the large encompassing order that reason prescribes is its fullest end, and we rarely have any sight of its oneness. This is because our understanding does not always succeed in its effort to secure fully unified concepts. We possess concepts which seem incomplete. They contain strongly associated impressions but their boundaries are not clear, and they are thus not fully unified. These concepts present problems to reason's goal of unity. Since reason is a faculty acting on already unified wholes, a question presents itself. What is the relation between the unity of the concepts considered as parts, and the unity of the system of reason? Do the unities we see in each share a common source? Thinking of reason as subsuming the understanding, fully contained and extended within itself, we may also consider both faculties as concentric around a central unity, from which the unity of each is derived. Since concepts are ultimately formed from the chaotically independent world of pre-appearance, and therefore rely on a unification of these jumblings for their wholeness, they require that the unifying source be active continually during this nearly constant process. Making concepl tual ones out of the chaotic many, and then organizing the ones into a rational manifold we identify as ours, seems to be the general character of thought. I Reason thinks ideas, which incorporate intuitions and concepts. Reason is thus a higher faculty than sensible intuition or understanding. But it is -e ssential tb I 21 �see the dependence of reason on these subordinate faculties. It does not depend on them for its existence, but it needs the concepts they produce to carry out its function, so as to be useful to the subject. Intuition and understanding, considered with regard to this use, are in reason, and their functions are part of reason's own usefulness. All three faculties rely on unity. Pure reason is in fact occupied with nothing but itself. It can have no other vocation. For what is given to it does not consist in objects that have to be brought to the unity of the empirical concepts, but in those modes of knowledge supplied by the understanding that require to be brought to the unity of the concept of reason--that is, to unity of connection according to a principle. The unity does not serve objectively as a principle that extends the application of reason to objects, but subjectively as a maxim that extends its application to all possible empirical 3 knowledge of objects. This subjective maxim of systematic unity is an idea that belongs to the thinking subject. It is an idea that can apply only to knowledge. Without a unifying faculty of understanding, we would never coalesce the manifold of the sensible impressions that constitute Kant's "beginning" of all knowledge. The thinking subject first intuits, then thinks concepts through understanding, and then orders his thought through the unifying function of reason. We must look to the subject for the unity upon which the elements of this process depend. This assertion presupposes an important question: how does the unity, which I assert to be central to the nature and activity of thought, relate to my concept of unity? This echoes Kant's criterion for determining a given concept to be synthetic. "The question is not what we ought to join in t,fought to a given concept, but what we actually think in it, even if only obscurely." If what we actually think in a concept is a manifold, and can thus be separated or analyzed, the "what we think" has a two-sided existence. On the one hand it is many, on the other it is one. As a concept, it is synthetic if we are aware that the two sides are required to be put to gether . The many impressions have somehow been previously conjoined into a manifold . If I ask myself what I actually think in my concept of unity, that is, what kind of synthesis resulted in my concept, I become confused. The question loses meaning because I fail to find a coherent concept of unity in my thought. Examples of unity pour forth, empirical and partitive. I am unable to gather them. Soon I see myself thinking, over against the lot of united things thought. This serves to point out ~ oneness in a comparative way. My failure to find unity as a concept, does not prevent me from thinking of myself as one, more truly one than any other example I have. Is my own unity also my concept of unity? To answer this question, I must analyze my thought without the benefit of Kant's system. I can't think about my thought through his system without first determining my own relation to it. According to Kant, I can have no empirical experience of unity. I can have experience only of concepts arising from sensibility, which are possible in part because of the category of unity. The category is at work each time I am conscious of a given representation. But what do I think about unity, what notion do I hav e of it that allows me to hope to apply Kant's ideas in my thought? It is appropriate here to be somewhat naive, and briefly to follow my sense of being pushed back from the empirical experience . of the cohesive aggregations we loosely term "unities", to the reasons why we do so. In the second paragraph of the Introduction to the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant distinguishesr: empirical knowledge from "what our own faculty of knowledge supplies 22 ·~ from itself ."5 His cautions against the error of deducing necessity from examples ot experience are frequent and numerous. This suggests that Kant wants to remind not only the reader, but himself as well, that care must be taken to limit consideration of the role of necessity to the realm of pure thought. As creatures in the world, we don't often need to question the truth of appearances. We treat objects as things entirely knowable in themselves, even as we contemplate the inherent error of so doing. If we look at the process of our giving up on the hope that experience can illuminate the character of unity, perhaps we can reveal something about the way we come to see unity as crucial to thought in general. · Strictly speaking, we don't see unity in experience, but rather unification, or the results of processes of unification. In the first case we see the actual "bringing together" of diverse empirical elements into a "whole". In the second case we see the "whole", and its composition is apparent to us by analysis. In the world of objects treated as things knowable in themselves, unification is the process whereby individuals are grouped. This results either in an aggregation in which the individuals are judg.ed as sharing an identical quality, or in a system where the individuals are seen as complementary elements of a unique singularity. The description of the simple aggregation can serve as a general description of any of its members. Similarly, the end toward which the system-group is aimed is greater than any of the diverse purposes of the complementary parts. In both instances, the parts are more effectively comprehended. Our thinking, which was scattered because it had to address many thing, gains cohesion and power by our gathering them into encompassing wholes. Next we may notice in gathering individuals into unified groups we do not negate their individuality. The unified groups strive to imitate the cohesion of the individuals they contain, which are always simpler than the groups. This pushes our thought into the regressive exploration of increasingly simpler wholes. Our empirical examples fail to show us unity, because the successively simpler wholes contain parts that can in turn be analyzed. We are forced to explore unity in thought. A purposely naive retracing of the path that we take in moving from the awareness of empirical unification and the power it seeks to secure, back into the necessary principle of unity in thought, mirrors what must have been the philosophical preparation for the writing of tht Critique. "There can be no doubt that all our knowledge begins with experience." This first sentence of the introduction to the Critique reveals Kant's awareness that he must subsume empiricism in stepping away from it. There can be no doubt that man's first knowledge comes from an unexamined process of acquisition. Kant knew that he normally treated objects the way we all do. His initial examination of experiential knowledge must have involved basic questions, and threatened ( at least initially) his confidence in the "reality" of the world. Ultimately his philosophy does not ask us to change our physical relation to objects; but it does demand that we recognize "reality" as a subjective idea. The empiricists were confident that their observations were undeniably objectively real, and that unerring logic following from these observations taken as principles could not fail to be correct. Kant ushered in transcendental philosophy by simply asking how they observed, how they thought, and from that, how observation and thinking are possible. I. B. Discussion of the presuppositions behind considering experience to be the beginning of knowledge. The assertion that all our knowledge begins with experience only seems possible after an extended analysis of the faculty of understanding. It presumes a specific definition of knowledge as relying on concepts, which are themselves defined as the reproducible representations of manifolds in intuition. The statement also therefore 23 �presumes that the understanding is the faculty which makes concepts. The beginning described above is a temporal one, where perhaps the connotation of origin is missed. It cannot be otherwise, since time is the form of all intuition, the root of knowledge~ but the awareness of this temporal beginning presupposes analysis of understanding. It is the first sentence of the Critique. It has been placed there for a specific reason. We must transcend this temporal beginning, and examine the analysis from which it results. Consideration of the presuppositions involved in Kant's assertion that experience must be the temporal beginning of knowledge, helps to reveal the logical convolution of the Critique's explication. Logical analysis reveals sensible intuition as the temporal beginning of possible knowledge. For this reason, the Critique begins its explication with an analysis of sensible intuition. Logic reveals intuition as the source of knowledge. Logic is a faculty which lends necessity to the movement of thought. Thus intuition is revealed as the necessary beginning of the process of acquiring knowledge. We may acquire knowledge that begins with intuition, without explicating this process to ourselves. Logic then simply works in us unanalyzed. We treat our intuitions as given and from them determine what logically follows. But when we wish to explicate the workings of the process, this is, to say what in us receives impressions, and what we do with them, etc., we are faced with the problem of explicating necessity. In effect, logic is then led to explicate itself, its function of lending necessity. A further complication is the fact that the language of the explication depends on logic for its capacity to ''make sense''. The logically derivative, complex rules of syntax must constitute the form of an explication of the most basic beginning of logic. What approach can we make to the explication of logic? The Critique is Kant's offering to us in our predicament, the result of his sharing our dilemma. It can only have followed in the wake of the incisive questions which carry it along. Our initial attempt to judge his rigor, his logic, his depth, consists of trying it on. That is, we try to think as he does. As a result of this effort we come to a point where we rely heavily on the prefacing remark , "Kant would say . • • " , in answering philosophical questions put to us. We give Kant permission to answer for us. The temptation and indeed (if we want to know his thought) necessity of this "trying on" is analogous to the aforementioned unanalysed acquisition of knowledge. We read Kant and accept him, working to give the system its full due. We do not isolate clearly and methodically the concepts that we understand arising from the book, but we do generate them, as unquestioningly as we avoid cars in the street. As we grow comfortable with the Critique, we disentangle ourselves, achieve some distance, and try to figure out what we think about it. · · •t We apply his method to his own system, once we can b egin t o " p 1 ace " 1 , o r glimpse its collective rational unity. The above description of our familiarization process , could perhaps be generalized into a description of familiarization in general. But the fundamental character of Kant's subject matter puts limits on the process of looking within his system. We want to go beyond an unquestioning acceptance, to a full explication of the necessity, carried to its original source. This "source" may well be seen as the true beginning" of knowledge. As it is the source of logical necessity, it is also a limit to the logical process of validating philo sophical systems. II. A. Dependence of e ach stag e of the analysi s of und e rstanding on the u nity it reveals as its highest principle. This paper began by discussing reason as the unifier of and of possible knowledge. We think of the expression "what only one thing, albeit comprehensive. Kant terms this aspect unity", and he relates it directly to the unifying capacity of 24 our body of knowledge we know" as intending of reason "systematic the faculty of under- standing. Just as the understanding unifies the manifold in the object by means of concepts~ so reason unifies the manifold of concepts by means of ideas, positing a certain collective unity as the goal of the activities of the understandi~, which otherwise are concerned solely with distributed unity.' ., This collective unity is the totality of possible knowledge, and it apparently re flects the unity of the understanding which facilitates the generation of concepts . The Critique of Pure Reason is. distinguished from the system of pure retson since it does not claim to offer the "exhaustive application of such an organon." Rather, it seeks to delimit completely the principles of a priori synthesis. Two results of a priori synthesis are possible: the form of possible manifold in intuition, or a body of ·a priori knowledge based on pure concepts of the understanding. The first synthe sis is temporally prior in relating to acutal experience, but depends on the logical ly prior possibility of the second synthesis. Pure concepts of understanding must relate a priori to objects, but their exisfcrnce, Kant says, already presupposes the combination attributable to a higher unity. [Combination] .•• is an affair of the understanding alone, which itself is nothing but the faculty of combining a priori and of bringing the manifold of given representations under the [systematic] unity of apperception. The principle of apperceptioIJ.. is 1 the highest principle in the whole sphere of human knowledge. This lofty evaluation of the synthetic unity of apperception may seem surprising, since we associate it with concepts of understanding rather than with the disjunctively considered, "higher" sphere of pure reason . It is often difficult to retain the awareness of reason as the legislator of thought . This is because we are normally put upon by need and see legislative function only when we reflect op the 2 "how" of thinking. Reason itself supplies the principles of understanding, of which the highest is t he unity of apperception. This high principle of knowledg e alone can reflect the systematic unity of pure reason, whose ideal end is the totality of all possible knowledge . But this is a statement of its stature and is not illuminating as to the nature of the principle . Our initial , more naive conception of the shared unity at the center of thought was based on the dependence of reason on understanding and intuition. We imagined t he subordinate faculties as contained within the faculty of r eason . In makin g such a formulation, we abstracted from the movement in the process of acquiring knowledge to a fixity of the interrelation of the elements of our mental activity. I suggest that Kant's description of the .;3.cquisition of knowledge arose from an analytic and methodical questioning of empiricism, which centered around a complaint that it lacked explicit logical necessity and didn't address the condition of its thought. The original synthetic unity of apperception is the ultimate yield of Kant, s rational analysis of the possibility of understanding. When we have it revealed, we have attained the abstract fixity in which all the fundamental elements of rational thinking are displayed before us . Their necessary order can only now be ascertained as truly necessary, since only by seeing its root in the principle of unity is cat egorical necessity even deemed possible. Once we have attained this high principle that lends necessity to the generation of concepts, we can look back at the process of its revealing , that is , the sections of the Critique prior to the Transcendental Deduction. We then see the dependence of each stage on the principle itself. In the first stage, the Transcendental Aesthetic, Kant is primarily concerned with estab- 25 �lishing space and time as the sole formal conditions of sensible intuition. "It is ... indubitably cerf~in that space and time ... are merely subjective conditions of all our intuitions." Kant's analysis of the faculty of receptivity thr ough which objects are given to us is the epitome of plausibility. He offers a complete argument for its acceptance, since our alternative of ascribing objective validity to space and time would be a relinquish::Lng of our ability to say "indubitably certain", that is, to prove the necessity in the relation of space and time to our intuition. But the completeness of the argument is not assured until we have gone further. This "indubitable certainty" is not explicitly possible until the ground of the necessity is revealed as the unity of apperception . "Time and space are therefore two sourcI~ of knowledge, from which bodies of a priori synthetic knowledge can be derived." Such bodies of a priori synthetic knowledge necessarily contain concepts derived from sources in intuition, and so establish these sources as indubitably certain and subjective. To question their necessity is equivalent to denying synthetic unity, and questions Kant's formulation of concept making. In the short introduction to the Transcendental Lo~, the understanding is designated as "spontaneity in the production of concepts," which it makes in conjunction with the other fundamental source of knowledge in the mind, the sensible intuition. Here, the two-fold role of logic that we have already described is made explicit. First, it must give necessity to the process of acquiring a priori knowledge; and second, it must reveal the source of this, its own necessity. This is the role of transcendental logic, which is distinguished from general logic in that it treats only of the a priori use of understanding. Empirical objects, even should they never vary in our experience, cannot be shown to exist necessarily. Their consistence in experience refers us to the subjective necessity that underlies the possibly of their being judged as unvarying . General logic, which supplies the rules under which these objects must be brought in the understanding, can therefore only treat of the form of thought, irrespective of its sensible content. But since a priori synthetic knowledge is available to us, a distinction might likewise be drawn between pure and empirical thought of objects. In that case we should have a logic in which we do not abstract from the entire content of knowledge. This other logic, which should contain solely the rules of the pure thought of an object, would exclude only those modes of knowledge which have empirical content. It would also treat of the origin of the modes in which we know objecr~' in so far as that origin cannot be attributed to the objects. · The origin of the modes of human knowledge is attributed to the thinking subject. Is this saying that knowledge derives from the knower? If appearances provide only the substance of knowledge, and in no way contribute to the actual modes of knowing, this would suggest that in the thinking subject alone are we to find the functional origin, or true beginning of thought. II. B. Transcendental Analysis purest concept. of understanding reveals synthetic unity as the The Transcendental Logic is divided into two sections, one of which, the Transcendental Dialectic, Kant claims to be "no more than a critical tre17ment of the pure understanding for the guarding of it against sophistical illusion.'' The first part, the Transcendental Analytic, is the more substantial, recognizably logical section. The initial book contains first, the exposition of the table of categories, or 26 pure concepts of understanding; and then the Transcendental Deduction, where the unif~ing function of the categories is made explicitly possible and necessary. The first book of the Transcendental Analytic contains what seems to be the essence of the Critique of Pure Reason . The analytic is an attempt to understand understanding Here is found the full force of the word "transcendental". Here is also felt th~ extreme limitation of words and language. If we think of the term "transcendental" as indicating movement out of a given mode into the understanding of its possibility, then what do we intend by the application of this "movement beyond" to the under standing itself? The determination of the system of concepts of pure understanding is an analysis which Kant does not describe. The system seems to yield itself to him effortlessly, through the act of his looking at understanding with only the aid of his concept of purity, which prevents his looking, as it were, from admitting any empirical blemish . What is Kant analyzing? We might offer some of his own words--he' s analyzing the faculty which generates concepts a priori--but are these words satisfying to the purity of what they intend? Kant's own description is equally troubling. By analytic concepts, I do not understand their analysis, or the procedure usual in philosophical investigations, that of dissect ing the content of such concepts as may present themselves, and so of rendering them more distinct; but the hitherto rarely at tempted dissection of the. faculty of undP-rstanding, itself, by looking for them in the understanding alone, f~ their birthplace, and by analyzing the pure use of the faculty . The analysis is explic itly a mere "looking" and yet it serves to "dissect" the under standing. What is intended by the two metaphors? "Looking" is that evaluation of the thinking self, in which we determine what concepts are available . They need to . . . . b e " soug ht II , t o f in d " p 1 ace ,, -- I can ' t seem to avoi d spatial analogies or of fer a description of what is intended by this process of "searching out'' the contents of a thinking faculty . It is a mental "searching" t o which we have such a simple relation that our need to employ analogical descriptions of it cannot tarnish the clarity of o u r th oug ht . "D. sec t. " is even more comp 1 ex as it presupposes the more specific . · is ing condition of the prior cohesion of the elements of understanding. It is the dissection of a faculty we must already "have" in its entirety. Th~s ~alls up t~9 distinction initiated in the Introduction between analytic and synthetic Judgments. There Kant claims that the effect of this distinction on philosophy has not been keenly felt before his own treatment of it. This is an important indication of the role that his analysis of thought occupies in his own mind . Analytic judgments, he says, can be thought of as explicative; while synthetic judgments should be termed ampliative. These words point to a question which becomes vital when thinking of the unity of apperception, namely, is one of the two kinds of judgments more necessary? The possibility of an analytic judgment depends on the existence of a concept that is unified, or has already been synthesized. All analysis then, is grounded by a priori synthesis. And while the determination of a concept as synthetic depends on the capacity to analyze it, it might be imagined that synthetic concepts could exist alone without any analysis possible. They would simply foster other synthetic concepts in one direction, that of a progressively more encompassing and complex concept. All learning would then be the building of a super-concept that contained all of an individual's knowledge. Analytic judgments, adding nothing to concepts, do not sit in the position of grounding synthetic ones. Thus the entire Transcendental Analytic presupposes a synthesized subject matter already existent. Since the actual steps in Kant's "analyzing the pure use of the faculty" of understanding, are not described, we are forced to trust that a synthesized 27 �ill understanding that must be presupposed is known to us so simply and fundamentally that it is indescribable and susceptible of an equally indescribable analysis. Upon presenting his table of categories, Kant says, This then is the list of all original pure concepts of synthesis that the understanding contains within itself a priori ..• by them alone can it understand anything in 2Be manifold of intuition, that is, think an object of intuition. The table is the result of the undescribed analysis. The next statement is an assertion of their fundamentality to thought. At this stage of the argument, Kant relies on the rigor of his preparation to make up for the "space" in between the categories and their function . The above statement is an encapsulation of the move from the analytic determination of what the categories are, to the analytic deduction of their indispensability, in which he set out to prove their uniqueness and exhaustiveness. "Concepts of synthesis" are principles of . the combination of the manifold in intuition. The possibility of combination is rooted in the original synthetic unity of apperception. In the same way that we presume as necessary a pure synthesized understanding whose analysis reveals the categories, so the syn the tic unity is described by Kant as an analytic proposition. We must be able to deduce a priori the form in which an object may be represented to us. Only by this will we be able to extend ne,cessity to the object, as known. Deduction is a logical process, and it is analytic. It has the character we looked at earlier, of "pushing" us back to necessary conditions. Since, in this case, all its movement is born of a priori necessity, Kant terms it a transcendental deduction. The necessity that this deduction pushes us back to is so pure as to validate the categories themselves. It is the source of their power to give cohesion to the chaos of pre-appearance. It is the purity in pure thought. The word "necessity" seems insufficient to its actual intended function. impossible bind? We feel the push of analysis, but we can't offer an illumination of the nature of the synthetic unity that is presupposed. We can only deduce that it must exist, and this deduction is the result of an analysis that began by looking at sensible intuition. I suggest that this whole preliminary analysis stands in need of the ultimate unity that it reveals as the limit and source of its own power. Here we feel both the push of analysis and the ultimate synthetic coherence of unity co- existing and giving rise to thought itself. In support of his attributing an analytic nature to the principle of synthetic unity, Kant makes the following statement: I am conscious of the self as identical in respect of the manifold of representations that are given to me in an intuition, because I call them one and all my repr1~entation, and so apprehend them as constituting one intuition. It seems that the unity is an analytic proposition because it serves only to explicate the thinking subject, not to join anything to the concept that we have of it . Looking at the language of the argument, I question whether there is any "rooul." for analysis in the simple realm where the unity exists; or whether anything is mo r1 e analytically appropriate than that my representations must be called mine. By analy\ sis, I identify my capacity to say "I think" as signaling a unity in my represent~r­ tions which must be the result or prior synthesis. Explication is often essential to understanding. Analysis, in the empirical world, would seem capable of providing more information to the mind than synthesis. Here, however, isn't analysis in an The analysis of any concept will result in a sequence of analytic judgments in which "I" am the judge, and I identify the elements of the judgment (subject and predicate) as ~ representations. In order that this be possible, we must conceive of the necessity that a synthesized , potentially divisible concept already be available, aris ing from the original unity. The formation of the above sentence is revealing. I am something because I do something. "I" both is and does, and its doing is a proof of its being. Upon whar-does this proof rely if we accept that we can have no knowledge of the "I" as it is in itself, but only as it appears? The synthetic unity of apperception is not the "I". We want to attribute it to the "I" as a way to get "nearer" to what the "I" in itself may be. In the unity, we see a coexistence of analysis and synthesis nearing the absolute cohesion we suspect must exist in the "I" that is capable of sensing, understanding, and reasoning. We have said that analytic thinking is pushy in general. It seems that a concept isn't fully known, isn't knowledge per se, unless it is fully analyzed . So the understand ing pushes for completeness in concepts. Similarly Pure Reason is a kind of transcendentally analytic, or potentially analytic faculty, that applies itself once a body of potentially related complete concepts are known. What is reason's analysis pushing toward? A complete system is what Kant suggests is reason's focus. What do we mean by a complete system? His assertions about the responsibility of philosophy and the exhaustiveness of the categories, all suggest that he intends to fully delimit the parameters of possible truth. He wants to be infallible, so that all questions of the form of thought, that is, the a priori condition of the mind, may be answered. The only proof Kant will accept of the connection between an object and its synthesized representation in the understanding, is one that establishes an a priori readiness to know the representation as an object. These words--know, representation, and object--have the very narrowly defined meanings offered by Kant in order to limit confusion. He rejects an empirical proof of the connection between object and representation (i .e. that the object makes the representation possible), because it cannot be shown to rest on a stronger condition than the commonality of experience. The object itself is out of range of possible knowledge. It is truly independent of our thought. Commonality of experience could only yield what Kant considers a de facto deduction of the form of its representation in thought. This brings us back to transcendental deduction, and its relation to the noumenal synthetic unity whose activity brings the categories into existenc~ 4 Deduction is a logical process and cannot contain the unconditioned in any way. But this is the deduction without which no other deduction is possible. It is at the beginning, and logic cannot simply start itself up like a motor. If we wish to make it logical , it seems we must find a way to condition the original unity. We are 28 29 III. A. The thinking subject considered as object leads to our inability to reject individuality. The application of the analytic/synthetic distinction discussed in section four of the Introduction to the consideration of the synthetic unity of apperception, serves to exhibit the depth of my conceptual dilemma with unity. Kant identifies the principle ~f the unity of apperception as "an identical, and therefore analytic prop 2 He explains, osition." For it says no more than that all ~ representations in any given intuition must be subject to the condition under which alone I can ascribe them to the identical self as synthetically combi~2d in one apperception through the general expression, "I think". · �i pushed and reason won't yield, even here where its own effectiveness finds its root, its limit. Kant certainly does not proclaim the unity of apperception to be unconditioned, nor does he claim to condition it so as to preserve the strict logic of the deduction. Indeed, as logically necessary, unity must he conditioned. His description of its necessity only succeeds insofar as his language succeeds. And while his language and logic are impeccable in regard to establishing the "I" (or at least the synthetic unity attributable to it) as a kind of ground for thought, he makes statements which out of context sound like tautologies. "For the manifold representations, which are given in an intuition, would not be f?e and all ~ representation, if they did not all belong to one self-consciousness." Perhaps it is reason's unceasing drive toward comprehension that "conditions" the unity of apperception. For there is an idea of "complete systematic unity belonging to reason. Kant assigns three ideal object~ to this idea, the first of which is the "I" considered as "thinking nature or soul." 7 Since we are beyond "I think", where the thinking self is an object, we are also outside of understanding. Pure reason is looking at an object that it gives for itself. Instead, then, of the empirical concept (of that which the soul actually is), which cannot carry us far, reason takes the concept of the empirical unity of all thought; and by thinking this unity as unconditioned and original, it forms from it a concept of reason ... The idea of a simple self subsisting intelligence .• It is endeavoring to represent all determinations as existing in a single subject, all powers, so far as possible, as derived from a single fundamental power, all change as belonging to the state of one and the same permanent being, and all appear~§ces in space as completely different from the action of thought. If we consider this in conjunction with our understanding that tq~ synthetic unity of apperception constitutes the objective validity of the object,~ and so determines itself as utterly subjective, we see here, at the root of the thinking process, something like an inability to reject our own individuality. When I say, "my mind makes me •.. ", I mean that l feel a necessity in my thought that "pushes" for completeness. I believe this is what Kant describes as the effect of the transcendental ideas on my understanding. I wish to order my knowledge and to have concepts in their fullness of meaning. Reason is always seeking to complete the system of knowledge that is born in the understanding, thereby giving concepts place and "extension". Transcendental ideas are not bound the way concepts are to objects, as they have no object in concrete. By identifying "I think" as a kind of ultimate object, we have introduced a ranking of a priori concepts--a transcendental hierarchy of importance that reflects the truth of the concepts contained in it. "I think", as we know, accompanies all representations. We may therefore consider our knowledge of any concept to be expressible in a judgment. This can be seen most clearly in the common response to the question, · "what do you think?" We say, "what I think is ••• ", in which objective truth, that is, subordinate judgments concerning objects, is united in the predicate of a self - directed judgment of myself as thinking. This is only redundant, since all representations are susceptible of such a construction, but it is also a very common use of language. This suggests something we have already alluded to--the "ultra a priori" nature of original unity. One might think that the universal applicability of "I think" would eliminate it as an effective linguistic tool. But we seem to need to say it, to reaffirm a connection between the object we make of our self, the activity of thought, and the empirical object of the cosmos. 30 III. B. Thought directed toward the self is recognized as conditioning being. All our concepts must come in a categorical form. Kant says, The table of categories, as contains all the elementary concepts of the understanding in their completeness, nay, even the form of a system of them in human understanding, and accordingly indicates all the momenta of a projected spec~~ative science, and even their order, as I have elsewhere shown. Any concept may be placed in a category which subsumes it a priori, and we can see a necessary relation between empirical concepts only because of the necessity of the relation of the categories that subsume them. The necessity of the categories is not, however, the so"rce of necessity itself. The deduction of their necessity is different from the necessity that "I think" accompany all representations which, as we said, involves our inability to reject the individuality of our thought, or to separate our being from the condition of this activity of thought. Our consciousness of this inability is what leads us to deduce the original unity of apperception as underlying the analytic unity of all consciousness of objects. The logical necessity of the existence of this unity is categorical, implying a tautological circularity--that the categories could somehow provide proof of their own necessity. Logical necessity is the result of our holding up individuality of thought as undeniable, our challenging ourselves to "get behind" it in thought, and our inevitable failure to do so. Can we ever get behind logical necessity? This is to ask whether we can get behind original unity. Perhaps we cannot do so directly, as we have shown that the language we would use relies on the principle of unity in a truly transcendental way. Its reliance prevents us from actually explicating the truth of the original unity's being, or the truth of its transcendental necessity. What can we do with language that might cast light on this hidden place in us? --I have spoken of the "I think" as an ultimate object. I have intended by this to show that the reliance of human thought on "object" limits and bounds our language and conditions the true independence of the unity which constitutes individuality itself. Thus far I have not dealt with the fact that my ultimate object "I think" is also a verbal construction. Because it is language, our expression is analyzable into the linguistic elements it contains. But the truth of the object is that, in the "thinking being" we intend, the so-called activity of the being is not deemed analytically separable from the being itself. That is, the thinking seems to "constitute " the being, or is unified to it so closely that language is unable to describe the joining. Still, language calls this "I think", which, as containing elements, suggests that, though the unity of the thinking being may not be described, it is not the ultimate source of unity. Considering the predication of being in the "I am", we find it illusory and self-indicting in its self-consciousness. The predication does not trace back to an inner sensible intuition. Does it make sense to just say "I" and look? My status as a thinker is changed by questions concerning the "I". As the ground of thought, it seems no conclusions may be reached about it analytically. There can be no concept of it. Alone in its presence, I am thinking, but my thinking is a mere looking, the simplest mental affirmation that I am real, and I am thinking. Kant justifies the principle upon which his Transcendental Deduction, and I claim his entire philosophy, is based, by presenting us with a challenge. It is a challenge he must have presented to himself as an "I". The challenge is simply to reject the 31 �consciousness of the absolutely unified self, to say that it is not one , or that we are unsure where we acquire whatever internal cohesion our thought has. If being is separated from thinking, perhaps we are introducing a demonstration of the independence each has from the other. In any case, the justification for the principle which lends necessity to all thought, both a priori and empirical, is not strictly a logical appeal. We cannot ultimately reject our own individuality . Kant tells us what must fall out from this, if we accept it as true, but we cannot offer logical proof. May the justification ultimately be our own feeling of oneness, and might this not still be a rational justification? The analytic nature of the principle of original unity has come into question. What we know of the original unity is not "what it is", but only that it is necessary for us as sayers of the expression "I think". This is because we must understand by thinking, because there is no understanding available to us intuitively. Intuitional understanding may be possible, but Kant says that we can ' t imagine what it would be like. The "I" that thinks is phenomenal, and its concept may be traced empirically to inner sense, the representation of myself as I appear to myself, i.e. as thinking. Of the two verbal expressions in which we place the "I", the expression of being, I am, offers no synthesizable manifold. The active expression, I do (in this case I think) implies an obj e.ct of the action, something done or thought. The object cannot come from anywhere else than a given united manifold of intuition, whose unity is derived from the unity of apperception. I may attach "I think" to any of my representations. Thus each of them presumes a self directed judgment of myself as thinking, and not merely thinking, but thinking something. This would seem to indicate that I cannot be aware of the unity of apperception except as necessary to my perception of a unified object. The unity's effect is extended from the origin to the potential object in the joining of the elements in a judgment. Through the judgment (a relation itself), the being of the subject, conditioned by the predicate, ts seen in relation to or is "brought to", the original unity. The simple relation of the judgment, when seen as a uniting of its disparate elements, can receive this unifying force only from its original source. If I am not specifically conscious of my judging, I am nonetheless conscious of "what I think". When I unite disjointed representations into an objective concept, I do not make the object into a part of ~ unity. My extending of unity is not something I may choose or not choose to do. It makes my thought, and thereby all consciousness of myself, possible. I force the manifold into a state that reflects my unity of thought; I make it a whole by relating it to my unity. In the third class of categories, those dealing with relation, such a whole corresponds to community. The logical function associated with community is the disjunctive judgment. We may say "I think", or we may off er a conditioned verb of being, "I am a thinking thing". If we say only "I am", we are still conscious of our saying, and so of our thinking. We cannot think of our being without thereby conditioning it. Our thought recognizes the condition it sets on our being. It recognizes its own function as the impediment to itself--it seems ultimately to preclude examination of itself. Even stranger, thought isn't stopped in its tracks by this realization, it retains all its normal power intact. It still is able to prove propositions and provide the full framework for human truth. It can categorize itself, but not know itself. The origin of all its limited ability, is its ultimate inability. I say this because of unity. Oneness and wholeness are words that I associate with empirical observations , for they are primarily attributable to things. I associate unity, on the other hand, with origin, and I consider these to have specifically transcendental implications. The synthetic unity of apperception is the yield of a self-directed analysis. It is attributable to the I. Somehow, looking.at its place , and its surmised function, puts me near the unspeakable truth of my exis tence. The power that binds analysis with synthesis into coexistence within the uni ty of apperception roust be even greater in the unkno-wn self. Because the challenge of rejecting this origin stands ( that is, because we do not know what it would mean if it didn't stand), we are sure of the unity of the self, despite its being unknown . The self is the groun<l we stand on when we look at object, whether empirical or a priori. What can ground us if we wish to look at the self, to extend out the sphere of knowledge to meet it? What if man were. able t~ cultivate an. abilit~ to feel the unity of empirical wholes as simple, despite possible complex division into parts? Maybe if we listened more closely to ourselves, we would realize the depth of our own unity. Each time we possess or claim, or otherwise subj ectify ourselves, maybe we "touch base" with the center of our minds. We do this to a degree in certain recognitions and responses of a less philosophic character, more instinctively. For example, need is an awareness of necessity in the self, and so the need, as mine, has a self-focusing quality. The self-awareness that results from this kind of necessity is one in which the self is alone with its need. Such a need can beco~e so acute that it drives everything out of the mind except self- awareness. In considering unity as the fundamental center of thought we put ourselves in a similar position of being alone. It is from this cohesive center that we open out to the world. We must observe that in all disjunctive judgments the sphere (That is, the multiplicity which is contained in any one judgment) is represented as a whole divided into parts (the subordinate concepts), and that since no one of them can be contained under any other, and so as determining each other, not in one direction only, as in a series, but reciprocally, as in an aggregate - if one member of t~I division is posited, all the rest are excluded, and conversely. Concepts are coordinated with one another, and thereby unified into a judgment. The concept of this coordinate relation is the most illuminating description I can find of the actual process of extending unity and making "wholes" in thought. It seems like transcendental organization. The coordination is most like the activity of unity. The categorical necessity of the coordination reflects the pure internal cohesion that must constitute the truth of unity. 32 33 �For Li Ch'ing Chao FOOTNOTES Judy Kistler All notes refer to the following: Kant, Critique of Pure Reason. St. Martin's Press, New York 1929. Trans. Norman Kemp Smith. 93 102 552 54 42 41 533 58 58 152 154 58 86 80 92 95 101 103 Section IV, Intro. 113-4 155 157 155 501 153 556 557 557 156 Last night the upper heavens were the color of eggplant, but the last breath of the sun shone golden through the trees. I often watch in silence, then turn aside to read the Chinese poets. Unlike them, I have no phoenix hair ornaments t o crush in my uneasi.ness over your absence. Unable to decide, we dance about each other; repelled and attracted, magnets unsure of our polarities, moths flirting with the flame. 114 117 Judy Kistler graduated from Santa Fe in 1977 and teaches math and Chinese at the Forman School in Litchfield, Connecticut. 34 35 �Surf and Misfortune A Study of Oedipean Tragedy Jeff Kojac In the final choral ode of Sophocles 1 Oedipus Tyrannos, the tragedy and the moral of the play are portrayed in the words, s\s toov KAdowva OElvns mJµ¢opas sAnA08sv (He was taken into the great fearful surf of misfortune) . l The c onc l u sion to t h e play begins with a parall e l to Oedipus ' opening speech. The chorus addresses those who live in Thebes and reminds the heare r that Thebes i.s a city cursed with bloodshed since it was founded . It describes Oedipus as a masterful riddle solver envied by all . Yet this Oedipus, the cho r us sings , was swallowed by the sea of misfortune and found that no mortal could be counted happy until dead , fo r the future can hold great misery no matter what may be the blessings of t he pr esent . Such a closing statement to the play leaves the reade r with a mo ra l ve r y close to that Solon shar es with Croesus-- that the rich and powerful king i s by no means the happiest , fo r his downfall can ccrne b e fo r e his de at h . Th e ke y t o this mo ra l in Oedipus Tyrannos is the fearful surf of misfortune actually swallowing Oed i pus ; this is the tragedy of the play . The nature of the swallowing is Oedipus' inability to perceive himself due to his fear and anger . Oedipus clearly is in the sea of ouµ¢opas right from his birth , long before he drowns himself . He flees from Corinth in fear, kills Lauis' par t y in ange r , and b r ings about his own downfall in the dialogue of t he play . Re becomes angr y a t Teiresias and forces the seer to speak words which only make Oedipus mo r e ang ry and b r ing him into conflict with Creon . Oedipus' anger agains t Creon draws Jocasta int o the play, and thr ough her Oedipus ' guilt is exposed . When the messenger fr om Corinth presents the news that Polybus is dead, Oedipus openly expresses his fea r of t he bed of his mother in Corinth. This fear dissolves whe n the messenge r ex plains that Me rope was only his step- mother . This in turn brings a h e rdsman to th e palace . Oed i pus again becomes ang r y , and i t is because of this ange r that he f inds t h e tr uth and realizes the oracle has been proved true . His r age t akes him t o Jocas t a ' s chambe r s and, finding he r dead, he vents h is wrath on hims el f: h e blind s his own eyes and thus completes his descent into the waves of misfo r tune . Oedipus sinks in misfortune's waves thr ough his t h r ashing abou t i n ange r and fear. Bo t h o f t h es e emo tion s b lind h im fr om true se l f-kn owledge and make it all the more painful when the truth is finally impress e d upon h i s e yes . The dr owning in misfortune is an understanding of the self . Oedipus lear ns o f his tr u e s el f , jus t a s Cr oesus even t ually sees his fragility and mo rt alit y whe n h e is abo ut t o b e bu r ned at the stake by Cyrus . Oedipus does not only lea r n of his tr u e se lf in t he sen s e of his heritage and the consequences of his actions . He catch e s sight of h i mself a s a man who is proven able to err and suffer r egar dle ss of p re viou s rank , ble ssings , o r abilities . Yet Oedipus i s not happy in his newl y gain e d s e lf-knowl e dge, and t o use his own phrase (line 1444), he is "&vcSp6s ke>.. lO-U " - - a man of mise r y . The ho rr or of his wretchedness is not purely a product of the discove r y of h i s inc e s t and pat r icide , for as Jocasta hints at , unknowing inc e st do e sn't necessarily d e se r ve such horror (line 982), and Oedipus' father surely attempted to kill him t wi ce--Oedipus' killing was self - preservation. The unde r lying r eason fo r Oedipus 1 wre t chedness mus t lie elsewhere. 36 Oedipus ' tragedy comes about through his fear and anger, and it is these two facets of his character that blind him. Oedipus cannot see because he is too frightened to see. He does not believe in himself as an individual, for clearly he is affected by the words and actions of others to such an extent that he loses himself in rage. Such rage expresses his inability to accept his own self; his anger comes as a reaction to those that challenge his authority in any way. This anger shows that he does not feel himself truly to be the great man that he is considered, for if he were the 'great man' he could not successfully be threatened. Thus Oedipus' insecurity is his blindness. The word translated as misfortune is cruu~opas , but this word can be rendered as luck, either good or bad, and as a chance event. This explains why ouµ¢opas is described as the surf; the waves can be positive, negative, and neutral in their apathetic treatment of a surfer. The waves do not set out to drown the surfer or provide him with a good ride or bore him with small breakers; rather the waves are a natural function of the planet without any intentions or cause to them (other than a merely efficient cause). The surf of cruµ¢opas is pictured as great and fearful because it is man who is responsible for the outcome of the waves; his actions decide whether the luck is good or bad. Oedipus is taken into the horrible world of chance: this is a totally different understanding of the play from the usual speculation that Oedipus is fated and trapped into his tragedy. But it is a solid interpretation: he can react in any way he chooses to the oracle, his father, the plague, Teiresias, Jocasta, the messenger, and the herdsman. And he does so in a consistent manner: with anger and fear. Swept into the world of chance, Oedipus acts in a destructive and insecure fashion. He thrashes around in the surf of ouu¢opas with his actions because his self-perception produces the consequences of the great fearful surf. The play' s tragedy therefore lies in Oedipus 1 being given the chance to make his own consequences. The reason why such 'chance' is tragic is that his true self is relied upon. It is his true self that fails him; it resp onds with decisions that topple him from his throne. Oedipus' horror comes fr om perceiving that his true self is prone to the same mistakes and follies as that of any other man. Sophocles' lesson in Oedipus Tyrannos is not simply for haughty kings trapped in fate. Sophocles writes in such a way that his play is applicable for all men who can strive to see themselves truly and avoid both arrogance and self-deprecation. Through a portrait of Oedipus' being taken into the great fearful surf of misfortune, Sophocles gives the reader an exhortation to stay away from the extremes of conceit and self-hatred and instead to seek after a balance simi l ar to Aristotle's 'mean' in The Ethics and Plato's 'sophro syne' in Cha rmides. 1 o e d i p us Tyr a nno s line 1527, my transla t ion . 37 �I ':~ I I A Translation of Jean De La Fontaine's "The Cat, the Weasel, and the Little Rabbit" James O' Gara LE CHAT, LA BELETTE ET LE PETI T LAPI N A rabbit ' s pala tia l home fe l l, one f ine morning, As spoils to Dame Belette , who, without war ning, Seize'd on it ; her cunning wit was weaselly-The maste r was absent , the thing was done easily . She brought and installed her hearth- gods one day While he had gone to Aur or a , his homag e t o pay Amid the thyme and the r ose . Having grazed , trotteCT , made his rounds , Johnny Rabbit re t ur ned to his abode , unde r gr ound . The intrude r weasel pr essed to the window her snou t. "O hospitable gods! What ha t h caus'd such a r ou t ?" Cried t he animal evicted f r om his ancest r al hous e. "O Madame Belette , Kindly dislodge , else further me upset! Pr ovoke me not the local rats t o r ous e !" "But , " said the lady of the pointed nose, "To the first occupant needs must go the land . Me t hinks t hi s subje ct unwo rthy of t h rea t 'ning po s e-This lowly pit where I have crawled . And , I demand , Were this a kingdom Pr ay tell, what law were i t t o cede Eternal right , " asked she , "unending deed To John , son or nephew of Peter or William , Rather than to Paul- -or better still , t o me ?" John the rabbit invoked custom and ancient code . "It is these laws that have granted me the run Of this my hutch, and that have, from father down to son, From Peter, thence to Simon, then to me, John , fai r ly won . This 'squatter's right,' 'tis mos t unjust and incommode . " "Ah well, sir , let us no more sco r n and scold But take our case," said she, "to Haughty- snou t. " 'Twas a cat who lived as a devout hermi t, Pr acticed in all the arts of the hypocrite , A saintly sort, deck'd out , all big and fat , Pois'd referee , dispenser of much tit - fo r- tat . Johnny Rabbit agrees the cat should ju9ge the case , 38 Du palais d'un jeune Lapin Dame Belette, un be au matin , / S'empara : c'est une rusee. Le Maitre 6tant absent, ce lui fut chose ais~e. Elle porta chez lui ses pe'nates, un j our Qu'il ltait all/ faire~ l'Aur ore sa cour / Parmi le thym et la r osee. Apr~s qu'il eut brout{, trotte', fait tous ses tours, . . /. Janot Lapin retourne aux souterrains seJours. La Belette avait mis le nez~ l a fen~tre. A 11 0 Dieux hospitaliers! que vois-je ici paraitre? Dit l'animal chass{ du paternel logis. Hol~! Madame la Beletee, / Que l'on deloge sans trompette, Ou je vais avertir taus les Rats du pays." La <la~ au nez pointu r~pondit que la terre Etait au premier occupant. "c'ttait un beau sujet de guerre Qu'un l ogis O\i lui-~me il n'entrait qu'en rampant. Et quand ce serait un r oyaume, Je voudrais bien savoir, dit-elle, quelle l oi En a pour toujours fait l'octroi A Jean, fils ou neveu de Pierre ou de Guillaume, Plut~t qu'~ Paul, plut~t qu•}i. moi!" Jean Lapin alltgua la coutume et l'usage: "Ce sont, dit-il, leurs lois qui m'ont de ce logis ~ . . ' Ren d u maitre et seigneur, et qui, d e pere en f i·1 s, L'ont de Pierre 'a Simon, puis a moi, Jean, transmis. Le premier occupant, est-ce une loi plus sage? -Or bien, sans crier davantage, Rapportons-nous, dit-elle, 'a Raminagrobis." C '~tait un Chat, vivant comme un dlvot ermite, Un Chat faisant la chattemi te, U saint homme de Chat, b i en f ourre", gros et gras, n Arb itre expert sur t ous le s cas. Jean LaP.in pour juge l ' agr/e. 39 �See the pair of them arrayed in face Of fur-lined majesty, stuffed with pomp, but claws as mace. Scratch-paw bids them come: "Advance a pace, For I am deaf, infirmity of age the cause." The two approach, gullible both, right to the traitor's jaws. As soon as he has seen the plaintiffs near, Scratch-paw, the good Judas, of canting mind, Engulfs them both in a flurry of claws; and a wave of fear Reconciling the plaintiffs, devours the pair combined. Les voila taus deux arrives . / Devant sa maJeste/ f ourree. Grippeminaud leur dit: "Mes enfants, approchez, Approchez, je suis sourd, les ans en sont la cause." L'un et l'autre approcha, ne craignant nulle chose. Aussit~t qu'~ port{e, il vit les contestants, Grippenminaud, le bon ap"ci'tre, Jetant des deux c~tls la griffe en m~me temps, Mit les plaideurs d'accord en croquant l'un et l'autre. All of which quite resembles the squabbling things Which petty lords argue forth before their kings. Ceci ressemble fort aux d~bats qu'ont parfois Les petits souverains se rapportant aux rois. 40 41 �Streetlight Walter Plourde The streetlamp shines outside the window. The light falls on me all the time when the room is dark, even though a Japanese blind is rolled down, obscuring the light. The glow from the street falls across my knees pulled up tight to my chest; it spreads across her sleeping face, across the cluttered floor, only to be lost in the corners of the room not ten feet from where I sit. I don't know how we survived, she and I, three months in this tiny room. For three months this has been almost my entire world, our self-contained cave, and I'm not sure what spring bubbled up to keep us alive, feed us. Love, I tell myself. I told her the same thing a couple of days ago. I was sitting as I am now, my knees pulled up, arms wrapping my shins, hard wall cramping my back. She was sitting right next to me--the wall never seemed to hurt her back. She turned her head to look at me, her right eyebrow arched high above her pale, blue eye. A scolding glare twisted otherwise smooth features. She covered my face with her hand and slammed my head against the wall. "You sap," she said. She laughed. I laughed, and I chuckle softly now as soft images of love float around my head. Sweet-lipped cherubim dance in dew-kissed grass, and curly-haired cupids gently pierce swooning lovers. But I don't see our love; it's more like a hulking lunk, too dumb to die. The blind rustles against the window. A draft lifts the blind and lets it drop against the window. The air is chilled around me. Cold air enters the room. Warm air leaves, and I am drawn with it. I am drawn to my other room, really my room, because I pay the rent there. And I draw myself out to repeat a stroll taken on a harsh winter morning months ago. An early morning, and I left behind my cold, spare room with its drafty windows. Better to walk the streets in the cold than let the cold creep upon me through the windows. My feet made the only sound on the sidewalk, empty except for a light dusting of snow. The grey, still clouds pulled the world in upon itself, a place for solitude that day. And then her figure from around the corner. She pulled her grey cloak around herself and swooshed by me. She spun me on my heel. "Hey, honey," I said, "What's your hurry?" Empty, vapid speech tossed out on the wind, swirling down the street. I recognized her from a time before. She turned. Her cloak fell open. "Oh, hi," she said. Better for her if she had passed on by, never noticed me; better still if I had stayed in my room and let my teeth chatter together. It's too late. A cold blast from the window brings me back, but it's too late. I am being pulled apart, my pieces spread through everything in this room. I pull back the blind. The direct light hurts my eyes. It feels real, but even the light is taking its piece of me. I let the shade fall back in place, and I look out across myself into the dark room. A goat hair rug covers the floor to the door. The rug is soft and littered with debris. Clothes, books, and papers are scattered in no particular order. Every day 1 42 she says that it's a mess or it's a pig sty. Every day she cleans it, but every night it's messy again. "It messes itself," I tell her. She shakes her head sadly and squeezes my cheeks together with her fingers: "No," she says, "You're a slob." The stereo ~plifier is still on; I reach across her and turn it off. The lamp for the whole room is on the amp. It's a small lamp with a white shade always covered with unused bandanas. Every time I want to read I beg her to remove them. "I can see fine," she says. "But I'm going blind," I tell her, "Now, what could be causing that?" She chuckles: "Probably the same thing that makes your palm rough." I can just make out the books in the far corner near the door. They're not on shelves, not really in any order, but piled haphazardly two feet high. Somewhere.in the pile is the book we fight about. She explains in detail her thesis of ironic, yet sexist symbolism. In the telling she loses her breath, and at the end she pants and stares triumphantly at me. "That's nuts," I tell her. "Chauvinist pig," she says. "Jesus Christ," I say. I slouch down and wait for the attack. "Pig," she says. She need say no more. I waver, and her eyes give the fatal blow; her glare is like a death crazed army crashing itself against my feeble defenses, until I finally yield to the sweetest defeat, self-righteous guilt. "Don't try to be nice to me now, you pig," she says. I chuckle to myself in the dark; she stirs in her sleep. Again, I pull back the blind from the window. I am drawn to the lamp on the corner like a moth, but I am the only moth here. The others have yet to be born. The snow is still on the ground--dirty, spring snow with months of traffic grime coming to the surface. But the streetlight makes the snow look clean, fresh, alive as if it had fallen this night. The light, reflecting off the snow, is like Aegean-blue water. I sit back and let the blind fall shut. I have to squint to see very far into the room--it is growing wider than the Aegean, and a salty spray is filling my eyes. Everything now, all my pieces fly back at me. Everything that is me cuts into me, scratches me, scrapes me, pain upon pain, until my senses die; no hearin~, no sight, no smell nor taste, no touch, but I can feel. I can feel that warm figure sleeping next to me. I can feel each breath, each memory, each hurt. I can even feel her dreams, both happy and sad. I can feel her dreams becoming mine; they are my dreams. Most of all I can feel beauty--outside and inside, so much deep inside her that there's no more room, and it flows out, covering me, raining down on everything. This is hell, I tell myself: eternal damnation is a slow walk through this tiny room. A hand softly touches my arm; she's not sleeping either. "Go to sleep," she says. Her voice is far away, but clear, and it brings me back. "Yes," I say, "That's a good idea." I lie down. My senses return. I can smell her warmth. I can touch her hand. I can see her profile in the dim light . "I l ove you," I say. "Yes," she says ev en further away, but warm and alive. I go t o sleep. She is all ar ound me. Wh en the alarm rings, it is t oo early, and I am t oo tired. I get up anyway. I have t o go t o work. The house this little r oom is in is quiet. No one else fs up, 43 �and that pleases me. I don't want embarrassed shame this morning, no knowing glances . As I'm putting on my clothes, she stirs. She, too, must get up early this morning. She watches me, her eyes half shut, but we don't speak. My clothes cover me, but I feel as if they are covering nothing, as if they move, but I'm not in them. I'm not there; the only thing left is one last memory dropping slowly like a forgotten, slimy tear staining a dead cheek. "I'm going away," she had said, "We can't be together any more . " "Yes, I know. You're right," I had said. I am ready to go. I must leave; I must stay. The distinction is lost on me. I lean down and kiss her. Her arms circle my neck too lovingly and too long. Her face is wet, or maybe it's mine. I walk to the door. "Don't forget to take care of my stuff," she says. "I won't," I say, "Have fun." "I'll try." My throat hurts, and my eyes burn, as a I close the door . I walk out --it is a bleak spring day. The sun cowers somewhere behind a cloud. When I burst into the room later that day, I pray for the impossible. I pray that all is as it was: nothing's changed. I pray she's sitting down, watching tv. I pray she's smiling, waiting for me to get home. She gives me a kiss, and we are happy. I pray many foolish things. The boxes are piled up near the window. The stereo and posters are in boxes. The blind is off the window. The records, books, everything is in brown cardboard boxes. The room suddenly smells stale and musty, as if nothing had ever lived there. She is gone, but I am here . I try to let numbness, emptiness, take over. This is practical, I tell myself, as I carry the first box down to my car. And for every box, I tell myself, I will send them away tomorrow. Yes, that is the practical thing to do. Every box I want to be just as it is: If light, full of nothing, if heavy, full of a lot of nothing. I want, but I can't have. One box I want to throw through the window, another to set down, open, and gently replace the contents where they were. I want everything to be as it was, or I want it never to have been. I want, but I can't have. I come to the last box. As I pick it up, I see that something is written on it. Something is written in bold letters with magic marker. Lt says: I LOVE YOU. I put the box down. I must laugh, though I'd rather not. I would rather scream, cry. Even better weep, weep blood, but I can't have that either. I lift the box again. It is the heaviest box of them all; I laugh. I laugh out loud. Even the distinction between my emotions is lost. "Damn her," I say. I take a step: "Damn her." And each step, damn her. It is my antiphon, every step, damn her. My strophe and antistrophe: Damn her, damn her. The door closes behind me, damn her. Damn her, the box is in the car, damn her. But there, on the back seat of my car, is a simple message: I love you. An old saying pops into my head: If it'd been a snake, it would've bit you. What a song I sing to myself: Damn her, a snake bit you, I love you, damn her, yeah, yeah, yeah. I slam the door, walk around the car, and get in behind the wheel. I lean forward and look up at the streetlamp. It is humming with energy, pulsating with life. Its light is strong and clear. That light is the only thing keeping me and everything from flying apart and into space. The light hurts my eyes. It is cold and I shiver. I drive away. I can't see the streetlight anymore. I imagine that someone, somewhere, is paid to turn the streetlights off in the morning, but I hope he forgets this one. I hope it stays on a long time. THE END 44 An Appreciation of Apollonius I.34 Henry Higuera As upperclassmen will remember, in Book I of his Conics Apollonius demonstrates that there is a surprising and pleasing relationship between the "harmonic mean" and the tangent to an ellipse, hyperbola, or circle: B E A D B Specifically, in I 34 he proves that if AB is the transverse, CD is an ordinate, and E is located so that AB is a harmonic mean between BD and BE , then EC is tangent to the section. One of my very fav o rite memories from sophomore math is the morent when I was up at the board blithering some nonsense about I 34 and two students managed to explain to me the significance of the harmonic mean. On the other hand, some of my other most vivid memories from sophomore math are of whole classes spent slogging through that monstrous proof, with its un-reconstructable construction, its two doublefold footnotes from Eutocius (I always called him "Atrocious" to myself), and Lord knows what else. Remember? The proof has always bothered me, especially in comparison to the beauty of the fact it establishes, and I've spent some time trying to understand why Apollonius did it the way he did. My efforts have paid off to some degree, for I now feel I appreciate the situation which Apollonius faced and the accompJ,.ishment which his particular proof represents. This article is an attempt to spread that sense of appreciation and is dedicated to anyone who will ever go to the board to do I 34. I. First, it seems certain that this proposition struck Apollonius and his original readers differently than it does us, because they m.ust already have known that I 34 was true of circles. Euclid never proves it; but it follows so easily from his method of drawing a tangent from a point outside a circle (III 17) that it must have been common knowledge. Here is Euclid's method (the actual proof is omitted): From a given point to draw a straight line touching a given circle. 45 I I I �Let A be the given point, and BCD the given circle; thus it is required to draw from the point A a straight line touching the circle BCD . For let the centre E of the circle be taken; let AE be joined, and with centre E and distance EA let the circle AFG be described; from D let DF be drawn at right angles to EA, and let EF, AB be joined; I say that AB has been drawn from the point A touching the circle BCD. A II. On to the proof itself. If you look at it (it's on pp. 641-3) you'll remember that it's really in two parts . First comes the terrible part, which is based entirely on Euclid, not on earlier propositions in Apollonius. Then, just after the line rect.BD,DA: rect.BG,GA ) sq.DE: sq.GE Here is the easy proof which demonstrates that I 34 holds for circles: Let there be a circle ACB with center H and diameter AB, CD perpendicular (i.e., ordinatewise) to AB, E on AB produced so that BD:DA : : BE:EA (i.e., so that AB is a harmonic mean between BD and BE), and EC joined. EC is tangent to the circle ACB. For, draw concentric circle EF. At A erect a perpendicular to AB meeting circle EF at G. Join RC and HG (i.e., do not assume that C is on HG: this has~ be proved). Now clearly, BE=AF, while BD:DA so BD:DA But BD:CD and AF:GA so BD:CD .. .. .. .. E [given] AF:EA [Euc. CD:DA GA:EA, D A G B using only Euclid Bk . II and clever manipulations of ratios. (I have not succeeded in doing this, although I have proven it without any constructions by using maxima/minima calculus techniques) . Furthermore, this property is not limited to lines; for example, a version of it holds for Euclidean numbers. If this property had already been proven in some treatise on the harmonic mean, the figures to I 34 should have looked like this: f [Euc. VI 8, Por.] 7, 11] H A GAF is similar to B B AF:GA, being subduplicates of the same and L DBC= L AFG; so (p. 643 1. 5) he brings in a property of conic sections for the first time (I 21), and the proof is f]nished in four more lines. The fact that I 21 gets brought in so late may have alerted you to the important fact that r.BD,DA:r.BG,GA ) sq.DE:sq.GE is a property of the harmonic mean E.z itself; it holds true entirely independently of conic sections. In fact, one could pre sumably prove it without constructing any extra line.s at all, E [Euc. VI 8, Por.] v And the right angles GAF and CDB are of course equal so I say that [ C. N. 3] BE:EA; for the moment their unique characteristics and considering them merely as a "special case" of a conic section . r~tio [Euc. VI 22, note]. [Euc. Post. 4] A CDB [Euc. VI 6] and the whole proof could have taken five lines: L DHC= L AHG as well, being their doubles. [Euc. III 20] Therefore C is on GH and the construction satisfies Euclid III 17. tangent to circle ACB. Q.E.D. Therefore EC is and but so and For, r.BD,DA:r.BG,GA::sq.CD:sq.GH sq.DE:sq.EG::sq.CD:sq.FG; r.BD,DA:r.BG,GA > sq.DE:sq.EG, sq . CD:sq . HG ) sq.CD:sq . FG HG ( FG Q.E.D. [I 21] [Euc. VI 4, 22] [Treatise on Harmonic Mean LXVII 873] [Euc. V 10] In other words, I 34 was not originally the proclamation of a startling new fact about circles. On the contrary, it belongs to that interesting series of proposit~ons which shows that some well-known properties possessed by ci3cles considered as circles also belongs to them considered purely as conic sections. This proposition contributes to one of the most important subplots of the Conics : that suggestion that we can deepen our understanding of the complex simplicity of circles by ignoring Furthermore, this would have helped to highlight what the horrible clutter of Apollonius' proof tends to conceal--namely, that the connection between the harmonic mean and the property proven in I 34 is quite remarkably direct and intimate. 46 47 �I III. Now, the enunciation of the property would have to go something like this: PROP. LXVII 873: If there be four unequal lines, of which the second is a harmonic mean between the first and the third and the fourth is another, random line, then the rectangle contained by the first and the difference between the first and the second has a greater ratio to the rectangle contained by the fourth and the difference between the fourth and the second than the ratio which the square on the difference between the first and the third has to the square on the difference between the fourth and the third. This is an enunciation only Apollonius cases: could love. Furthermore, there are four At A draw a line AX, at any angle, of any length. Bisect it at N. Connect BX and DN, and produce as necessary until they meet at C. From C draw a line parallel to AN until it meets AB at E. I say that ED:DA::BE:EA. (Easy, huh? Here's the proof.) Then so but and so For, from B draw a line parallel to AN = NX, BK:AN: :BK:NX; (Euc. BE:AE::BC:CX::BK:NX (Euc. BD:DA: :BK:AN, (Euc. BD:DA: :BE:EA (Euc. AN until it meets DN produced at K. V 7) VI 4) VI 4) V 11) Q.E.D. Case 1 • • D G Case 2 B Case 3 X E Case 4 'n b, A. E: ~ On top of that, as far as I know, this fact has no application to anything in the total universe except to I 34. So, perhaps it is not surprising that nobody ever bothered to prove it. On the other hand, if one already knows that I 34 is true of circles and one bears in mind Euc. VI 4, 22, and 8, Por., it becomes extremely obvious that this proposition is true at least in Cases 1 and 2: '"' B E "Behold! Rect. BD,DA: rect.BG,GA ) sq.DE: sq.GE!" Notice that this by itself is already enough to prove that I 34 is true for ellipses. Maybe this is what gave Apollonius the hint for how to attack the general problem. Look familiar? These are the first five steps of Apollonius' proof to I 34 run exactly backwards; the constructions look exactly the same (except of course for the angles) as the correspondingly-lettered constructions in Apollonius' figures. No wonder he was able to figure out that AN equalled NX! I'm less impressed by that than I used to be. On the other hand, the proof now looks impressive in an entirely new way. To a reader familiar with this construction, the first part of the proof emerges as an extremely clever and resourceful use of a familiar old device, instead of appearing mind-bogglingly oracular and weird, as it does to us. Also note that in his reverse version (i.e., to prove that AN=NX) Apollonius didn't have to use the particular lengths and angles he did. Any AX bisected at N would have served to prove LXVII 873. By making C in our Figure 5 be the point of tangency in his proof , all he did , basically, was save himself an extra point and a couple of extra lines on his figures (because that way CD is set up an ordinate and CE turns out to be the tangent). The proof would have been just as valid if he'd set up perpendiculars at A, B, and E, with C up somewhere in mid-air, and not brought up the ordinate and tangent until he needed them in the last five lines of the proof: K M IV. But Apollonius obviously wanted to prove LXVII 873 without assuming that I 34 holds true for circles--otherwise the proposition couldn't take its place in the series we mentioned. In figuring out how to do this, he seems to have been helped by another private joke between him and his readers which we hoi polloi tend to miss 21 centuries later. I would bet anything short of money that the following was a commonly-known method of constructing a "third harmonic proportional": Given AB, BD; it is required to place E so that BD:DA :: BE:EA. c Beautiful. E 48 A This is a figure not even Apollonius could love. To my mind, aft er all this muddling and fiddling with I 34, the great difficulty and most admirable achievement of Apollonius' way of proving it is that, using this commonly- known construction, he found a method of proof so powerful that he could show that all four cases of LXVII 873 were true with the same steps. It looks like he really wanted to be able, in I 34, to proceed just as he did in, say, I 21: he really wanted to show that Cases 1 and 2 of LXVII 873 (which only apply to the ellipse and circle) and cases 3 and 4 (which only apply to the hyperbola) have the 49 I �same kind of inner kinship which the circle, ellipse and hyperbola have among themselves. That he managed to do this is a mark of the sure instinct, subtlety, and ambition of his great genius. NOTES 1Andy Freda and Jeremy Lauer (Class of 1986). 2Things are made worse, too, by the fact that Eutocius' N. 2 is very clumsy and roundabout.. If you study it you can write a proof of your own that's three lines shorter. 3other propositions in the series: I 21 (compare Euc. VI 8, Por. and remember that the upright always equals the transverse in a circle, a fact which actually follows from Apoll. I 5); I 32 (compare Euc. III 16); I 47 (compare Euc. III 3); II 6 (compare the other half of Euc. III 3), and II 26 (compare Euc. III 4). It's worth wondering why Apollonius doesn't mention circles in I 15 and I 30. He's clearly drawing some kind of line here (no pun intended). 50 [, �Non-Prof it Org. BULK RATE U.S. POSTAGE PAID St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 PERMIT No. 120 ,ANNAPOLIS, MD. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper (bound book) Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. ii, 50 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Spring 1987 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Spring 1987. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cooper, Laurie (co-editor) Macfarland, Joseph C. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1987 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Spring 1987 Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/91eb1aeb35150dcc6cf21840907bbd87.pdf a35d551bed9d5e5039da2d2dd2b1f6e2 PDF Text Text WINTER, 1988 c z c Q ~ oi ... "' ::c Ill Ill u z c ~ z u ~ ,,.: Ill: Ill Ci z iii z c ~ ~ u Ill ::c Ill ::c ... �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. t1 ... Cover: Acrylic on Paper by Jana Giles Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland vou &vtpy&ta ~coti ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) Staff: Rachel Boyce Carloss Chamberlain Jana Giles Erika Hoffman Daniel Hoh Michael McShane Derick Miller Ange Mlinko Kenneth Paradis Dwayne Rogers Co-Editors: Laurie Cooper Rhonda Datcher Faculty Advisor: Henry Higuera With special thanks to: Tina Davidson Ray Gifford George Turner Ty Yancey Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published three times a year and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis and Santa Fe. The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community--essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like . • • ,,..., /J....,-'7 �CONTENTS PHOTOGRAPH Greg Ferguson 4 LOIRE-ET-CHER, 1986 Dahra Latham 5 THE THEME OF THE FUGUE INC MINOR Rachel Boyce 6 THE PROPHET Ange Mlinko 8 DRAWING Marcus Eubanks 9 THE WELL OF LIGHT Claudia Probst 10 ANALYSIS FOR THE DETERMINATION OF A PARAMETER FOR THE PARABOLA Mark Ressler 13 Jana Giles 16 17 18 GREEK MYTHS OF RESPONSIBILITY AND OTHER OBSTACLES TO PITY Donna Strow 19 AUTUMN DAY SALON E =MC Scott Vineberg 24 25 PHOTOGRAPH Greg Ferguson 26 SEEING WITH BOTH EYES OPEN Graham Redgrave 27 VARIANT SONNET: AMAZON MOURNING Dahra Latham 33 UNTITLED POEM Sahana Dharmapuri 34 THE RETURN OF OEDIPUS REX: THE METAPHYSICS OF INCEST Michael McShane 35 PHOTOGRAPH Greg Ferguson 39 A MODERN INVESTIGATION OF THE ECCENTRIC HYPOTHESIS Tim McNicholl 40 AN ADAPTION, 1987 Carolyn Barndt 44 THE BOW OF HERACLES John Pronko 45 THREE LOY AL HAIK US Jana Giles 47 THE LEARNED PRINCESS Erika Wilson 48 PHOTOGRAPH Greg Ferguson 52 I. II. III. KE I PO THE FOX T.J. �Loire-et-Cher, 1986 Dahra Latham ('90) I begin poetry in true face coming home, seal away weed-green contact lenses scrub away molten golden color that the world imposes rise through fathoms of falsehood revealing pearl-pale and storm-eyed body stepped out of Renaissance portrait shining like dolphin through ocean through ragged breaker of hair washed sudden} y from red to brown. I take up the pen. And all the hard-birthed beauties I have ever read fall about me an irrelevant rain. 5 4 �throws off expectations and requires that the more instinctive interval be passed. The second playing of the theme, in G minor, which begins " 7 /\. 4 6 1 1 instead of l 7 f 5 6, solves the problem of reaching down to 4 by introducing 4 earlier in the theme. This change takes away part of the theme's beauty and is not at all preferable. I\ I\ After the third repetition of 1 7 1, the center is not reached again. The 4 5 6 movement is heading in the direction of the original 1 but cannot pass the peculiar f?t interval to reach it. The 6 5 4 movement is heading towards tan octave below the original but stops at 3, E flat. Only the very last repetition of the theme allows the octave-lower 1 to be sounded in the chord: The Thetne of the Fugue in C Minor Rachel Boyce ('90) When I hum the theme of Fugue II from Book 1 of J.S.Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier, I invariably end up off key unless I am co~cent.rat­ ing. This may not seem particularly .puzzling smce many people have difficulty repeatmg even ~hort, simple tunes accurately. It does bother me. First, I picked up the theme almost ~nadverte~tl.y. It remained in my mind after the piece was f ~nished without any distinct effort on my part to fmd and distinguish it. Second, I have now listened ca ref ull Y to the Fugue ar least a dozen times, and the tendency to slip off key remains. . .. I decided to investigate my mab1hty t.o casually hum the catchy and elusive theme of th~s fugue. Since five of the eight times the th~m~ is heard, it begins on a C, it is written here begmnmg on C: though. The other problematic note, the seventeenth, is only a half step from the sixteenth, and there was no difficulty with any of the half steps between C and B natural. The theme isnot merely a series of intervals, and its dynamic qualities must be conside.red. Perhaps the location of the major sixth and mmor second within the melody produces the dif~iculty. The key signature might suggest E flat maJOr, but the B natural, producing a half. step. b.etween B natural and C,indicates that the piece 1s m .the key of C minor, the relative minor of E flat maJor._The center, t, is then C. The theme can now be written as: 7 5 6 7 2 5 "1 7 2 4 5 6 5 4 3. 1 1 1 1 The final E natural of the fugue is heard previously and more distinctly when the melody of the corresponding prelude ends on the same E natural. That last E natural, supported by the two C's in the bass clef, is pre para ti on for the following fugue. It is a 1i ttle unsettling to realize that the very comfortable sound at the conclusion of the prelude involves a melody ending on E natural in a piece with the key signature of E flat major or C minor. When a second inspection of the theme is done, it does not seem so positively C minor. Although it contains the minor half step between ~'nowhere is there the distinctively minor 23 half step. The B natural creates a ~ half step like that in the major scale, and the final E natural makes the previously minor whole step between 4 and 3 into a major half step. The theme verges on the key of C major. The theme may not be completely in the key of C minor, but neither is it completely in C major. The fourth time the theme is heard, it is played in E flat major with no accidentals, and any mystery or sweetness held by the original theme is lost. What is technically lost by playing the theme in a purely major key is the 56 half step.Similarly, the second I\ /'\ playing of the theme which begins with I 7 I 4 6 sounds less beautiful because it removes a half step. The theme's interest depends on the haunting 56 half step. The only flat in the fugue that has a consistently significant role and is not ever made natural is A flat, the note which produces that half step. The theme of Fugue II is between C minor and C major. Though the key signature points to C minor as the primary key, the theme lacks the half step. Though both prelude and fugue are resolved with a C major triad, the theme cannot be played in a major key without ruining it. This 56 23 "' 1 1.2..3 4S The first problematic note is the fifteenth, the first F played. The interval between the fourtee~th. and fifteenth notes is a major sixth, a more ?1ff1cult interval to duplicate than the other large i~tervals present: the perfect fourth between the thud and fourth notes and the perfect fifth between t~e ninth and tenth notes. There is no rea~on that ~his interval could not be memorized with practice, 6 There are three groups of f 7 f. The first swoop down from that grouping is a perfect fourth from 1 to 5 and the second a perfect fifth from 2 down to 5. The third plunge is, like the second one, from 2, but this time it reaches past the comfo~table 5 down to 4. Combined with the fact that 4 is the only note lower than 5 so far, the si~ilarity. of starting points and difference of endmg pomts In this last twist of the prelude's melody, written in the key in which we expect to hear the fugue, a C is played seven separate times and is held in the bass clef throughout. The next most frequent note is G, played four times. These two notes combine with the final E natural to form the C major triad. Both the C minor and the G minor heard in the fugue are explored in the prelude, evidenced by the many B natural and F sharp accidentals, .but the prelude concludes with the sound of C major. minor /major ambiguity causes my difficulty with casually humming the theme. I cannot lean into a fully minor or major key, so when I do not have the support of strong, easily sung intervals, I falter. Bach has not created an u'n easy sound with this ambuity, nor a problem to be resolved. The theme of Fugue II is compelling and delicately balanced, worth the concentration it takes to hum it properly. 7 �The Prophet ·,,. Ange Mlinko ('91) '/ ,, You want too much. To want Anything in this world is an arabesque Inverted desire to die; run instead While the wind fills your cup After mice visions scurrying Beneath trees across a litter Of skyfall; look up to shadows Brooding yellow in the veins Of every leaf. In the east A purple hand unshirts the sky; Left in the west is a blot of blood Where the sun was shot. If the walls had ears, you'd tell the walls. You have letters to send but no sticks And stones to break words with. Outside you sift the ground but wind, Wind like eternal October makes brick Patterns glide at your feet. A day is dying In this mass movement; on the skyline Collapsed in theatrics a dark soul On the playing field, fast scream like a crow And no one to hear it; the ears of the earth Are filled with wind and river. This the town your walls reflect, where Double doors exclaim men in credit shirts Who pause at the top of steps, become one White column on the portico of eternity And descend to the street. They read The Post and walk away the news rewritten On their hands, and two blocks down Two black-skinned boys face the wind All forecasts and headlines, . -\ \ / ...... ; Unearthing little liquor bottles from Underneath the statehouse shrubs. At night, cars jump like knives To a red light. Long-fingered men Hide their eyes when sirens sear by. f '\ I "·.., . \, / i ( ) ./ You are the confessor of all you see-You cannot dispose of your pu r i ty. Raking through leaves for fragments of sky To lift to your walls and nail there; Raking through words to sound out These secrets that trace with detached caress A lock in your head. And voice is no key. You cannot dispose of this purity. Scream then, back at the wind's scream With all insensate joy; you were chosen Out from under leaves to under sky-The world is burning in the glacial Radiance of your sun: It is a hard light to ask forgiveness from. The cup you hold is teeming, Receiving and receiving. You want Nothing but to hear the truth With the truth you see as the day Dies in pieces around you, asking who Unleashes the siren of the sun Upon all deadly mornings, and who Gives it pause at the portals of all ears? 9 8 �The Well of Light Claudia Probst ('88) Ryan held the zoom lens and wiped it gingerly with a piece of lens tissue before sending a blast of pressurized air across its surface. Having cleaned the last one of his six lenses, he replaced it in the box leather camera bag, zipped it closed around the top, and sat back resigned. This waiting was unbearable, when he knew that the picture of a lifetime might occur without him, that a perfect avalanche might go unframed and unrecorded. He wanted to jump up from the molded plastic orange seat in which he'd spent the better part of two hours, he wanted to grab the ticketing agent by her insolent kelly-green necktie and shake her until her heavily made-up eyes showed anything but indifference. Easy now, he cautioned himself; stay in control. He folded his powerful hands with their square-cut nails and sat up straighter. There was nothing he could do: if the mechanics were working on the plane, the mechanics were working on the plane. Slowly, he sent his eyes sidelong to the woman in the seat next to his. Her blonde hair was cut in layers and teased out in last year's style, so that he could see almost nothing of her profile. What did he have to lose? "Are you on your way to visit Salt Lake City too?" he asked, smiling his most winning smile and leaning back. She turned sharply enough for him to guess that her surprise was feigned, that she had only been resting her eyes on the open book in her lap, while her senses were all attuned to him, the stranger in the next seat. She twisted her florid face IO in an answering smile. "Well, not exactly to visit there. I grew up there, but left it for what I thought would be a more glamorous life ... " "Wait, let me guess. You were raised as a Mormon, and now you're returning to make peace with the church of your childhood." She gaped at Ryan as though he were a prophet. "How did you know that?" she squealed. "Oh, I've spent a little time there and I found the church of the Latter-Day Saints very compelling myself." The lies were coming easier now. The seats in the gate area were arranged back to back in rows of five, and two seats down, with his back to Ryan, Zach Himmelstein sat with his head in his hands, trying very hard to cast himself and his sister Rosa back to a time where the light of memory shone, steady and bright, like the sun of their youth on their family's Rhineland farm. He could call nothing up, though, and instead thought only of the wrenching sadness he'd felt two years ago when Rosa had told him her decision to move west. "Trust me Zachariah, the doctor says it would be better for my lungs, and Salt Lake City is very clean-- not like here" she'd said, gesturing with distaste at the grimy vista outside their Brooklyn apartment. He'd gazed down, not trusting himself to meet her eyes, and unable to speak. What was that piece of paper he pretended to be so taken with at that moment? Oh yes, he'd studied the doctor's scrawl on a piece of paper that showed a stylized mortar and pestle in one corner, healing symbols. The writing had reminded him somehow of how he'd teased Rosa, when they were children, and a favorite trick of dipping the tips of her pencils into hot wax just before they left for school. He now recalled his confusion, too, when she'd paused to let the words sink in, how he'd looked up with an apology that died on his lips for all the childhood pranks he'd played, if only she'd stay. Those weren't the right words, though, and it seemed to him that she'd packed and made arrangements and left before he'd had a fair chance to find the right ones. Yet now, dear Rosa, he thought bitterly, I'm going to bury you in that place of raw mountains and ski resorts and Mormon temples. He shook his head sharply to break that chain of thought, which would doubtless lead him to mull over how senseless her accident had been. It would never have happened, if she had still been living in a community that saw that the sidewalk was cleared and salted before the elderly residents wished to go out. If she'd been living with him in the neighborhood where she belonged. His mind, having reached this familiar dead end, began to drift and take in the voices coming from a few seats down and behind his back. Annoyed at the chatter, he stirred himself and rose, looking around for a destination. Across the waiting area there was a coffee and newspaper vending stand. The woman behind it was leaning on the counter, flirting in low, rich Jamaican tones with a security guard. He was struck suddenly by a feeling of kinship with her; neither one of us wants to be here, he thought. Zachariah made his way to the stand in his stiff walk, left leg dragging slightly. When he reached it he took off his fedora, without irony, to address the lady. "I would like a cup of coffee, please" he asked in his precise English, struggling as always to suppress his Yiddish accent. She gazed at him indolently for a moment, shrugged, and raised herself from leaning on her folded arms to pour the coffee into a styrofoam cup. The blue-uniformed guard followed her movements with narrowed eyes. "That be all?" she asked Zach, putting the cup down in front of him. "Yes, thank you." He pushed two quarters toward her with an almost imperceptible bow and picked up the cup. "Sugar and cream are over there," she added. "Thank you but I have my own sweetener, some saccharin tablets. They help keep me fit, you know, and ready ... " He trailed off. Ready for what? Had he been there to clear Rosa's sidewalk of ice? The woman shrugged again, turned her attention back to her friend. Zach flushed, and hastily picking up a napkin and a small container of cream, he retreated to his seat. Was that the guard laughing? It didn't matter; a young man like that wouldn't understand .. After taking his seat he· pulled himself up very straight and tall, and reached purposefully into his breast pocket. He felt his accustomed satisfaction at the power of these little white tablets, which allowed him to indulge his sweet tooth while staying trim. Rosa always said, it was pride, just pride that made him try to hide his age. She would laugh and sprinkle spoonfuls of sugar over her grapefru!t in the mornings. As he balanced his cup on the armrest, he could again hear his neighbors' con versa ti on. "Tell me about the book you're reading." Ryan commanded. "You haven't heard of this book?" The woman asked incredulously. She paused, considered the apparently daunting task. "It's called The Well of Light, and it's written by John P. Smothers, who left our church fifteen years ago and became the owner of a very successful cruise ship line. He describes how unhappy he was, entertaining rich clients and travelling constantly aboard his ships. He says he fell deeper and deeper into despair, drinking all the time and seeing no way out. But then God" - she paused for effect - "God went to work in his life, buoying him up from the depths of his despair, and making him care again. Care about his family and himself, too. That's what that title's about, you see. It was as though he'd fallen down a well of indifference, but then God put a light at the bottom, a light he didn't expect." "Uh-huh. Is this the book that made you think of returning to the church?" Ryan asked, uninterested in her specific answer, but fascinated that she could speak so feelingly about Smothers' well-calculated effort to make a buck. He marvelled inwardly at how people fool themselves. Zach held his metal box of saccharin tablets between his thumb and forefinger. He slid the lid back and was suddenly overwhelmed by the 11 �memory of a scene captured in a snapshot he hadn't seen in decades. It was of Rosa at a family picnic, squinting merrily up in the black and white photo, her wavy dark hair escaping her hair pins as ever. Her grubby hands held a tinderbox that was a relic even then. Zachariah sat, stunned at the memory of that day more than sixty years ago when grandfather Josef had made a demonstration of the tinderbox's use. How had he done it? Fingers twitching, Zach recalled his clumsy attempts to strike a spark. Hold the flint and steel firmly when you strike, Grandfather had said. Make the sparks dance, he'd said, and Zach had looked up, startled once again by the humor buried just under the somber surface of that beloved face. You had to pay close attention to the tiny flame. Grandfather had showered sparks over dry moss and cupped gnarled hands around it to shield it from the wind. The muffled sound of the saccharin tablets falling to the carpet brought him out of his reverie, but he snatched his drooping hand back too late to retain any of them in the metal box. He bent down on the floor to gather them. His urgency was enough to distract Ryan from the hopeful blonde, who by now was holding up both ends of the conversation admirably. She barely noticed his attention was straying, as she continued to talk animatedly of her native city. "In the spring and summer they open the gates and let the mountain run-off flood the streets, and afterwards everything is so clean and new, not a bit of litter or dirt left ..." Ryan's gaze was now fixed on the figure of an old man on his knees carefully picking up some spilled pills. As he straightened a bit to reach under the chair and find by touch any that his eyes might have missed, Ryan noticed that tears were working their way down the old man's deeply lined face. "Pathetic," Ryan muttered to himself, and turning away, saw with relief that the ticketing agent was about to announce that the plane was ready for boarding. Analysis for the Determination of a Paratneter for the Parabola by Mark Ressler '89 The method of analysis requires the assumption of what is to be proven, so that the truth of the proposition is borne out by the consistency of the consequences of that assumption. A proposition is solved by analysis when an accepted truth forms a necessary consequence of the initial assumption. The proof is established by reversing the sequence of consequences so that the argument begins with the established truth and ends with the statement of what is to be proven. Thus, if I want to establish that virtue is desirable, I would first assume virtue to be desirable. I would then examine the consequences of that assumption, with the hope of fin ding some universally accepted truth as one of the consequences--for instance, the existence of God. Then, if my reasoning is not faulty1, I can reverse my steps and argue that since God exists and since what follows from that would be true, virtue, therefore, is desirable. Consider Appolonius and the parabola: Appolonius can establish a simple geometr ic def inition of the parabola by claiming that if the intersection of a cutting plane and the plane that contains the axis of the cone is parallel to the intersection of the plane that contains the axis and the cone itself, then the intersection of the cutting plane and the cone is a para bola. However, this definition says nothing about the shape of the parabola; it may happen that the shape of a parabola is essentially no different than the shape of a hyperbola. A definition which encompasses this consideration might be more useful than a simple geometric definition like the one above. The establishment of a diameter and ordinates provides the means for an examination of the shape of the parabola, for as the parabola extends out away from the vertex, both the ordinates and the abscissa increase. If there is a direct relationship between the abscissa and the ordinates, that relationship would almost define the shape of the parabola. The abscissa may be to the ordinate or the ordinate to the abscissa in three ways: (I) as a given line to a given line, (2) as the abscissa is to a given line, or (3) as the ordinate is to a gi ve lin e. I proceed now to examine each of the cases using the method of analysis. In his notes on Euclid's Elements, Heath makes the following note concerning faulty reasoning in analysis: "Now Aristotle had already made it clear that false hypotheses might lead to a conclusion which is true. There is therefore a possibility of error unless a certain precaution is taken. While for example, B may be a necessary consequence of.A, it may happen thatA is not a necessary consequence of B. Thus in order that the reverse ingerence from the truth of K that A is logically true may be logically justified, it is necessary that each step in the chain of inferences should be unconditionally convertible." Euclid, The Thirteen Books of the Elements, 2nd ed .. , trans. Thomas Heath (New York, Dover Publications, 1956), p. 141. 12 13 �(I) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as a given line X is to a given line Y, then: A FIG. 1 DE: FE:: X :Y and DH: HJ:: X: Y. Therefore, DE: FE:: DH : HJ. Then D, J, and F will be in a straight line, and triangle DHJ and triangle DEF will be similar triangles. [fig. 2] Therefore, the abscissa cannot be to the ordinate as a line is to a line. (2a) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as the abscissa is to a given line X, then: D FIG. 2 DE: FE:: DE:X and FE= X. But FE will vary while X is given, so the abscissa cannot be to the ordinate as the abscissa is to a given line. (2b) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as a given line X is to the abscissa, then: DE : FE :: X : DE and DE 2 = FE, constant. DH : HJ :: X : DH and DH 2 = HJ, constant and, therefore, DE 2 : DH 2 :: FE,X :: HJ,X and DE 2 : DH 2 :: FE : HJ. But DE 2 : DH 2 :: BE 2 : KH 2, therefore, BE 2 : KH 2 :: FE : HJ. 14 Compounding both sides with the ratio KH : BE, KH,BE2 : BE,KH 2 :: FE,KH_: HJ,BE. Removing the common term BE,HK from the left side, BE : KH :: FE,KH : HJ ,BE. Since, EC = HL, BE,EC : KH,HL :: FE,KH : HJ, BE. But BE,EC = EF2, and KH,KL = HJ 2, therefore, EF2 : HJ2 :: FE,KH : HJ ,BE. Alternately, EF2: FE,KH :: HJ 2 : HJ,BE therefore, EF : KH :: HJ : BE. and alternately, EF : HJ :: KH : BE. But KH : BE :: DH : DE so EF: HJ:: DH: DE. Then D, J, and F will be in a straight line, and triangle DHJ and triangle DEF will be similar triangles [fig. 2]. Therefore, the abscissa cannot be to the ordinate as a given line is to the abscissa, for the statements: HJ2 = KH,HL (FE2 = BE,EC) DH2 = HJ,X (DE2 = FE,X) and DH : DE :: HK : BE are incompatible. (3a) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as a given line is to the ordinate, then: DE : FE :: X : FE and DE= X. But DE will vary while X is given, so the abscissa cannot be to the ordinate as a given line is to the ordinate. (3b) But if the abscissa is to the ordinate as the ordinate is to a given line X, then: DE : FE :: FE : X FE 2 = DE,X and DH : JH :: JH : X. JH2 = DH,X. Therefore, FE2 : JH2 :: DE,X : DH,X OR FE2 : JH2 :: DE : DH. But FE2 = BE,EC and JH 2 = KH,HL so BE,EC: KH,HL :: DE: DH. But EC= HL so BE : KH :: DE : DH, since KH is parallel to BE. segments of the diameter of the circle BFCG, in which EC is fixed in size for the parabola in the cone, whether it appears as DM or HL since DE is parallel to AC and KL is parallel to BC. Now since this relationship has been proven to be possible, the relationship itself may be used as a starting point for the determination of the given line. I then assume that X is already given for a given parabola, so that I may deduce a relationship between X and some known line: DE : FE :: FE : X so FE2 = DE,X. But FE2 = BE,EC so BE,EC = DE,X and BE : DE :: X : EC. But BE : DE :: BC : AC so BC : AC :: X : EC. Compounding both sides with the ratio EC : AD, BC : AC comp. EC : AD = X,EC : AD,EC. But EC = DM and DM :AD :: BC : AB so BC2 : AC,AB :: X,EC : AD,EC and inversely, AB,AC: BC 2 :: AD: X. And AB, AC, BC, and AD are all known lines; therefore, X can be found in accordance with this last ratio. If a line, then, is constructed such that as the line between the vertex of the section and the vertex of the cone is to the constructed line, so is the rectanglee contained by the sides of the axial triangle to the square on the base of the axial triangle, then the abscissa will ha vee to the ordinate the same ratio that the ordinate has to the constructed line. The square on the ordinate will be equal to the rectangle of the abscissa and the created line. Proposition 11, Book I, demonstrates these properties. Therefore, a relationship between the abscissa and the ordinate is possible, and it will be as the ordinate is to some given line. The relationship is similar to the relationship of the ordinate to the 15 �I KEIRO II The Fox (KEIPO) Jana Giles ('88) Jana Giles ('88) I would eat the flesh from your bones, such is my love for you, were it not against the law. It is just as well, thoughyour rotting flesh beneath that still mask would poison me, your stinking, stagnant blood would mix with mineone unnamed, untouchable, unknowable in this grief and sacred passion. In your acidulous smile I saw the wisdom and assurance of cloudless days and changeful moons, bitter Satisfactions's cold enterprise indulged by a dei f ic ac cept an ce. The wind wails, waxing fierce; my cold heart grows old . 1985 16 Sparkle, twinkle, said the fox his black tongue tripped him up his red tail white-streaked tripped him up my car struck him and he burst like a swollen sausage his mouth foaming and spilling blood and sequins and rhinestone jewels. Children squat in the blood their greedy, unsubtle fingers undulating like sea anemones stirred by a watery wind search and grab smeared stones in a noisy herd. Soon the birds of prey shall overcome him, naked as iron-grey clouds engulf the setting sun. 1985 17 �Greek Myths of Responsibility and Other 0 bstacles to Pity III LL Donna Strow ('90) Jana Giles ('88) these words are simple but I have nothing else to off er somehow the tide will pull me along reluctant and ignorant and young I only wish that when I sank beneath the muttering murky moonlit waters the fishes did not have your face 1985 "I would not wish either [to do or to suffer wrong]" says Socrates in Plato's Gorgias (Woodhead 469 c), "but if I had either to do or to suffer wrong, I would choose rather to suffer than to do it." He describes the wrongdoer as miserable and says that he is to be pitied (Woodhead 469 a). Is pity appropriate to the wrongdoer? Is it relevant to ask whether he deserves pity? Socrates h olds that wrongdoing is worse than being wronged (Lamb 473 a). Is it appropriate to pity the wrongdoer who has come to suffer and to regret more than we pity the wronged? That would certainly come as a shock to those who delight in saying, "He (the wrongdoer) got his (just dessert)!" or "(If) you make your bed, you lie in it," denying pity to the wrongdoer because they feel somehow that he does not deserve it. In any event, that is the question under investigation. Plato (Gorgias, Phaedo, Republic) and Aristotle (Nicomachean Ethics) will help. Before embarking on this quest, however, it would be good to state just what is meant by "pity." Socrates' word, € >.. € K.oµa i, is very close to our own. In this essay I will recognize two kinds of pity, one meaning a sorrowing over another's misfortune, the other meaning a seeking to end another's distress. because he is wretched), and that he would pref er to be wronged rather than to do wrong, implying that the wrongd oer is more to be pitied than the wronged. Unfortunately, his argument is insubstantial; he simply gets Polus to admit that to do wrong is more shameful and evil than to suffer wrong. Then he asks, "And would you choose the more evil and shameful in preference to the less?" (Woodhead 475 d), to which the latter replies negatively. Would I reply as Pol us does? Yes, I think so, but perhaps this is only because I have been taught to adopt this virtuous attitude. Yet if a wrongdoer were to suffer, either from guilt or from some other consequence of his misdeed, I do believe that his suffering would be the worse because he has himself to blame. Some would say that it is this very notion of "blame" that cancels the wrongdoer's claim to our sympathy. I think that before we subscribe to this notion we should at least determine whether the blame and the pity would both bear the same address if we were to pity the wrongdoer. Does the same man do wrong and then regret it? Is the part of the man that does the wrong the same part that does the suffering? Again, Socrates maintains that to do wrong "is the greatest of evils" (Woodhead 496 a, b), that the wrongdoer is to be pitied (most probably in my mind I have given you a fixed place that you cannot alter from your distance According to Cebes Plato's Phaedo, the body is "continually changing and disintegrating all through life, the soul [replacing] what is worn 19 18 �away" (Tredennick 87 d, e) Now, if we can assume that decisions about how to act are made by a nervous system, which is physical, this readily verifiable observation means that the man who pays for his crime is not quite the man (as he has not quite the faculties of the man) who committed it. In this case, then, we must not blame but rather pity the man who now suffers as a result of the misdeed of his former self. At this point in the dialogue, however, Cebes believes in an entity called the soul which is non-physical and rules the body. Does Cebes then believe that a man (or the soul of a man) is the same throughout life? That would be absurd, for Socrates' willingness to die, which is manifested throughout the dialogue, is founded on his belief that philosophy is carried on in the soul, a belief which all present seem to accept (64 e, 65 a). If a soul can learn, a soul can change. I remain convinced that a man is in fact a different man every instant of his life. How, then, can we blame someone for his past actions, especially one who clearly regrets them? Yet even if the nature of man were such that he remained the same, stagnant throughout life, I would still not be convinced that the faculty that committed the crime is the same faculty that suffers because of it. Both Plato and Aristotle divide the soul into three faculties. Socrates give a good argument to support this assertion in The Republic (Jowett 436): But the question is not quite so easy when we proceed to ask whether these principles are three or one· whether 1 that is to say w~ learn :Vith one pa~t ofour nature, are ;ngrywith another, and with a third part desire the satisfaction of our natural appetites; orwhe ther the whole soul comes into play in each sort of actionto determine that is the difficulty .... The same thing clearly cannot actor be acted upon in the same part or in relation to the same thing at the same time, in contrary ways; and therefore whenever this contradiction occurs in things apparently the same, we know that they are really not the same, but different. To Aristotle, the soul appears to have three parts also, but these are different from Socrates' three parts. Rather, it appears to him that the soul contains a rational principle and irrational, the rational being divided into the calculative or deliberating, part and the scientific part, whi~h is concerned with the truth of unchangeable facts. Given Socrates' argument, it is easy to see that whatever governs the emotions, be it soul or mind of any kind, it must be composed of more than one part, as evidenced by the fact that we some- times experience mixed emotions. We often even act despite misgivings. It seems most likely to me that the part of the soul or mind that suffers is other than the part that prompts us to do wrong. Let me test this idea using Socrates' argument: Are the parts of the mind capable of remorse and the origin of misdeeds respectively affected differently by the same thing at the same time? Yes, insofar as one can regret an action while at the same time perform it. To me this is tantamount to doing something reluctantly. Therefore, it seems that one part misbehaves and another must pay! The objection can be raised, however, that perhaps there is no one part of the soul capable of remorse or misbehavior, that many parts may each be capable of each. In that case it would not matter that one can perform an act reluctantly . It would not prove anything, for it would still be possible f.or the misbehaving element in a certain circumstance to be the very same part that regrets the act later. If this objection is to be sustained, it would seem to me in that case that the one faculty involved had completely changed its nature, as it changed with regard to the same action. I would not, then, blame the new, improved entity for the malefaction of the old. I am willing to assume, however, that one faculty is uniquely capable of remorse, another of action. If, then, the wrongdoer and the one who regrets are two different entities, is it not appropriate at least to pity the latter, both in the sense of commiserating and of seeking to end its pain? But suppose I am wrong and we must regard the same man and the same faculty that did the bad deed as the one that suffers. Many hold notions of justice and r esponsibility that demand this. Let us first examine justice, which some say points to the conclusion that blame somehow renders pity inappropriate, and then concentrate on the difference between th e wro n gdoer an d th e wro n ged , which we will call responsibility. Why do some of us feel it inconsistent to pity the one who is to blame for a misdeed? Can we not blame and pity (in both senses) the same man? Aristotle seems to take it for granted that we cannot (Rackham III. v. 15, 16). Yet, we are all sinners. We all make mistakes. What does the fact that a certain wrongdoer's sin is responsible for his misery have to do with our sorrow over his misery and our willingness to help him to overcome it? Some will answer that the said misery is the fulfillment of justice, and so we should not be willing to help the wrongdoer to escape it. Some will even go so far as to say that we should not even feel sorry fo r someone who suffers according to what they believe to be justice. Socrates and Aristotle present us with many kinds of justice in light of which to examine the above concerns. In the Nicomachean Ethics (Rackham, V. iv. 3) we are introduced to co r rective justice. Corrective justice restores equality between the wrongdoer and his victim by taking from the culprit and redressing, that is, giving to the victim. This serves two purposes. Obviously, it helps the victim, restoring the equality between the wrongdoer and the victim which was lost when the wrong was done. Also, it serves to deter potential malefactors from doing (and actual ones from repeating) crimes. Aristotle says, "la wgivers ...puni sh ... those who do evil... in order to ... repress [it]" (Rackham, III. v. 7). Now, pity of either kind fo r the wrongdoer certainly does no t prevent us from r ed r essing t he wrong for the victim's sake. Does sympathy inter fere with deterrence? I think not. I am sure that many people who have had to mete out justice of this kind have pitied the cr iminals. But what of the kind of pity that seeks relief from the suffering? Recall that the wrongdoer in my i nitial question regrets his action. If this is so, what need have we to dete r him fu r ther? It seems t hat corrective justice is of no use whe re this wrongdoer is concerned, and certainly should not prevent us from pitying him. The Ethics also raises the issue of r etribution. Since either form of pi ty would soften the blow of retributive justice, perhaps neither is appropriate to the wrongdoer if this should prove to be a valid concept of justice. Fortunately, Aristotle does not succeed in proving this. The best he can do is to say, " The very existence of the state depends on proportionate reciprocity; for men demand that they shall be able to requite evil with evil -- if they cannot, they feel they are in the position of slaves" (Rackham, V. v. 6). In other words, man's villainous instinct for revenge is at the root of this so-called justice! The Gorgias, too, contains some possible re ferences to retaliation as justice. Says Socrates, And so again ... supposing it is our duty to injure somebody, whether an enemy or anyone else ... we must make every exertion to trial, or if he does, we must contrive that our enemy shall escape and not be punished. (Lamb, 480 e, 481 a) Socrates, who believes punishment to be good for the malefactor, casually assumes that a man can be bound by duty to injure someone. What else could that be but retaliation? Henry Higuera entertained the idea that the latter part of the Gorgias (523) consists of an attempt on Socrates' part to pay Callicles back for his insulting manners. Callicles has been sarcastic and rude (Lamb 495 d). He calls Socrates "paragon of wisdom." He says also, "You could not speak, I suppose, if there were not somebody to answer you" (Lamb 519 d), and eventually he does stop answering. As Mr. Higuera says, "Tempers [are] high." So why does Socrates start preaching fire and brimstone? It could be that he honors retaliation as a form of justice. Aristotle tries, but in my opinion fails. It will take more than popular demand to convince me that two "wrongs" make a "right." If re taliation is not justice, then the notion thereof should not prevent us from pitying our repentant wrongdoer in any way. The Gorgias also presents Socrates' view of justice as medicinal punishment. "Paying the penalty is a relief from the greatest evil, wickedness" (Lamb 478 d) If this is justice (and indeed it seems to work in child-rearing), we should not seek to ameliorate the wrongdoer's suffering until he evinces his betterment by regretting his evil act, but our repentant wrongdoer is still an appropriate target for both kinds of pity. It seems that no real justice of any kind presented in the Ethics or the Gorgias renders pity for the repentant wrongdoer inappropriate! There are, however, those who insist on the existence of some a priori, cosmic justice involving something like retribution. It may be useful to ask exactly how much suffe r ing and of what kind the wrongdoer must endure as punishment for the satisfaction of this elusive cosmic justice. First let us look at natural consequences. Sometimes a crime will bring these with it. Sometimes, too, the righting of a wrong causes a wrongdoer pain, as in the case of a liar who is made to tell the shameful truth. The pain here is merely a by-product of the aspect of corrective justice that seeks to redress a wrong for the sake of the victim -- not justice itself -- or is it? Does this cosmic retributive justice demand that the wrongdoer of act and word to prevent him from being punished or coming 20 21 �suffer any and all such incidental (not related to the magnitude of the iniquity) consequences? Common sense says that this is ridiculous. Indeed, Socr ates unwittingly poses a broader problem when he suggests that punishment (natural or otherwise) be tailored to fit the crime (Woodhead 480 c,d). Who is to say how much punishment is enough? If the aim of justice is medicinal, the wrongdoer himself is the one to answer. The same goes in the case of justice based on deterrence. If justice means paying back the victim for his loss then the victim should answer. Such it is in the case of constructive forms of justice that the question of how much punishment is enough can be answered. However, if justice is cosmic, who is to answer? The cosmos herself? Does she really have a reputation for being fair and just? It is clear how ridiculous that is. Be that as it may, there are those who insist that blame, or responsibility, renders pity inappropriate to wrongdoers. Yet these same tenacious souls will pity the man who is abused by circumstances (or by a wrongdoer). The best I can do for these is to point out how much alike are those who suffer because of their own misdeeds and those who suffer otherwise, and how shallow and illusory is their concept of responsibility. Aristotelian responsibility is based on the volunta r iness of action, such that a man is responsible for an act that is wrong if he has committed it voluntarily. Again, Aristotle believes that pity cannot go hand in hand with blame. He says, "It is only voluntary actions fo r whiCh praise and blame are given; those that are involuntary are condoned, and sometimes even pitied" (Rackham III. i. 1). I think that this attitude results partly from his restricted use of the word "blame," which he seems to t a ke to mean, "that by virtue of which one is responsible (in the Aristotelian sense)." Aristotle says that voluntary acts are those in which the origin of the movement of the parts of the body instrumental to the act lies in the agent; and when the origin of an action is in oneself it is in one's own power to do it or not. (Rackham, III. i. 6) And again: 'None would be vile, and none would not be blest,' seems to be half false. If it is manifest that a man is the author of his own actions, and if we are unable to trace our conduct back to any 22 other origins than those within ourselves, then actions ... are voluntary (Rackham, III. v. 4-6). If one were hypnotized into committing a base act, I do not think that the act would qualify as voluntary, although we, in so far as we did not know of the hypnotist, would not be able to trace the agent's conduct back to any other origins than those within himself. Therefore I am inclined to believe that Aristotle meant to identify voluntary actions as those which a being equipped with perfect knowledge could not trace back to any origins save the wrongdoer himself. To Aristotle, this would pose no threat to his concept of responsibility, since he imputes spontaneity to our actions (that is, those actions not classified as "involuntary," a concept discussed below); however, the notion of spontaneous action by animals of any kind flies in the face of modern psychology. In a world that is always asking "Why?", searching for causes and patterns and the order of nature which we intuit to be a reality, there is no room for the idea of spontaneity. The truth, I believe, is that our destinies were set before the earth cooled, since nothing transpires without cause and nothing is caused to happen which does not happen, so that strung about the latticework of time and space is an immutable web of cause and effect, the vision of which Aristotle was denied. Thus any actions, theoretically ,should be able to be traced back to origins other than those within the agent. Spontaneity is, as I said before, a chaotic beast which we intuit to be nonexistent. Yet even chaos has intelligent suppo r te rs who point out that the universe may have had a beginning, and, if it did, this beginning would have been spontaneous. Therefore, they claim, spontaneity may be a monster on the loose in our very universe . I n light of the fa ct th at spo ntaneity may be a reality and that human acts may, to spite psychology cruelly, be spontaneous, let us reexamine the notion that, "where we are f ree to act we are also free to ref rain from acting." (Rackham III. v. 2) It seems to me that, while this is in one sense true (in that the action to a large degree depends on the agent), it is possible that the agent may be of suc h a character that he can only choose to act wrongly. If the character of the agent helps to determine his behavior, and the agent is not responsible for his character, it appears to follow that the agent is not responsible for his behavior, in the Aristotelian sense. Is the agent responsible for his character? Aristotle says that he is, since it is our practices that determine our character (Rackham III. iv. 15, 16). And yet, it is our character that determines our practices! It is obvious that, at some point in the past, the agent's character was not his responsibil ity and, therefore, neither are all ensuing actions and modifications of that character. Have I done away with responsibility? Not really. My attack is limited to Aristotelian respon sibility which, some claim, renders the wrongdoer undeserving of pity. I have left ample room for the more pragmatic responsibility that we use in everyday life in conjunction with corrective justice. According to Aristotle, "actions are in voluntary when done (a) under compulsion or (b) through ignorance" (Rackham III. i. 2, 3); ignorance of this kind is ignorance concerning (I) the person affected, (2) the instrument employed, or (3) the result of the action. But Socrates says that all seek the good and act in such a way as they believe will bring it about (Lamb 468 c - 469). In light of this, which seems to me true, are not all wrongdoers shown to act in ignorance of the results of their actions, believing them to be good whereas in reality they are not? Aristotle addresses this notion that the wrongdoer's "aim at his end [which he mistakenly sees as good] is not of his own choosing" (Rackham III. v. 17) by arguing that it destroys the idea of responsibility for good behavior as well as for bad (Rackham III. v. 18, 19). I find the argument insubstantial and Aristotelian responsibility (for both good and bad actions) fictitious. Finally, neither the repentant wrongdoer not the wronged person chooses evil, since "no object of choice belongs to the past" (Ostwald, l l 39b7). It seems that the re pen tan t wrongdoer and the wronged are very much alike, neither of them being responsible for their suffering in the Aristotelian sense, and neither choosing evil. Again, the malefactor is not the same entity as the repentant, nor does justice prescribe that we deny pity of any kind to the wrongdoer. It is clear, then, that the man who is "to blame" for his own suffering and the man who is abused by circumstances and thus suffers are equally to be pitied, both in the sense of commiserating and of seeking to end the sufferer's pain. Bibliography Aristotle: Nichomachean Ethics, Translated by Martin Ostwald, The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc., 1962; and Nichomachean Ethics, Trans. by H. Rackham, M.A. William Heinemann, Ltd., 1926. Higuera, Henry: Tutor and Advisor Plato: Gorgias, Trans. by W.D. Woodhead, Phaedo,_Trans. by Hugh Tredennick, from Collected Dialogues of Plato, Princeton University Press, 1961; and The Republic, Trans. by B. Jowett, Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. 23 �Aututnn Day Salon E = MC Scott Vineber g ('88) Scott Vineberg ('88) Combing the follicles of grass, Cleaning-up their natty harvest confetti; Leaves, trees' dandruff. I confess to Boreas My dislike of the season: Petty gossip. But the wind, darling, Is not a good listener. I tease the scalp Of old Miss Nature, Menopausal Spinster Earth, Greying and balding. A last clip. The old bat is just about ready to be embalmed. She's never satisfied with her color: "No," she says, "the tint isn't quite right. I think I want it white for down south this year." I don't think that would be a very good idea, bitch. Well, Then she beckoned to her bully brother Boreas, And he blew the clipping and cleaning Back onto her head. She stormed out. No tip again this yea r. But it was worth it, dear, It was worth it. A gentle, explosive equation. Tight Energy is Mass. Loose mass is energy. The equality flows so easily From dynamic burst power to thick ule. Fire frozen. Stone burning. It works so carefully in the world, Cradling us from inside ourselves And all around us. Papoose wrap Nature Rocks us with minute bursts inside Pinches us with soft solidity. ' We are the naked flame rock babies of the universe. So soft. Gravity is God's kind hand holding me. I feel how we are so cautiously tucked In the dark ch aotic sky; I feel the rigid relenting bed On which I am laid, And I know I am loved. 25 24 �Seeing with Both Eyes Open Graham Redgrave ('90) Both Claudius Ptolemaeus and Nicolaus Copernicus had only their eyes with which to observe the whirling lights in the sky. In addition, each had over a thousand years of pre-Common Era astronomical data at his disposal. Yet Copernicus built an astronomy which is mathematically superi or to Ptolemy's and which has since been shown to be closer to the actual form of the universe. Alth ough some discussion of what makes an astronomy superior is appropriate, this paper will be concerned with the progression of the philosophies of the two astronomers and the links, if any, between each's philosophy and astronomy. Was there, for example, a progression of thought which may have given Copernicus the freed om to see the heavens in a different light than that in which Ptolemy had seen them? A context, in this case astronomical, must be provided in which to judge the philosophies of these two thinkers, for otherwise one would be unable to grasp any possible relevance of the philosophy of the astronome r to his astronomy. Again, in order to make the progression of thought, both astronomical and philosophical, as clear as possible, we will begin with Ptolemy and proceed chronologically to Copernicus. Upon contemplating the Preface to Ptolemy's Almagest, it becomes clear that Ptolemy's conception of astronomy is thoroughly Aristotelian: Aristotle's name appears before the name of any religious entity. Consequently, Ptolemy finds that astronomy is a species of mathematics which, in the realm of theoretical enquiry, surpasses in accessibility both the physical and the the ological; for not only is mathematics the only discipline which "would give its practitioners certain and trustw orthy knowledge ... f rom indisputable procedures"(Pt.,pp.5-6), but also astronomy is "that special mathematical theory [which] would most readily prepare the way to the theological" and make "its followers lovers of that divine beauty"(Pt.,p.6). Irrespective of the virtue in studying astronomy, the fact is that Ptolemy considers astronomy to be kind of mathematics, and therefore subject to the principles of such a discipline, beyond any principles particular to astronomy. With this delineation in mind, let us examine several of Ptolemy's expositions to evaluate their mathematical and / or astronomical excellence. Before we sift through some of his specific ideas, let us first examine his conceptions. Ptolemy, in laudable Aristotelian manner, starts "from the things which are more knowable and obvious to us and [proceeds] towards those which are clearer and more knowable by na ture"(Phys., l 84a 16-1 7), ie., he observes the appearances of heavenly motion, both firsthand and from his charts, and proceeds to find the order in their movements. In accordance with his method, Ptolemy first asserts that the movement of the heavens is spherical (Pt.,1.3). What Ptolemy actually proves is that the heavens appear to move around 27 26 �the earth with spherical motion. Now without a powerful telescope to observe parallax, there is no way to prove which is moving, the heavens or the earth, but Ptolemy says not a word about any other possibility. Ptolemy's proof for the spherical nature of the earth (Pt.,1.4) is reasonable, as is his assertion in Chapter Six that the earth has the ratio of a point to the heavens. But in Chapter Five we encounter another difficulty. The fixed stars are so far away, as he himself says(Pt.,I.6), that there is justification for calling them fixed and saying that we appear to be in the middle of them; but the variable appearances of the sun and the wandering stars, i.e., the planets, seem to suggest that, even if the relationships between the earth and these stars are regular, the earth is not necessarily the center of that regularity. Furthermore, Chapter Six reinforces the contrast between the planets and the sun on one hand, and the planets and the fixed stars on the other (something prevents Ptolemy form postulating that the whole geocentric system might be as a point to the heavens--but what is that hindrance and where else in the Almagest does it manifest itself?). I do realize that hindsight affords a better vista of the problems in a given situation, but at the same time, Ptolemy was not proving what he claimed. As a result of finding the earth at the center of the of the center of the celestial sphere, he reasonably assigns no movement to the earth(Pt.,1.7), which is perfectly in accordance with Aristotle's ideas regarding the relative weight of the earth and the innate tendencies of the simple bodies. Thus far, though his premises are clouded enough to make his proofs almost reasonable assertions, Ptolemy's arguments are self-consistent and logically sound. After he deals with the earth's relationship with the sun and moon, Ptolemy orders the planets and the sun with respect to their closeness to the earth (Pt.,IX. l ), a process which seems substantially less sound than his proofs so far. Indeed, Ptolemy gives no reason for his order except concurrence with all the other top mathematicians of his day. The order is, of course, not without value; the appearances of the planets have begun to be explained. Mercury and Venus, the two planets placed below the sun, are tied to it in that they move with the same speed as the mean sun and, as a result, can never be more than certain elongations (longi tudinal distances) from the sun. This restriction on their movements accounts perfectly for their heliacal anomaly, the first of two anomalies of the 28 planets. Ptolemy's method appears valid: he isolates one appearance of the planet at a time, explicates it, and, if further explication are needed, he takes each in turn and gradually compounds the appearances (anomalies) together. Ptolemy puts both Venus and Mercury on epicycles of specific sizes which move on eccentric deferents at specific rates, in order that the planets appear to retrograde (they appear to stop, move backward, stop again, and then continue forward) at the appropriate time and that their elongations vary correctly (their zodiacal anomaly). He constructs similar hypotheses for the outer planets, at which point strange things begin to happen. To understand the problems which now emerge, let us review the appearances of an outer planet. First, outer planets can be at any elongation from the sun, and retrogradation may happen anywhere in the zodiac, as long as the planet artd the sun are in opposition (i.e., they are 180 degrees from one another). The fact that retrogradation occurs only at opposition ties the planet to the sun in much the same way that the inner planets have limited elongations. The outer planets' zodiacal anomaly arises from the fact that the severity of retrogradati on is contingent upon what part of the zodiac the planet is in when retrogradation takes place. Finally, a coincidence arises which haunts the Ptolemaic universe. For each of the three outer planets (Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars), "the sum of the cycles of longitude [the movement of the epicycle on the deferent] and the cycles of anomaly [the movement of the planet on the epicycle] always equals the number of solar years in which these cycles take place"(S=L+A)(p.24M). The resultin g table looks like this: Saturn Jupiter Mars Solar Years 59+ 7179+ Cycles of L 2+ 6- 42+ the amount by which the d'e f erent's center is displaced from the earth. But in proving that whenever the planet is in opposition it is at its true perigee, he assumes the existence of the equant. What is the equant? When Ptolemy calculates the eccentricity of the inner planets, the data he has gives him an amount of arc which corresponds to twice the amount of eccentricity he had previously calculated. Ptolemy is forced to posit the equant, the center of regular angular motion for the planet, at a point equidistant from the center of the eccentric deferent as the earth. The equanfs existence is problematic at best, since the planet whose regular motion the equant is describing is not on a circle about the equant. The planet, then, relative to the circle it is moving on, is moving with irregular motion! After assuming the equant's existence for the outer planets, Ptolemy makes accurate predictions concerning those planets; but how valid is the equant, an assumed equant at that, even if the predictions made with it are accurate? In summarizing Ptolemy's astronomy, I will say that the nobility of his philosophy far outshines the applications of his mathematics to such a philosophy. His clear, Aristotelian thoughts soon become tangled in an ill-supported muddle, at the heart of which lie three problems. The first is the fact that under the Ptolemaic system, according to the appearances, an outer planet must be at perigee when it is in opposition to the sun. Placing an outer planet on an epicycle, however, does not necessitate this phenomenon, as is shown below (Cp., p.525): Cycles of A 57 65 37 . . I -- - conJ nct10n apogee This coincidence gives rise to the discovery of another, namely that retrogradation occurs only at perigee. Ptolemy's constructions to make the epicycles fit the appearances of the outer planets are fairly complex and hard to capture visually. More imporantly, they are more difficult for him to do simply because the outer planets have unlimited elongations. Ptolemy must determine the correlation between the planet's perigee and its being in L Sun / ' opposition/perigee L - - '\ b ......... " \ \ Earth There is nothing in Ptolemy's mathematics that necessitates that Mars be in opposition at perigee; for it is clear that Mars could be anywhere on the epicycle. It is the appearances that dictate the necessity of having perigee at opposition, but Ptolemy does not construct a system in which this must happen. The second problem is that no explanation can be made for why the number of solar years equals the sum of the planet's cycles of longitude and anomaly. For Ptolemy this is a coincidence which, when explicated according to the appearances, produces the configuration of perigee at opposition, another coincidence! These two configurations would seem to make a strong argument for heliocentricity, simply because it is clear that the orbits of all the planets have far more to do with the sun than they have to do with the earth. The last problem, that of the equant, is more subtle, more elusive. It seems clear that if one wishes to maintain the purity, both from a philosophical and a mathematical viewpoint, of the orbits of the planets, one must use only perfect circles in the explication of phenomena. For without such purity of form, not only is the mathematics far more complicated, but also the philosophy (at least the Ptolemaic/ Aristotelian philosophy) becomes besmirched with something less than divine. Perhaps some discussion of the philosophical principles guiding Ptolemy's thought is here appropriate. In Book Thirteen, Chapter Two, Ptolemy states: But it is proper to try and fit as far as possible the simpler hypothesis to the movements in the heavens; and if this does not succeed, then any hypotheses possible. Once all the appear ances are saved by the consequences of the hypotheses, why should it seem strange that such complications can come about in the movements of heavenly things? (Pt., p.429) The first clause harmonizes with Ptolemy's determined reliance on the most simple and perfect mathematical figure, the circle. Simplicity is desirable beca.u se the simple is pure and therefore divine. And in the heavens, as Aristotle (De Cael~, i,2; Metaphys., xii,8) and Ptolemy (Pt., p.429) say, the simple bodies (stars, planets, etc.) are di vine. It does seem strange, however, that Ptolemy should think that we, as definitely non-divine creatures, should have such direct access to understanding this divine simplicity. For Aristotle says, at least of scientific enquiry, "the natural way [of discovering first principles] is to start from the things which are more knowable and obvious to us and proceed towards those which are clearer and more knowable by na ture"(Phys., l 84a 16-17). Indeed, it seems inconsistent to build a system with the simple elements, viz~, circles, for simplicity's sake, only to 29 �condone the use of those simple uni ts in the building of an edifice of such complexity that simplicity is nowhere to be found in the end product. Saying that the edifice is simple because it is composed of simple elements becomes a bad joke. It is not clear, in all fairness to Ptolemy, whether he is attributing the complications found in the explications of the movements of the planets to the planets themselves, or to man's inadequate astronomy. I cannot help but feel, though, that here Ptolemy is trying to apologize for or rationalize the equant, a step which I may feel necessary but which he may not. Later in the chapter, Ptolemy says that we should "judge [the heavenly occurrences'] simplicity from the unchangeableness of the natures in the heavens and their movement"(p. 429). I find a more subtle revelation of doctrine in this passage, which again is Aristotelian. Man's most exalted faculty, that of reason, is for Aristotle the driving force of the cosmos (Metaphys ., xii,8-9). Aristotle and Ptolemy both posit the unchanging nature of the heavens in order, it seems, to have the universe reflect the supremacy of reason, viz .., in the divine motion of the stars, which, when deified, has recognizable power in the heavens and endows men with the privilege of being able to gaze upon it in its manifestations. This belief in Reason makes Man in a very real sense the measure of all things, at ieast insofar as inquiry is concerned. A man, even recognizing the power of Reason, would still be confined in an inquiry not only by the limitations of his own intellect, but also by the particula r beliefs as to what Reasonable things are. He would only discover as much about the manifestatiosn of Reason (in this case, the heavenly bodies) as his belief in the particular capabilities of Reason (e.g., the setting of the stars in motion) would allow him. His belief would hinder his intellectual pursui t wherever a particular concept (e.g., the planets moving in quasi-circles) seemed un-Reasonable. It seems, then, that Ptolemy was hampered by his philosophy. But surely no man's mind is free to wander about the cosmos unfettered, without any form to shape and direct it? If a man must necessarily have some form of mind, what will be that form, that predisposition, which will work best to enable that man to see truth? And this paper is concernd with astronomical truth; therefore, if one were able to find a verifiably superio r astron ·· omy, one might be able t o compare the philosophy or predisposition of the astronomer in question 30 with that of Ptolemy. But what will be the requirements, at least mathematical if not empirical, by which to judge a work superior? Ptolemy's system is dubious in those places, as has been said, where he cannot produce a mathematical construction that necessarily provides the appearances. If an astronomer could structure his universe to allow for the one correct set of appearances, would not his universe be mathematically superior and probably closer to the truth? Copernicus, of course, is the magician of necessity who solves at least two of the three problems of Ptolemy's system. To reiterate, those problems are: 1) that the outer planets are only at perigee at opposition and vice versa, 2) that there is 'no explanation for the coincidence S=L+A, a coincidence which, in Ptolemy's universe, is intimately linked with the first problem, and 3) that the equant comes dangerously near, in the eyes of some, to astronomical heresy. Problem three is still a problem after Copernicus finishes with it, but in a different respect than it is with Ptolemy. In order to understand how Copernicus solves these problems, we shall summarize the Copernican exposition of the uni verse. To begin with, most of the Ptolemaic ratios dealing with the earth's relationship to the hea venly bodies are kept, for a very good reason . The calculations deriving these ratios are based on fairly accurate observations. The calculations now merely ref er to different relationships; for example, the size of Mars's epicycle now becomes the earth's orbit, while the size of the deferent refers to the size of Mars's orbit. The sun is at the center of the universe, and the planets, proceeding out ward, are ordered thus: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. All the planets are moving in the same direction around centers located very close to the sun, while the earth has three movements which p r eserve the appearance of the zodiac and the daily rotation of the celest ia l sphere. But now to address those three problems-first that of the oppositions and perigees of the outer planets. All we need do is diagram the situation according to Copernicus's system (Cp., p.525): It is clear that Mars (or any out er planet) can ony be at opposition at perigee. The second problem is solved when L is understood to be the speed of the slower planet and A the difference in speeds between the two planets (i.e., the number of times the faster overtakes the slowe r ). Now the planets are ordered from observati on by their angular speeds from the slowest to the fastest, outermost orbit to innermost. Thus, when Saturn has completed two orbits (L), the earth, the faster of the two planets, will have overtaken Saturn fifty-seven times (A) and will have taken fifty-nine years to do so (S). It is also evident that whenever a planet overtakes or is overtaken by the earth, a retrogradation will occur. Whereas Ptolemy had to calculate the rates for each planet and its epicycle and engingeer retrogradations, so to speak, Copernicus shows that with their observed rates of revolution around the sun, each planet must retrograde where and when it does. Copernicus's solution t o the problem of the equant is the most astounding of the three solutions. For Ptolemy, the necessity for the equant arose when he had to compound the heliacal anomaly with the zodiacal. In addressing the same problem, Copernicus, rather than resorting to the equant, changes the shape of the planet's orbit to a quasi -circle, a curve "diff erring imperceptibly" from a circle. Here Copernicus makes a radi cal leap away from Ptolemy. Where Ptolemy understood there to be a necessity for perfect circles in affirmation of the divine simplicity of the heavens, Copernicus sees the necessity for a very different kind of simplicity, namely that there be no loopings or spirals in a planet's movement (which Ptolemy and Brahe posit, respectively). This simplicity requires a denial of the fundamental divinity of the heavens--or does it? Copernicus's opening remarks are more fervent that Ptolemy's, full of praise for the virtue of astronomy and the "godlike" motions of the heavens. Copernicus is anything but an atheistic mechanist out to rend all the spirit from his art. Copernicus has shown himself to be master astronomer over Ptolemy, but what of his philosophy? At the end of Book One, Chapter Nine, in Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres, Copernicus says, "And the ratio of order. .. teaches us [the astronomical] truth, if only--as they say--we would look at the thing with both eyes." It is doubtful that Copernicus thinks that Ptolemy made his observations with one eye, one physical eye, shut. This being the case, Copernicus might well be making a statement about the mind of the astronomer, a mind not fully utilizing its ability to apprehend truth. But what would the hindrance to that mind be? Earlier in this discussion, Ptolemy was seen to be restricting himself by deifying reason. Copernicus appears to be claiming that his mind is unrestricted in comparison to Ptolemy's, but to investigate the meaning and validity of Copernicus' assertion, we must look at the commentary on Copernicus in Johannes Kepler's Epitome of Copernican Astronomy,JV. In the remarks To the Reader (Kp., p.848), Kepler indirectly quotes Christ in Matthew 24:35: "Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away." Kepler, in proclaiming his Christianity, is making a distinction about the term "heavens," which he goes on to explicate: "But his Most Supreme Highness will not pick a fight concerning the heavens; for he knows that the philosophers speak of the visible heavens; and Christ of the invisible heavens." It seems, then, that Christian dogma dictates that the universe, while "stamped with the adornment of harmonic proportions"(Kp., p.850), is as ephemeral as the ground upon which we stand. Christians are free to think not only of the earth as being related to the stars in a fundamental way, but also of the stars as not eternally moving in their perfect circles. As far as Christians are to be concerned, Aristotle's arguments resulting in the divinity of the (visible) heavens must be false, because he fixes the bounda ries of the divine at the limits of human knowing rather than beyond human knowing, as a Christian would. For Aristotle, the most divine geometrical figure is the perfect circle; consequently he posits that the stars, perceivably the most div .~nc bodies, 31 �move in perfoct circles. With Kepler's linking of Christian dogma to astronomy, however, astronomers are freed to violate certain Aristotelian precepts, simply because that which is Reasonable is no longer divine, merely reasonable. And although Man is made in God's image and, as a result, has some faculty for reason, Man is just that, an image; for him to decipher the unimaginably complex movements of the spheres, he will have to look to God for assistance. Given that Copernicus is a Christian (as is evidenced by his "Preface and Dedication to Pope Paul III"), how does he view the universe? Kepler, in quoting "Copernican Philosophy," uses Copernicus's understanding of astronomy to symbolize the Holy Trinity. The sun is a symbol for the Father, the planetary region a symbol for the Holy Ghost, and the sphere off ixed stars a symbol for Jes us Christ, the Son. Kepler is careful not to say, however, that these regions are the Trinity; he says merely that the tripartite nature of the universe serves as a vehicle for contemplating the Trinity. Now it is possible to see some correlation between the philosophical and the astronomical. Copernicus's assertion that truth can be seen if we open both eyes may be not merely an injunction to see that system which will necessitate the appearances; it may be instead an exhortation to the Christian faith, the faith which allows Copernicus to see man not as the focal point of the universe, but rather as an integral part of God's world. Having examined both Ptolemaic and Copernican astronomies in comparison with their respective philosophies, we have established some sort of correlation between astronomy and philosophy. Ptolemy, in a very Aristotelian manner, conceives of a geocentric universe, a universe whose first principle is Reason. Copernicus, whose universe necessitates the heavenly appearances rather than merely provides for them, is a Christian, and as a result is slightly less hindered that Ptolemy in his thinking about the heavens. We have established a correlation between astronomy and philosophy; but is there a causal relationship between the two? We have seen that ast r onomy is a species of mathematical inquiry, relating to the ordered movements of the heavens, but "philosophy," insofar as it has been used in this paper (and in the term "Copernican Philosophy"), might better be termed "the result of reflection upon one's belief." Ptolemy probably believed in the supremacy of Reason, if we take his Aristotelianism to its logical end, while Copernicus was a Christian. If this "belief" is the farm of mind as was discussed earlier, then it is fundamental in a person and in some way must have given Copernicus the ability to see things differently that Ptolemy. Again if, as Kepler says, "it should not be surprising to anyone that eyesight should learn from r eason,"(Kp., p.854) surely it should not be surprising to anyone that reason learn from belief? Variant Sonnet: ·Atnazon Mourning Dahra Latham ('90) The river sleeps beneath the sun; Her warm, fecund meanders run Through fen and forest drowsily To the cold wakefulness of sea. To rub her eyes and shake her hair, Thinking of sunstruck jungles where She slipped to sleep, having forgot What strange change this night's rest has wrought. So the pard-huntress surely rose At Tibur, surely shook her hair Half of her mind still in repose Forgetting what had brought her there. And raised her head, in sunstruck Syria crowned To see the first strange frost on Roman ground. N.B.: All quotations from Ptolemy, Copernicus, or Ke ple r were taken fr om Gre at Books of the Weste rn World, no. 16, "Ptolemy, Copernicus, Kepler," R.M.Hutchins, ed. All quotations from Aristotle were taken from The Basic Works of Aristotle, R. McKeon, ed. In addition, any quotation followed by "M" is taken from the Sophomore "Ptolemy, Copernicus" Manual. 32 33 �Untitled Sahana Dharmapuri ('91) When her eyes are violets, he is a universe of dandelions to her, and she folds easily into his gentleness. He smells her breasts like plums and rests quietly at her stomach, listening to the chatter of her flesh. He hides but does not hide here. He only hopes to touch her once again; "to fall into the sublime" he says. The conversation of their bodies is insanity, violence, delicate trembling. When they wish on distant nebulas and dying stars, midnight is a mistress to these sorrows. 34 The Return of Oedipus Rex · The Metaphysics of Incest Michael McShane ('88) Writing of Sophocles' Oedipus Rex, Freud asks why it, more than other "tragedies of fatedness," has enjoyed such continued prominence. What is it about Oedipus Rex that has allowed it to hold such powerful sway over minds and imaginations for so many centuries? Freud's answer to the question is well known: Sophocles' tragedy exerts power over us because we all (men presumably) are Oedipal; we all literally but unconsciously desire to kill our fathers and sleep with our mothers. Freud argues that the play touches an unconscious sexual nerve in its audiences and readers; they participate in Oedipus' drama without realizing it. Freud concludes that Oedipus Rex maintains its hold on audiences because Oedipus' sexual complexes and catharses are secretly shared by viewers. I think Freud's question is good but his answer somewhat limited. I am not convinced that everyone shares an unconscious literal desire to kill "his" father and marry "his" mother. Yet it does seem true that Oedipus Rex touches some universal desire, which perhaps Oedipus' murder and incest symbolize. This paper will argue that Oedipus is motivated primarily by a universally shared metaphysical desire. This desire is erotic, certainly, but not merely sexual. To show this the paper will first discuss some Aristotelian meta physics and then--for the sake of contrast--an Homeric corned y before turning to a discussion of the Oedipal tragedy itself. In Greek as well as in much post-Greek thought the form of the circle has held great significance. In the Physics, for example, Aristotle describes the motions of the heavenly bodies as being circular. The planets are divine because they eternally follow circular paths. The major characteristic of the circle, Aristotle argues, is that its end is also its beginning/end. Thus, unlike an object following a rectilinear path, the planet never experiences anything new. To a greater extent than any other movable, the planet's circularity allows it to transcend change and time. For Aristotle, then, the planets are divine; their circular orbits indicate a high degree of self-enclosed, self-sufficient, persistent identity. Following their circular itineraries, the planets recuperate themselves at every moment, suffering minimal intrusion of anything foreign or external to them. Nearly unconditioned, they return to themselves, eternally. The one thing that does condition the planets, Aristotle argues, is the most divine being in the cosmos, the unmoved mover. The prime mover solicits the circular motions of the planets, which are moved by an erotic desire for its perfection. The prime mover also displays a kind of circular quality. It is pure activity: thinking thinking. The prime mover thinks only its own thoughts. It always and immediately returns to itself. The prime mover can be imagined as an extremely tight circle of selfconsciousness. 35 �Even more than the planets, the divine prime mover transcends time. As pure activity, it has present in it no potentiality whatsoever. As such, the prime mover cannot change or move, given that Aristotle's definition of motion is "the actuality of potentiality qua potentiality." Aristotle describes time as the "measure of motion." Thus, the potentiality-less prime mover cannot move and consequently is outside of time. Thinking only its own self, the prime mover can be represented as even more self-subsistent and self-enclosed than the planets, which are moved by it. Closed off, the prime mover's world is populated only by itself.Unaffected by anything external to the circle of its own intellectual activity, the prime mover is radically unconditioned and free. From the above I hope it can be seen that in Aristotle's thought the form of the circle is the form of the divine, the eternal, the self-identical, self-enclosed and self-sufficient. From this thought I will try to show that there is a kind of "circle logic" at work in Greek literature as well as philosophy. Two examples of literary circle logic will be adduced. One is comedic--i.e., has a happy ending--and the other tragic: the tales of Odysseus and Oedipus. Odysseus' travels represent a great circle, starting from Ithaca, turning through the events of the Iliad, re-turning through the events of the Odyssey and ending with a triumphal return to his original starting point, Ithaca. Odysseus' r eturning to Ithaca represents the closing of his circle, where end meets beginning. There he recuperates his own origin: he makes peace with his father. There Odysseus kills off the external suitors, restoring the integrity of his family circle. He regains his ever-faithful wife Penelope, his troubled son, his kingship, his place. The return of Odysseus indi cates the recuperation of his very identity, which h a d been a t sta ke th roughout his a r cing journeys. As with the planets, the meshing of the Ithacan scene at the beginning of Odysseus' travels with the scene there at the end in di ca tes a kind of transcendence of time. The great circular reasoner, Hegel, remarks that true forgiveness means negating history; unweaving, Penelope forgives and trusts Odysseus, thus negating the troublesome period between his departure and return, a period when he was out doing godknowswhat with godknowswhom godknowswhere. Another example of temporal transcendence concerns the suitors. They die off relatively expediently. More than 36 that, however, by means of Athena's action, Ithaca somehow eludes the horrible regression of revenge seen in another return story, The Oresteia. As Helen drugged Menelaos into forgetting his past, so Athena somehow induces the families of the slain suitors to forget that Odysseus has wiped out their men. Only by this collective forgetting of the past can Odysseus ever hope to govern in Ithaca. The comedic nature of the Odyssey depends upon Odysseus' ability to transcend time and history. Thus we see two examples of how the triumphal return of Odysseus somehow involves a denial, forgetting, negation or transcendence of the time between. Turned full circle, Odysseus can live at peace with his wife, family, city and self as if he had never left town. Having fully returned to his origin, Odysseus has re-captured his identity, place and independence, in conformity with the circle logic of the circular path he followed. The fin al comedic nature of the Odyssey is guaranteed by its circular form: the end meshes successfully with the beginning. If, as I have suggested, the circular form guarantees perfection and absolute self-suff iciency in Greek philosophy and comic epics, it also presides over the tragedy of Oedipus Rex. An examination of that play will reveal a sense . in which the divine cir cle becomes a vicious circle for human beings. There are many aspects of circularity and broken ci rcularity in Oedipus Rex. I won' t go into all of them here, but the most obvious aspect of circularity in the play is Oedipus' geographical itinerary. Like Odysseus, Oedipus' wanderings form a great circle. He departs originally from Thebes and turns through Cithaera and Corinth, from there re-turning home to Thebes via the illfated crossroads and the interview with the sphinx. Although this itinerary seems to conform to the circular path taken by Odysseus, there obviously remains a tragic difference. For Oedipus, homecoming, although first apparently excessively successful, becomes increasingly and ultimately horrifying. An important difference between Oedipus' and Odysseus' circular paths concerns the tightness of their circles. Whereas Odysseus returns to his wife after killing her suitors, Oedipus returns to his own mother after killing his father. In terms of circle logic, what does it mean to marry mother after killing father? Why do men commonly dream of this kind of return, as Jocasta suggests? To marry one's own mother indicates the most immediate, most intimate form of circular return, where the circle closes back on itself extremely tightly. Oedipus has literally returned to his own place of origin, his mother's body. Conceiving children with her, it is as if he is conceiving himself. He can, in effect, be his own parent and child simultaneously. Returning so closely to his own origin, Oedipus expresses a desire to undo what has been done, to negate his past and start again, to re-create himself by himself. In this way we see in Oedipus' story, as in Odysseus', the Aristotelian premiss of time-transcendence as described by circle logic. The desire to marry one's own mother, it seems to me, comes out of an Aristotelian desire for self-sufficiency. As described above, self-sufficiency means minimal dependence upon anything exterior to the circle of one's own present identity. Such a desire for self-sufficiency accounts for Oedipus'(perhaps unconscious) desire to be selfbegotten, self-raised. It implies a dread of otherness, newness or foreigness. Having children by his own mother indicates Oedipus' desire to populate the world with himself. He desires to be like the unmoved mover, inhabiting a cosmos in which only he is present. Before Oedipus' self-sufficient dread of anything alien all otherness or negativity must be annihilated. Hence essential to Oedipus' return to his maternal origin is the killing of his own father. If self-sufficiency means being conditioned only by oneself then paternity, as a pregi ven and prohibiting condition, must be eliminated. To use the Aristotelian language, killing the father is for the sake of marrying the mother, which is for the sake of circular self-sufficiency. Thus we can see that Oedipus symbolically achieves the closest possible meshing of beginning and end as prescribed by the logic of circularity. Why is it then that Odysseus' circle is comically charmed while Oedipus' becomes vicious, tragic? This question might seem foolish; after all , one could reason, Oedipus committed incest, which is a horrible crime against nature, hence it is no wonder that he ended tragically in Oedipus Rex. Yet, such reasoning misses the point. Odysseus certainly committed a few crimes in his career. We must ask why incest is regarded as a uniquely horrible crime. This question becomes more compelling in light of the doctrine of circle logic set out before. Circle logic, as presented in my interpretation of Aristotle, seems to imply that the tighter the circle followed the more divine the follower. For this reason planets, although divine, are less di vine than the prime mover. As set out above, the planets do move, require externality, are conditioned, do desire some more original other. On the other hand, the tight inner circle of the prime mover implies its wholly original, independent and divine nature. If circle logic be taken as a standard, it would seem that Oedipus should fare better than his counterpart in circularity, Odysseus. For schematically, Odysseus' life (up to the end of the Odyssey) should look something like this: A birth, origin From this diagram we can see that Odysseus doesn't fully return to his origin. There is a rectilinear portion of his lif e(line AB), for which he must be less divine, according to Aristotelian circle logic. On the other hand, Oedipus' life drawing (up to the end of Rex) looks like this: birth, marriage, child begetting Cithaera Sphinx crossroads Here we can see that if circle logic is valid, Oedipus should end up more divine, more outside of time, more self-sufficient than Odysseus, for he more closely approaches his own origin. If this is true we reach the paradoxical conclusion that circle logic seems to sanction, even demand, incest; for incest 37 �represents the closing of the circle. Given, then, that Oedipus' life most closely approximates the divine pattern of the self-enclosed divine circle, we are compelled to ask our question again: "Why is it then that Odysseus' circle is comically charmed while Oedipus' is tragically vicious?" Why is it that Odysseus is able to transcend time while Oedipus remains haunted and destroyed by his own past? Why is it that Odysseus and those around him can forgive and forget, while Oedipus is doomed to remembrance and condemnation? Why is it that Odysseus is able to re-establish his own self-sufficient identity, his place and his kingship while Oedipus is left dependent, dethroned and exiled? Circle logic would seem to indicate that Oedipus should have been the most divinely content, self-satisfied and self-sufficient man ever. He obviously is not that at the end of the play. That contradiction, I think, lies at the heart of the tragedy of Oedipus Rex as human tragedy. It suggests the true meaning of Oedipus' much bruited "tragic flaw." It was not for something idiosyncratic, like his impatience or wrathfulness, that Oedipus had to suffer. It was because he made a bid for something all human beings intrinsically desire: he aspired to be divine, completely circularly self-sufficient. Like Aristotle's planets, Oedipus erotically desired to completely overcome all alien being, transcend time and his own history, to endlessly renew himself in a closed world populated only by himself. In short, Oedipus desired divinity, self-sufficiency and immortality. I think the message of Oedipus Rex is that such a radical transcendence of the human is impossible and dangerous, contrary to what Aristotle claims in the Ethics. Oedipus discovered that human beings must content themselves with human things. This means, in effect, that human beings cannot ever be sufficient unto themselves; Sophocles has Oedipus learn that there is no escape from otherness, newness, time and external conditions. To try to evade mortality, Oedipus finds, is to commit horrible crimes. He cannot close the circle of his history without annihilating his own father, killing off thereby, a part of himself. · I think the real power of Oedipus Rex lies in its depiction of the human soul. Part of being human is dreaming of immortality and self-sufficiency. As the Odyssey perhaps suggests, human nature holds out a vague promise of divine transcendence. Yet, full divinity can never be fully obtained, at least according to Oedipus Rex. Oedipus sensed the divine in him, sensed it perhaps as intellect or good fortune (his "mother"), and erotically pursued this divinity, although perhaps unconsciously. Oedipus' pursuit of his divine self took place in a dream-like state of amnesia. When Oedipus a woke the circle was broken; he had blood on his hands. The tragedy of Oedipus Rex is a tragedy of the impossibility of radical human transcendence. 38 39 �Thus, by substituting (5) and (2). into (6), we arrive at, (sin 2Lz)(3600)(Ui) 2 + [(cosL 2)(60)(U 1)-M(BC)] 2 = M 2(DB) Therefore, (sin2Lz) (3600) (U 1)2+ (cos2Lz) (3600) (U 1) 2 - 120 (U i) (cosLz) * M(BC) + M2(BC) = M2(DB) A Modern Investigation of the Eccentric Hypothesis Therefore, (3600) (U 1) 2 [sin 2L 2+cos 2LiJ (120) (U 1) (cosL 2 * M(BC) + M 2(BC) = M 2(DB) by Tim McNicholl '90 Therefore, (3600) (U 1) =M2(DB) - The circle in the above diagram is the eccentric with center C. Point Bis the position of the Earth, and D is a given position of the planet. Thus Li is the angle of apparent movement and L 2 is the angle of regular movement. The planet moves counterclockwise from point A, the perigee. The drawing is an inversion of the more commonly used diagram in Book III, Chapter Two, of the Almagest. However, this will not affect the results obtained. In the following equations, M(a) denotes the measure of line a. 1. Given the Angle of Regular Motion, to find the Angle of Apparent Motion. A M(DC)=60*U i (sinL 2)*60*U i=M(DE) ( cosLz)*60*U i=M(EC) Therefore, Li= Sin- 1 { (SinLz) (60) / +[ 3600 - 120 (n) ( CosL 2) + n 2] 1h} (15) (8) Q.E.F. Thus, Substituting (8) into (7), 2. Given the Angle of Apparent Motion, to find the Angle of Regular Motion. (3600)(U 1)-( l 20)(n)(U 1)2( cosLz)+(n)2(U 1)2 =M2(DB) Consider the following equations again, Let U i equal the unit that measures DC sixty times. Therefore, (U i) 2 [3600 - (120) (n) (cosL 2) + n2] = M2(DB) Therefore, +U i[3600 - (120) (n) (cosL 2) + n]11 M(DB) 2= (9) M(EC)=(CosLi)(Uz)+n(U i) M(DE)=(SinLi)*U2 M(DC)=60*U 1 M(DE)=(SinLz)(60)(U 1) By this unit, Let U 2=the unit that measure DB one time. From the drawing it follows that, (1) (2) (3) M(EB)=M(EC)-M(BC) (4) M2(EC)+ M2(D E )=M2(DC) (10) (11) +Ui[3600 - (120) (n) (cosLz) + n 2]112= U 2 (12) Equating (12) and (2), Substituting (3) into (4), we obtain, M(EB)=( cosL 2)( 60 )(U i)-M(BC) By this unit, M(DB)=l *U 2 M(DE)=(sinLl )*U 2 Equating (10) and (9), Now then, (13) (5) At the same time, Substituting (11) into (13), (6) 40 (14) (7) (120) (U 1) 2 (cosLz) * M(BC) + M2(BC) M(BC)=n*U i Therefore, SinL 1=(SinLz)*60/ +[3600 - 120 (n) (CosL 2) + n2]1/z This function does not work, however, when 90 > L < 360. For, within these values, CosL 2 is negative, slightly disturbing the value of the denominator of the right side of (15). This is mended by changing the - sign in the radical to a + operand which is - when O~L~90. Accordingly, Li= Sin-i{ (SinL 2) (60) + [ 3600 + (120) (n) (CosL 2) + (16) n2] 1/2} Let n= the number of times U i measures BC. With the publication of De Revolutionibus Orbium Coelestium in 1543, the heliocentric Hrevolu tion" was heralded along with the decline of the geocentric theory of Ptolemy. The many advances made afterwards in mathematics were used to refine and confirm the heliocentric system while the obsolete system of Ptolemy was given little of their attention. The purpose of this paper is to investigate the eccentric hypothesis of Ptolemy using the mathematics of the heliocentric era. Its goals are to derive formulas that yield the angle of apparent or regular motion when given the other angle, and to verify that mean passage occurs at apparent quadrature. Therefore, (SinLi) ( + [3600 - 120 (n) (CosLz) + n2 ]112) =(SinLz) * 60 (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) Substituting (1), (2), and (3) into (5) , [ (CosL 1) (U 2) + (n) (U 1)]2 + (Sin 2L 1) (U z) 2 =3600 (U 1) 2 Therefore, (Cos 2L 1) (Ut) 2 +2 [(CosL 1) (U z) (n) (U 1) ] + (n) 2 (U 1) 2 + (Sin L 1) (U z)2 = 3600(U 1)2 Therefore, (Uz) 2 + 2 [(CosL 1)(n) (U 2)(U 1)] + (U 1)2[N 2 - 3600] =0 (SinL 1) (U 1) + [3600 - 120 (n) (CosLz) + n2] 1f2 =(SinLz) (60) (U1) 41 �d/dL = (n2cos 2Li - n2+ 3600) 1/~ .5[d ( n2cos2Li /2 n 2 + 3600) I dLi] * [l / (n2cos2L 1 - n2+ 3600) 1 We now have an equation in the form ax 2+bx+c=0 where, L 2=t*m L 2/m=t x=Uz a=l b=2(CosLi)(U i)(n) c=(U i) 2[n-3600] Therefore, dL 1/d[L 2/t] or m*dL 1/dL 2 is sought. =.5 [d/ dL 1 n 2cos2Lil * [l /(n 2cos2L 1-n2+3600) 1/ 2 In addition to the basic rules of diff erentiation, the fallowing axioms have been used: Using the quadratic formula to solve for U 2, we obtain, And so, at apparent quadrature, the apparent and regular velocities are equal, no matter what the distance between the centers is. =n 2 * dcosL 1/dL 1 * cosL 1 * 1/( ... ) 1/ 2 =n 2(-sinL 1)(cosL 1)/(n 2cos 2L 1-n2+3600) 1/ 2 dL 2/dt = dt*m/dt = m*dt/dt = m (6) Q.E.D. 1 dsinx/dx= 1/(l-x2) h dsinx/ dx= cosx dcosx/dx= -sinx Inserting (5) and (6) into (4), (n)2 (U i)2 cos2Li- 4 Consider equation (8) from section two. Diff erentiating both sides with respect to L 1, d/dLi(-1/60 (sinLi) (cosL 1) (n) .±._ 1/60[ n2cos2L 1n 2 + 3600] 1/z =1/60{-n (cos 2L 1 - sin 2L 1) .±_ [-n 2 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) / n 2 cos 2L 1 - n 2+ 3600) 1lz) (7) Therefore, U 2=-2(CosLi)(U iHn)±_2(U 1)[(n) 2(Cos 2Li)n2+3600]11y2 dL 2/dL 1= d/dL 1 sin-1 [-1 /60 (sinL 1)(CosLi)(n).±_l / 60(n2Cos2L 1-n2+3600) 1I] (1) Substituting (7) into (3), Now then, d/dL 1 sin-i (1/60 (sinL 1)(cosLi) (n) + 1/60 [n2 cos 2Li - n2 +3600] 1/z dsin-i (1/60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) .:t. 1/60 [n 2 cos 2L 1n2 + 3600] 1fz/ d (-1 /60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) .±._ 1/60 [n 2 cos 2L 1- n2 + 3600] 1/z =1/60 {-n (cos 2L 1 - sin 2L 1) + [-n 2 (sinL 1) (cosLi) I (n 2 cos 2L 1 - n 2 + 3600) 1/U / {l-[-l/60(sinLi) (cosL 1) (n) .±_l /60[n 2 cos2Li -n2+ 3600] 1lz) 1/2 @ =l I (1 - { 1/60 (sinLi) (cosLi) (n) ±_1/60 [n2cos2L 1 - n2+ 3600] 1h) 2) 1 /z And so, substituting (8) into (1) and inverting the result, Uz= -2 (Cos Li) (U i) (n) .:t. (Ui) 2 [ n 2 - 3600 ] } 1h/ 2 {4 Therefore, U 2=-(CosLi)(U 1)(n).±_U i[(n)2(Cos2Li)-n2+3600]1fz (6) Equating ( 4) with (2) and inserting equation (6), SinLi { -cosLi (U i) (n) ±_ (U i) [ n 2 cos 2Li n 2 + 3600 ] 112) = SinL 2( 60) (U 1) -(SinL 1) (CosLi) (U 1) (n) .±._ (SinLi) (U 1) [ (n)2(Cos2Li) - n2+ 3600] 1l~(SinLz)(60)(Ui) - (SinL 1) (CosLi) (n) .:t. (SinLi) [ n 2 (Cos 2Li) n2+3600] 1f2/ 60 = SinL 2 (7) Sin-1 {-(SinL 1) (CosLi) (n) + (SinLi) [ n2 (Cos 2Li) - n 2 + 3600] lfi; 60 } =L 2 (8) (2) Multiplying both sides of (2) by d/dLi(-1 /60(sinL 1)(cosL 1)... ),d /dL 1sin-1( ... ) =d /dL 1 ( 1/60 (sinL 1 ) (cosL 1 ) (n) .±._ 1/ 60 [n 2 cos2L 1 - n2+ 3600] 1'2/ {1- [-1 /60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) .±._ 1/60 [n2cos2L 1 n 2 + 3600 ] 1/} 112 (3) Where the variable operand is + when O~L 2~.180 and - when 180>L<360. Now, solving for the numerator of the right side of Q.E.F. d/ dL 1(- 1/60(si nLi)( cosL 1) ... ) =l/60[d/fLi~inL 1 )(cosL 1 ) (n) d/dLi (n cos Li... ) 112] 3. To Verify that Mean Passage Occurs at Apparent Quadrature. It is first required to find the apparent velocity when the planet appears to have moved 90 from apogee or perigee. In the language of differentials: what is dLi/dt when L 1=90? Since L 2 is the angle of regular motion, and thus is directly proportional to time, (3), dL 1/dL 2 =[-1/60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) + 1/60 [n 2 cos 2L 1 n2+ 3600]1/}i/2 - / 1/60{-n (cos2Lr sin 2L 1 ) + [-n2 (sinLi) (cos2L 1) /(n2 cos2L 1n2 + 3600) 1/ 2} (9) Now, let L 1=90, dLi/dL 2= {l -L±_l /60(-n 2+36000) 1l} 1lz/ l/60[+n] = {1-[ 1/3600*(3600-n 2]} 1/z / n/60 .:t. ={1 -[l-n 2/3600]} 1/z / n/60 (4) The first derivative in the right side of (4) can be resolved as follows: d/dL 1 - (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) = -n [sinL 1 . dcosL 1/dL 1+cosL 1dsinLi/dLi]= -n [cos 2Li-sin 2L 1 ] (5) Resolving the second derivative in (4), = n/60 I n/60 =1 Now, in the first part of this section, it was determined that the apparent velocity at a point was equal to m * dL 1/dL 2. Thus, at apparent quadrature the perceived velocity ism. Since L 2=t * m, for any value of Li, 43 42 �An Adaptation, 1987 The Bow- of Heracles John Pronko ('90) Carolyn Barndt ('90) This is no garden. Don't think I mistook this for the banks of Euphrates: You are not the only man on the face of th e ea r th Although you might as well be --even as we have both tasted t he f ru i t of that tree whose branches are many bu t finite -I see whe r e we are. Cut off from the past Sa nctuar y, th e blind green re li ef -I found you culti vat ing your thi stles and th orns cursing th e ea rt h fo r n ot yie ld ing up more. --You know tha t story; this is not the begi nn in g. Not being the fi rst I can't take the blame for The pain in your r ibcage and countless transgressions: I' m not the agent of you r fall from grace, I Resist being pushed through the stencils of h isto ry. Far f r om paradise Why try to forget what might have been easy But may not be impossible? --although we need othe r skins , hi des fo r protectio n although we have skins at all --with th e fruit i n us rooted, to speak our own blame: To stand before each other, n aked and not be ashamed. Sophocles's employment of the deus ex machina as agent of resolution in Philoctetes is disturbing. There is a sense that Heracles' appearance completely undermines the events of the play. Philoctetes is understandably unwilling to serve the Atridae and Odysseus. He has for nine years fought his own miserable war on Lemnos and survived. Glory is no longer of interest to him, nor does he care to take steps to avenge himself. Philoctetes wants to go home. Neoptolemus can at least grant him that. He ultimately agrees to do so. One might consider this the human resolution of the play. This is blatantly inadequate, but it seems at least consistent with the rest of the play. Heracles appears and in one line Philoctetes, the play's paradigm of constancy, yields. Yes, Philoctetes will go to Troy. This is difficult to accept unless there is some way to understand the appearance of Heracles as necessary. In addition to the three main characters in the play there is a fourth, the bow of Heracles. It is the bond between Heracles and Philoct'etes. Perhaps this bow is the key to understanding this enigma tic conclusion. Heracles says to Philoctetes that after Troy is taken: "From the spoils of the campaign you must dedi cate some, on my py re, in memory of my bow" ( 1.1431 ). T.B.L. Webster chooses to translate the words, roewe €µwe ,as, "what my bow has achieved." It seems strange that a man should be asked to pay homage to a weapon. Heracles does not ask that homage be paid to himself or for that matter to Zeus. Odysseus' plan is to disarm Philoctetes. Without the bow Philoctetes is not to be feared, but while it is in his possession, it sends arrows that none may avoid, that carry death (1.105). Early in the play it is unclear whether Philoctetes is needed or not. For awhile it seems that the only matter is to get the bow, and Philoctetes is someone standing in the way. When Neoptolemus first speaks to the chorus he hints that the destinies of the bow and Philoctetes are inseparable. Neoptolemus also presents a connection between the bow and Philoctetes' suffering: As for his present loneliness and suffering, this, too, no doubt is part of the God's plan that he may not bend against Troy the divine invincible bow until the time shall be fulfilled, at which it is decreed, that Troy, as they say, shall fall to that bow. (1.194) The fact that Troy shall fall to the bow is echoed much later when Heracles declares that Ilium must twice fall to his bow ( 1.1439). As the play continues it becomes plain that Philoctetes and the bow are inextricably linked. In the mind of Philoctetes it is obvious that he identifies himself with the bow. When he introduces himself to Neoptolemus he is the master of Heracles' arms ( 1.260). This is before he is Phi- 45 44 �loctetes the son of Poias. It is worth noting that Philoctetes was not bitten by the viper until he posessed the bow, which links with Neoptolemus' understanding of the reason for his suffering. The suffering which is synonymous with the name Philoctetes is caused by the bow. This is echoed by Philoctetes' stern suggestion to Neoptolemus that he should bow in prayer to the Gods' envy that the bow may not be to him a sorrow as it was to himself and its former master ( l. 776). This connection between the weapon and Philoctetes' plight is further reinforced by the parallel Heracles draws between his own sufferings and those of Philoctetes: "All this suffering must be your suffering too, the winning of a life to an end in glory, out of this suffering" (1.1422). The divine bow will conquer Troy. Philoctetes suffers because it is his lot to bear the bow and share the glory it will win. The bow is a holy object. When Neoptolemus first beholds it he asks if he might see it closer, touch and adore it like a god ( 1.656). It has passed from the hand of a dying Heracles to the living Philoctetes. There is something immortal about it. It has a destiny of its own that has outlived the original owner. Mythologically the bow is believed to have been a gift from Apollo.(l) Heracles concludes his speech with the words, Holiness does not die with men that die Whether they live or die it cannot perish" ( 1.1444). Is the bow in some way a symbol of such holiness? Philoctetes is the rightful bearer of Heracles' weapon. He received it as a gift when he agreed to light the dying hero's pyre. Philoctetes himself states that it is as a result of friendly help that he fi rst won it (1.670). In a strange way the will of Heracles was transmitted to Philoctetes when he conceded to execute the man's last wish. Philoctetes is in a way bound to Heracles' will. The gift of the bow mi gh t be. un derstood to re present that bo nd. Until the appointed time arrived when Philoctetes no longer had to suffer because of the bow, it nonetheless was what kept him alive. The bow was what he used to shoot the birds that filled his belly (1.286). Without the bow Philoctetes would have died. Lemnos was the place where the bow and the man who was to use it had to be kept until a predetermined number of years had elapsed. The asocial properties of Philoctetes' disease may have been to further assure that neither bearer nor bow appear before the appointed hour. The bow belongs to Philoctetes, and since i t was acquired through an act of good will, Odysseus' 46 deception cannot successfully work against it. It is interesting to note that Neoptolemus does not falter in his deceit until he acquires the bow. Ultimately he realizes that it must remain with Philoctetes. The two cannot be separated. Any bow may be understood as a symbol of will. When a bow is aimed, before the shaft is released the archer has willed it to strike its target. This bizarre weapon that Philoctetes possesses never misses its mark. Unlike a man's will this bow never fails. Its will is greater than any man's. Philoctetes may believe that it was his own inner strength that allowed him to survive those nine horrendous years, but without the bow he would have perished. He may feel that he is the bow's master, but in the end he is its servant and through it a servant of the gods. He who is conquerable must serve the inconquerable. Heracles must appea r at the end of the play because his is the one voice Philoctetes must listen to. The bow is Philoctetes' provider and master. He will only understand that from the mouth of the person to whom he first subjugated his will, as a result of which he subsequently received the bow. This bow is an executive instrument of the gods, and the man Philoctetes has been chosen to launch its avenging shaft against Troy. The divine destiny of the bow and its se r vant is to kill Paris who is the cause of all this evil and take Troy (1.1426). Philoctetes may want to go home, but he cannot disobey. He h as success fu lly asserted h is will against men, but he cannot against gods. Divine destiny supercedes the aspirations of any man. The employ me nt of th e deus ex machina seemed to deny the h u man r esolution of this play. In fact this was no resolu tion a t all because it failed to consult wha t migh t be · considered the most important cha r acte r, the bow. Philoctetes was blind if he actually belie ved that Heracles' bow was destined me r el y to shoot bi rds and then retire on a dusty shelf i n Oeta. No one other than Heracles could open his exhausted eyes. Just as no man determines when and why he suffers, so also, no man determines when and why he tastes triumph. All men bow before the ins truments of the gods. Three Loyal Haikus Jana Giles ('88) In twilight often finding the geometry of your sonorous world; and from your strong eye I am given a gaze so finite, silent: this I know to be the moment of convergence the second splintered from infinity. 1986 All line mentions and quotations are from David Grene's translation except: ( 1) Larousse, World Mvthologv. p. 141, edited by Pierre Grima!. 47 �11 1 THE LEARNED PRINCESS Erika Wilson ('88) Once upon a time, in a kingdom not so terribly far away, a moderately fair princess was sighing over the lack of a certain something. "Oh," sighed she, "I wish I knew what it all meant." And with a trembling lip and a troubled brow, she returned to the books that lay scattered in a intellectual confusion about her royal chamber. For you see, our princess was a scholar. And though this may seem to be a rather odd occupation for a fairy-tale princess (for indeed she was), it had all come about in a most natural manner. Some years ago, no matter how long, the King had found himself with that rare st of royal commodities: Time on his hands. And so, as it was a most delicious spring day, he decided to take his delightful young daughter for a walk about the castle grounds. At first she ran about in all directions, squealing and chasing butterflies as her father strolled in a stately manner, watching her antics with gentle amusement. Inevitably, she grew tired, so she and her father lay themselves down on a cool green hillside to watch the cloud races in the sky. But now that her body was tired, it seemed that the little princess's mind was free to work without distraction. "Daddy," she piped, "what makes the sky blue?" "Huh?" he grunted, for the warm sunshine had just about put him to sleep. "Sky? Blue? ... uh, 48 Atmosphere ... urm ... Refraction ... ahem,ah ... humph." He paused to pull his eyebrows together, hoping that such a maneuver would aid his memory, but his daughter was too busy to notice, for she had rolled over and had another object in view. "Why is the grass green, Daddy?" "Chlorophyll." He answered triumphantly after a brief pause. "Ah, Photosynthesis ... ahem, ah ... humph." And he was stuck again. Unmindful of the black thunder cloud gathering on his brow, the little princess turned her wide blue eyes on him and asked sweetly; "Papa, what is the nature of _ Man?" His mouth shut with an audible snap, his eyebrows shot up and he answered her in the only way a truly wise king could. "I think I smell chocolate chips. Let's go see if Mama's making cookies." And that was the end of that. But later that night, as he and his queen were getting ready for bed, he mentioned their daughter's precocious curiosity, and the question she had put to him that day. "The nature of Man." He chuckled. "Who would have thought?" And he laughed and ·h ook his head, willing to leave it at that. But the Queen nodded quietly and looked thoughtful, for she had a great deal of that even more rare of royal commodities: Good common sense. And she knew that a mind such as her daughter had shown would be a terrible thing to waste. So as her husband snored, she lay long awake, planning and making notes on the big legal pad she always kept on the bedside table. The next day, she took her daughter bY. the hand and led her into a part of the castle that the little princess had never seen before. They walked down a long cold passageway, thick with dust and cobwebs. Something small and black skittered around a corner and the princess shivered, but ·s aid nothing. They came to an abrupt halt before a huge wooden door with great knobby bars of black metal criss-crossing it in a most uninviting manner. With a loud rattle that startled the Ii ttle princess, her mother pulled a ring of keys out of her pocket and choosing the largest and ugliest one of all, she inserted it into the nasty old padlock tha.t guarded the door. Using both hands, she managed to turn the key around and the unhappy lock snapped .o pen with a mangled sort of sound. The Queen put her shoulder to the door and as it creaked unheathily open, our princess squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that whatever lay begin such a grim facade· must be horrible. Her mother pulled her gently forward and said softly: "Come on dear, it's all right. You can open your eyes now." Unwilling, but trust~ng ·; trre- mater­ nal instinct to keep her from harm, sh'e opened her eyes and gasped at what met her bewilqered gaze. Books! Wall to wall, floor to ceiling; door to door, the entire room was filled with books. "Oh mother!" the princess exclaimed as her glowing eyes caressed the room's occupants with barely restrained eagerness. "Wherever shall I begin?" "Right here," her mother said, and laid three books down on a nearby desk. Her daughter walked over and ran a puzzled finger across the names stamped on the covers. "Yewklid?" she asked. "Didn't he do math or something?" "That's right," her mother replied. "He will show you how to think." "Oh," said her daughter, and nodded vaguely. "And this one, Play-doh?" "He will show you how not to think," said her mother, and smiled at some little inward amusement. "Uh huh," said the daughter, unconvinced. "And the last, Airsdoddle? "Oh yes," said the Queen. "He will show you what you should think and not think about." The princess frowned, and a slight line appeared between her delicate ~yebrows. She wasn't q"4-ite sure what her mother was talking about, out then she felt the srucwth leather beneath her hand~ and smiled a radiant ~mile . . "N~ matter," she thought, "I'll soon understand everything." ·' ' ·· Some weeks later, the line between her delicate brows had become deeper and the residents gf the castle thought it had become a permanent ' feature upon the' little p'rincess's face. "I don't like it," the King told his Queen one d~y. "She spends all her time locked up with t-h ose d us..ty old tome. It's not healthy, I tell you." Quietly the Queen agreed, and soon the peasants that lived about the castle became used to the sight of the 11t'tle 'princess with he·r skirts tucked up about her knees·, dangling her bare feet in a creek while reading a book and munching on an apple. Appealiilg to her daughter's now-found love of logic puzzles, the Queen also began sending her on strange .little errands. . . ·"Go find me something no orie..has ever seen be"ror~,:' she would ask one day. The littl~ princess .w ould smile, then frown, then walk out to saddle ·heT ·fa:vorite little ·horse. Most-of Hre ·da-y.-_wou-1-d be ·sp~rit riding aimlessly . about, trying to see . a solution to the problem. Sometime before dinner, the princess would return, dirty and disheveled to place the acorn in her mother's hand. "Open it," she would say and skip away to wash up and find out whether or not Meno discovered what virtue was. Much time passed smoothly in this fashion and the princess's stack of completed books became_ ·! taller and taller. But the line between her brows grew still deeper and she began to look at all the books lining the walls of the library with something akin to dismay. "Oh mother," she exclaimed finally, "'I feel myself to be floundering amidst all .this knowledge." Her mother raised an eyebrow at this rather ornate language but the distressed princess. never even noticed. "I have no anchor about which to build a secure fortress of understanding." The Queen glanced at the book her daughter clasped. It was Sophocles and her mother smiled. "Choose one thing, child," the Queen an swered. "One topic, one subject that you have seen addressed and wish to truly unders.tand. Then come to me and we shall set up a course of study so that you might come to know this one. thing. For in ·coming to know this one thing, you will pass 0 49 �I through a great many others and once you truly grasp this thing, all else will be made manifest through it." She patted her daughter's cheek. "Now go out and saddle you pony. I'll expect your answer at dinner." And so later, as she was carving the roast swan at the dinner table, the Queen looked expectantly at her daughter's glowing face. "Well?" she asked. "Oh mother," burst out the princes, "I want to understand what Love is." The Queen's face remained impassive, but her eyes twinkled. "Why daughter," she said evenly, "that is a fine thing to study. Most great authors have spent at least some time addressing the subject of Love." "Most of them?" the little princess inquired uncertainly. "How many does that mean?" Her little daughter looked so crestfallen that the Queen could not restrain the little laugh that escaped her. "Oh daughter, don't despair. You have chosen ·a very difficult thing indeed, and the road to true understanding is never an easy one." She looked kindly into her daughter's worried face. "But the rewards will be greater than you can imagine, and I will help you all I can." She placed a tender slice of swan on the princess's plate. "We will begin after dinner." And so it began. The princess studied Plato, Virgil, Ovid and Bacon. She read with wide eyes the Song of Solomon and wept and laughed in quick succession as Shakespeare acted out for her the comedies and tragedies of life. The poets were many and varied and she delved deeply into Donne, Byron, Valery, Browning, Coleridge and Gibran. And though she learned much of Love in all its manifestations, she could not say that she was growing towards an understanding of it. Much of the time she felt that she was actually doing the reverse. And so it was that we found her at the opening of our story: troubled and in doubt. She was just about to pick up the Maxims of La Rochefoucauld when there was knock at her door. With something that just might have been relief, she moved away from La Rochefoucauld to open the door. It was her mother. "Hello dear," she said as she moved easily into the room, ''I'm sorry to disturb you, but we have a visitor." The calm grace of her mother sent a cool wash over troubled spirit and the little princess smiled cheerfully. "Is it someone I know, mother?" she asked. "Oh yes," her mother replied with a smile. "It's your cousin Rolf. He's on vacation from the University and wants to spend some time with us before going back to finish his education." The llttle princess was delighted, for she hadn't seen Rolf for several years. He and his parents had often come to visit, and though he was some years older than she, he had treated her kindly and together they had many pleasant adventures. But he had been sent off to school and had become too busy and intelligent to visit with an old playmate. Until now. "Oh mother," she exclaimed, "Rolf! How is he? Did he learn lots at the University? Has he changed a great deal?" Her mother laughed. "We will all be having tea together on the porch in about an hour. He's in his ro om right now resting after his journey, so why don't you get ready and come to find out for yourself?" The Queen left to prepare the tea and there was a look of amused anticipation lurking in her eyes. The princess was setting a plate of cookies on the table when Rolf stepped out onto the porch. Both of the young people stared at the other in startled recognition, for though it had only been a few years since they had last seen one another, those had been very crucial years. Rolf had changed from a scrawny, self -consci ous teen-ager into a sturdy young man of admirable presence and bearing, while the princess, thanks to he r mother's subtle guidance, had grown from a reedy little scarecrow into a graceful young woman of considerable intelligence. And yet, some things remain constant. The princess still had a light spray of freckles across her nose and Rolf still had the habit, whenever he was unsure of himself, of pulling on the thick lock of hair that was forever tumbling in his eyes. When she saw him doing this, the princess laughed and he smiled as he walked over to give her a cousinly kiss on the cheek. When the Queen arrived with the teapot, she found them already deep in an animated discussion about Rolf's education. They were delighted to find that they had read and enjoyed a great many of the same books. The Queen sat silently and smiled as she watched the tea in their cups grow cold, untouched and forgotten in the rapid flood of conversation between the two young scholars. The princess told Rolf of her studies, and he agreed to help her with her search for understanding. From then on they spent nearly all their time together. He would read to her, or she to him as they sat over the remnants of a picnic lunch in a golden meadow. They would discuss salient points while trotting through the woods on horseback, ceasing only to race across the open spaces where the loser would come galloping up, laughing breathlessly and say: "but if we want to look at the love between a parent and child, what about Cordelia's speech in act one? ... " And in the evenings, sitting silently by the glowing fire, they would each underline relevant passages and hand them to the other, who would read it and nod gravely before returning to his own study. The Queen watched all this without comment, but nodded to herself as she observed the peculiar expression that came over Rolf's face whenever he looked at the princess and thought that he himself was unobserved. The princess was quite blind to such things, for she was totally absorbed in her studies. Learning on her own had been rewarding and satisfying, but studying with another, especially one as perceptive and sympathetic as Rolf, was a joy such as the princess had never before experienced. She was deliriously happy and was quite satisfied with things as they were. Not so Rolf. Finally it was nearly time for Rolf to return to school and he and the princess were up in her room getting in one last study before Rolf had to start preparing for his journey. He was standing stiffly at the window with his back towards the princess who was reading to him: '"It is the joy of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of the gods; desired by those who have no part in him, and precious to those who have the better part in him."' But Rolf, what does Plato mean when he says ... Rolf! What are you doing?" For just as she looked up from the text, Rolf had turned around, snapped the book shu t and with one swift motion, flung it out the window. She stood up to protest, but just then Rolf turned to her and the look in his eyes stopped the words in her throat. Gently, but firmly, he grasped her hands and placed them together, palms upwards, like the leaves of an open book. "Here," he said,"here is one book you haven't read." And he traced his finger lightly across her palms as if he were outlining a passage. "Can you tell me what it says?" She opened her mouth, but shook her head mutely. "Then here," and he pressed one of her hands to his chest. She could feel his heart beating strongly and rapidly. Then he pressed her other hand to his cheek. It was warm and flushed with feeling. "Here is a book open only at your touch, only for your eyes," His voice lowered to a whisper,"Can you say the same to me?" and he released her. For a moment she clasped her hands together between the two of them and stared with wonder into his eyes. Then slowly, like a flower unfolding to the first touch of the sun, her arms opened to him and she began to understand just a little of what she had been studying so diligently for so long and she laughed a light, sweet, and joyful la ugh. Below, the King and the Queen were walking together in the royal rose garden, enjoying one of the last days of warmth, when a waterfall of books suddenly fell with great splashing into the moat, narrowly missing a pair of black swans swimming serenely by. The Queen was startled only for a moment and then she squeezed her husband's arm and laughed softly. For she had known all along that knowledge gleaned form books could carry one only so far, and that true understanding came from within. I guess this is the end of my story, though the princess continued to learn a great many important things. And like her mother before her, she managed to impart much of it to her children in such gentle and unobtrusive ways, that they didn't realize it themselves until many years had passed and they were well along in their own journeys towards understanding. But I can hardly be expected to trace the stories of all those many Ii ves. That, gen tie readers, I leave to you. 51 50 ! �52 �Non-Profit Org . BULK RATE U. S. POSTAGE St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 PAID PERMIT No. 120 ANNAPOLIS , MD. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper (bound book) Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 52 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Winter 1988 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Winter 1988. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cooper, Laurie (Co-Editor) Datcher, Rhonda (Co-Editor) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1988 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Winter 1988 Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/7df35c7ec2e3de6f39901fea1ac2724d.pdf 3296f22b600aad80e603074a933bd214 PDF Text Text FALL, 1986 �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. it ... vou svepysta ~wit ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) COVER: Evole by Patricia Dawson Linoleum Block Staff: Talke Breuer Carlos Chamberlin Axel Christensen Patricia Dawson Meetra Doorandish Barbara Gesiakowski Stacy Grimes Steve Jackson Rena Kuntavanish Sarah Waters Co-Editors: Laurie Cooper Joe Macfarland Faculty Advisor: Jonathon Tuck Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published three times a year and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis and Sante Fe. The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community-essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Note: A brief description of the author accompanies all work not by current St. John's students. Please include some such statement along with your submission. Thank you. �Corrigenda for The Jacobson Cut by Henry Higuera (Spring 1986) I. Subs tan ti ve. 1. p. 29 1. 8 from bottom: reads "EN:OW .. NO:OT"; ti EN: ow : : NT : OT II should read • 2. p. 30 1. 10: reads "l.GEG=LFED"; should read "LGED=LFEG". 3. p. 31 11. 12-13: reads "EHG NHM"; should read "l.EHG(L.NHM". 4. p. 31 1. 14: should read reads "LEHN<LENH" "LEH~<L.ENH" 5. 6. II. Note 5 1. 1: reads "sq.A: sq. B A:C" should read "sq.A: sq. B)A:C" Note 5 1. 3: reads "A:B and A:C" "A:B and B:C" should r~ad Minor 1. Angle signs missing at p. 29 11. 15, 16, 19, Note 2 11. 2,3, N. 3 1. 2, N. 4 11. 2, 3. 2. Triangle sign missing at N. 4 1. 4. 3. p. 31 1. 7 from bottom: reads . " ... sq. EH rect .)GE, HN ... " should read " ... sq. EH)rect. GE,HN ... " �CONTENTS "THE PLAY' S THE THING ... " (Hamlet II. ii) VISION AND ACTION IN KING LEAR Celeste DiNucci ANNUAL FRESHMAN ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS) THE ETHICAL VALUE OF JUSTICE IN PLATO'S REPUBLIC Christopher Storr 6 ASK NEWTON Jana Giles 21 ANNUAL SOPHOMORE ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS) "MAN IS DIRECTED TO GOD AS AN END WHICH SURPASSES THE GRASP OF REASON" Dan Touey 23 LIMELIGHT: THE STORY OF A BALLERINA AND A CLOWN -CHAPLIN Carlos Chamberlin 32 ANNUAL SENIOR ESSAY - HONORABLE MENTION (ANNAPOLIS) RIPENESS IS ALL Renee Bergland 34 TO MOLLY IN AUGUST 1986 David Walter 54 ANNUAL SOPHOMORE ESSAY - HONORABLE MENTION (ANNAPOLIS) AN EXAMINATION OF ARISTOTELIAN AWARENESS Fawn Trigg 55 THE STEEDS OF HIPPOLYTOS Andrew Grablewski 62 ON READING W.H. AUDEN'S AFTER READING A CHILD'S GUIDE TO MODERN PHYSICS. TOO LATE FOR HIM TO ANSWER James Beall 69 CYCAD IA James Beall 70 1 �"The Play' s the Thing ... " (Hamlet II.ii) Vision and Action in King Lear Celeste DiNucci Being a perfonner--I do not make the claim with any grave intent, neither am I interested in appending that I am either bad or good, it is simply what I do-- the reading of plays has always been for me a slightly different endeavor than the reading of other forms of literature. Henceforth, I cannot help but approach a play as something meant to be seen and heard, but what I am faced with is the written word. It looks pretty much the same as most other pieces of literature. For the most part, it even reads the same: the character designations are not to be heard in our heads any less than an identifying proper noun in direct discourse, and it would be difficult to claim that we envision a stage direction any more vividly than a descriptive passage in prose . But somewhere in this ~anuscript I know that I want to find the element that makes it necessary that a play be a play. Something in this work must make it appropriate only as a piece of performance art. But a play does exist on paper, and, as can be said of literature in general, a careful reading of a play usually serves to reinforce and clarify our first impression, that is, the sense that we, as an audience, get from a performance. Indeed, we would expect no less from those whose business it is to produce the perfonnance : impromptu perfonnances are fine, but we expect that there is something to be found within a careful reading of a play that should be known by a director or an actor . But is the job of the performer simply to derive this kind of sense from the paper and display it to the audience, to "give voice" to the poetry of a play? Does the theater merely make "spectacle" out of "literature"? This question recurred to me most pointedly in coming to know Shakespeare's King Lear. My first reading of the play was a slow, careful study . Any impulse to flip back, to reread, to note and trace themes backwards and forwards was given free rein. The upshot was that I was simply baffled. It wasn't that there was a lack of themes put forth and developed: quite the contrary, the abundance of themes in the play seemed frighteningly inexhaustible as the variety and number of volumes published on Lear strikingly testify. The same thing is as true of the characters as of the plot : many interpretations are available, and all seem plausible and justifiable in terms of the text; but no single one offers itself as most satisfying, and consequently none is quite satisfactory . In short, it seemed that in this play could be found everything, but what I, as a reader, was left with was nothing. Take, for example, the character of Cordelia . How was I to read her words in the first scene? Her fi rst speech, "Wha_ shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent" t could not exactly be taken as a simple statement of intention, as she neither remains silent, nor when she speaks does she verbally spout gushing love. I did not know whether to cheer Cordelia--af ter all, I think that the reader is put off by Lear's contest just as Cordelia must be--or to be horrified at the coldness of her words, which in themselves could be interpreted as running the gamut from meekness to cruelty. What's more, the subsequent scenes did not afford any greater clue . That Cordelia really loves Lear becomes clear, but whether this first scene is motivated by petulance or by a clear vision that simply seeks to set her beloved father straight seemed to be an arbitrary choice . Her protest of "No cause, no cause" in IV .vii could be an expression o f guilt at her own willfulness or the gentle comfort 1 �I think this is true , but its importance lies in understanding what exactly the nat u r e o f t h i s unint e lligibility is . The humani t y o f t he c h a r a c ters i s a t t his poi nt not in question : their motives may be hidden , but we do not find them unbelievable . We still want the play, through a filling out and clar i fy ing of Lea r 's char acter , to show us what makes this bizarre contest and all of Lear's subsequent actions necessary as a consequence of what he is . Instead, we are discomfited to find that the play is full of futility, not lessons learned; full of deepening ambi guities, rather than movement toward a clarity of the position each character holds in the play , in their world, and in relation to one another . By III . ii , Lear doesn't know whether this storm be his ally, nature's right destruction of "ingrateful Man", or his enemy, the "servile ministers" of "two per nicious daughters" , and neither do we know on whose side nature lies, and who it is who acts unnaturally. Our attempt to judge Goneril and Regan begins to seem as futile as Lear's trial of them in III. vi, since we do not know Lear any better than he himself does (I.iv, 1.227) . This play is moving away from resolution, and we begin to have an uncomfortable feeling that if we are to get the sort of answers we were looking for, either we are in for a very long evening or else nothing short of a deus ex machina will do. But there are no gods here. Shakespeare has left us with only human beings . Still we do have them: as the play becomes less clear through its words, it becomes more accessible and more believable. We are not baffled by King Lear because the characters become wooden and lifeless; on the contrary, their actions are as extr eme as the extremity of their circumstances calls for . Neither does this extremism seem unbelievable : there is no lack of dramatic exigency . What baffles us is that the play doesn't make sense at the same time that it acquires its most convincing reality . And so we are left denying and accepting in the same moment : it is as we see the wholeness of these characters that we are able to deny their words . It is here that we are forced to begin surrendering the comforting belief that what we are witnessing is merely spoken poetry. No amount of careful reading can give us an indication of why we are affected in this way . It is as we have witnessed the play unfolding in time that we admit to its believability, and as we search the text for e x tended metaphor and juxtaposition . And so, we are faced with the question : if it is not the poetic or thematic integrity of this play that makes it believable, what is it? What became apparent to me is that Shakespeare has somehow managed to put his command of poetry into the service o f the immediacy peculiar to a play . In othe r words , here the content and f orm do not simply reflect one another, as in the common device of wor ds doing what they say found often in poetry . More than this, in putting this poetry into the mouths of human characters -- in making these wor ds t h e unpr emeditated speech, not of me re allegories or symbols, but of characters we recognize as be ing human a n d whole --we see and e xpe r ience these words as whole or active t ruths. Content and form are no longer distinguishable as they once were : the words become an act , and t he question of their truth or falsity becomes that of t he clear e xp r ession o f charac t e r. These people , ind eed , mean what they say . This i s what makes the reading of mo s t plays sensible; this is how a performance can convey the sense t hat we find in the reading of the play . But what makes King Le ar stand out as a play i s that he r e, instead of a complicity of poetry and character, we have a dic h o tomy. Shakespeare has invested Lear's character with n o lack o f huma nity, but ne i the r ha s he abandoned his powe r ful treatment of what makes Lear' s characte r with no lack of humanity , but neither has he abandoned his powerful u s e o f wo r ds ! It is th i s that allows for the successful treatment of what makes Lear' s unint el ligibility nonetheless believable : his madness . It is the character t h at remains intact, not the speech; and as Lear's character is revealed in all of his madness and humanity, his words , by their very nature , can only run on and in among themselves . The poetry has created the character, and yet the very stuff of which the cha racter is made , the poetr y , is belied b y the believability it has invested in the characte r. In IV . vi, we are finally able to hear Lear's words, not as offensively nonsensical , but rather as a pitiful expression of his madness, as much as the flowers with which he has bedecked himself . It is only when Lear's words reach the point of utter intelligibility that his character has attained all of the contours of deepest humanity . Still, I was not quite satisfied with this understanding of how King Lear somehow failed a s a piece of literatur e and succeeded as a play . It seemed that what 2 3 of a teacher who realizes she has proferred a lesson her pupil is not ready for. She was only one of the many characters whose words could be interpreted in any numbe r of ways, and the text seemed no help in directing my choice . Still, even in the midst of all this aimlessness, my abiding faith in Shakespeare was not betrayed. That is, I had a sense that King Lear did not fail as a play. Through closer scrutiny, I did not see these characters become contrivances, but rather I became mystified by them just as I become mystified through the closer knowledge of someone I haq previously formed an opinion about . As Kenneth Muir states, in the introduction to the Arden edi tion of the play, concerning the characters seemingly inexplicable actions: Indeed, a certain mystery in the characters prevents them from becoming mechanical, just as in real life we can classify our acquaintances, not our friends. The play had not yielded up its secrets under close examination, and yet I believed in its believability. This was a start. What had become apparent was that reading the play as literature was, in the end, fruitless. Somehow, the sense of believability that I gained from the play did not seem to lie here on the page -- that is , the endeavor to find a sense of the play in this way began to appear to me as wallowing in the beauty, elegance, and mystery of the words . I began to realize that, in order to gain an understanding of what made King Lear viable, a different approach was required: to suspend my reading of the play as poetry, and instead to engage in the reading of it as a tacit performance . It is, after all, in performance that a play becomes a play, and therefore only there that a real evaluation of its effectiveness could begin . And so the question became : what could the distinction between poetry and performance possibly mean? What are the limitations of the written word in preserving a play? The actions, the development of the plot, and even the rhythm of the speech are all preserved here on the page, in the poetry . But, though a performance obviously cannot be viewed as entirely distinct from what is written on the paper, the object became to understand how the play became di f ferent when it utilized that element peculiar to the literary form of "play" : immediacy . This element had to be explored, not by reading carefully, but by "watching" . And so the stage is set, the houselights go down, the actors enter, and the play commences . What do we, as an audience, see and hear? Professor Allardyce Nicoll, in his Studies in Shakespeare (1927), states: Shakespeare has left us with something which simply cannot be tolerated on the stage, for to find an e xplanation of Lear's decision and demeanor in this first scene , we need to know the subsequent developments of the plot : by themselves they are simply unintelligible . .. �ensured the success of the play was that the audience was not at leisure to judge Lear's acts in the way that a reader is: to see them as selfish, or foolish; to weigh the senselessness and the necessity; even to admire Lear's actions, or to seek to learn from them as though he were a tragic hero. Somehow, the need for that sort of decision became irrelevant. Something was accomplished in this conversion of words to acts that was not merely simple believability. The question of what makes seeing these words as acts important began to reveal itself not in the examination of the meaning they acquire but rather in what this sort of seeing makes possible . Words as meaning can elicit criticism or agreement, appreciation or denial. It is only when the words become an act that they can elicit a response outside of this reasonable judgement. Words as acts can elicit act. What literature demands of us is comprehension; a play, on the other hand , can only require apprehension. Seeing a play requires , not that all of our critical faculties be on the alert, but rather that our vision be clear so that our action (or perhaps more appropriately our reaction) can be clear and true . Literature, if it seeks to accomplish something outside of reasonable judgement, can only do this through undermining · that judgement; if it wants to be incisive in this way, it can only succeed through being subversive. But since it is vision and action that belong to a play, what is subversive when it is read as literature becomes the thing that creates its success as a play: trust . I am wary of being too explicit about the term "trust" f or the simple re ason that I would like to retain all of the allusions and all of the depth associated with it in everyday speech . What I would like to emphasize by using it, however, is the idea that understanding can be brought about necessarily even when language is not the medium used to elicit this understanding . When words as acts do not coincide with other acts other words, or perhaps gestures, or even simple character attributes, such as gender or age (Lear's babbling like a child, for instance) - we can have the sense that the character is being false or ironic, or that the character is simply not able to say what he needs to say . And when what needs to be conveyed is something which by its nature cannot be said, this un - saying need not destroy the character speaking: the act of un-saying can elicit the act of understanding in the spectator through the immediacy of the theater. In King Lear, Shakespeare has utilized the immediacy inherent in a play, and the trust it creates, to successfully treat of that most impossible of themes, madness, without making it either humorous or impossible to watch. In a strange way then King Lear becomes a play about trust, not as a theme, but as an act. When our trust is claimed, all questions of judging Lear's character have been left behind. The play has shown us about trust through act and in doing so has shown us something about trust that no piece of literature could accomplish. Trust has not been presented to us; instead, we have engaged in it . Through the use of its own temporali ty, the play has stripped us of the premeditation that could only destroy trust and has instead given us trust as act reflecting act . We have surrendered reason, and it is only this that has enabled us to reflect act with act and so create the trust that the play is about. What belongs to a play that does not belong to a book is that which is created only through vision and action: trust . This trust becomes all but invisible when it reinforces comprehension. But when a playwright treats of other themes--themes outside of comprehension, such as madness, or perhaps love -- this trust becomes necessary and whole unto itself . That King Lear is a play that is successful in its treatment of madness is what makes it impossible to read! That Lear is impossible to read is what brings to light this special claim of the form of "play" . After all of this discovery, then, I returned to my original question, but in a new way. No longer was I concerned with how exactly a play differed from other forms of literature. The question now became how the play might be seen as a form of literature at al 1. Literature, through beauty and reason, or perhaps through the denial of these, may hold a very special place in relation to the reader and may create a clarity within us. Theater, through vision and action, may enable us to be fully where we are, at least for the duration of the performance. To be fully where we are can only be learned in practice though ; and if the theater can , even for a moment, leave us bereft of the need to deny what we know or construct what we do not, then that experience can change our lives. Literature may be able to show us what we are, but perhaps the beauty of the theater is to show us that not knowing what we are is no excuse for not being what we are. 4 5 �The Ethical Value of Justice in Plato's Republic Christopher Sturr 1 In the beginning of Book II of Plato's Republic , Glaucon uses strong words in reference to Socrates' dialogue with Thrasymachus which took place in Book I. Glaucon says , "Socrates, do you want to seem to have persuaded us, or truly to have persuaded us, that it is in every way better to be just than unjust?" "I would choose to persuade you truly, I said, if it were up to me." "Well, then," he said, "you're not doing what you want ." (357ab) After some questioning of Socrates by Glaucon, Socrates continues "I, for my part, suppose," I said, "that it [justice] belongs to the finest kind [of goods] , which the man who is going to be blessed should like both for itself and for what comes out of it . " "Well, that's not the opinion of the many , " he said , "rather it [justice] seems to belong to the form of drudgery , which should be practiced for the sake of wages and the reputation that comes from opinion; but all by itself it should be fled from as something hard . " "I know this is the popular opinion, " I said, "and a while ago justice, taken as being such , was blamed by Th r asymachus while injustice was praised . But I , as it seems , am a poor learner . " "Come now," he said, "hear me too , and see if you still have the same opinion. For it looks to me as though Thrasymachus, like a snake , has been charmed more quickly than he should have been; yet to my way of thinking, there was still no p r oof about either. For I desire to hear what each is and what power it has all alone by itself when it is in the soul -- dismissing its wages and its consequences . " (358ab) Glaucon complains that since the popular conception is that justice is bad and dis advantageous on its own, he constantly hears a r guments against justice, whereas "the argument on behalf of justice -- I've yet to hear from anyone as I want it." (358d) . He goes on to restore Thrasymachus' argument , speaking " in vehement praise of the unjus~ life" (358d), in order to induce Socrates to refute his arguments, and to show that Justice is good and injustice is bad . It is disturbing to hear justice blamed and injustice praised by Glaucon and Thrasymachus, yet their arguments seem difficult to refute . On the one hand, they are constantly heard, as Glaucon points out . What is more, they appeal to impulses that everyone has, and perhaps cannot completely get away _rom . On the other hand, f the arguments go against many forces that form the basis of our actions: parental, religious, and legal authority, senses of responsibility or obligation for things beyond ourselves, the 'Golden Rule', and so on. In a discussion in which what is at stake is a way of life, as Socrates points out (344e) , such conf L.ct of ideas in one's mind is indeed disconcerting. I, like Glaucon, want to hear an adequate argument for justice and against injustice. I want to understand exactly what the position Thrasymachus takes entails and how one could go about refuting it. I propose to examine Socrates' dialogue with Thrasymachus in order to understand the nature of the dilemma, and analyze the dialogue and its arguments to see how one might refute Thrasymachus. The dialogue between Socrates and Thrasymachus can be divided into three stages which correspond roughly to three assertions about justice advanced by Thrasymachus and Socrates' apparent refutations of these assertions. In the first stage Thrasymachus defines justice as the advantage of the stronger; in the second he says that justice is someone else's advantage, whereas injustice is one's own advantage; in the third he asserts that the unjust life is superior to the just life. I will briefly outline the dialogue and then treat the arguments from each side separately. Polemarchus defines justice as "helping friends and injuring enemies." (332b). Thrasymachus is dissatisfied with Socrates' apparent refutation of this definition. He advances his own definition of justice: "the advantage of the stronger." (338c). Socrates uses three lines of argument against this first definition. · First, he claims not to know what Thrasymachus means by "the stronger", asking whether he means those who are physically stronger, such as wrestlers. Thrasymachus clarifies himself by saying that by the "stronger" he means the ruling group. His reasoning: ruling groups everywhere set down laws which are advantageous for them, and say that the laws are just for the people who are ruled; therefore, what is just is advantageous for the ruling group. Next, Socrates points out an apparent contradiction in the definition . Implicit in Thrasymachus' reasoning is that it is just for subjects to obey the laws of the rulers. It is also just for them to do what is advantageous for the rulers. Yet Thrasymachus agrees that rulers are capable of erring, i.e. of making laws that are disadvantageous for them. So it appears that it may be just for subjects to do what is disadvantageous for the rulers -- whence the contradiction. Thrasymachus escapes the contradiction by asserting that rulers, insofar as they are rulers, do not err, in fact. In his third criticism of Thrasymachus' first definition, Socrates says that the ruler insofar as he is a ruler (using Thrasymachus' expression) does not consider his own advantage . His evidence is that the arts seek the advantage not of themselves, but of that of which they are arts . So just as a doctor considers not his own advantage but the advantage of the sick, the ruler, insofar as he is a ruler, considers not his own advantage, but that of those he rules . Thrasymachus responds to · this reasoning by offering his second definition of justice . To counter Socrates' assertion, he cites the example of the shepherd. The shepherd, in caring for the sheep, looks not to the good of the sheep, but to his own good, and to the good of his maste r. The ruler is the same way, and rather than look to the advantage of the subjects, he should look to his own, and 'fleece' them . From this analogy, Thrasymachus also gets the idea that justice , which characterizes Socrates' docto r, is someone else's advantage, whereas injustice, which characterizes Thrasymachus' shepherd, is one's own advantage . People who are incompletely unjust, such as petty criminals, are blamed, whereas those who are completely unjust are praised from all sides . Therefore, he concludes, injustice is "mightier, freer, and more masterful" than justice (344c) . In response to these assertions, Socrates draws a distinction between the normal arts and what he calls the "wage-earner's art" . Cr aftsmen who earn wages do not earn 6 7 �them as a benefit of their particular art, but as a benefit of the wage earner's art . If a craftsman works for nothing, he does not get the benefit of the wage-earner's art, but some benefit, the benefit peculiar to the art of which he is a craftsman, is produced. In this way, Socrates reasserts his belief that the ruler, insofar as he is a ruler, considers the advantage of the ruled, not his own. Talk of wages leads to the third part of the dialogue, which deals with the rel ative · merits of justice and injustice. Thrasymachus has asserted that the life of the unjust is superior to that of the just. Socrates and Glaucon are not persuaded . They decide to engage with Thrasymachus to discover whether what he say is so . They first discuss the relationship of justice with virtue and wisdom . After being ques tioned, Thrasymachus asserts that injustice is in the camp of virtue and wisdom, whereas justice is in the camp of vice and ignorance. As the dialogue evolves, it is deduced that in general the good and wise man tries to get the better only of those unlike him, whereas the bad and ignorant man tries to get the better of those both like and unlike him. Socrates points out ·that the just man tries to get the better only of the unjust, whereas the unjust man tries to get the better of everyone. From this it is concluded that the just man is good and wise, while the unjust man is bad and ignorant. Next, Socrates, Glaucon, and Thrasymachus discuss whether injustice might still be mightier than justice . Socrates makes several points : first, for one city to become stronger than another, it needs justice, since justice is wisdom . Second, the members of any group with a common enterprise must act justly toward one another to be successful, since injustice implants hatred and leads to faction. Third , just as injustice makes any group an enemy both to anyone around it and to itself, injustice makes a man not only unable to act, but also an enemy to others and to himself . Lastly, whereas the just man is a friend of the gods, who are just, the unjust man is the enemy of the gods . Finally, they discuss the life of the unjust man, and whether it might be happier than the life of the just man . Socrates points out that the work of the soul cannot be accomplished if the virtue of the soul is not present . Since justice is the virtue of the soul, and injustice is the vice, the just man lives well , and therefore happily , whereas the unjust man lives poorly , and therefore wretchedly. They conclude that justice has been shown to be more profitable than injustice. Socrates, like Glaucon in Book II, expresses his dissatisfaction with the dialogue with Thrasymachus : in Hades if he has been unjust . So he defines justice as "speaking the truth and giving back what one takes." (33ld) . Polemarchus refines his father's definition by citing the poet Simonides, who said that it is just to give what is owed to everyone. Polemarchus interprets this as meaning that it is just to help one's friends and harm one's enemies (332b) . Polemarchus later talks of justice as being useful in contracts and partnerships (333a). Later in the Republic, Socrates addresses the question of in what situations actions might be considered just or unjust : "--either concerning the acquisition of money, o r the care of the body , or something political, or concerning private contracts" (443e) . It seems that justice is spoken o f as concerning honesty and good faith in agreements, and respect of others ' property. In any case, the examples of situations in which questions of justice arise almost always have something to do with relations in a community . It makes sense that questions of justice should come up in the discussion of a pol~tical community . Aristotle has this to say about justice in the Nicomachean Ethics Ta Ta The noble Ka.A.a and the just a1Karn ), what are studied by p olitical science, have so much disagreement and variation as to seem to be by custom ( V01J£tl ) , and not by nature ( ¢G0El ) • (I , iii, 2-3) This is our dissatisfaction as well. A closer examination of the arguments in the dialogue may give us clues about the nature of the dilemma at hand. Even though justice remains undefined, we can understand from Book I what kind of thing is called justice, and what the attitudes toward it are. When Socrates asks Cephalus what the greatest benefit is from possessing great wealth, he says it is "not having to cheat or lie to any man against one's will" and being able to make sacrifices to the gods and repay one's depts (331b). This is how the discussion of justice is introduced. At Cephalus' age, he is afraid of the evil that may await him Such disagreement comes up in Book I of the Republic: Thrasymachus and Glaucon are suggesting, as Aristotle says, that justice is not by nature, but only by convention. The first book of the Republic seems at first to be concerned not with politics, but with ethics: the members of the dialogue are trying to decide o~the best way of life . But it seems significant that Aristotle's Ethics and Politics are so closely related to it. In the beginnings of each, Aristotle says that every human activity aims at some good. In the Politics, he adds that every group and therefore every city is instituted in order to attain some good . Aristotle also says in the Ethics that the aim of the study of politics is the highest good, o r happiness (I, iv, 1). The connection between ethical and political considerations is even closer in the Republic. The best way of life, which is sought in the first book of the Republic, is the one which obtains happiness. This clearly explains the coincident political nature of the Republic . The question at hand is, what role does a political good, justice have in the ethical consideration of obtaining this best way of life? Cephalus and Polemarchus profess to agree with Socrates that justice is necessary f or the good life. This fact may account for their differences o f opinion with Socrates about how justice should be defined . For although they differ greatly with Socrates about how one ought to act towards other people, they want to say that how they think people should act is the just way to act. For example, Polemarchus believes that one often needs to injure people, specifically one's enemies. Since he wants to say that one also needs to act justly, he must work his belief that one should injure othe rs into his definition of justice. This is where he comes into conflict with Socrates, and this illustrates how Socrates comes into conflict with political life as it operates in Athens. Thra symachus does not believe that justice is needed for happiness; in fact, he thinks that it hinders the pursuit of the good life. Ironically , this belief would make Thrasymachus less reluctant to agree on a definition of justice with Socrates in terms of a code of behavior towards other people: Thrasymachus w0uld not consider that code of behavior a good guide for how one ought to behave. So Polemarchus winces at excluding the injury of othe rs from a definition of justice because that would make his 'perfect man' -- the one who acts as Polemarchus thinks one should act -- unjust; Thrasymachus doesn't mind saying it is unjust to injure others because he 8 9 "Before finding out what we are considering at first -- what the just is -- I let go of that and pursued the consideration of whether it is vice and lack of learning, o r wisdom and virtue. And later, when in its turn an argument that injustice is more profitable than justice fell my way, I could not restrain myself from leaving the other and going after this one, so that now as a result of the discussion I know nothing. So long as I do not know what the just is, I shall hardly know whether it is a virtue or not, and whether the one who has it is unhappy or happy." (354c) �doesn't mind being called unjust. The positions of the interlocutors are analogous to those in the Gorgias . 4 Socrates speaks in that dialogue with Gorgias, Polus, and Callicles successively, about, among other things, justice . Polus accuses Gorgias, and later Callicles accuses Polu~ and Gorgi~s, .of being shamed by Socrates, and of not saying what they really believe about Justice . Callicles claims that by following their instinct for most o~ the argum~nt, a~d then be~ng shamed by Socrates and popular opinion to say something they don t believe, Gorgias and Polus were forced to contradict themselves (Gorgias, 482de). In a similar way, Thrasymachus could claim, Cephalus was made afraid by thoughts ~f H~des,. and Polemarchus was shamed by popular views about justice into saying that Justice is good. But the rest of their views contradict this . Callicles and Thrasymachus, on the other hand choose to be unintimidated by commonly held beliefs, rather than conclude that their original premises were wrong. Ironically, even though Callicles and Thrasymachus are more difficult to refute (if indeed they are ever refuted), their kind of interlocution is better, from a philosophic standpoint . If one thinks that their views are wrong, one is tempted to think that it is correct that they should be silenced by shame. But the philosophical pro~ess of dialectic, which seeks truth, requires that no premises, such as popular beliefs, be accepted on faith in such a way that they silence what could be investigated for truth or falsehood. So it is easier to determine that truth or falsehood of beliefs which, when presented, are unaffected by what others think, and therefore are not inconsistent with themselves. Callicles and Thrasymachus strive to put forward views of this kind. When Socrates , praising Callicles for not being ashamed and for speaking freely, tells him "not to slacken at all, so that it will really become clear how we should live" (Gorgias, 487ab, 492d, 494cd) , and when he urges Thrasymachus to stick to what he has said (Republic, 345b) and praises him for "speaki~g the truth as it seems to you" (348e - 349a), he is not sarcastic or mocking, as at first seems, but sincere . But Thrasymachus is equally justified in the restrictions he makes on Socrates. Thrasymachus requires that Socrates not define justice as "the needful, or the helpful , or the profitable, or the gainful , or the advantageous" (336d) . Socrates claims tha~ this restriction is unreasonable, and that Thrasymachus is forbidding him from saying what Thrasymachus knows Socrates thinks the definition of justice is . Actually, Thrasymachus is forbidding Socrates from expressing his p r econceived judgement about justice instead of defining it. The task should be, Thrasymachus seems to say, to define justice "clearly and precisely" (336d), and then to decide whether it is advantageous or good . This is exactly the point, quoted earlier, that Socrates makes at the end of Book I. Thrasymachus has his own ideas about justice which might be clearer if he would ~ot assume, _ as Socrates does, that justice is advantageous. He tries to express his ideas through his definitions of justice . Thrasymachus' words seem incoherent and contradictory at times. However, a sympathetic treatment of them which tries to un derstand "truth as he sees it" can reveal a coherent and plausible alternative to Socrates' assumption . The sense in which Thrasymachus refers to 'justice' in his definitions is unclear. When he defines justice as the "advantage of the stronger", Socrates rightly responds, "First I must learn what you mean, ... for, as it is, I don't yet understand· 338c) . Does Thrasymachus refer to what justice is, or how it is referred to, or how it should be described? Cleitophon and Polemarchus are equally confused about his meaning (340bc). Thrasymachus' explanation seems to say that justice is created by whatever laws those in power ('the stronger') put down for their own advantage. He seems to think this is appropriate . Yet in his second definition of justice, that it is someone else's advantage, he regards it as something to be avoided . Both definitions seem to express his point of view, but the second violates Thrasymachus' own restrictions on how justice can be defined. Glaucon's speech in Book II is just the kind of sympathetic treatment I referred to, and he cleans up some of the difficulties with Thrasymachus' definitions . Glaucon sets out his first task: "I' 11 tell what kind of thing they say justice is and where it comes from" (358c). According to Glaucon, the greatest good is doing injustice . Justice was established by the weak, who could not carry out injustice . Justice, then, is by convention ( v0µ~ ) alone . It is a compact of people, agree ing not to commit injustice to one another. The strongest men, who are able to commit injustice, would be mad to set down a compact agreeing to be just, because it clearly would not be to their advantage. Another problem understanding Thrasymachus' argument comes from his idea of a 'ruler', which is clearly different from Socrates'. Socrates speaks of the ruler as the person who has the job of ruling. He clearly thinks of ruling as an art . This is why he can compare the ruler's activities, which Thrasymachus says must work to his own advantage, to the practice of an art. If Thrasymachus thinks of a ruler not as an artisan, but as the person in a position of power, it is hardly fair to apply standards which apply to artisans to the ruler Thrasymachus speaks of, unless Socrates can show that this is not the nature of rulers. As it is, Socrates' definition of a ruler seems to be inherently linked with his ideas about justice , and both would be proved together. Just as a doctor is a p r actitioner of the art of caring for the bodies of others, the ruler is the practitioner of the art of caring for the souls of others . He is therefore a dispenser of justice, and does not consider his own advantage. Socrates chooses to view artisans as rulers of the objects of their arts . He also introduces the innovation of the wage-earner's art to explain what benefit artisans get from the practice of their art. If rulers are not as he assumes they are, but do consider their own advantage as Thrasymachus claims, then we get a more telling picture of Socrates' view of the arts. This view would explain, as Socrates' does not, why conflicts often arise between the motives of the wage-earner's art and the art which benefits others. No one hears 'we do it all for you' without some amount of skepticisns. In the Sophist , the Eleatic Stranger divides arts into two classes: the productive arts and the acquisitive arts (Sophist, 219ab) . In the Republic, Socrates mentions as examples only productive arts, except the wage -earner's art. Unlike Socrates' examples of art, the acquisitive arts are not creative or servicing, but are coercive. Socrates' view of the arts excludes consideration of these coercive arts. For example, it is hard to imagine that the hunter, the p r actitione r of an acquisitive art according to the Stranger, is a) the ruler of those he hunts, and b) one who looks to the benefit of those he hunts. This is the substance of Thrasymachus' shepherd example~ and clearly Thrasymachus' art of ruling must lie among the acquisitive arts. The innovation of the wage- earner's art is meant to show how just actions can coincide with personal benefit : if the artisan is just and looks to others' advantage, he himself is also benefitted by the wage-earner's art; if he is unjust, he is not benefitted by the wage-earner's art. Thrasymachus would say that this benefit is by convention, and his 'stronger man' is meant to illustrate the possibility that a man could be separate from the material consequences of his justice or injustice. Thrasymachus proposes that for this man, there is no advantage to justice and no disadvantage to injustice, after the conventional advantages and disadvantages have been taken away. Th~ material consequences of justice are what Thrasymachus and Glaucon want to call convention: laws and common views that label justice 'honorable'. So by pointing out that the 'stronger man might err', Socrates unwittingly avoids the 10 11 11 ( �view he should, and eventually does, defend: that justice is natural ( ¢UCTEl ) , and is naturally good. It seems to me a wrong way to argue against injustice to say that no one could ever execute it efficiently, because this still admits that if it could be done, it would be profitable. Glaucon' s Gyges ' ring story · gives a better illustration of this principle . Glaucon wants to know if justice is, as Socrates believes, a good in and of itself, not just for what it can get someone: "For I desire to hear what each [justice and injustice] is and what power it has all alone by itself when it is in the soul -dismissing its wages and its consequences." (358b) . The man wearing Gyges' ring of fers this opportunity . He "escapes the notice of all gods and humans", as Socrates later says (427d) , and so he does not have to worry about the material consequences of justice or injustice. Glaucon speculates that any man wearing the ring (presuming he would do exactly what is to his best advantage) would not bother with justice at all. Thrasymachus asserts not only that injustice is more advantageous than justice, but also that it is virtuous and wise. The difference between profit or advantage and what is fair or good, which Socrates emphasizes (348e), is unclear. He may want to point out the distinction which is made between what seems to be advantageous o r what is considered to be advantageous, and what is actually advantageous. In any case, Socrates makes his final challenges to Thrasymachus in response to these assertions. Socrates first gives an argument to show that justice is virtue and wisdom, drawn from a comparison between artisans and just and unjust men. He seems to assume, again, that artisans are unconcerned with justice and injustice, and that justice accompanies all forms of knowledge or expertise, by nature. In this, he presupposes that justice a) is associated with knowledge (what he is trying to show at the moment) and b) is natural (which is his fundamental point) . So, these presuppositions beg the question in more ways than one. The definition of justice still in question , that justice is someone else's advantage while injustice is one's own advantage, implies what Thrasymachus asserts about the goodness of justice . This definition clearly sets out the more specific question: Is others' advantage necessarily my own? When Socrates talks about people's actions in a group, he addresses this more specific question most directly. Socrates first tries to show that justice is necessary for a city to act (justly or unjustly). This is because his first argument supposedly shows that justice is wisdom, and so since wisdom is clearly needed for the city to act, so is justice. Thrasymachus says he doesn't doubt that first argument, the one that equates justice with wisdom and virtue . Socrates doesn't seem to, either . If he did think that he had adequately proven that justice is wisdom and virtue, then he wouldn't feel compelled to go on, as he does, and give arguments for why justice is mighty, and why the just man is happy. When Socrates gives the example of the group of people with a common goal, he is making two important assertions. First, he is asserting that the completely unjust group would be unsuccessful. If the group is completely unjust, besides having an unjust common purpose, its members would be unjust to one another. So the group would be unable to accomplish anything. Socrates' second, implied assertion is that justice is necessary for external order. Complete injustice in a group, we have said, includes injustice of each mem ber in the group towards every other . Order within the group is necessary for the group to accomplish anything, as Socrates first asserts. If we consider the group, then, injustice in any member of the group disrupts the internal order of the group by creating faction and hatred. If we consider one member of the group, his unjust actions disrupt the order outside of him, his external order. This point is evident from what has been understood from the beginning about how justice is spoken of: If justice concerns partnerships or agreements, or respecting others , then injustice in a person's actions ·clearly disrupts the order outside that person. We also accept this when we consider the fundamental questio~ of whether justice, a political good, is also an ethical good. F r om these assertions about what injustice accomplishes in groups, Socrates makes some conclusions about what it must accomplish in individuals "And when it is in one man, I suppose it will do the same thing which it naturally accomplishes. First, it will make him unable to act, because he is at faction and not of one mind with himself and, second, an enemy both to himself and to just men, won't it?"(352a) Just as complete injustice in the group disturbs external as well as internal order , so it does in the individual. Thrasymachus does not discern some errors in Socrates' reasoning; or, at least, he does not bother to challenge Socrates at this point in the dialogue . Socrates does not address whether a group could accomplish an unjust act while its members are just towards one another. This seems perfectly plausible, and a limitation of this sort would make Thrasymachus' view less ridiculous. Thrasymachus could argue that perhaps justice is a (slightly) limited good. Occasionally, the unjust person has to act justly towards others to accomplish his eventual advantage . This seems reasonable is we consider how Thrasymachus' view was compared to Polemarchus' earlier. Whereas Polemarchus believed in helping friends and hurting enemies, Thrasymachus saw no reason to help even friends. But if we consider the logical qualification now that Thrasymachus would in fact help others if it were to his ultimate advantage, the positions of the two do not seem so far apart . Thrasymachus and Polemarchus would probably have defined their 'friends' similarly. This also agrees with the earlier point that Polemarchus' and Thrasymachus' views of justice are not so far apart, but seem to be, since Polemarchus allows himself to be shamed by popular belief. Does the small addition of acting expediently in this way really detract from Thrasymachus' doctrine of selfishness in the way that Socrates implies it does? Actually, it seems to make it even more dangerous. Should it be called 'justice' when the unjust person, a member of an unjust group, acts justly toward others in the group in order that they might carry out the ultimately unjust acts? Just as Aristotle says that acting virtuously is virtue only if it is for the right reasons , acting justly should be called 'justice' only if it is for the right reasons. It seems, then, that there should be a distinction between enforced or expedient 'justice' and willful, enjoyable enactment of justice. And if Socrates wants to assert that justice is good, then he shouldn't admit that this former kind of justice is for the right reasons. So if this kind of action is not just, then.the person who acts that way the person who, like the members of the unjust group, acts justly toward others for his own benefit -- may still be Thrasymachus' completely unjust man. In fact, he seems to be the completely unjust man of whom Glaucon spoke (36lab) . He is even more formidable than the man who seems unjust, since he gives the appearance of being just and friendly toward others . Furthermore, Soc r ates very easily assumes that the individual and the group can be compared. He makes such comparisons throughout the Republic, as is seen when he compares the 'states' of the man's soul to various kinds of states. The facility with which Plato compares man and state may have something to do with his idea of the coincidence of the studies of ethics and politics. Here, Socrates shows that justice within the group is internal order and that it is needed to accomplish anything. he also shows that justice in the individual, as a member of ~ group, is necessary for 13 12 �his external order in the group, whether the group be a gang of thieves or society as a whole. He presumes that justice in the individual means internal order . By talking in this way about justice, he presupposes what he wants to prove, again -- that being just is advantageous, or virtuous; that it promotes the health of the soul. Socrates needs to show that what he calls justice in the soul is the same as the justice which rules a person's actions toward others. We have said that Socrates failed to recognize, or at least failed to mention , the possibility of a group with unjust goals, but internal order ~ We have observed that the 'justice' accounting for the order in the group which we have said is expedient may not deserve to be called justice at all . If the comparison can be made, the co rres~a~ ding individual would be one who is just to others, yet has an 'unjust' (if we use Socrates' term for 'unordered') soul. This is exactly the kind of person Thrasymachus suggests can exist. Socrates has not answered Thrasymachus' challenge, but he has silenced him. At first we thought Thrasymachus, like Callicles, spoke freely, and was not ashamed of popular belief. But we see that at 350d, when Socrates claims to have shown Thrasymachus' just man to be "unlearned and bad", Thrasymachus blushes. Thrasymachus, like Gorgias and Polus, is a rhetor, and ultimately concerned with appearing wise and good. The possibility that what Socrates implies may be true, and that Socrates understands this disconcerts him. Thrasymachus, too, as Glaucon says, "like a snake, has been charmed more quickly than he should have been ." (358b). Glaucon and Adeimantus take up_ the argument which Thrasymachus seems to have abandoned. The response which arises out of their challenge, when, in the beginning of Book II, they restore Thrasymachus' argument better than he probably could have, takes the form of the "city in speech". It takes its general idea from this last comparison of justice in the group and in the individual. The idea of studying a city to understand the nature of justice in the individual appears at 368e: "So then, perhaps there would be more justice in the bigger and it would be easier to observe closely . If you want, first we'll investigate what justice is like in the cities . Then we'll also go on to consider it in individuals, considering the likeness of the bigger in the idea of the littler?" After the city has been formed, Socrates calls upon the others to complete the search for justice and injustice and their natures : "In the next place , get y ourself an adequate light somewhere; and look yourself -- and call in your brother and Polemarchus and the others -- whether we can somehow see where the justice might be and where the injustice, in what they dif fer from one another, and which the man who's going to be happy must possess, whether it escapes the notice of all gods and humans or not." (427d) This is asserted again at 435a: "Then ", I said, " is that which one calls the same, whether it's bigger or smaller, unlike or like in that respect in which it's called the same?" "Like," he said . "Then the just man will not be any different from the just city with respect to the form itself of justice, but will be like it." "Yes", he said, "he will be like it." The city is supposed to be bigger than the man, but the same in form. So after the city has been formed, wherever justice is found in it, justice in the man might be found in the same place. What is more, justice may be of the same nature and may produce the same effects in the man as in the city. When Glaucon and Adeimantus begin the scrutiny of the city they have produced, they assume that if it has been correctly founded by them, then it must be perfectly good. Therefore, they conclude, it must be "wise, courageous, and just" (427e) . Again, it is easy to understand the 'goodness' of wisdom and courage for a city, i.e. how they are beneficial to it in every way, but it is questionable whether justice is necessarily good. Their conclusion, then, seems unfair. When they later equate injustice with "extreme evil - doing" (434a), they may be justified, however . They reason that an extreme evil - doing, something which would cause great harm to the city, would be for the members of one class to try to get into another class. Injustice is extreme evil-doing in the sense that it disturbs the internal order of the city, -;-s Socrates has affirmed. Therefore, they conclude, this must be injustice. Its opposite, minding one's own business , must be justice . This makes sense with our original understanding of what was being called 'justice'. They are cautious about the switch from consideration of the city to consideration of the man, and address it after they have defined justice in the city. (434d) : "If there are still any doubts in our soul," I said, "we could reassure ourselves completely by testing our justice in the light of the vulgar standards." "Which ones?" "For example, if, concerning this city and the man who by nature and training is like it, we were required to come to an agreement about whether, upon accepting a deposit of gold or silver, such a man would seem to be the one to filch it -- do you suppose anyone would suppose that he would be the man to do it and not rather those who are not such as he is?" "No one would," he said. "And as for temple robberies, thefts, and betrayals, either of comrades in private or cities in public, wouldn't this man be beyond them?" "Yes , he would be beyond them." "And, further, he would in no way whatsoever be faithless in oaths o r other agreements." "Of course not . '. ' Glaucon wants to believe that justice is good. He knows that the man he and the others have created is good, for he is their own . They simply presume that the man with the o rdered soul the parts of which act justly toward one another is just towards others as well. They go on to give other examples of injustice that their perfect man surely wou ldn ' t commit. Two points about this section: first, Socrates carefully qualifies his statements to cover all forms of injustice, in the appropriately limited sense that it must be understood in orde r for the Thrasymachan argument to make sense. He says that clearly this man won't do these injustices either to "comrades in private or cities in public". As we have said, Thrasymachus might well modify his ideas to allow justice to comrades in private. Socrates himself pointed out that in order for a So g r oup to carry out even an unjust act, the members must be just to one another. 14 15 �all would agree that one should be just to one's comrades in private . Socrates now asserts as well that this man would also necessarily be just to cities in public . This is much closer to the realm in question, the realm of the ruler. Thrasymachus believes that certain men, those who are able, should rule and benefit as much as they can from it. Second, Socrates sets the stage rheto rically for Glaucon and the · listeners to react in the way he wants them to. The "vulgar standards" (442e) are dgscribed by the word cpopT l dis , used of arguments to call them "vulgar" or "low". Socrates seems to imply rhetorically that the consideration of whether the internally ordered person might not also be externally just is hardly worth their time. They again reverse the association between acting justly and having a well - orde red soul at 444d, when they presume that the man who acts justly will also naturally have an ordered soul: "Then, in its turn," I said, "isn't to produce justice [by acting justly] to establish the parts of the soul in a relation of mastering, and being mastered by, one another that is according to nature, while to produce injustice is to establish a relation of ruling, and being ruled by, one another that is contrary to nature?" "Entirely so," he said. The comparison between health of the body and health of the soul is complete: acting justly produces justice , and if justice is the health of the soul, then acting justly naturally produces a relation of ruling in the parts of the soul which is healthy according to nature . They agree at 443b that their dream "has reached perfect fulfillment", and at 443c Socrates says, "And in truth justice was, as it seems, something of this sort; however, not with respect to a man's minding his external business, but with respect to what is within, with respect to what truly concerns him and his own. He doesn't let each part in him mind other people's business o r the three class es in the soul meddle with each other, but really sets his own house in good order and rules himself." We have seen that Socrates' words may not have adequately resolved the dilemma of whether what he says here is so. If we ask, however, what Plato's position is with regard to the ethica l value of justice, the answer is much less clear . First of all , the Republic is fuil of con t radicto r y ideas of justice -- Plato is clearly aware of t he difficulty of the dilemma at hand. For example, even though, as I have pointed out, Socrates does not dis cuss the possibility of an unjust group whose members are just towards one another, the republic Joe? have created is exactly this kind of group . The city has gone from being a "city of utmost necessity" (369d) to being one of luxury, or as Socrates puts it , from being healthy to being feverish ( 3 7 2e ) . To support these luxuries, the city would need an army of guardians to take lands away from neighbors since the land which would have formerly sustained the city would no longer be adequate . Clear ly, taking what belongs to others is not minding one's own business . It is unclear, then, whether this city is, as Socrates says at 427e, "wise, moderate, and just", as well as good. The guardians themselves present another difficulty. Far from being like the perfect man modeled after the city, the guardians are closer to Polemarchus' ideal 16 . man : they must be "gentle to their own and cruel [ xaA.sno65 ] to their enemies" (3 75c). This claim comes from the same Socrates who tells Polemarchus at 338d, "Nor is injuring, in fact, the work of good, but of its opposite." Similarly, descriptions of Thrasymachus indicate Plato's acknowledgement of the existence of people who can get things done through the unjust use of force . At 336b, for example, just after the mention of "men who have a high opinion of what they can do", Thrasymachus is compared to a wild beast as he flings himself into the discussion . Other such passages occur at 340d, 343a, and 344d. Thrasymachus is eventually subdued, in a way , but Callicles in the Gorgias off ers an even better ex ample . Not only does he hold his own in arguing against justice, but he may well be the best candidate for one who could carry out injustice completely. There seems to be a link between the ability to carry out injustice and the shamelessness in argument which Callicles shows, and the others lack in varying degrees . This link may be conscience. Plato, despite Socrates' rhetoric about justice, does not deny in his characterizations the possibility of people lacking conscience to certain degrees. To point out contradiction, however, is not to say that Plato does not have anything coherent to say about justice. Plato acknowledges the difficulty of the dilemma . He also presents evidence and ideas which can help the reader get closer to truth. The common views of political good -- justice -- and individual or ethical good -- happiness -- are such that they necessarily oppose one another . As Glaucon points out, justice is seen as something necessary for the . function of the state but undesirable in itself for the individual. Happiness and internal order, o r the 'good life', are thought to come chiefly with material things, pleasure, and power or honor, as Plato shows through the characters in his dialogues. As Callicles points out (Gorgias, 491e) a man who is enslaved at all by justice or temperance for example cannot be happy . If justice is defined as not trying to get the better of others materially but rather honoring agreements, and yet material betterment of the individual is necessary for happiness, then justice of necessity gets in the way of happiness. By revising the conceptions of the goals of a human being, the goals of a state, and the relati onship between human being and state, Plato resolves the tension be tween justice and happiness. As Aristotle does in his political treatise, Plato as serts the goal of the state to be the happiness· of its citizens. This is the substance of the argument that the ruler thinks not of his own benefit, but of the benefit of those he rules. This claim establishes a first like between ethics and politics. They both aim at the same thing. If humans are political by nature, they naturally need the companionship of other humans and organized association with them to attain happiness. Plato's view of human goals completes the connection between ethics and politics. If human goals are concerned not with external goods, but with internal perfection, then justice no longer interferes with the pursuit of those goals. Take again the e xample of Socrates' suggestion near the end of Book IV "And in truth justice was, as it seems, something of this sort; however, not with respect to a man's minding his external business, but with respect to what is within, with respect to what truly concerns him and his own . He doesn't let each part in him mind other people's business or the three classes in the soul meddle with each other, but really sets his own house in good order and rules himself; he arranges himself, becomes his own f r iend, and harmonizes the three parts, exactly like the three notes in a harmonic scale, lowest, highest and middle. And if there are some othe r parts in between, he binds them together and 17 �becomes entirely one from many, moderate and harmonized. Then and only then, he acts, if he does act in some way -- either con cerning the acquisition of many, or the care of the body , or something political, or concerning private contracts. In all these actions he believes and names a just and fine action one that preserves and helps to produce this condition, and wisdom the knowledge that supervises ·this action, while he believes and names an unjust action one that undoes this condition, and lack of learning, in its turn, the opinion that supervises ~his action." (443c) If "what truly concerns him and his own" is what is within a human being , then jus tice no longer interferes with happiness . Aristotle accordingly draws the distinction between good and bad kinds of selfishness . "Self- love" is a term of reproach for people when they assign to themselves the larger share of money , honors, or bodily pleasures; since these are the things which most men desire and set their hearts on as being the greates goods and which accordingly they complete with each other to obtain . (Nie . Eth, IX, viii, 4). Such competition necessitates injustice . The person who zealously competes to obtain the 'noble' TO KaA.6\J ) , that is , who seeks to perfect his soul, is still self-loving, but in a good way . Aristotle says (IX , viii, 6) , "he therefore who loves and indulges the dominant part of himself [Plato 's calculating part of the soul] is a lover of self in the fullest degree ." This person, moreover, does not need to interfere with others for his perfection . With such an unde rstanding of how happiness is obtained , the connection between politics and ethics can be completed . Not only is it not particularly advantageous to be unjust, as it was when happiness was thought to b e achieved through external goods, but it is particularly advantageous to be just . That the good of the individual as a member of society is equivalent to political good is a necessary consequence of man being a political animal. However, with this new conception of happi ness, Plato can assert also that the good of the individual as a human being is equivalent to political good . Justice, as Socrates says, is something internal . So political good, justice , is equated with ethical good , virtue , just as the concerns of politics and ethics were acknowledge to be the same . The problem remains of how these revisions should be viewed . At first it seemed as if the ethical value of justice could go either way . Justice could be thought of as good o r bad practice, with certain logical consequences following each choice . Glaucon and Thrasymachus presented a plausible alte r native to Socrates' assumption that justice is good . We have demonstrated that Socrates' answer to this alternative does not have the force of a deductive proof , and that this and may contradictions in the text continue to point out the difficulty of the delimma . Finally , it seems that notwithstanding his acknowledgement of the difficulty of the dilemma , Plato does give a coherent answer to t he dilemma. To ask how Plato's revisions should b e viewed is to ask what Plato's intent is in the answer these revisions form . The very least that Plato 's answer to the dilemma affords is an equally plausi ble alternative to Glaucon's picture and Thrasymachus ' view of the character of jus tice . But the insufficiency of this kind of answer induces us to search further . We have said that some, Glaucon and Adeimantus included, desire to hear justice praised and injustice blamed . Motives may be noble by Plato's standar ds and may come from, for example, a person who has been taught to seek perfection of his s oul and needs 18 some reassurance. They may be ignoble and may come from, for example, someone who wants a reason to be just, but would otherwise be inclined to Glaucon's belief that justice is simply a convention and should be avoided. Plato and Aristotle exaggerate the importance of the state, and so have to extol justice, without which the state cannot function, even more forcefully. The idea of justice in the Republic which Socrates presents is a logical and convincing account, elegant in its conception . It therefore provides a comfortable way to believe justice to be advantageous, for those who want to believe this. The myth at the end of the Gorgias fulfills a similar function. In a question of great importance and difficulty, where obvious proof is lacking, people naturally seek answers which rely on faith. Callicles alone, we remember, has been unconvinced by Socrates' assertions about justice and the just way of life . Socrates then de scribes Hades and judgement of souls after death. In Hades, souls are stripped o f the body . When he who judges souls views a soul stripped of its body, he can detect in it how just or unjust the person has been over the course of his life. Acts of injustice appear in the souls as scars or contortions. Souls which are found to have committed "ultimate injustices" (Gorgias, 525c) are incurable and must suffer vengeance in Hades for all times. Socrates addresses Callicles after offering this myth : "Now perhaps you think these things I've said are a tale, like an old wife's, and you despise them. And certainly it wouldn't be at all surprising to despise them, if we should search and somehow manage to find something better and truer. But, as it is, you see that the three of you who are wisest among the Greeks now, you and Polus and Gorgias -- you three can't man age to show that we should live any other life than this, which is shown to be profitable for there too . No; among so many arguments, when the others are being refuted, only this argument is stable -- that we must avoid doing injustice more than suffering it, and above all a man must practice not seeming good, but being good, in private and public life; if someone becomes evil in some way, he is to be punished, and this is the second good after being just -- to become just and pay justice in being punished." (527ab) The myth first of all confirms the fears of those who, like Cephalus, need a reason to be just, such as fear of Hades . But it also gives an account of damage which oc curs to the soul through injustice. That justice is the health of the soul is thereby made more believable . Plato knows that justice is necessary for political society, and therefore some "stable" argument for justice is needed, even if it requires faith. In the same way, the Republic argument will fulfill this function by satisfying a need for some believable . account. This is not to say that the philosophical value of the Republic is in any way diminished by this function. The thoughtful reader who seeks a kind of cognition higher than faith, that is, knowledge, about the ethical value of justice, is challenged. The form of the dialogue rhetorically and dramatically presents the re ader with different and conflicting ideas about justice, and evidence about the nature of justice. These ideas and evidence are the substance of the insight Plato has to offer on the ethical value of justice, and it is through them that the careful reader can come closer to knowledge of the truth. 19 �1 2 3 4 5 6 The Republic of Plato, trans . Allan Bloom, New York: Aristotle's Nichomachean Ethics, trans. H. Rackham. Aristotle's Politics, trans. H. Rackham. Basic Books, 1968. Jana Giles (Loeb) Plato's Gorgias, trans. Terence Irwin, New York: Plato's Sophist, trans. Harold North Fowler. Greek- English Lexicon of Liddell and Scott . (Loeb) ask Newton Oxford, 1979. (Loeb) Curtains walk out from the windowa fan calling wind's steady sound outside sky's hazy stuffily sultry humid day my eyes pain in the glare somewher e a poet breeds word and soul f renzied, watching hairs glitter gold on his dark arm rubble rattles angrily at me as I kick it down the slope from its ancient broken home; roofless ghosts roam sometime it will stop, and forgive me . ask Newton : his head was dark though the prism cast long colored lights, bar red and striped grate - like . my ceiling is fish - scaled arcs s tolen f r om a goggle - eyed blue - brained damsel of the sea : she invited me to go dancing. Shall I scream and beat the eggs? (my blender keeps the tune) tonight, darling, / / we are having souffle, pit~, rose, Perrier and the Frobishers white lace, green money the dog peed on the rug again honey don't touch me I might scream my bites are mean you'll get gangrene 20 21 �I tittered as I walked Ha! the poet's editor smiled we walked arm in arm 'til the poppies and Noah's 40 days drowned me victim of an impossible jealous aching unending dream children weeping in the dust; a swollen moon lumbered red-faced across the horizon, raging nightmared sleep: in the hot tropical night anacondas wrap their cool supple waists around Yeats' steaming neck; he peeled pears beneath the moonlit mosquito net. Tell Dostoyev?ky the calico man is corning . 22 ''Man is Directed to God as an End Which Surpasses the Grasp of Reason'' Dan Touey . ' The first question of Thomas Aquinas's Summa Theologica asks whether any discipline other than the philosophic ones, whose rule and domain is reason, is required by human beings. As the beginning of an inquiry it has special importance, and not in the sense that it deals with matters that must be taken care of before other, more vital questions can be answered. In the question and in the way Thomas chooses to answer it is implied the difficulty that may have induced him to undertake his work in the first place and that will determine the manner and content of most of the vital parts of it: the opposition of faith and reason. The positions of the Ob jections are these, that man should not seek things outside the domain of reason, since it is the only domain in which he can have any real certainty; and that the philosophical disciplines deal with everything that is, even God, so that any other discipline would be superfluous. Thomas answers by saying that "man is directed to God as to an end that surpasses the grasp of his reason." This first interchange is the true beginning of Aquinas' s work, and in it are implied the conflicts and questions with which it will be Thornas's onerous duty to deal. Thomas will not attempt to deal with faith fundamentally until the end of his work, and hence it may be wrong to juxtapose faith and reason explicitly in this incipient question. But when he does attempt some kind of definition of faith he says that it is an assent of the intellect to the divine truth at the command of the will, which has been endowed with grace, that is, moved by God. The intellect then, and how this term is actually employed in this context is not altogether clear, must in a sense be overcome for faith to occur. Here Thomas is saying that there are some things necessary for man to believe that the intellect, in itself, will not consent to; and that there is no such thing as an argument, or demonstration, that can lead one to believe the things that must be arrived at through faith. Reason does not require, like faith, that man overcome himself to accept what is true. With reason, we can say that things are apparent, that they simply are, and, to a certain extent, are undeniable. Oneof the reasons for this surety is that we can posit in man a certain faculty, reason, to which there are certain corresponding objects, or principles, that are immediately clear and true, or can be shown to be so by investigation. Therefore I can say that things that are equal to the same are equal to one another, and su6h a statement will be accepted by another because it appeals, in some way, to reason. The truth of this may be a question, but at least we can formulate such a faculty and its objects, and they or something like them seem consistent with the common nature of man. But I cannot posit such a faculty of faith; there is nothing in the intellect o r the consciousness of man that I can say the objects of faith correspond to. There is nothing in the nature of man that can move him to the kind of belief that is of faith; he must be moved by the intervention of God. And so in the Summa, though faith and reason are both ways of knowing what exists, of gaining knowledge, it is only with reason that we have a clear idea of how the process occurs. At least afterwards we can trace a construction of reason that seems to fit with our nature. This we cannot do with faith. So what is it that leads man, to whom reason is in a sense natural and easy, to faith, in which he must overcome what is natural to him essentially, the rational 23 �intellect, and what he cannot arrive at himself but must posit an outside influence, the grace of God, to receive? Why faith? Why isn't the argument of Objections one and two, Article one, Question one, of the Summa enough for Thomas? It seems that the first Objection is right in saying that ~houldn't go beyond the scope of his rea~o~ ~fter all;. and Objection two is correct in saying that Theology should only be a division of philosophy, as far as God can be treated in terms of reason . The most important point of Thomas's reply is that man is directed to God as his final end and that God is something that surpasses his reason . If the existence of God can b~ arrived at through reason, and some things can even be predicated of Him beyond the fact of His existence, as Thomas believes, then why can't man arrive at his end through hiE natural, communicable faculty and experience of reason? Why does Thomas assume from the beginning that God is beyond this faculty, which is the assumption upon which his reply to the first Objections, and hence his whole wor k, stands o r falls? Why isn't reason, in the context of the knowable, enough when the object of knowledge is God? I think that the answer to why this is so, or why it is so to a thinker like Thomas, can be answered by beginning with reason, and examining just what it is we can say with reason concerning the idea of God . This might, but not necessarily , lead us to the idea of faith, or some clue as to the need for the idea of faith. We hope to see what it is about reason that would leave open the room for the idea of faith. But it will not be the complete story; man's ways of understanding God in the context of reason are only one part of that understanding; eventually we will have to look at other aspects of the story . At times the things that follow about faith will merge with other considerations that make us think about faith, but at some point it seems that we must give up our grounding in reason as our reference entirely, and look at faith from a different point of view. Since reason is the ground upon which we choose to begin our attempt to understand faith, it is necessary to ask what can be said about God through our reason . The philosophic inquiry that treats of God, Aristotle's division of philosophy called theology, has its limitations set out by Thomas in Question twelve, Article twelve of the First Part. According to Thomas, God can be known by reason only in so far as he follows from some perception rooted in the senses . This is necessarily so because all thought has its beginning in sense- perception, and abstract thought is the deri vation of universals out of the always individual sense- perception and sense- object . So our rational understanding of God has its beginning in the sensory world. And our understanding of God in the rational sense will always be in the form of a cause . In the second article of Question two, Thomas says that there are two sorts of demonstration, the first in which we reason from a known cause to the effects of that cause, the second in which we reason from effects back to their proper cause. On t he surface, the two methods seem merely conversions of one another, to be different di rections of inquiry into the same process of cause and effect. They both seem to be ways of . proceeding from the known to the unknown and of making what was not evident evident. But it soon becomes clear that they are not different directions of the same process, nor do they achieve the same things . in their ends. When we know a cause or principle, something that is apparent to us and the truth of which can be agreed upon, then if we do accept it to be true, certain things follow from it. In fact, it is only then that we can call anything a caus e ; unt il we f ind that it di rectly leadsto or is in a certain sense responsible for certain conclusions. Then it is only an evident truth . In this sort of demonstration, both cause and effect are evident, known, and the work of the mind is not creative but receptive. The mind, in a sense, has only to follow what reason presents to it . In the case of reasoning from effects to cause, however, such an uncomplicated process does not appear. In reasoning from effect to cause, the process is only simple if the cause is already a thing known, although not known as cause . The establishment of the cause 24 • I and effect relationsh~p using effect as the starting point cannot be an epistemological method in the same way as when cause, or principle, is the beginning . In the latter case we know both cause and effect because we know cause but when we know only effect, we can only infer the need for cause and make a hypothesis for the nature of the cause form what we know of the effect, but not know the cause . In some sense, as Thomas says, the conclusion is implicit in, or a part of , the p r inciple . Because of that we can say that we know the conclusion because of our knowledge of the principle . But can it be said that the principle is implicit in the conclusion in the same way, or even at all? Thomas was fully aware, as evidenced in his own criticism of the method in Article twelve of Question twelve, that reasoning from effect to an unknown cause had its limitations . He said that in treating of God from the evidence of His effects , he could only establish the existence of God and what necessarily belonged to Hirn as a cause . That is, he knew that in this way he could never know God as a thing in itself . This is the most important criticism of the method, but our own may add a further insight. For it seems that not even the establishment of a cause that establishes existence, at least in the way that Thomas would like it, is possible . An examination of the method as it is actually employed might make the criticism more clear, and fortunately we have such an example in Thomas's own use of the method in Question two, Article three, where he uses it to demonstrate the existence of God . In all of his five ways of demonstrating the existence of God, Thomas's method is that suggested in Question twelve, Article twelve, of using knowledge gained from observation of the physical world and reasoning to a principle that accounts for the cause of these observations. He begins by asserting something about the world that he feels to be generally accepted as true, and from this he reasons to a point where the e x istence of God is a logical necessity according to the principles that were deemed evident to begin with. Of course, any reading of the five ways will show that thei~ smooth an~ simple argument does not rely wholly on the demands of pure reason, and is not a s simple as it reads . An examination of the first "more manifest way," the proof using motion, will probably be enough to get an idea of how Thomas goes about his effect- to- cause- proofs . At the r isk of oversimplifying Thomas' s argument, we will paraph r ase it here . He starts by asserting first that there is motion in the world, and second that nothing is in motion unless caused to be so by another thing in motion. All things in motion must have had a prior potentiality towards that motion. Since potenti~lity cannot actualize itself but must be made so by a thing already in actuality, then each motion can be said to have an immediate antecedent cause of motion . But the p rocess of motion causing motion could be traced back infinitely without finding a motion that began setting all things in motion in the first place , so there will be no motion. Therefore it is necessary that there be some thing that moved itself. By common consent, only God coul~ move in such a fashion. Therefore He exists. The question that we need to ask is whether Thornas's conclusion of cause follows from the knowledge that he originally gained from his observations of the world . We must ask whether his construction of cause and effect is one that is determined by the argument, or one that is presupposed by it, and is the assumption that actually gave the argument its form. Thomas states his principles that motion e x ists and all motions are depe ndent on prior motions. Then he states the consequences of that assumption: by following back the process of motion always being the cause of motion, we will regress infinitely without ever finding a first motion that caused all posterior motions to be . ,His principles lead him to a difficulty, a problem, what Aristotle called (anop1a ) , a place where the passage seems to be blocked . What Thomas does to gain a passage, though, does not follow from his principles; what he does is determine that something must exist that does not conform to the rule that he has assumed as 25 �principle, a thing that moves without being moved. He must step out of the bounds of his argument to solve his di ff icul ty and reverse the direction of his reasoning. When he finds a difficulty, an impossibility that follows from his principles, he looks for what must be necessary for those principles still to be true . In some ways Thomas's conclusion seems right; in fact it is probably the only way in which he can pass through his place of no passage, by assuming a first principle of motion that does not obey the laws of motion. But this answer is not arrived at through pure reason, or at least it is not the only conclusion we could have reached at such a point. Perhaps, though, it will be the only satisfying conclusion. For we could also conclude that the principles we started with are either wrong or incorrectly or in comp~etely stated. In fact, in areas such as mathematics that is the way we would go; if an assumption leads to an impossibility, then we cannot accept it as true . In the case of knowledge gained from observation of the everyday world, though , to be forced to regard it as invalid is much more serious; we would have to re - evaluate all such knowledge, reassess the way in which we see the world. We also have another option, which is to still accept our principles, but also accept their problematic conclusions without positing another principle that clears them up . Then we must ~&nit that we live in an irrational world, one without a beginning, or that we live in a world our rationality cannot comprehend . Al though both of the other options lead to conclusions which are less simple and more disconcerting than the one that Thomas chooses, they seem more likely to be the ones that reason, on its own, would be forced to choose. What is it that makes Thomas choose his way? The answer might be found at the point where Thomas reverses his reasoning, where he first inserts God into the argument. His unmoved mover does and does not follow from the argument . It does not follow from what the accepted principles of the argument afford. But it does follow, or at least it is reasonable, if the idea of. such a being has already been conceived of, not in the guise of cause, but as a being whose role as cause is not the parameter of the conception of it . So fo r Thomas, the implicit assumption in his argument that is prior to all other assumed principles is the idea and possibility of God. Otherwise he is left only with his own contradictions. There is some small indication that he was aware of this. His ultimate conclusion in the demonstration being, "th.:j_s everyone understands to be God," instead of the preceding, "Therefore it is necessary to arrive at a first mov er, moved by no other," is not as unfounded as it first appears if we concede that a kind of belief in God is what gives the argument form in the first place . But of course, we must also sacrifice our hope in establishing God's existence purely from evident knowledge . It s eems that Thomas , in h is arg ument fro m effect to cause, must make a leap out of the line of his reasoning to determine cause. The two criticisms of reasoning about God, Thomas's and the one tentatively set forth here, seem to indicate a severe poverty as to what reason can say about God . Thomas says that our knowledge will be limited to the existence of God and only what necessarily belongs to Him as cause . The other criticism would say that not even this much can be gathered, that the argument that finds God's existence needs to know God beforehand to conclude that He exists as cause . So even the footing on which natural reason deals with God seems questionable. In this way we begin to answer for ourselves the question of why Thomas cannot regard theology as a division of philosophy. It seems that we are now in a better position to understand what Thomas means when he says that "man is directed towards God as to an end that surpasses the grasp of his reason." At least the last part of the statement, that reason cannot treat of God, seems more explicable to us . Why God is said to be the end of man, and how "beyond reason" man is to attain that end, is not clear . As far as attaining to the knowledge of God, the very methods that reason was forced to use seemed to obstruct 26 ' l it from reaching that end. Reason attempted to inquire into God as to a cause from an effect, but it seems that a principle cannot be known from reasoning back from effects . Even if we grant that something like God's existence can be established , the conception of His existence would necessarily be determined by our knowledge of effects. But in attaining to the knowledge of a thing, we wish to see it in itself, and not only in relation to other things. But if all our knowledge is rooted in sense- perception, as Thomas says, then we could never know God in such a way . One example of how Thomas seems to answer this can be found in Article four of Question twelve, when he says, "For knowledge takes place according as the t hing known is in the knower. But a thing known is in the knower according to the mode of the knower . Hence the knowledge of every knower is according to the mode of its own nature. If therefore, the mode of being of a given thing exceeds the mode of the knower, it must result that the knowledge of that thing is above the nature of the knower." By stating the impossibility in a different way, Thomas allows himself to go on. Reason cannot treat of God not because God fails reason, but because reason fails God . The inquiry into God takes a different direction . Reason no longer tries to define God or argue about God in such a way that God becomes reasonable, but reason itself must change so that God can become known as a thing in itself, so that the "mode of the knower" is in accord with the "mode of being" of the thing to be known . Thomas is taking a step out of reason, and looking at its boundaries, when he posits the possibility of anything the being of which exceeds the mode of knowing of the reasoning intellect . He can only do this, it seems, if he has in mind the idea of a boundless God , which of course he does . It is clear that for reason to know God, for it to reach what is beyond its grasp, it must be altered . One option at this point is again to conclude that man cannot know God, since to do so he would have to change the mode of his reason, to change his nature . But Thomas argues out of this position by emphasizing the part of the statement we quoted from him earlier that says God is man's end. In the first a r ticle of Question twelve, Thomas responds to the objection that the created intellect cannot see the essence of God by arguing that man's blessedness consists of the operation of the intellect in seeing his end or source, God. For the mind to be unable to see God would mean that all man's activity is in vain, because that activity is always a striving towards God. Hence it must be possible for man to actually know God, to see His essence . So Thomas will use his position outside of reason that he has arrived at to say that man can know God not through reason grasping God but by God taking in hand the reasoning intellect . The concept of knowledge, where the mind receives into itself only such things that by their nature are fitted to reason , will b e a bandoned ; and the mind instead will be fitted to receive what it knows . This is the essential altering of perspective that Thomas effects to be able to deal with how God can actually be known as a thing in itself . One of the reasons that the whole of Question twelve is so interesting is that it attempts to describe an epistemology that is beyond reason . How far Thomas can succeed in removing his description of seeing the essence of God f r om the terms and analogies app r opriated by reason is anothe r question . But what he does describe is something un i que, ne i the r r eason nor faith , yet simi lar to both . His seeing of the divine essence is like demonstrable science in that the r e occurs an intellectual vi sion o f apparent truth ; and also like faith , in t hat the e xper ienc e i s one th a t surpasses reason and is a matter of grace, indemonstrable and incommunicable . And in his construction of the experience of seeing God , Thomas will also curiously echo one of the most puzzling ideas of Aristotle . Thomas attempts i n the fourth article of the Question to arrange the experience of seeing God ' s essence into a construction that includes the other kinds of knowl edge that the intellect is capable of. All natural knowledge begins , again, in the sense - perception of the individual sense - object , and this Thomas calls the soul's 27 �l "act of a corporeal organ ." But the soul also has intellect, and the intellect has the power to analyze the object of the senses into matter and form. By isolating form, the intellect obtains an abstraction that is common and universal, which is not confined to any individual perception, but relies on the individual object of sense for its being. According to Thomas, this is the extent of natural knowledge. But just as the intellect can transcend the initial sense-perception, so can the intel lect "by grace be raised up to know separate subsisting substance and separate subsisting being." That is, by God acting somehow on the intellect, it can have a knowledge that no longer has its source in sense - perception, but is able to know be ing that is in no way attached to individual being, that is, the being common to all beings, God. But how does this higher state of knowing compare with the intellect's natural capacity to know universal truths? Thomas characterizes this state as a heightening of the intellect, a broadening of its powers of seeing by the influx of divine illumination. This illumination could be seen simply as a quantitative increase of illumination, since as Thomas says, "Hence also the intellectual power of the creature is called an intelligible light, as it were, derived from the first light, whether this be understood of the natural power, or some superadded perfection of grace and glory . " The act of the intellect in its natural capacity is a participation in the "first light'' of God, and the seeing of God's essence is made possible by a "superadded perfection" . It seems that we can understand the basis of this experience by comparing it with natural reason as a perfection of the intellect's natural capacity to see universal truth. The seeing will be analogous to the intellect's comprehension of indemonstrable first principles, which appeal immediately to the intellect as true, such as the principles of logic and science. It is just that it will be able now to see more than it could before . This is one way to interpret Thomas' s statement in Article five that the blessed who see God are made "deiform", that they are able to see, in some way, what God sees. What is infinitely knowable in itself will now become comprehensible to the intellect that has been raised to meet it, because the influx of divine illumination has given it a wider perspective. There are some complications, however, that do not allow us to accept this interpretation. The intellect will never know the essence of God as it knows the principles of demonstrable science . Thomas says that a created intellect could never "comprehend" the essence of God or know it to the fullest e x tent to which it is capable of being known. Since the intellect is made able to see the essence of God by an influx of divine light, but the essence of God is infinite, it follows that, since the intellect cannot receive an infinite amount of illumination, God 's essence can never be known as far as it is capable of being known . But this is the extent to which we say we know the principles of reason, and what we mean by "contemplation". How could a "seeing" occur of an object of thought that is infinite and unbounded? Following the analogy with reason, since the seeing of such an object would always be incomplete, it would have the character of opinion . But if this act is said to be the final end of man, does it seem right that it should have the certainty of opinion? What would be the convincing aspect of seeing God if the object of the seeing were ultimately unclear? There are several places in Question twelve where the analogy with natural reason seems to break down, especially as regards the object of thought, and a new interpretation of "deiform" seems to be needed . Does being "like God" mean that the intellect is broadened so that any object becomes intelligible as a result? In Article four Thomas says, "a created intellect cannot see tue essence of God unless God by His grace unites _Himself to the created intellect, as an object made intelligible to it." Yet at other times it does not seem that God becomes an "object" of the intellect in any intelligible way . In Article five we read, "But when any created in- tellect sees the essence of God, the essence of God itself becomes the intelligible form of the intellect." Here he does not say that the essence of God becomes the object, but the form, the shape, of the intellect. It is not clear whethe r Thomas is contradicting himself o r not. But the experience of seeing God seems now more complicated than a broadening of perspective fo r the intellect. God attaches himself to the intellect so that He may become the thinking of the intellect . But if thinking must be the thinking of something, and if God is the form of thinking o r the shape of the intellect, and also in some way the object of that thinking, then such an act does not seem to be thinking, or an act of the intellect in its accepted sense at all. The process that is described by Thomas of seeing God cannot but remind one of the act described by Ar istotle of his own God, the prime mover, in the Metaphys ics. Aristotle describes the prime mover's act as one of thinking,von01S', where the obj ect of this v6ncr u· , TO vonToV, is the mover itself. But since the move r is nothing else but its act , its thinking is of thinking, and the act is the same as the object of the act. This seems to be similar to what the intellect's act would be if God attached Himself to it as both form and object . The act of the intellect would then be inseparable from the essence of God , and the intellect would not see the essence of God, but in a sense participate in the being of the essence of God . It is not for su r e if this is what Thomas really means, but at least it extends some hope about reas on being able to attain to God , if not by its natural powers, then in some other conceivable way. Yet what a fleeting appearance . Article eleven comes as a surprise ~n reading Question twelve, and is a puzzle which makes the whole of the question even more of a puzzle . The Article asks "Whether anyone in this life can see the essence of God , " and the answer that Thomas gives is "It is not possible, " he concludes, " that the so·u1 in this mortal life should be raised up to the highest of intelligible objects, that is, to the di vine essence . " What then is the significance of the whole question? What is Thomas getting at in describing a process that he does not think is possible? It seems that the question of the first article, whether it was possi ble for man to see the essence of God, had to be answered affirmatively, for reasons having to do with God being man's end. Yet the description of what the experience is turns out to be, possibly, of what it would be like were it possible . It is not clear why Thomas chose to affirm and deny what appears to be the same thing . But the hope that man could somehow reach God through some alteration of the intellect, seems now to be qua shed , as was the hope that man could really know God through his natural reason. Any way to God via the intellect, whether natural or graced, seems blocked . Or at least Thomas pulls back the lure of seeing God wit~a rationa l bas is at the last moment for unclear rea sons . But with that retraction, with his blocking of the path, the opportunity for a new focus reveals itself. We have gone, perhaps, as far as we can go, perhaps farther , with reason and with intellect in relation to God . It seems that our new focus would have to be non- rational and non-intellectual if we hope to go on with our inquiry about God . And now that we have exhausted, in a sense, our ground of reason, it seems that we could have a better perspective on faith. But how is the transition to be made, and how can we truly leave our g r ound in r eason? What do we hope to achieve by examining faith, and where has the examination of r eason's efforts to re ach God taken us? For one thing, the examination has taken us to the point whe re faith seems to be necessary for the inquiry to go on , for the inquiry that can be t raced in Thomas . But whether choosing to look at the idea of faith at this point will rea lly enable us to go on with the inquiry or not is uncertain . Because a non -rational ideal like faith is not hindered by the rules of rea son, is it too much of a temptation not to use this idea to solve our own difficulties? 28 29 �we would like faith to help us with two things in Thomas' s statement that "man is directed to God as to an end that surpasses the grasp of his reason." An ex amination of reasoning about God has shown to an extent why such an end is beyond reason. Ideally, we would like to learn from the idea of faith why God is said to be man's end in the first place, and how he is to achieve that end if not through reason. To some extent we have answered the question, "Why faith?", by seeing reason's inability to deal with God. Any construction where the mind actually pe:r:cei.ved God proved to be untenable. The knowledge of the being of God c~uld not be fit int~ a~y epistomological mold. But faith does not entail any perception, and although it is spoken of as a way of knowing, that knowledge is.very.diffe:ent fro~ any that c?mes from reason. we cannot make an analogy about seeing with faith. While the convincing aspect of reas on's knowledge is that something is revealed, f~i t.h' s "knowledge" is a belief in something that remains hidden. To make the transition, faith must have an analogously convincing element to it. Faith cannot merely follow as an answer after reason has failed to treat of God, or at least run into seemingly irrevocable difficulties. How faith can actually come about must be explored. · For Thomas, faith is something necessary for salvation, for man to attain his end Because reason fails to bring man into contact with God, o r because there are som~ things necessary to believe about God that reason could neve~ come to, it . is necessary that he believe what his intellect itself does not recognize . In Question four, Article three of the "Secunda Secundae", Thomas says that faith does reside in the intellect since faith determines one to something that is true. But what determines the int~llect to recognize truth has nothing to do with the intellect itself; the intellect is not convinced by the object of faith, which it is blind to, but by the will . In Thomas's construction, this will, which overcomes the intellect to de termine it to truth, is a necessary element. But where does this will to believe originate? Thomas's answer, in Question six, Article one of the same part, says that the determination of the will comes from God . Faith, which is an act of the will that · t "Faith," he overcomes the intellect, cannot come about through an in·erna 1 process. says, "as regards the assent which is the chief act of faith, is from Go~ moving m~n inwardly by grace." Faith, which seems to be Thomas's choice of how man is to attain God, cannot be effected by man and must be made possible by God . Man's end, then, can only be reached by it becoming his means as well. What leads Thomas to conc~ude this? In the same article he says, "for since by assenting to what belongs to faith, man is raised above his nature, this must needs come to him from some supernatural principle moving him inwardly ; and this is God . " What "raises man above his natur~" is the overcoming of the intellect. Thomas cannot allow that man should overcome his intellect by himself, for the intellect is what man most essentially is ~nd th~ highest part of him. For man to overcome his own intellect would be something akin to a rejection of himself. Thomas's great reverence for ~he. int~llect would not l~t any other part of man determine truth for it. The only vindication for the overcoming of the intellect could come from God. So it is something that happens to man rather than something he does. But must this be so? Must we conclude like Thomas that there is nothing in man that could determine him to faith? In the same passage quoted from above, Thomas presents his own v~rsion of the view of the Pelagians on faith, who said that man himself chooses to believe, t~ have faith. It seems that this view, where the will be believe that convinces the intellect comes from man himself, is more along the lines of what we are looking for· Thomas's answer that faith comes through grace does not seem to be the answer when we are looking for why the idea of faith came about in the first place. But it remains to be seen how man could choose to believe, how belief could come about from another part of man if not from the intellect . 30 Thomas gives us an idea of how a will to believe could originate in his treatment of grace. Divinely revealed knowledge is not the only thing that God must impart to man because man cannot reach it himself; God must also intercede in a moral way for man to reach his end. In Question 109 of the first part of the second part, Thomas argues that grace is necessary for man to reach God in his actions. In Article eight he says that it is impossible for man to avoid sin without the help of God. The fundamental cause o f this is that man, since the banishment from the garden, is composed of two natures, a "higher" and "lower" nature. His higher nature can more or less avoid the sin it is prone to, the graver mortal sin, because of the control of the reason. But man's lower nature what Thomas called his "corrupted nature", cannot be satisfactorily controlled in its penchant for venial sin . Reason can indeed suppress any desire, but not every one, since reason's control over the desires is not absolute . Hence, for man to overcome his lower nature and avoid sin, it is necessary that God endow him with the ability beyond his present nature to master this part of him. Thomas's image of man fundamentally divided in his nature gives us a much more vivid example of a need for God than anything we explored in relation to man's intel lect. In that part of our discussion, it seemed we were forced to fit God into the structure of the intellect, and He did not seem ever to fit. It was not clear whether the intellect ever really required a being like God. But in the area of ethics and morals, a need seems to clearly arise . If Thomas's assessment of man's nature is correct, it would point to a deep disparity between man's knowledge of moral principle, his ethical beliefs, and what he is actually able to effect in his own actions. If this disparity is really a part of man's nature, a fundamental flaw within himself that he can never hope to repair, then a will to believe in a being that could heal him could conceivably arise. It is perhaps in this situation that the determination to faith could arise internally, and man could choose to believe. It seems clearer, perhaps, why Thomas says that God is man's end. If God is a necessary element in man reaching the end in regards to his own nature, in the mas tery of reason over the sensual appetites, it seems more explicable to say that God is man's end . As to how he is to attain that end, it seems that we are now justified in saying he does so through faith. The abandoning of the intellects sovereign capacity to identify truth, and its determination to something that is not apparent to it, that is, faith, could come about by man's realization of his own incapacity to heal the rifts within his own nature, and his need for a being endowed with power and mercy to make him whole. The convincing element of this experience, what could pos sibly overcome the intellect, depends on the deepness with which this need to be healed is felt. If the need is felt deeply enough, the choices for man seem to be either a belief in a healing God and hope, or resignation to the inalterable disparity of his nature and despair. It is hoped that a plausible explanation of the need and inspiration of faith has been presented; how faith seems possible following reason's inquiry into God; and how faith, belief without proof, could conceivably originate in man himself . (For this writer, this inquiry was necessary to come to some sort of understanding of Thomas' s ideas. ) 31 �Limelight: the Story of a Ballerina and a Clown - Chaplin Carlos Chamberlin Camera 3, eager, operational, and passionate, swept down from above gently, emancipating the audience into applause . It came to rest six feet away from him, he who was standing, acknowledging his audience . The hands clapped till the aisles ran red with blood, ha, ha, so it seemed to him . The hands were pummeling themselves for him, for the show, this show of shows, his, conceived in the mind of some visionary at programming, who once read Boethius . Lightning blazed, and the guy said : "It'll be a game type show, there' 11 be this wheel, see, a wheel of fo r tune, and maybe there' 11 be good luck, and maybe bad, and lots of questions and lots of answers . " And then the prophet shut up for a while, and then he asked for some coffee , and then he said, "We' 11 call it The Consolation of Philosophy . " Eve r yone thought t his was great. Really great . And so did he. Really great . she said she came f r om Montana, and the r e was no r eason t o believe her . She was made up well enough to provide color to a nation of black and whites , a nd to him there was irridescent beauty, and an aur a of pasteuri zation . He r father , she said, was a rancher, (ah) a dairy farmer (Ah!) Once again there was applause , as the audience was assured of the contestant's humanity and Americannes s. She was a dance r , I could dance all day , coul dn't you? Pleasantly , he yes s ed, not at all tired of the babbling of the contestant's river of life, as it flowed through the studio, out the delta of television , and into a million homes . She took his mind away , and the weird contestants began to clamor subtly f or a ttention . The violini st with his psychological approach to botany, and of course , the marine sergeant , who loved all kinds of soups . This show was the futu r e , and the future was wi dely r egar ded as a strange and happy place . Fortune was lucky that night. She won . No sur prise t h ere . And so did Max ine, which was the name of the dancing challenger . They went out to a restaurant , late a t night, after even the satellites had all gone away , and talked like this : "You're very intelligent . " "Thank you ... uh." "Do you watch the show often?" "Every night . Every night that it's on . " "So do I . Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha" . So the inevitable happened, and this alignment of values pushed them ever so gently in the direction of that abstract king, Love, who gave them their money's worth. And then there was another night, another Consolation of Philosophy, and Maxine answered the questions that were put to h er c o rre ctly, winn ing a g a i n, and s pent the evening ensconced in the arms of the grace of television , whose name was Ray, whose fans were the well - informed, the well - entertained, the majority . And on this second night of passion/love, they were found at a newspaper, reading aloud to each other, transcending the sexual act with taste and intellect . "Would you look at this guy , twelve murders and so he says he wanted some peace and quiet . " "I wonder why he did it, he lived in a suburb . " 32 "That's quiet . " "Not quiet enough . " "it seems like ... " "what?" " . .. all true stories are desperate . " "uh-huh." Ray couldn't sleep at all. He took some sleeping pills and an amphetamine, and drove to the T. V. station. It was really dark . He walked to the room where they kept the questions, and searched for the ones for that night's Consolation of Philosophy . Then, he went to the room where they kept all the answers . The door wa s locked . He sat down. He lacked keys. So he took the door off of its hinges, and swept into the room looking for the respective answers . He was eager, and he f ound and copied them . Then he fell upon a great solution . He rested the door against the wall and made a sign . WET PAINT . He disappeared into the night . Dawn hit as his car drove him to the hotel where Maxine was staying . "Good Morning" . He smiled . He handed ove r his presents, and kissed her . "For me?" she asked . "Yes , " he said, "they're the answers to tonight's show . " They spoke briefly on impor tant questions of mo r ality . Finally Maxine accepted, not because she was essentially ev i l , but because t hey we r e r unning out of time . "Ray," said Mike, who ran the station, "somebody broke into the room with all the answe r s . " " So change the lock , " said Ray helpfully . "I think we' 11 have to change the answe r s," said Mike , r unn i ng the station . All a r ound t he wo r ld (that is, the U. S . ) people prepared for the Consolation of Philosophy by eating a warm home-cooked meal and i gnoring thei r wives and husbands and children . Ray and Max ine ate nervously , stagnant chicke n salad and french fries . "Whatever happens, Maxine, I'll always love you . " "Me , too . " "Wh atever happens, don ' t do anything desperate . " "O . K •• II Ray would alwa y s love Max ine, unaware that such a statement was like saying that you would always have lunch wi th the loved one : a nice though t but practical as a toothache. Ray f elt t he cameras go on somewhe r e . He stood up, and held out his arm ; A gallant and his int ended quit the diner and Ray and Maxine followed . Regular watche r s of the Consolation of Philosophy watched as the pretty girl f r om Montana was defeated by a magenta femme fatale, who, lacking beauty , had read books . They then watched Ray , who stepped close r to the camera until his face filled the scr een, and sa i d : "That's it . " Max ine ran up to him, and said : "This is Ray, and he loves me." Ray agreed. "I love her," he said . The audience went crazy, despising Ray for falling for the loser . They stopped clapping . There was absolute silence . Ray had never used a gun before. He fired into the air. The audience was still. "Traitor!" someone yelled . The progr am director came on the intercom, saying, "Ray, this is live T . V . and you can't do this . " The logic of this nearly killed Ray . He grabbed her hand, and they the y ran like l ove r s , away , l eav i ng the audience desperate and unappreciative . Outside, (in the par king lot) the car wouldn't start, and it was raining, so Ray and Maxine walked . Thus love is the limelight, like being , for a moment, on television. So, the Consolation of Philosophy shot out into the ionosphere for one last time, bouncing endlessly in the heavens . One October, in the nineteen seventies, it returned to earth, to the television set of Charles Augustus Gardiner, who, at the time , held the r oy rogers chair for the humanities at Princeton. The police were called. 33 �Ripeness is All Renee Bergland My best friend's mother committed suicide . Six years later, when we were both ei ghteen, my f r iend Rachel aske d me to spend the s ummer wi t h he r i n t he house whe r e it had happened, which was also the house where Rachel ' s mother had spent every summer of her childhood . Rachel herself had only been there a few times befo r e her mother's death . In the years between, the neighbors had mowed the lawn and kept an eye o~ the place, but no one had stayed there . We spent the fi r st week scrubbing out the kitchen and a bedroom, and camped in the r est of the house all summer . When the bare minimum of cleaning was done, we divided our time between the rocky beach in front of the house and investigation inside it . We paged through her mother ' s third g r ade notebooks , and we scattered s napshots of r elatives we we r e n't certain about into p~les on the living room floor . We hung her mothe r 's kindergarten drawing on the fridge . We talked constantly about Rachel ' s mother ' s family , though we knew next to nothing about them. In August, Rachel and I searched out her mother's grave . She bought a tombstone for it , and on the stone she had three words cut : RIPENESS IS ALL I wasn't sure of what the sentence meant . When I asked Rachel she said she liked the sound of it, and she knew her mother had loved Shakespeare . ' I had read King Lear before my summer with Rachel, and my eyes had passed over the phrase without noticing it . When I read the play later , I recognized the words from Rachel's mother's gravestone and began to cry . The whole sentence moved me . Men must endure Thei r going hence, even as their coming hithe r; Ripeness is all . (V, ii, 9) My tears were n ot an incidenta l stinging. I sobbed u ntil my r oommate threatened to take me to the hospital, and then I went outside and wept my way into silence . I was not simply crying for Rachel or for her mother . I wept for myself, for the hopelessness of my relationship with my parents , and for the hopelessness of the childr en I might have · That night chasms opened a r ound me , separating me f r om everyone I loved, and most definitely from my parents . The nature of the chasms and the tears mystified me . My despair sprang from the first line and a half, from the idea that all of us must only endure our births, that having been bor n i s as g r e a t a n af fliction as h aving to die. It sprang at the same time from the awful coupling of unlooked - for birth and longed- for death. In eleven words, Edgar told his fathe r that it is human nature to wa~t. t? die and to regret having been born, and that it is each human's deep re sponsib~lity not to acknowledge or act on either of these feelings . My horror at these ~i~es was also caused by seeing a son assume his father's foolishness, and by recognizing the naturalness of the father's dependence on his son . I saw the inev itability of the responsibility for both of their lives and their deaths especially fo r his fathe r 's death , being thrust upon the son . I saw that Edga r owed' a n unr epay - 34 able, though unwillingly incurred , debt of life to his father. Pe r haps the most upsetting words of all were the last three, "Ripeness is all . " They were offered as t he supreme consolation of the play, and they seemed almost meaningless . The phr ase is so ambiguous that it borders on nonsense , and it i s the only phrase of hope we are offered in King Lear . Since my night of tears , I have often wondered about ripeness . I have always wanted to know what it could be, and how it might be all , i n both birth and death . Rachel and I l i ved across the bay from my father that summer and I was not wel come in his house , the house of my childhood summers. I am not welcome there yet . Yea r s pass between our meetings , a nd when we meet, my father is angry and imperious , and I am wooden . I have often thought about r ipeness between us, and have felt ce rtai n that i t is a laughabl e hope, ma d e complete ly ri diculous by the fact that I h ave no real idea of what r ipene s s would be for us , o r how it would be a balm . I am faced with the question of whether I am ab l e to endur e my own birth, to accept it and the parents who gave it to me . I know that in spite of the pain he has caused me, my father is very much my fathe r and always will be . I must endure my birth . I have less choice in this matte r even than I have in the matter of my death . Where shall I search for r ipene s s? My own ambig uous feelings about my birth have made Edgar ' s lines impo r tant to me . Thei r comf o r t i s str ange, narco t ic , and mys t e ri ous . I have taken the same numbed comfor t f r om the words when facing death . On the way to my cous in ' s f une r a l we stopped a t the house where the Quakers who were going to di re ct it liv e . It was hot . I went into their living room , which was walled with books , and sear ched out King Lear. I r emember being happy that the peo ple in charge of Sam ' s funeral had such wonde r ful , worn books in thei r living room . It was cool wi t h the cool of farmhouses . I sat in the back of the car with my b r other and siste r crunched nex t to me . I searched and searched thr ough the play for my favorite lines ; I knew them by hea r t anyway, but I wanted t o know where they were . It was the stupi di t y that mercifully accompanies grief which made this sea r ch take up the car ride and all of the time of sitting on the porch of the old meeting house, waiting for the service . I wanted to read the lines and say that I didn't know what they meant . Men must endure Their going hence, even a s their coming hither ; Ripeness is all . Did they say that my t wenty - e i ght year old c ou s in h a d been stupid a nd wastefu l to kill himself , that all we can hope for is ripeness, and that we can never decide our own deaths? Is suicide like plucking unripe fruit, does it make everything useless and meaningless? Was our shar ed despair at Sam's death the only appropriate r e action? Or pe r haps the lines implied something else , that every human death is equally appropriate , that the r e is r ipeness in all and for all. Perhaps it is impos sible to die without be i ng ripe, and we ourselves are in touch with our own r ipeness and our own deaths . I wanted to say both because I felt it was somehow dishonest to make only half the speech . But it would have been a speech . Sam's childhood neighbors and college roorrunates were weeping t ogether and it was not the time to be ab stract or academic . I didn't say anything . I listened to my family's muffled weeping, I wondered whethe r ripeness was a comfor t o r a warning, and I wept myself . All summer and on into now I have thought about ripeness and loved its ambiguity . I have wonde r ed what it is and might be, and whether I should hope . Long before we can read, we know some words of Shakespeare and some from the Bible . We hear them on the lips of our par ents , and we have repeated some of them hund r eds of times be f o r e we even wonder about thei r meaning or their context . The 35 �kids in my neighborhood screamed, "To be or not to be" every time they acted out a particularly dramatic death scene. My mother hissed, "How sharper than a serpent• s tooth to have a thankless child!" at every occasion. Shakespeare's words often hold as much power and meaning for us in our own contexts as they do in his context. At S~. John's: we study Shakespeare for the sake of learning about Shakespeare, read and discuss King Lear in order to better understand King Lear. But I have read Shakespeare outside of school as often as in it, sometimes for the beauty of his words or the fun of shouting beautiful words out loud, sometimes for mere dist~action, and other times for myself, seeking wisdom and healing for my own sorrows without a thought for the sorrows in the play. All of the meanings which these words may have, and all of the ways we may read them are important. They influence each other immeasurably. I have spoken about Edgar's words in the context of my own life because I want to establish exactly what is at stake for me in my examination of the words. The sentence is as important to me in my own context as it is in the context of the play. Nonetheless, I will use the play rather than my past to explore the ideas of endurance and ripeness. This exploration is bound to shed as much light on the play as on ~he sentence itself, and may well shed much light on my own situation. But the light it casts for me on personal matters is secondary, and for the most part r will keep it pr~vate. I am not writing an autobiographical essay or a self-analytical one. My hope is that ~he meaning of the lines can be established on the strength of the play, an~ tha~ I will come to a clear idea of the sentence and especially of ripeness, which will help me to see myself. I am neither Cordelia, nor Goneril nor Edgar· my father is. neither Lear nor Gloucester. I do not read the play as a~ analogy t~ my own e~perience. However, I do believe that what is wisdom on the printed page and on the lighted stage may well be wisdom in my cockroach infested kitchen. I will discuss Edgar's words and their significance to the rest of the play in the order which the words themselves outline. First I will talk about the phrase "Men must endure", then about going hence and corning hither. All of this will be i~ the interest 0£ ripeness, of deciding what it may be, and how it may be all. Men must endure Their going hence, even as their corning hither; Ripeness is all. Edgar speaks these lines to his father as words of comfort. He prefaces them by asking' "What, in ill thoughts again?" (V, ii, 9). We are reminded of his recent attempt to cure his father's despair. That time, Edgar let his fathe r think that he had attempted suicide and told him that "the clearest gods, who make them honors of men's impossibilities have preserv'd thee." (IV, vi, 73). Those words reminded Glouc~ster . to hope. These are intended to lead his father to hope again, even to admonish his father to hope. At the same time, they are the bitterly clear-sighted words of a man leading the father who disowned him before being blinded. They are words of hope well informed by despair. Edgar tells Gloucester that, "Men must endure". I assume that when he says II II h d men . e means 1men an. women. The sentence would be weak if it were gender-specific. The first word s meaning is at least reasonably clear. But Edgar says, "Men must". If all human beings must do a single thing, it is clear that there is a common human nature which unites all human beings. This human nature is tied up with their common obligation. "Must" is a funny word. The nature of the conunon obligation is confusing. If everyone really did do what one "must", Edgar would have said, "Men do endure". If we had a choice, Edgar would have said, "Men ought to endure". By choosing "must"' Edgar makes his statement into a sort of conditional: if we are to be 36 human, then we "must". If we are to be human, then we must endure. With these three words, Edgar has made it clear that morality is part and parcel of human nature; that our humanness entails an obligation which we must not shirk. This obligation, as we first see it, is to endure. What we endure is important, but before looking at what we endure, we must examine endurance by itself, so that we will be clear about precisely what we must do. I see two important possible meanings of "endure". The simpler meaning is to undergo. When Edgar says, "Men must endure", he means that every human being must suffer the things he speaks about, that they happen to everyone, and that in order to be human everyone must let them happen. Even in the "undergoing" sense of "endure" there is the implication that what we undergo is unpleasant and that we would avoid it if we were given the choice. The second meaning of "endure" gives it more force. I would phrase it, "Men must stand firm in the face of". This is probably the most important sense of the word in these lines. We must not run toward things, and we must not run from them. We must stand where we are, in full knowledge of where we are, and we must not flinch. "Endure" is a transitive verb. It makes little sense without an object, without something unpleasant to endure. Edgar offers us two things to endure, going hence and coming hither. In the greater context of the play, human beings are called on to endure the physical natural world as well. Lear has shouted, "Pour on, I will endure!" (III, iv, 17), to the storm, and the idea of suffering and standing firm in the face of the natural world is strong in the play. Taken alone, the words "Men must endure" are words about human nature and about physical nature. They are words about nature. The word "nature" is key in King Lear. Nature is invoked by almost everyone who speaks (the notable exceptions are Edgar and the Fool) and means as many things as there are lines which use it. I have grouped the "natures" into three basic meanings. "Nature" can be the natural physical world, where cause and effect govern every event, where storms blow and furrniter weeds grow. This is the nature where "the younger rises as the old doth fall." (III, iii, 23) . However, "nature" can also be human nature, the opposite of the natural physical world. Human nature is precisely what distinguishes us from planets or from plants. It accords (in theory) with natural moral law. In the play, human nature and human natural law are usually mentioned in reference to the natural lawful love between parent and child. When Gloucester calls Edmund a "loyal and natural boy" (II, i, 84) , and when Lear tells Regan that "she better knows the offices of nature" (II, iv, 174 ) than her sisters, they are speaking of this human nature. Thirdly, nature can be used to describe one per son's disposition, the unchangeable qualities with which a person is born and which establish individual identity. When France says that Cordelia has a "tardiness in nature" (I, i, 235), and when Lear says that this tardiness "like an engine wrenched my frame of nature" (I, iv, 257), they are speaking of the daughter's and the father's individual natures. Each character's individual nature is revealed by his or her talk of the other two natures, physical and human. Before I go on to the motion of the play, the going hence and coming hither, let me draw clearly the fathers and their children, bad and good. I will describe where they stand by their own natures, in relation to the physical natural world, and to moral human nature. King Lear mentions nature twice as often as anyo ne else in the play. His first fateful mention is his proposal to extend his largest bounty "where nature does with merit challenge" (I, i, 52 ) . Lear thinks he is king enough to set up bouts in which human nature is just another contestant, and to judge the contest himself. The whole play falls out of his mistaken notion, and this notio n falls directly out of Lear's own nature. He was born king. He is king of the country's lands as well as of the 37 �state. Shadowy forests, champaigns rich with plenteous rivers, and wide skirted meads are his to bestow on whom he chooses. He speaks to the storm as if it were a political ally turned treacherous, calling the elements "servile ministers" (III, ii, 21) to the wishes of his daughters the queens. He seems to assume that they were his to command before he gave up his crown but have recently changed loyalty. He thinks he is king of human nature as well, that he can command his daughters' love above and beyond the natural love of child for parents, and that he can bequeath his property and his power without going through the natural ritual of dying. He also thinks he is king over individual nature, that he can settle the matters of his heart from his throne, before his court. He expect his own heart and nature to bend to his royal power just as he expects the hearts and natures of his subjects to do so. Lear's nature is a king's nature. His ignorance springs from his dominion over nature, imagined though it may be. His gradual awakening happens as he goes hence to nature and discovers his subjection to every aspect of it . Gloucester is an earl rather than a king, and he is as aware of nature's power over him as he is of the king's. Gloucester's first mention of nature is far more respectful than the king's: "though the wisdom of nature · can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects." (I, 11, 99). The wisdom of nature is human knowledge of the natural world, and the scourged nature is human nature itself . The problem here is the one which Edmund points out . Gloucester believes that physical nature is all powerful, and that human nature in general and also in particular can have no effect at all on the events of the world . Gloucester betrays his excessive faith in cause and effect .o ver and over: first when he laughs about the biology of Edmund's birth without a thought for his listening son, again when he bemoans the astrology of the day without a thought for the grave human mistake which Lear has made or for the characters of his own sons . Later, most horribly, Gloucester trusts gravity to take his life, without a thought for the natural human antipathy to suicide. It is amazing that Gloucester can be so completely in the dark about human nature . Although he manages to decide that Regan and Goneril 's behavior is unnatural (after Lear has been tossed onto the nearest heath), he misjudges his own sons as completely as possible. Edgar is his "unnatural, brutish villain" (I, ii, 73) , and Edmund his "loyal and natural boy" (II, i, 84) • Although Gloucester calls Edmund a "natural boy" as a compliment, we cannot help but be reminded of Edmund's illegitimacy. He may be a natural son, but he is so by biological nature rather than by moral human nature. Edmund's first mention of nature is the most emphatic in the play: "Thou, Nature, art my goddess," (I, ii, 1), he shouts. He is singleminded and clear . He operates purely on the level of natural physical laws unadulterated by human principles . This is not to say that Edmund does not understand the human sorts of nature . He sees them as clearly as anyone else in the play, but he chooses to reject them . He rejects the human moral nature which distinguishes human beings from animals because it is not in his nature. Edmund was born because his mother was fair and there was "good sport at his making" (I, i, 21) . He knows his own nature perfectly and states it clearly in his first speech. He also sees the natures of his brother and father clearly, describes them perfectly ("A credulous father and a brother noble!" (I, ii, 68)), and manipulates them with ease. Although Edmund is cer tainly evil, Edgar accuses him only of treachery, and there is something fair about this. Edmund behaves reasonably, according to the reasoned principle of the natural world, that "the younger rises when the old doth fall." (III, iii, 23). Regan and Goneril are completely different from Edmund. He serves a nature of physical laws and reasonable principles. The evil sisters, on the other hand, bring a general curse on nature (IV, vi, 205) . They are monsters. If Edmund's treacherous nature is a result of his base birth, Goneril and Regan's natures are results of 38 their gender. In his madness, Lear says of all women that: Down from the waist they are Centaurs, Though women all above. But to the girdle do the gods inherit, Beneath is all the fiend's. There's hell. there's darkness, there's the sulphurous pit: burning, scalding, stench, consumption. Fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! (IV, vi, 124) This is the most hellish image of female genitals I have ever read. It clearly shows women's connection to something which is much farther from human moral nature than Edmund's rational physical nature is. Women are connected to fiends and to monsters, to darkness and to mystery. There are deep abysses in them, and even they cannot reasonably explain the dark workings within those abysses. The mysteries are not wholly evil; creation and birth are among them. But the womb is a dark place nonetheless, and it connects women to the real power and mystery of nature in a way which makes them far more horrifying than any reasonable villain can ever be. All women might be monsters: France asks if Cordelia's offense is of "such unnatural degree that monsters it" (I, i, 219}, and one of Regan's servants mutters that 11 if she live long, and in the end meet the old course of death, women will all turn monsters" (III, vii, 100). (Foolish Gloucester, who knows nothing about human nature, even goes so far as to wonder if Edgar is a monster. (I, ii, 90)) Not all women are monsters, though everyone in the play is afraid that if Goneril and Regan succeed, all women, and even all humanity, will lose not only their human principles, but even their principled physical world. Regan and Goneril are not aware of the mystery they carry or the horror they instill. They understand the natural world, human nature, and the natures of individuals fairly well; they understand th ems elves insofar as they know their own de sires. They cannot understand themselves completely or rationally because they are mysteries. They are connected to a nature which is deeper, darker, more threatening than any other nature in the play. Their willing connection to primordial nature (they seize power, lust after the same man, and murder each other) has the potential to completely destroy the world. Lucky for the world, Lear has "one daughter who redeems nature from the general curse which twain have brought her· to" (IV, vi, 205) . Cordelia is as separate from primordial nature as her sisters are close to it. She is guilty of "no vicious blot, murder or foulness , no unchaste action or dishonored step" (I , i , 227) , and she s swayed by no passion, by nothing unreasonable. When Lear asks for her profession of love, she gives him a mathematical formula, calculating what she owes him as a loyal daughter against what she will need to pledge as a faithful wife. She is as inhuman as she is good, but her unnaturalness and unhumanness lie in her total devotion to the morality inherent in human nature, and in her success at subduing physical nature and her own personal nature to that general morality. Cordelia's vision of nature in all its aspects is as clear as either of her sisters'. But it is less personal and more just than any other. She is not shallow. Her "smiles and tears" (IV, iii, 17) at Kent's letter betray deep feeling and strong love. But even as she reads the letter unaware of her observer, she is 11 queen of her passion, who, most rebel-like, sought to be king oe'r her" (IV, iii, 13}. The fiends may inherit everything below a woman's girdle, but the gods possess everything above it. Her sisters' sex make them able to be purely evil; because she is a woman, Cordelia is capable of being purely good. Finally, we come to Edgar. Edgar never says the word 11 nature", perhaps because he does not oppose it as the others do. Edmund says that Edgar's nature is "so far 39 �from doing harms that he suspects none'' (I, 11, 169), and naivete is certainly a di mension of Edgar's nature. However, Edgar is not as simple as his father or as singleminded as his wicked brother . Edgar is as strongly connected to the physical natural world · as is Edmund, but Edgar's connection is different . Edmund remains in the human world and lives by the standards of the natural world . Edgar flees to the natural world and lives in it according to the standards of human rQ9ral nature. Edgar is thP. man who is able to say, "Edgar I nothing am!" (II, iii, 21), and to mean it, to give up his own individual nature in order to survive in the natural world without betraying his moral nature. When Edgar claims to be Tom o' Bedlam, he be comes Tom o' Bedlam. On the heath with Lear, Edgar has no purpose but to save his own skin. He is nothing more than a lunatic beggar who keeps a mad king company. He is comfortable as unnaccommodated man . As unaccommodated man he leads his father, but while he leads his father he becomes himself again. At the start he is Mad Tom because he is shocked at seeing his blinded father and because he is not sure how to tell his father that the beggar who stands unseen before him is the son he disowned. As he leads Gloucester toward Dover, the madness becomes a tool . In the end, this madness is the tool he uses to save his father from suicide, and to try to teach h{m to endure, even to hope . Edgar tells Gloucester that, Men must endure their going hence . In the literal sense, this going hence is simply going outside,leaving what is familiar to us and facing what is "out there.'' In each of the first three acts of King Lear, at least one major character is forced to leave home . Lear's banishment is the most poignant example of this sort of going hence. The others suffer in going hence, perhaps as much as he, but their sufferings serve to underscore and compound Lear's. Leaving behind the castle, its comforts and its conventions, is the major motion of the play. The things which humans face, unprotected from the whims of a powerful and threatening nature are dangerous. Kent says, "Man's nature cannot bear the affliction nor the fear." (III, ii, 49) . The play builds up to the crescendo of Lear on the heath in the storm. The rhetoric of fear begins when Lear banishes Kent, but allots him five days "to shield thee from disasters of the world" (I, i, 174). Even in his rage, Lear is not cruel enough to ignore the terrible threat which the natural world poses to unaccommodated man. Disasters lurk everywhere "out there" . Kent's farewell to Cordelia, "the gods to their dear shelter take thee" (I, i, 182), adds power to our notion of shelter as a real human necessity . Cordelia's going hence is slightly different from the other departures in the play: she leaves her father's castle for her husband's . Nonetheless, she has been banished as much as Kent. She cannot come back . Cordelia's going hence may be natural insofar as she is a daughter who leaves home to be married, but it is frightening and unnatural because she leaves for good and is left dependent on strangers outside the castle . If they fail her, as is quite possible, she will be without shelter, alone against the opposing elements of a cruel nature. Edgar's going hence is the third of the play and the third time the point is made. Edgar resolves to become Mad Tom, "and with presented nakedness outface the wind's and persecutions of the sky" (II, iii, 12). Edgar's embracing the outdoors is presented as a form of self-mortification and insanity. The sky is a persecutor . Being beneath it is an affliction . When human beings face the natural world alone, without roofs, the power of the natural world and its unthinking malevolence to anything small, weak, and naked is certain and deadly. Lear makes the best statement of 40 the weakness of humanity in the face of the natural world during his confrontation with it: Poor naked wretches, who so e'er you are, That bide .the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? (III, iv, 28) Lear describes well the wretchedness of Kent, Cordelia, and Edgar. It is strange, though, that he speaks these lines about other people outside when he himself is enduring a terrible storm, unprotected. A few lines later, Lear tells his pomp to take physic , to "expose thyself to feel what wretches feel" (III, iv, 34) . water streams across his face as he speaks, but it does not occur to him that he is also passive, suffering the storm as helplessly as any other wretch would. Lear does not know that the winds and rains and thunderbolts scorn royalty as well as poverty. These speeches are among the most powerful and angry speeches in the English language . They are as saddening as they are anger - filled . Lear sounds absurd and old. His assumption of control which he does not really have makes him look senile and silly. At the same time, Lear's anger and confidence are impressive . He speaks nobly and bravely. The king has been thrown out into the storm, so he conunands the winds to blow and the rain to spout. Gloucester says, "yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain." (III, vii, 61) . The king's tears join with the raindrops in watering the earth, but more important than that , he becomes the storm, joins forces with it. The sky manifests the power and tumult in his own mind even as it beats his body down . At the very moment that the triumph of physical nature over human nature is made complete, the battle between Lear's human nature and his royal one has hardly begun. He is still a king when he resolves to feel what wretches feel, in order to teach himself to "shake the superflux to them and show the heavens more just" (III, iv, 35). This kingliness of Lear is what gives his endurance on the heath its power and its absurdity. We, audience or readers, already know that the storm is greater than the king and the man Lear. Lear, however, decides that the storm shall be greater . When he sees Mad Tom's abused flesh he murmurs that it is appropriate because the flesh begot the daughters . When he sees Tom's bare forkedness, he shouts, "Off, off, you lendings! Come, unbutton here." (III , iv, 103). Lear decides to be overw~elmed by nature and actively renounces his coverings . As a king, he declared himself not- king of his country when he gave up his power to his daughters . He acts as king again in the storm and declares himself not-k ing again, this time not -k ing of the unaccommodated man within himself. With his declaration he goes mad, but in his madness he becomes even more con~cious. Lear's woes don't lose themselves, as Gloucester thinks . In his madness, Lear the man has learned what Lear the king commanded him to learn . He has given up his throne, even his shelter, and has exposed himself to feel what wretches feel. In Act IV Lear crowns himself with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, and he celebrates his own new state. Lear is a king in accord with the natural world, and as such, he is nothing more than a man . This is not merely a victory of the natural world over a king, but also the victory of human nature and of Lear's own individual nature over a king . we are left with the impression that nature triumphs because the king decides it ought to. Going hence in the first sense, going hence by leaving home, is something which we must endure if we are to be human beings. Lear's endurance, and the humility and humanity he wins by his endurance (at the price of his sanity) , are certainly somehow part of ripeness. 41 �Although going outside is the literal meaning of "going hence", dying is the obvious meaning . "Going hence'' is a terrifying term for death because it is so appropriately vague and shadowy . "Hence" is not a place; it doesn't specify a destination or imply any kind of completeness. The great power of the play is its ability to show horror and grief unflinchingly without tempering them, to make every death an awful one. No one in King Lear is put to rest. We a.re glad when the villains die, but we do not get a sense of fulfillment or completion from their deaths. They are cut off, and we are left wondering why they lived at all, rather than being relieved that they live no more. We are sorry when the characters we love die, but more than we are allowed to mourn, we are forced to wonder why they have died, and where they have gone. Death in King Lear ends life by cutting it off. It does not complete it. Gloucester is the only character in the play who wants to die. His blind baf fled reunion with Edgar, the son he cannot recognize, is confusing and pathetic. His son's choice to deceive his father into thinking that he is led by Tom o' Bedlam and, far worse, into thinking that he has leapt from a cliff, is horrible . Everything in these scenes is unnatural. Even Edgar says that he is trifling with his father's despair (IV, vi, 33) in order to cure it. We must watch him trifle . On the other hand, Gloucester's desire to end his life by leaping from a cliff is an awful, unnatural desire, and his confession of this desire to his son is an awful confession . When Edgar sees his blind father stumbling toward him he says, "World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, life would not yield to age . " (IV, i, 10) . The sight of his sightless father immediately makes Edgar think of death as some sort of comfort . His father's misery is almost too much for him to endure and to watch his father endure . This situation has gone beyond the pale of reality. It happens somewhere out there where everything is completely strange and unnatural , where death really does look tempting . It is strange and unnatural for Edgar to be betrayed by Edmund, for Gloucester to believe Edmund, for Edgar to decide to be Tom o' Bedlam, for Edmund to betray Gloucester, for Gloucester's eyes to be put out by Cornwall, and for blind betrayed Gloucester and his betrayed beggar son to meet and journey together toward a cliff from which Gloucester plans to leap. These events don't necessarily exceed the limits of credibility . In fact, they result naturally from the original situation . Howeve r , every one of them violates our sense of what would be natural for humans to do and to suffer . Edgar seems to think that he acts unnaturally because he is in an unnatural situation; that to obey his human instincts during this unhuman afternoon would be to doom his father and himself . He seems to think that s ·Jicide is such a serious crime against nature (against all thre e n atu res : physical , human , and individ u al) , that to interfere with it in a regular human way would be to fail his fathe r. Only supernatu ral c r eatures can fight battles outside of nature's realm . When Edgar meets his father at the foot of the imaginary cliff and speaks to him in the new persona of a gentleman, he tells Gloucester that he thinks Gloucester was led to the cliff's edge by a fiend . Although Edgar is deceiving his father about his own identity, he is honest here . Two fiends stand at the top of the cliff . One is Gloucester, a man who refuses to endure his life and tries to break every natural law by killing himself . The other is Edgar , his son, who leads him to that imaginary cliff without revealing himself, without begging his f ather to reconsider . Edga.r makes the cliff imaginary when it could have been real, but he must act as a fiend to lead his father to an imaginary suicide . Hoping to save his father by doing it, Edgar plays the fiend. I respect this . It makes sense to assume that suicide is something a person must face alone, to decide that although it may be unnatural and evil, suicide must be private as well. Edgar interferes with Gloucester as much as he dares, but he 42 lets his father risk his life alone . It is a brave and perhaps foolhardy thing to do . Defiance in the face of nature runs in Gloucester's family. Edmund defies human moral nature .in service of his own physically natural desire for wealth and power . Edgar defies normal human nature and his own individual nature in service of his superhuman concern for his father. Both defiances spring from their father's strange willingness to turn nature on its head. Gloucester's willingness, in turn, springs from his own conviction of helplessness and uselessness . He is the man who said, As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods. They kill us for their sport . (IV, i, 37). This view of things is defensible . I could argue that the two lines are the theme of the play, that everything which happens in it is just this sort of wanton, meaningless sport of the gods . But somehow, in Lear, Cordelia, and Kent's cases (and perhaps finally in Edgar and Gloucester's), the depth of our suffering and the acuteness of our misery give meaning to meaningless events. Gloucester says that he envies the king's ability to lose his woes in his distraction, but he is absolutely wrong in attributing this ability to the king. Lear may be mad, but he is not for getful . Gloucester, on the other hand, actually has the ability which he envies Lear . Gloucester is able to decide not to endure, to somehow numb his feeling of sorrow. Where Lear shouts, "Pour on, I will endure!" (III, iv, 17), Gloucester instead thinks up a scheme which will release him from enduring . His resolve to kill himself is an unnatural response to suffering . He takes unnatural comfort in the notion that his "misery could beguile the tyrant's range and frustrate his proud will." (IV, vi, 64). Gloucester sees his situation a little more clearly when he is blinded and realizes which son is actually a "loyal and natural boy" (II, ii, 84) and which is an "unnatural, brutish villain" (I, ii, 76) . This does not mean that his spiritual sight is fully restored. The Gloucester who decides to kill himself cannot or will not look his own misery full in the face . He does not see that human beings must "bear affliction till it do cry out itself, 'Enough, enough!' and die" (IV, vi, 75), until he has tried to end his enduring and has failed. He fails in his suicide attempt because Edgar, his son, will not let him kill himself. By this failure, Gloucester is brought to his knees, forced to endure what he would rather avoid . When Edgar finally tells Gloucester the whole truth, and Gloucester faces his life with nowhere to shrink back to, he dies. Gloucester knew when he tried to kill himself that he would never be able to bear his sufferings . What he did not and could not know o r see was that by being fo r ced to bear them, by living on till fortune killed him, by enduring his own going hence rather than trying to force it - by and through all these things he would finally achieve the only triumphant death of the play. Gloucester sees everything before he dies, and when his heart bursts, it bursts "smilingly .. . twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief" (V, 111, 198). Gloucester's growth into awareness kills him, for he is not made of stuff stern enough to bear clear sight . But while awareness kills him, it also saves him in a way that no one else is saved. Gloucester feels deep grief at the end of the play, but he feels joy as well. Gloucester's death is vastly different from the numbed, twisted comfort he would have had from suicide . Rather than tricking his fate, his fate has tricked him into full awareness and a full death . However, although it is full, it is still the death of a man who, if he had lived, could have been happy. His death may be a supreme moment for him, but even in Gloucester's case we do not feel that it is a completion, that it is a solid, meaningful end. Gloucester has gone hence as much as anyone and faces as much uncertainty . Gloucester's triumph is his awareness of the great joy and the great grief which human life and death must be. 43 ~. �After Edgar tells us of Gloucester's death, Regan and Goneril kill each other, and Edmund is borne off the stage fatally wounded. We do not see any of them die . At this point, Oswald's miserable little death is the only one we have acutally witnessed. Goneril and Regan's bodies are briefly displayed, and then Lear enters with his dead daughter in his arms. Howl, howl, howl!!! Edmund held the fates of Cordelia and Lear in his hands and hesitated on the verge of death and on the edge of goodness. He decided to confess and try to save them, but he decided too late. If Edmund had been faster, Cordelia would have lived. This tragedy of timing has gone on throughout the entire play. In Cordelia's death it is manifested most clearly. If human ripeness is some sort of a goal, then timing is obviously crucial. It is hard to die young and ripe. In thE sense of ripeness, Cordelia's death is the most tragic in the play. Cordelia's going hence by leaving home is a sad moment because she cannot return freely. However, the sadness is not unbearable. It is natural for children to leave home, and although their being thrown out is hard, it is also fairly common. Lear's banishment, on the other hand, is unbearably hard. Fathers are not often thrown out of their homes. When it happens, nature has been turned upside down in a frightening and tragic way. Fathers are supposed to die, and their children to survive them. Although fathers' deaths are sad, and the violent suffering deaths which fathers endure in this play are unnatural, they are humanly bearable. For a father to bear the death of his daughter is much harder than for a son to bear his father's. The death of any child is a more shocking and disturbing loss than the death of any parent. Cordelia's death is unbearable and unnatural because she is not a parent but a child. Even in the realm of death, Cordelia's suffering remains mute. Lear suffers when he is banished, and suffers again when Cordelia dies, even though the death is hers. Lear dies with his daughter's body in his arms . We witnessed the first death of the play, Oswald's, and we watch the last. Though we see a few of the dead bodies, Lear is the only important character whose death we watch. Not seeing the others lends much mysterious power to death. We have no notion at all of what it is, why it happens, or where these people go. Lear's death does not help us with any of these questions. In some ways it is a relief when he is finally allowed to die after everything he has cared about, wrapped in Cordelia's body, is gone. In another way, it is the most frustrating moment of the play. He doesn't enlighten us. For the first time in the play he seems really mad, to the point of unawareness . Kent says "The wonder is he hath endured so long. He but usurp' d his life." (V, iii, 316) • Lear's death is at once the saddest moment of the play and the biggest relief in the play. However, his death is no end at all. He dies telling us to look at something we cannot see . Perhaps it is an illusion of life in Cordelia's corpse . Perhaps as he joins her in death he sees that her immortal soul is really alive. Perhaps he has finally turned into the confused old fool who, in our bitter moments, we suspected he might be. We do not know. Certainly though, Lear's death is not a conclusion. It is as vague and shadowy as any other death, and because we watch it , we know for certain that it is not any sort of achievement, in that Lear finds no peace in it. The inconclusiveness of his death is not Lear's tragedy. Every human being dies an inconclusive death. The younger a person dies, the more meaningless and inconclusive the death. It is a general tragedy of the human race that we die and that our deaths are mere "going hences" to be endured, rather than final blasts of glory to be savored and remembered by all who survive us. We endure death in two ways: We endure the deaths. of those who die while we survive, and we endure our own. Being left behind is always inconclusive and lonely, and in this respect every death in King Lear rings true. However, the manner in which we endure our own deaths is not nearly so uniform. Gloucester's death is almost triumphant for him. He is ripe and ready to go. Cordelia's death is absolutely horrifying because she is young and green, completely unready and unripe. Lear is 44 somewhere in between. he could have become. He does not want or even expect to die. He is not fully ripe. He has not become all Edgar tells Gloucester that Men must endure their going hence, even as their corning hither. It is not as easy to distinguish between the literal and metaphorical meanings of coming hither as it was with going hence. If going hence does have a literal implication of going outside, coming hither may mean something like corning inside, coming into a situation which i.s already happening. The word "hither" means "here". Edgar must either be talking about here, this world, or here, underneath this particular tree during the unfavorable outcome of this particular battle. I cannot generalize about coming inside the way I did about going outside because Edgar speaks the line outside. Everyone in the play has come outside in order to get to Edgar's here, the final battle. Instead, I' 11 talk a little about this absurd battle. The play would be very different if Cordelia's army had won the day. The villains would still have ample opportunity to kill each other off, and the likelihood of the happy survival of Gloucester, Cordelia, and Lear would be good. It makes sense that Regan and Goneril's forces would beat Cordelia's, but then it also makes sense that Edmund would defeat Edgar in a duel. The latter does not happen. The former then, must be more than a victory of good warriors over a good daughter. Instead, it is the inevitable result not of Lear's daughters' natures, but of Lear's own nature. Gloucester's ability to die twixt two extremes of passion, joy, and grief, to die the best death in the play, is the ability which his sons have inherited. Their plot does not conclude perfectly - Edmund hesitates too long before repenting - but it does end well. The good, lawful son inherits and the bad son dies repentent. Lear's family is not able to manage things so tidily. They all die, leaving no heir but the milk-liver'd Albany, husband of the most villainous member of the family. It is appropriate that the man whose own death is unambiguously tragic should have a family which ends as ungracefully and as completely tragically. However, Lear's family's ends are much more honest, much more appropriate to themselves than the ends of Gloucester's family. The "hither" which Edgar might mean literally is a battle illustrating the meaninglessness of everything which happens in the family of the king. The warrior sisters' armies win the day, and at the same time one sister poisons the other and is stabbed by her. Their servants unthinkingly murder their father and sister, even though they themselves "desperately are dead". The whole thing is gruesome. Edgar may have saved his father from suicide, but he has led him hither, to a battle which cannot possibly end well. This is not Edgar's fault. Men must endure their corning hither, and living in England at the end of Lear's reign necessarily means being involved in the bloody demise of Lear's family. The real and important meaning of corning hither is not the literal one. Edgar's words to his father are strangely double edged. "Don't worry, Dad," he is saying, "you must endure your death as I had to endure my birth. I cannot do anything about being your son, and you cannot do anything about dying." The order and the emphasis of Edgar's words imply that it is harder to endure birth than death, that being born is a greater burden. The idea that having a father can be a tragic event is definitely central to the play. There are few mentions of mothers in King Lear. Gloucester mentions Edmund's mother when he blames her for conceiving Edmund and having a baby for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed (I, i, 13). Almost every mention of mothers is connected with adultery and illegitimacy. When Gloucester is told of Edgar's treachery, he says of Edgar, "I never got him" (II,i,80) . When Lear arrives at Gloucester's castle in pursuit of Regan, he says 45 �if Regan is not glad to see him, he' 11 "divorce her mother's tomb, sepulchering an adultress" (II , iv, 132). It is frightening and funny to note that Edmund is the only son whose fatherhood is never questioned. The only other mention of motherhood is Lear's curse on Goneril, where he hopes she has a child of spleen that she may feel "how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child." {I, iv, 278) • I mention the lack of mothers because I am certain that a mother on the cast would throw the play into a completely different dimension. Mothers have a natural physical connection to their children which fathers, who do not carry their children, can never have. The bond between father and child must be more social than that between mother and child . Fathers love their children according to human moral nature and to their own individual natures rather than according to any real physical bond (though raising someone fr om birth creates a strong bond) . Though fathers by nature love their children, the bond between father and child is not necessarily an indissoluble bond, or at least not an unassailable one . Gloucester and Lear have reared their children alone. The children have grown up in situation$ where the animal nature of families has been easily forgotten and where the bonds of nature alone have been set up as standards, weaker for the lack of physical natural bonds. Every child in the play suffers from having a .father. This is probably because of the two particular fathers. Both Gloucester and Lear reveal an almost total lack of understanding of and concern for their children . It is as likely in other human situations to suffer from having a mother, but that suffering would be different. It is not described in King Lear. This is not to say that the sufferings of children in the play are the same. Edmund must bear his father's scorn. His father conceived him for sport, mocks him in his presence, and sends him away for nine years at a time, all without a second thought. Edgar must suffer the same man, who does not know or care about him, and who believes treason of him without a second thought. Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia must bear a very different father, a king who treats his daughters as subjects and their love for him as a matter to be debated in court . Lear of fers his daughters complete material independence, but he offers it at the price of complete emotional devotion or of flattery. When Goneril and Regan buy their kingdoms with deceitful tongues, Lear must know that they are doing so. He has reserved the best portion for the daughter whose genuine love he is certain of , and he has set the situation up so that his bad daughters can make their graceful, lying speeches without having to do anything to prove the matter of their words . The price Cordelia pays for being Lear's daughter is far greater than the honor which Goneril and Regan give up. If Cordelia were to swear her complete devotion to her father, she would keep her word and wither and die without a life of her own . Her other choice is to not promise the emotional subjection which she does not want to offer, and to suffer and die without her father's love or approval. Edgar has endured his own coming hither, accepting his father for what he is , and behaving as the loya:-.., natural boy Gloucester thinks Edmund is. Regan and Goneril also endure their coming hither fairly well. Lear does not ask them to love him, but to make fine speeches about love in his court . They do as he asks. They are savage and cruel to Lear, but this compounds rather than constitutes Lear's tragedy. In fact, although he toys with the notion of their illegitimacy, Lear is certain that Goneril and Regan are his daughters. He muses that torturing his own flesh may be the most appropriate response to his daughters' treachery, since his is the flesh which begot those peculiar daughters. There is something to this. Goneril and Regan are probably more cruel than Lear, but he has as little reason for banishing Cordelia and Kent as they have for throwing him outside. They are definitely Lear's daughters and they do not do anything to challenge or to try to change the relationship to Lear into which he puts them. Edmund and Cordelia are the two who are unable to endure the situations they are 46 born into . Edmund cannot endure his bastardy. His lack of control over the circumstances of his birth continues , because of those circumstances, into every moment of his life. He does not and cannot believe that his being twelve or fourteen moonshines lag of a brother affects his nature in any real or meaningful way . Although he uses his father's love for him as one more proof of his own merit, he is willing to subvert that love to a purpose which, in his eyes, is much higher . He will do whatever he must in order to take control of his circumstances. We get the feeling that if things had been slightly different, if Edmund had been born twelve or fourteen moonshines earlier, and had been born legitimate, he might have been able to endure his birth and his father's failures. Everything might have been vastly different . Instead, Edmund decides , "Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit; All with roe's meet that I can fashion fit." (I, ii, 176). In the eyes of a bastard, legitimacy is simply a legalistic notion. If the human morality is nothing more than "t~e curiosity of nations" (I, ii, 4) in respect to the primary important matter of his own birth, to decide that morality is no more than ridiculous law-making in every other respect is not difficult. According to these ridiculous la~s, Edmund ou~ht to have nothing and be nothing . At the same time, these laws predict that he will .be lawless and base . Edmund defies the expectations of his powerlessness by grabbing for all he can get and by ruthlessly betraying his brother and his father . But ev~n as he betrays the men whose existence nullifies his in such a complicated way, he is playing the role of the outlaw, the bastard. To ta~e a~tion to try ~o reverse the circumstances of his birth is certainly to stop enduring it. However, in that Edmund is at the same time completely affected by the circumstances of his birth, he is in some way trapped into bastardy . He is responding according to the outlaw nature a bastard is born with. we are not meant to despise Edmund; his speeches are too attractive for that . The timing is off, though, as it is in every other facet of the play. And so Edmund is forced to be base, to be unnatur~l by mor~l .h~an nature at the very moment he is natural by physical nature. Edmund is by def~nition an outlaw . The whole problem with being the child of a thoughtless father is brought . out by Edmund's situation. His birth is his biggest affliction, and he has carried the brand of it through every moment of his life. He cannot unbirth himself, and he cannot even really regret the fact that he has been born. He owes his fa:her h~s very life, and at the same moment, his father is res ponsib le for every. misery in that life. Because his father begot him at all, Edmund is bound to love him and obey him; because his father begot him in the manner he did, Edmund must betray him . Although Edmund rebels against the circumstances of his birth, he does notrebel personally . His quarrel with his coming hither is f or. the mo~t part material rather than spiritual, and his betrayals are motivated by his longing for land and power rather than by any feeling of deep moral and emotional wrongdoing. It is the base material nature of his motivation which decides Edmund's villainy . His father and his brother have not tortured him after all, nor have they asked him to betray himself in any way which would force him to rebel, to stop enduring. Instead, they have, justly or unjustly, deprived him of the wealth and power he craves. We cannot judge Edmund acco rding to normal laws because he was born outside of them. However, we know that he is aware of his family's love for him, and that he refuses to endure his birth in spite of their love f or him and in spite of his for them. Edmund betrays his family's love for the sake of their money, and in doing it, he becomes "a most toad-spotted traitor" (V, iii, 139). Cordelia is the other child who refuses to endure her birth, to obey her fath~r , to take from him what he offers her, or to promise him what he asks of her . Her circumstances, of course, are very different from Edmund's. She is the favorite ~augh­ ter; Edmund is the unwanted son. She is offered the most weal th and power in the 47 �Kingdom; Edmund has been promised nothing. Cordelia's father demands that her love for him be a matter of words and ceremonies, that what is most privately important to her be demonstrated in his court. She endures ·this by standing firm in the face of it, but her firm stance is also a rebellion. She cannot do her father's will because he wants her to promise him every bit of her love . If Edmund suffers because his father will not give him enough, Cordelia's suffering is tied with the much more painful and destructive fact that her father demands too much from her. To give him what he asks would be to deny her honor and to lie. It would be to betray the relationship between them or to deny her own life and every freedom she has ever had, thus betraying herself. She chooses to stand firm, to maintain her honor and her loyalty to herself . By doing this, she fails her father and rebels against him. Cordelia rebels against her father because she loves him. She cannot bear to see Lear the man subsumed by Lear the king. She is deeply hurt that Lear her father refuses to think of her as his daughter and instead tries to make her into a flattering courtier. He..c rebellion, based on these offenses against humanity and fatherhood, starts the tragedy, but her rebellion is not really an active one. She is trapped by circumstance as much as Edmund is . She must love her father and she must be true to him. In order to do so she must betray the king, Lear, and disappoint the man, Lear. Although she rebels against her father and the circumstances of her birth, Cordelia does not betray either. In fact, she does nothing until she returns to invade her homeland and reinstate her father. It is clear that she does not want him to force his kingdom on her . When he wakes from his sleep in her care, she 11 asks, "How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty? (IV, vii, 44). Cordelia's decision to speak in words of the court means two things . First, she wants Lear to know that he is king and must be king until he dies, and that she will not take his kingdom from him, no matter how insistently he offers it. At the same time, she is finally capitulat:lng, speaking to him as king rather than as father. She does not do this because she thinks of him as king rather than as father, but because she knows he wants her to, and she is determined to obey him. When Lear is convinced that she is real, he thinks that she is mocking him. Here is another tragedy of timing . Just when Cordelia sees her way clear to being her father's subject as well as his daughter, speaking to him in the royal language he once demanded, Lear sees the foolishness and impotency which have come out of his royalty, and renounces them. He says he has given her cause to hate him, and Cordelia denies it. "No cause," she says, "No cause." (IV, vii, 75) . She tells the truth here . Lear's unnatural demand for a pledge of total devotion and his unnatural offe r of an inheritance before he actually died, forced Cordelia to rebel against him, and to disobey him. He banished her to a husband who loved her . Although her father ' s anger and her own banishment must have caused her real grief, it was her father's foolishness and the certain failure of his plans which saddened here the most . She has worried about him and wept for him; she has not suffered much in her own fate. Lear seems to see his mistake here. He has learned that he is a man as well as a king, and that the two are separate. He has even gone so far as to decide that his manliness is more important than his kingliness. If the play ended with this reunion, it would not be a tragedy. Of course, it goes on. Lear and Cordelia are taken as prisoners. The words I am writing this essay about are the last words we hear spoken be tween Edgar and his father . The scene which follows Edgar and Gloucester ' s last is Cordelia and Lear's last scene together . The tenors are drastically different. If I find hope in Edgar and Gloucester's last scene together, it must be severely tempered by the despair with which the next scene fills me. Lear's speech in this scene is beguilingly beautiful, and I have often heard it referred to as the happy ending of the play. For me it is a final horror. Cordelia and her father are taken captive. Cordelia speaks words of selfless comfort to her father, and calls him "oppressed king" (V, iii, 5) rather than "dear father" or any other name which expresses af- 48 fection. Her words and her tone here sicken me. She has not stood firm in her determination to be Lear's daughter rather than his subject. She speaks words as wooden as her first, but these, her last , are also false. She speaks a hope which she does not feel, she makes a final attempt to compete with her sisters and proclaim her love for Lear, she falls into the courtly language she despises. Here, for the first time, Cordelia endures her fo rtune in the weak sense of the word: she meekly suffers it. Here, for the first time, she does not endure ' her circumstances by standing firm in the face of them. At the very last, Cordelia weakens . Her weakening fills me with despair . I take little comfort from thinking that she may be standing firm in the face of her going hence, because these words are f or her father. Whatever implication they may have concerning Cordelia's death, it cannot outweigh the horrible blinding of Lear which these words effect. Lear's speech in response to Cordelia's last words is beautiful, and it is ghastly. No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison. We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage. When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down, And ask of thee forgiveness . So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out.And take upon's the mystery of things, As if we were God's spies ; and we'll wear out, In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones. That ebb and flow by th' moon . Take them away Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense . Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes. The goodyears shall devour 'em, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep! We'll see 'em starv'd first . (V, iii, 8) Although Lear has learned the wisdom of humility and humanity and the uselessness of royalty, he has not learned to be a father. He rejoices in the prospect of his own captivity because it will also be his daughter's captivity. He started the tragedy by scheming to catch Cordelia, to force her to declare her love for him, and to arrange things so that he could spend every minute of his old age with her . He thinks he has accomplished his goal here, and he crows with joy while Cordelia begins to weep with dismay. Surely, he will . ask her forgiveness continually and be glad to get it. But Lear will never regret anything now that he has "caught" Cordelia and can command her constant attention and devotion. This is the saddest moment of the play. It is the moment where a story which might have been about a good but foolish king le arning wisdom through suffering becomes instead the story of a man who never learns anything until it is too late, and who never escapes or even comprehends the fault which causes his suffering. This is also the moment when Cordelia must endure her father in a way that few people are called upon to endure their parents. She must directly face the fact that her father will never be a father to her. He will always be someone who plots and schemes in his effort to catch her, to have her all to himself, and to be cared for by her . If Gloucester's great and horrifying unnaturalness is his effort to end his own life, to enforce rather than endure his going hence, Lear's horrifying unnatural- 49 �ness is his effort to demand from his daughter the love which a father ought to bestow on her. Edgar tricks his father out of suicide into seeing all that ha.s happened to him clearly and dying in an honest response to his clear vision. This deceit is appropriate and effective. However, Cordelia has no weapon against her father's unnatural demands except her honesty. She can only refuse, and after fortune goes against them, she cannot even refuse her father's unnatural desires. (There is no evidence that these are incestuous desires.) Instead, Cordelia dies, a victim in every respect, having only been able to endure her birth, and now merely enduring her going hence. She is hung while her aged father fights a desperate battle for her _ nd a Edmund deliberates about whether to stop her hanging. Her death is completely pointless insofar as it advances no one 's cause . There is no real reason to kill her. Her death is also the most piercing event of the play. Cordelia cannot and does not die ripe, because she is young and because she does not expect to d~e. Her death may It seems may not help her father to attain some sort of awareness and ripeness. it thrusts him into madness, that he is never made aware of his terrible fathering, that he dies miserably not because he h.as wro.nged his daughter and . she ~as suffered deeply but because he is alone again. His only chance of reunion with Cordelia and 0 / getting the love he craves from her is to follow her into death. There is something evilly beautiful about Lear's selfish passion for hi~ Jau~hter, but there is nothing comforting about it. Although Lear's last speech, i~ which he humbly asks for help with his button, shows how far he has come from the king on the heath who decided to be unaccommodated and then commanded his servant to unbutton him, nonetheless he has not made the final important step. Lear has learned to be a man, but he remains hopeless as a father. ~~at Edgar says to his father, Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all. (V , ii, 9) . Ripeness is offered as a result of , or a comfort in, the face of the things which precede it: our endurance of nature, of going hence, a~d o~ coming hith~r. Ripeness is a natural image, one which we would not ~rdinarily connect with human beings. Let me look briefly at ripeness in. the physica: natural world in order to try to get a clear definition of the word in its most basic sense , before going on to try to talk about ripeness in a human context . The ripeness of a peach is not the peach's achievement . Peaches have no will and cannot achieve or even act. Peaches are capable of being created , plucked, and eaten . All of the activities of a peach are passiv~ . H.owev:r, .not every ~ea~h ripens to full flavor . The reasons for a peach not being r ipe is either that it is still green or that it has become rotten. In the case of a peach, ripeness depe~ds on the weather, and, far more, on the passage of time . In time, e~ery .peac~ will ripen. Given too much time, any one will go rotten. When a peach is ripe, it ~as reached its peak . It tastes best t o us, but our taste echoes nature 1 s perfection rather than deciding it. Ripe fruit is ready to fall, ready to rot for the sake.of nourishing the seed it bears and continuing the cyclical life of the ~lant wh ich bears it . Ripeness is a fruit's perfection, but is is not earned by a fruit . Peaches do nothing but wait to be ripe . Of course, people are no t peac h es . 0 u r Sou ls are not vegetable souls . Ripeness for humans is more than the simple physical maturity which results from the pas~age of time . Nonetheless, Shakespeare compares us to plants when he tells us that ripe- ness is all. Ripeness in humans . must be mostly. a result of the passage of time. whatever ripeness may be, it is not something which human beings can strive for or make strides toward. What we produce is not important to Edgar or to Shakespeare. we are not fruit-bearing creatures, but rather we are fruits. What bears us is beyond our control, and so is what plucks us . The task of a human being is merely to endure, most fully, all that confronts him or her. One is ripe only when one has endured patiently and bravely everything which will be endured and is completely ready to be cut off from this life of endurance, to part from one's children as they will part from theirs, because it is time. This is the physically natural sense of ripeness in humans. We must also look at ripeness according to human nature and to individual will. Earlier, I mentioned two kinds of endurance : plain passive endurance (undergoing) leads to the natural ripeness I have described . But endurance can also have a stronger meaning: standing firm in the face of . We must stand firm in the face of nature, of going hence and of corning hither. Standing firm in the face of nature is best illustrated by King Lear on the heath in the storm. He shouts, "Pour on, I will endure!" (III, iv, 17) and he does, remaining fully aware of himself and at the same moment, forcing himself to be fully aware of the natural world which opposes him and to be honest about its power over him. Lear's final ripeness is not complete. He does not stand firm in the face of his death in that he does not really know he dies. He does not stand firm in the face of his fatherhood; standing still is vastly different from standing firm. His inability to change is an inability to endure because it is an inability to face himself anq his circumstances squarely . However, in spite of his failure as a father and his failure in death, Lear's firmness in the face of nature is triumphant. In respect to the natural world and his awareness of his place in it, Lear grows ripe. When he dies, he is, in at least one respect, fully ripe. Lear on th~ heath is also a good example of enduring our going hence, in the out-of-doors sense of going hence . Lear is not alone in his endurance of banishment and of the things "out there". Kent, Cordelia, Gloucester, and Edgar all endure banishment, each in a slightly different manner . Being banished and going hence is the most certain and most common way in which people ripen. Everyone in the play seems to be able to stand firm in the face of their banishment, and all of them grow wise because of it. The other meaning of going hence is dying. Gloucester has more trouble facing his death than any other character . However, when his "heart burst smilingly, twist two extremes of passion, joy, and grief" (V, iii, 198) , Gloucester has endured his death as no other character has. In spite of himself, Gloucester waits for death to claim him, and he endures it by allowing it to happen to him rather than by seeking it. But his real triumph is in his standing firm in the face of his death, look ing his death and all of his life full in the face , and dying completely aware of what his life has been and of the fact that there is as much to be glad about as their is to mourn . This is ripeness in de-a th, this readiness combined with this hesitancy and, above all else, with this awareness. Ripeness in regard to our coming hither is most fully evinced by Edgar. He ac knowledges his father's weaknesses and goes to great lengths to help his father overcome his faults without shrinking from them or allowing them to remain. In the course of doing this f o r his father and for himself, Edgar is the most enigmatic character in the play. His mys t ery results from the fact that he is able to completely fulfill the advice he has given to his father. Edgar is somehow able to ac cept nature, death, and birth . He is able to outface the winds and persecutions of the sky, to lead his father to a false suicide thereby risking his father's actual death, and to act always in accord with his responsibilities to and his unde rstanding of his father . 51 50 �.:v!1u Ei_~l.ln_<h ~-::<2,'}$~nq_t.-. enpµr~.li ?-~ :1 W E111,, : -iP ,E(;paps b_~SC?-UP:ft _, Ri_qmun.?,.'s original situation is 1 .qar,~~r , tq '- ~~d't~· tz!1~~, )~:?-g'!l-,; ;~ .f?t~ (fS.9 .1(.9.ei~a , ca qn ~t. : P.9 ~t.: eith~;r l perhaps because she is 119..P ~,::f,a..y.~h~~· '1-11 · whth._, ,v;~.i;::~ue J 9o~egg;w,, ;· §h~ canl;lp~1 1 ....il}l!froy.is,~ , in her dealings with her - ~,q.tp~r :>.W ._ i ,!;1. p . r; cr~p P0. ~8:e~r te± fwf1.. s1tu't-t~o~.,. 1 f;~ur:i~ ~~. :.tp,o\ ~ lexible . He gives up any e 0 ~ftg>~~ .. ?-td~n~Hrn11c~ . !ll:DP ~al}ts ~,,B~s o,~ ru~§S . : w~;th.siut . ia , seyord thought . Cordelia, on :. ~p,. e 5 q.~ h~,; r;I?-ar;yi~,~· i~) .. 11:qo ,, 9ti~~ a~d, ·:-,~poqeq ., J.O? : sa~911t ) up ;Lp her passive endurance to " :fA?~}.~ ¥\.i'..-?t'r:~d · _ _:tirm<;1 ~·~.PJH:s. i~ : t_?~[ ~1egoy~p. t,p 1~0,~e :. -.:r;.ig9~ou~ ! standard of purity to be ~c gf? ie c-: t,.o ,,rEfsF><er8 ~s 0 n3r 1 rieA~u~~~qn ~..gerc:iQ.nd,s, <?-ri<;J., ..p~1p ._h,~:r: '~a~~er. ,and herself to ripeness. Edgar's ripeness is interesting to me becq..µ,se ~~ s _eltls ,, .to know about ripeness from e .1 ~f:ie ~· "t!Ht .. <;i~Ch t_~1 te.aqh ,i, ~f f 11'?.r his _, J~1f!_ler t ,· I,t. 1 ,is q,s . :i if 1 be .k:qows that the only possible :-i 5.~.P.?-YW~ 1:r;;t 1 h~ - ~~n ~ke . j:?,_; l.}i~\', •tfa;th~-:r;~; ..L o!_; h,a y" f incq.,, ,g-1-yern .. p~ri;i.,: l .~fe is to give his father rg.eit.th1 BR:':- P r;Q£.~}~,Etri@ tbiP1.' j;.Qst bYi ·: ~~i:HUng )).}me. ,t ? tr:he.:_.J?oint where he can die com,, .Yi ; ~. J?.tE; itr?: +~ riiJ?ie l° i«, ,§,9m~l;1;9,W- ..., he c,r~_P,.yfil,8 9 ~ , o.f ,'l the ,_; §R;n J ,e$.11lt,;:;,. from , the ripeness of the fat ~ (!rh~ ;t; ., 3 "! 1 , ,tlfiip.,~ · &,~a:t"' 1::~.~ - 1 . s,cµ,ne \I2,0~s,~I:? il. irty :~ T.X~.?:t: ed ·_. for.·_ Co ~~dylia and Lear : i f one had been ripe in regard to the other, the other might have been led to ripeness. Their I foggiest are Rachel's mother's death and my cousin Sam's death. What they endured, whether they were ripe, whether their decisions were info rmed by clear vision or by hopelessness, I will never know, and I have no way of finding out. I am certain though, that Rachel and I have hope of ripeness, in respect to those who have left us and to those who gave birth to us. We will endure, and we will grow ripe, and our ripeness will be enough . ~ a l;!-_u:r;~ , fh~ p.0 m1;1,tua.~ • <?;t;_l.~ ( j- aS 1,.Edga):" - and 1 · Glo,uc~.ster'. s s:uccess is mutual. , '"' :.e,,t. ~~J?~f1:,Ss;·.- ~s . Rffy:>;ed ; by 1., E~4mt-F:· tf.o i 0louc~st~r :- a-s 1a,~ .c;Qif\fort . It is a comforting ~)iq·Efp, b,,~c~~se_ i ~t. . ji ,!f . ~'?:t , .an ~ID,P,O§?Jbl~.... pne,.: -Being : ripe-, q0es not r equire being com::PJ..,Efte).y, ,,, , q at. isf~EQ<;1,,_·; or ,:P .Ofl.\P;le:tely · ~a.I?P'Yr- i l ~ipeness " i~ •,, a •, J.C_omfort because it grows H a~urall17 1 pu;t, q;f ,?_.li~ ,. po;r;,ro~s - and ,) OU·r joys · , 1 • In:. order t,o be ripe, we must simply en. .du,r~. . t:nd~r~ns~ ~, i ~ ,. r;tot:.~cqmp~etely.:- passj,ve; ·it .,i s · qu_ e .. p ossible to live through many it_ j ,qys q.np, ,s orrows_ -W tihoµt be_ _:i ing . ripened by them : .. Howeve r,· : endurance is not an impos_9,ih.l e d~pt~P.d 1 a:t;_1a _J,.-. 1 ,. vye mu,st. simply ;force .rqurselve1 1to ,be. aware of what is happening * s t_ Lus. and, fo+c; e:r J 9'A13'se~v~s .-to , re,s pontj naturally . o ., ,.• 1 ,. Ri.J;lER_n~w .s ;L s . ..f!.S IJ\Uc~:i., , a . result oj;: :0urr s_ uf.fe+ing as , it; is a comfort in the face of ,i _ . , 'I;'lt~ ) . less_,.we ,e:_;xp~rien9g r, . . 1 ap9.1 , t}:ie ~E?SS .fully we, allow . our.selves to experience the t events in our lives, the les~.,, ripe T-t~ 1wi].J.. _, g!OV{ . ·Qn .t he other hand , we can be shown _ .e t,ruth p~i q~r. ctfXperiepi:re 1 ,~:f.te r ; it.: [la.s hap,pened,. , as Glqucester is. :t;.f1. Ripeness de P~f?.~ ;up.on tim~ 1.-,.:P,t!~ ·r.iP not . sub;:;e;rv_ ier:t; . to time ·. Alt,hough ; we cannot be ripe without . e,:>tP~;rie:µc~, 'V!c,e ~. san.... ;t>ecp!l\e.. 1 ,. .r_ip~ , rl _ ong<, jifte.r . our experief'.lc. s. e There are many kinds of exp~!i-:~:r;iqe 1 ~.s ., w~;I.._!; ·. if . . . \fe t3) ,ook, .long . .nd: hardirCl.t th~ ·· books we read, we can be tempe red a ~y ~ Pu! ; ~xperiep.~~ _ oJ, the.~ .. arid gro~ _mor~ r.~pe . because... of them •. , ;· ·, ...~lte;r-e , care 1 "'t"fq~ _ waJlp, to; .!iea,d '-.' -q.ll:''. in ~'Ripen~ss is all... . "All" may be some sort of limiting word, saying something like, "Ripeness is the only thing we can hope for. l.lt . ,i ,i:; ~;LJ .J, w_,e C}Ji~1 ,, ac:fiieve ., " . ,~ipenes~ .m ay ,9e a , stq.tement of fulfillment and compl.~t:ion,_: -, , "R;if), neRs _ s _ e i all . ~e need- t9 achieve. To be ri,pe is to be a complete human ; be~ng . ", ]?oth :r;eadings maJse sense wi thqut contradicting each other . Ripeness is all }:hat a humap bE?in,g can hqp,e to . accomplish, and ripeness is the fulfillment of a human beiµg. !'fuen _we a~e ripe, ~ we are complete. ·: I : spoke at tfhe . start a}?oµt, my hope that my e xplor ation of Edgar's words to his fat,.};le:r: -. woulp , be . ':ls~fu,l .to , rqe .in .my ow11 con.text as .well as in the contex t of the play . I will not s~~ . ~o~ t~is . explo~~tion has changed or will until time has passed and the che3:~9e_~ have , happ~n.ed. ,. . ipeness .is something I can hope for, but not strive for . R Rachel spent that summer in her mother's house in an attempt to learn about her mo :the:r and to .:fac,e the circumstances . of her own .birth and of her mother's death . _ R~c.he.l is ~y age,. and she has much growing, learning, and experiencing before her . I am certai.n s~~- .'wi ,i 1 continue to endure ~ravely, and I respect her resolve. -+ am .~1;:. ;i ll bitter toward my father, and he toward me . I do not know whether , ~~ere ,, wi~l be ripeness between us, but I know . that the way toward ripeness is endur ance. with . in:t,eg~ity. I know that. I will ripen i;f I do nCDt resent, and if I can keep myse,1,f frol}l l('.e in.g . at odds with "the situation and from denying it. r .u . , Five yeari;:; ~ave pa!?.sed since the . surruner I spent with Rachel across the bay from my father . , I ~ Dfl.Ve ne~ded the$e years to sift thr. ugh and begin tc see clearly the o things which happened then. Some things will always be foqqy for me. The two ctr:_ag,~5 53 �To Molly in August 1986 An Examination of Aristotelian Awareness David Walter Fawn Trigg As if we know sin too well We blind the eyes with darkness And let benign fingers do the seeing; Because fingers desire, above all, to feel what they see; But eyes desire, above all, to see what they feel. "All men by nature desire understanding. A sign of this is their liking of sen sation "(Metaphysics 980a 20) . This juxtaposition has always puzzled me. Why does the observation that we enjoy sensations illuminate the claim that we are of a certain nature, and that this nature is to want to understand? Aristotle examines the question of our nature as men not so much in the Metaphysics as in the third book of De Anima . The initial task of De Anima is to find what is common to all living things as living, to ask what it means to be alive.* Iri the third book Aristotle focuses his search on what is common to all men as men, to ask what it means to be a man. Since man alone has an intellect, and "intelligence, above all, is man," (Ethics 1178a 7) , the question of what it means to be a man reads more specifically in De Anima as what it means to have an intellect . Aristotle examines this question usi;g-the method of inquiry set out at the beginning of the Physics (184a 17- 21) . He proceeds in De Anima from what is more known and clearer to us, sensing, but also common to animal-;; to what belongs only to men, knowing . Sensation's role in coming to know is brought to light by his search and so sheds some light on what it means to be knowing . The stage is set for one of the comparisons between the simply animate and sentient souls in the last chapter of Book II . Aristotle had discussed sensation in terms of a general definition: sensation is the receiving of the forms of sensible objects without their matter (424a 18). In II . 12 he asks what is the difference be tween our being warm in the sun and plants' being warm, since in both of these cases we could say a sensible form is received without its matter . To feel warm is different from being warmed, since in feeling warm we must sense, o r be aware, that we ·are being warmed . The sentient soul is not only affected, but also senses that it is . In III . 2 he asserts that "we sense the fact that we are seeing or hearing . " (425b 12) • The question for Aristotle is not "do we sense sensing?" but "what part of the sentient soul senses sensation?* But to "sense sensing" he tells us, has several meanings . While the ability to sense sensing is involved in the distinction between what it means to be an animal and what it means to be a plant, it is not clear what this awareness actually is. This question remains. In III.4 Aristotle asserts, "the intellect is intelligi- As if we know sin too well We turn our backs toward it-Like Perseus, tracing the translucent Image of Medusa in the smooth, handpolished Cavity of his inverted shield-Because eyes, seeing , may turn desire to stone . And I imagine my hand r eturning to the lamp-Retracing its path in the just- darkness: Wait, I want, for an instant to see The obscured shape of ecstasy . *If, indeed, there is something in common . The definition of the soul at 412b 4 - 6 takes the form of a conditional sentence : "If, then, there is something common to be said about every kind of soul, this would be : the first actuality of a natural body which has organs ." *A question for which he gives two answers : in De Anima III " . so we should assume that this first sense [vision or hearing]- senses itse1f." (425b 18) and in Sleeping and Waking "each sense possesses something which is special and which is common . . special to vision , for example, is seeing . . . but there is a common power which accompanies them all, in virtue of which one senses that one is seeing or hearing." (455a 12ff) . 54 55 �ble," (430 a 2) , and only explains when the intellect can know knowing, which is "after it has become several of i~objects." (429b 10). He mentions in the Metaphysics in what way we come to s ense that we se nse and know that we know: "knowledge and sensation are always o f other objects and only incidentally of themselves." (1074b 35-36). It is not clear what this awareness is. Is this awareness of knowing vital to what it means to be a man as a man and not as an animal, as sentient awareness was vital in II .12 in distinguishing between an animal and a plant? Just as Aristotle does not explicitly discuss awareness , he does not explicitly compare sensing sensing and knowing knowing. To find what sensing sensing and knowing knowing could be, to be able to compare them in the c ontext of this question, we need first find out what kind of sensing and what kind of knowing Aristotle says we sense and know . s ensing sensing and knowing knowing are mentio ned in discussions focused on one kind o f activity. This activity is the being at one o f the objects of sense and knowledge with the faculties of sensation or knowing.* In II.2 after he asserts that we sense sensing, Aristotle discusses the activity of sensing: "The activity of ·t he sensible object and the activity of sensation [o f it ] are one and the same . " (425a 26) . He makes a similar conclusi on in III . 4, before stating we can know knowing, that the "intel lect become s each intelligible object . " (429b 6) . Late in the chapter Aristotle explains that "the intellect is intelligible," (43 0 a 2), by saying, "that which thinks and that which is being thought are the same . " (430a 4 ) . This actuality of being at one rests o n Aristo tle's notion of the potentiality and actuality of the s o ul . The faculties o f sensation and intellect exist in a state of potentiality (417a 7, 429a 23). The sensible object is a particular which e x ists apar t f r om the soul ; the knowable object is a universal which exists in the soul i n some manner (417b 23) . The potentially sensing facult y and the potentially knowing fa culty are in some way similar to their obj ects and are affected by the activity of their objects (429a 17 - 18) . The activity occurs in t hat which is changing f r om potentiality to actuality . The activity of the obj ect is the ac t ivity of the faculty . They are one in that activity. This change fr om the faculty existing potentially to becoming actual is a par ticular kind of change , because the faculty even while existing potentially is complete. So when actualized, it is not altered (431a 5- 8) . The faculty's change f r om potentially sensing to actually sensing i s like the change a hammer undergoes when it is put to work . The hammer is no t added to or subtracted from . The hammer is complete, but becomes actually a hammer, because it is at work being a pounder of nails . This kin d of change i s con t ras t ed with the chang e of mo tion whi ch "is t he ac t ua l ity (43l a 7). The change involved in the pile of lumber in the o f what is incomplete." process of being built into the house is a motion (Metaphysics 1066a 7) . The activity of being at one is the same for the sensing and know i ng souls , except the different faculties apprehend different kinds of objects . Nonetheless , the objects a re analogous, insofar as they are objects of which apprehensi on can neve r be false . Aristotle distinguishes two activities of the intellect, the forming of p r oposit i ons which may be true o r false, and the apprehension o f indivisibles . The sec ond is neither true nor false, except by equivocation. Apprehension of them would be true, non- apprehension would not be true, and neither could be o therwise (Metaphysics 1 0 51b 22 - 26 ) . Aristotle draws the comparison between this infallibility of the intellective soul and that of the sentient: An assertion, like an affirmation, is of something about something else and in every case it is true or false. But the intellect is not in every case of this sort . If it is a whatness with respect to essence, it is true, and is not something about something else; and just as seeing a proper sensible is true, whereas that the white thing is a man (or is not a man) is not always true . (430b 27-31) Knowing is then like sensing when apprehending, for they are both identical with the object about which there can be no mistake .* Then is knowing this kind of knowing similar to sensing this kind of sensing? Perhaps it is acceptable to begin with a tentative yes, since sensing and knowing are similar ways of being at one . The activity would have itself in activity as the object of its own activity . That is, the sentient and intellective souls can be self-aware. There are problems with this account . $ince the first and second activities can be simultaneous, how is it possible for the sentient or intellective faculty to be both the object of the faculty in its being at one and the faculty which is also aware of the object? Is this not demanding the faculty to be both one and two at the same time? Aristotle considers and rejects the possibility that there is a second faculty which is aware of sensing . If a second faculty is required to sense the second, ad infinitum (425b 17-18) . In re jecting this, Aristotle shows that he considers sentient and intellective awareness as, necessarily, self - awareness . If being aware of sensing and knowing were the only consideration, he could have ended the regression by positing a single faculty which could be aware of sensing and knowing, but not of itself . The alternative is strange , that the -sentient and intellective soul be neces sarily both one and two at the same time. But Aristotle, in the same chapters in which he mentions awareness, discusses the discriminating faculty which also r equi res the soul to be both one and two at the same time . "The faculty which asserts diffe rence must be one " (426b 20) and two for "it is impossible that the same faculty should be moved at the same time by contrary movements ." ( 426b 24) • The fa cul ties of sensing and knowing could be of this same fundamental doubleness . Insofar as the faculty is at one with its object, it is one faculty; insofar as it is both the object and the faculty it is two . Without this doubleness, sensation would be nothing more than the receiving of the for~s of sensible objects without their matter, and *Be caus e the intellect "must exist without being blended" (4 29a 19 ) , and sense cannot, the f acul ty of sensation's being at one with an object entails the actualization o f both an organ and a faculty, which are one in that actualization "numerically .. . but the essence of each is different . " (424a 25 ) . *Perhaps the reason for thei r respective infallibility could be something like this: We know "the intellect should be related to the object of thought in a manner similar to that in which a sense is related to its sensible object, (429a 17- 18), and the faculty is actualized insofar as it is like the object in activity. The sense faculty and direct sensibles are essentially blended with matter . Indi rect sensible are essences of objects which are directly sensed . Since essence is not essentially material, although not separate or separable from material things, the apprehension of it by the essentially material faculty could be false. Objects of the intellect are undivided or indivisible universals and irrunaterial, whether by abstraction or as "the dispositions and attributes of sensible objects ." (432a 5) . The intellect also exists as simple and unblended with matter . Affirmations and denials are not simple, so the assertion of these by a fundamentally simple faculty could be false . 56 57 �there would be no difference between being warmed and feeling warmed, or between being animate and sentient. Is it possible for the sentient soul to be warmed and not feel warm; that is, is it necessary that the soul be aware of its activity? Aristotle answers this directly in the case of the intellect: "whenever the intellect has become several of its objects . . then it is capable ( sUvatcn ) of thinking of itself . " (429b 5- 10) . Although Aristotle does not make the analogous statement for the sentient soul, it is not difficult to provide examples of sensing without being self- aware . City dwellers become oblivious to street noise, and are not aware of it until a snowfall when everything is quiet . I can be absorbed in a book and not hear my name called nearby . We are not necessarily knowing knowing when knowing and there seem examples of not sensing sensing when sensing . If awareness is not necessarily concomitant with apprehension, does the original understanding of what it means to be aware require broadening? Is ac t u a l appr ehension even necessary for awar eness? The answer seems characteristically Aristotelian, for it seems both yes and no . Aristotle gives an example of awareness of the soul when not at one : when we do not see, it is by vision that we discern darkness (425b 22) . The city dwellers are aware of the absence of noise . The intellective soul has analogous experiences : I know I do not know how to fix my car. I need not be successfully apprehending to be sentiently or intellectively self- aware . What could I be aware of when aware of non- apprehension? Comparing these awarenesses of non - apprehension to unawareness of non- apprehension makes this clearer . An example of the latter is that I do not sense that I am not seeing ultraviolet light. Another is that I would not have known that I did not know about automotive mechanics if I had lived befor e there was such a thing as an automobile (and its internal mishaps) . I would not have known that I did not know about automotive mechanics . I do not try to sense ultraviolet light and I would not have tried to know how to fix cars before there were such things. When I am aware that I do not see or do not know, I am aware of trying and failing . I try to see light; I do not; I call i t d arknes s. I try t o know how to fix the car ; I do not; I call it ignorance . I must hold the actual seeing o f t h e light and knowing of mechanics to be possible in order for me to try to see or know . To be aware o f these attempts as failures , I must be awa r e of having actually sensed or actually known . It is possible to be aware of having sensed or known, because after sensation a sense impr ession o r image remains in the soul even after the object is gone (425b 25) . After knowing, the soul possesses knowledge . The soul i s a ce r tain way after apprehension , which al though different f r om its appr ehending way , i s not nothing . Actual apprehension is necessary fo r a warenes s , even the awareness of non- appr ehension . The soul seems to have two opportunities fo r awar enes s, p r imar i ly in its infallible apprehension of objects, and afte r t h at i n its att empts and failures to apprehend . It is not necessary to be a ware whe n a pp rehend i n g, as the New York e r is not necessar ily aware of street noise ; no r i s it necessa r y to be awa r e of non- apprehending , as I am not aware of ultr a v iolet light . The sou l' s awareness o f apprehending o r not is only potenti al during thes e activities . In On Sleeping and Walking, this awareness is a " ~uvoµ.1lS' . . . in virtue o f which one perceives that one is seeing and hearing." (455a 12) . Th i s potential for awarene ss is in the sou l 's ability t o be at one with an obje ct. The actuality of this potential seems an activity and not a motion, for awareness is complete and an end in itself .* *Speculation about awareness being an actuality seems to demand speculation on how it came to be in activity . The change from potentiality to actuality requires there be something in activity which effects the change, something actually aware . The burden 58 It also seems that the awareness of apprehending and of non- apprehending are dissimilar . The soul's awareness of being at one while being at one with an object is a different awareness from the Soul's awareness of not being at one with an object. Awareness of apprehension is an awareness of two separate potentialities as one actuality . Aristotle explains the activity this way : The activity of the sensible object and the activity of sensation [of it] are one and the same, but the essence of each is not the same . I mean, for e x ample , that the actual sound and the actual hearing of it are one and the same, for a man may have hearing and not be hearing, and that which has sound is not always sounding . But when that which can hear and that which can sound is actually sounding, then the actual hearing and the actual sounding occur simultaneously , and one might say that these two are hearing and sounding respectively . (425b 22ff) An awar eness of this activity would be an awareness of two as actually one, of both hearing and sounding . The awa r eness of not being at one is an awareness "in a dif ferent manner . " (425b 22) . Not seeing or knowing is still an undivided whole , but in compar ison to another whole , actually seeing or knowing . At stake in these different shades o f awareness a r e different kinds of discrimination , for Aristotle seems to find the activity of awareness as the root of discrimination . The closeness of these activities is persuaded by the fundamental doubleness required of the soul fo r both of them , and b y thei r ties in the te x t . An awareness of having b e en at one alre ady implies a distinction between two wholes . Ar istotle begins III . 2 a sserting sensing sensing, then explains that "' to sense by vision ' does not only have one meaning , for even when we do not see , it is by vision we discr i minate darknes s and light . " (425b 21 - ~2) . . ~ 'To .sense by vision" can not only be awar eness , but disc r imination. These discriminations between two things , such as light and darkness , a r e called sentient discriminations . This dis c r iminating faculty also "discr iminate s things not in the same genus , [white , sweet] in the same manne r in which it disc r iminates contraries [darkness , light] . " (43la 24) . The faculty also di s c r iminates ma t hematical magnitudes , which for Ar istotle a re only aspects of sensible objects cons i de r ed separately(431b 13) . . There is a s econd disc r iminating power which distinguishes between a magnitude and its essence (429b 10). Th i s f a culty, when p r esented with triangular things can discriminate thei r essence a s t r iangular , and when p r esented with triangles can discriminate what it means to be a triangle. Immedia te l y a f ter the passage in III . 4 which mentions k nowing knowing , Ar i s totle discusses this kind of discrimination . It is aga i n explained in III . 7, with a p r ominent discussion of the identity of the fac ulty and object in activ ity . . This suggests that ·the second kind of discrimination, like the fi:st, is re~ated to awareness . In this case the awareness , which is of being at one with the obJect , is an awareness of a whole without comparison to other wholes . Since this activity is the simultaneous actuality of t he two ·potentialities , it seems possible to be aware both of the sounding of the object and the hea r ing of the obj ect, which a l though are numer i cally one are in essence two . In being aware in this way , the soul of this actual activity seems to come to rest at the feet of the prime mover, who is nothing but knowing knowing . I do not know what it means to say such a thing, and I can only observe that this actuality which seems required is already present in Aristotle's system . 59 �is aware of an object which differs with each particular sensation , and is aware of the faculty which remains the same . This is similar to the process of discrimination between a thing and its essence . The soul presented with specific things can come to find that by virtue of which a thing can be taken as undivided . For these particulars there is one universal, which is not separate f r om the part iculars but numerically one with them . This is the universal "being one beside the many, which would be one and the same in all of them [particular sensations] ." (Posterior Analytics lOOa 7-8) . * While one of these discriminations is called sentient and the other is not, both must be rooted in sentient awareness. Since all knowledge has its origin in sensation, knowable objects must be found in particular sensations (432a 5) . If discrimination is what finds these knowable objects in sensation, intellective apprehension cannot be prior to it. The question-what is at stake in sensing sensing- then receives two answers . The first is the soul's awareness of itself as sentient, of itself as animal rather than plant. Sensation is not only liked for its own sake, as Aristotle obserues further in the opening paragraph of the Metaphysics, but is necessary for understanding . This second answer is that sentient awareness is necessary for discrimination and so is necessary for finding knowable objects . Sensation's part in corning to know not only provides the particulars in which we find the knowable universals, but is the foundation for the discrimination for finding these universals. Is the question, what is at stake in knowing knowing, in turn illuminated by sensing sensing? Is it, like the fundamental meaning of sensing sensing, the soul's awareness of itself as a knower? Is it again something which rests on this activity, the way discrimination does on sentient awareness? The text supports both questions: "only after it [the intellect ] has become several of its objects does it have the potential to know itself." (429b 5-10). In the second question, knowing knowing would mean knowing what it means to know . After the intellect has become several of its objects , it has the potential to discriminate between these particular instances of knowing and the universal of what it means to know. For the first question, knowing knowing would be similar to the most fundamental sensing sensing, and would mean knowing one's self as a knowing being . The intellect must become several of its objects, not in order to have fuel for discrimination, but to become fully 'developed . The beginning of the sentence from which the quotation was taken reads : several things , as being a scientist implies knowing more than one thing about sci ence. This second explanation would be similar to the fundamental sensing sensing, if this becoming of several objects were like the sentient soul's waking up . If being awake is the sentient soul's most fundamental way of being aware, then waking up could mean becoming aware. If knowing one's self as a knower is the most fundamental way of the intellective soul's being aware , then the apprehending of these several objects is the same becoming aware . These two explanations of a more fundamental and derivative awaren~ss are not exclusive; nothing prevents being aware of being a knower and also being aware of what it means to know . If one o f Aristotle 's aims in Book III of De Anirna is to ask of the intellective soul something similar to what he asks of the soul in gen~ral, he is looking for something common to all men insofar as they are men. The answer he may give is that we are men because of our intellects, but just to have an intellect is as good as being asleep .* We are awake when we know ourselves as knowers. Aristotle tells us in the Ethics that the intellect is man, and "it would seem strange if a man did not choose the life proper to himself but that proper to another . " (1178a 4) . This is not Aristotle's exhortation on the best life to live, but his examination of what a life for man means. Whenever the intellect has become several of its objects, in the sense in which we speak of a scientist when he is actually a ·scientist (and this occurs when a scientist can exercise his knowledge by himself . . . ) (429b 5-8 ) . It may be the case that a scientist cannot think by himself as a scientist, and consequently cannot be a scientist until he has learned and can exercise several things about science. Knowing one's self as a knower could only be the result of knowing *I have a speculation about the analogy which Aristotle uses to illustrate this in De Anima. The analogy is as a bent line is to a bent line when straightened out, so is sentient discrimination to intellective discrimination . ( 429b 18) . The bent line / even as an object of abstraction, can have infinite permutations, since it could incline at an infinite number of different angles . There can be only one straight line . The unbending finds within each line, not somewhere else, what is the same for all bent lines, not the particular bend but the universal line . 60 *"A man who sleeps all his life lives like a plant . " 61 (Ethics 1176a 35). �The Steeds of Hippolytos Andrew Grablewski The play Hippolytos by Euripides can be seen to have at its core a fundamental concern with the struggle between humanity and certain natural forces. Nature is such an important element in Hippolytos that at times the play seems to overflow with it. The imagery used is one of animals: bulls, birds, bees, and horses. We are presented with meadows, flowers and oceans. Even the gods who appear in the play seem at times to be more representative of nature's powers than of divine will. Nature's powers are the principles of creations and destruction with indifference to human concerns. What seems to emerge gradually in the play is a theory about the nature of the universe. This is what is really at stake in the play. Euripides, like Plato in the Timaeus, and Lucretius in De Rerum Natura, tries to present us with a sort of system to describe the way things work. The system is revealed through the actions of the characters, and the characters are to be judged by the extent to which they understand the essence of nature. Iri contrast to the other systems, however, man is in conflict with nature. The three major characters in the play are defeated, humbled, and at last destroyed by nature. At the end, however, man uses what is essential to his being to shout down the power of the gods and to triumph over the forces of nature which at first appeared inopposable . Hippolytos is the most important character in the play . There are several reasons why this is so . It is a flaw in his personality which produces the conflict of the play . His scorn f o r the love of women and physical pass i on offends the goddess Aphrodite who induces in Phaidra, his stepmother , an insatiable passion for him . His decision to reject Phaidra ' s passion as · communicated by her nurse leads her to sui cide and a false char ge of rape . Finally, in his death and r e c onciliation with Theseus, the play is resolved in some sense with t he satisfaction o f the goddess in her revenge . The character of Hippolytos is problematic . As the audience of the play, we are made to feel somewhat ambivalent towa r ds him . However , he has in his favor many of the qualities admired in the philosophical dialogues . He appea r s to be a man of reason . He shuns the pleasu r es of the body and fa v ors comp anionship with Ar t e mis , godde ss of the hunt , and the s ociety of other vi r tuous me n . Thr oughout the play , his actions at least a r e indisputably jus t , and he a t t e mpts t o solve his problems through r eason and persuasion . On the o t he r hand , his dislike of women and his scorn for love do not seem like admirable quali t ies . In th i s sense his characte r appear s unbalanced . His love of sophrosune is clear ly more a love f or the quality of chastity than a love for the othe r sense of the word as a quality of mode r ation and balance . Most of us prefer to see Phaid r a as the sympathetic character of the play . To me, however, Hippolytos is the sympathetic , t r agic , and finally heroic fig ure . His flaw is not so much an imbalance as total ignorance of the laws of nature around him and within himsel f. He maintains this ignorance up to the end o f his life . In dying, not only does he refuse to succumb to the will of the gods, but he also achieves a victory for humanity by showing the value of virtue . Phaidra , too, escapes nature, but her legacy is one of deceit and evil . Hippolytos' ignorance of the character of nature , or more properly his misunderstanding of it, is revealed in his first speech as he dedicates a wreath to Artemis : 62 I have brought you this green crown, goddess, fresh from the scene where I spliced its flowers together a meadow as virginal as you are, where no shepherd would think it wise to pasture his animals, a perfect field no iron blade has yet cut down. Only the bees looking for flower~ in spring go freely through its cut grass. This passage shows his great misunderstanding. He sees the beauty of nature, but he attributes something to it which is other than its nature, that is, the human virtue of chastity . Hippolytos fails to see the bees as agents of procreation . Instead, he sees himself as being similar to an insect, attributing a quality to it which it doesn't have. Shortly after this passage he makes another revealing statement. When asked if the gods are pleased by genial souls he answers with total confidence, Yes, if gods and humans share the same inner ') logic . ~ In his close companionship with Artemis, he has a false idea of both the nature of god and of man . He thinks himself above what is congruent with the nature of humani ty, while assuming the gods to value human virtues. However in the universe created by Euripides, virtue is clearly a quality that has value for man alone. The gods enjoy the worship of humans and feel their slights, but to carry out their will they are just as ready to sacrifice the just as the unjust . Aphrodite states, That Phaidra dies I regret , but not so much that I would relinquish th~s great chance to strike my enemy . Hippolytos does not scorn the goddess completely, but he worships her distantly without emotion . To men this type of intellectual deference to the power of god may appear sufficient, but it is totally foreign to the nature of the gods who are satisfied only with, payment in the god's coin . 4 Therefore, Hippolytos' nature is one of virtue . However, he assumes that what he considers virtue has a worth ~n the external world . He seems himself as approx imating the divine through his virtue, when in fact he is virtuous only in so far as he is human . In Plato's Timaeus, it seems evident that the qualities of virtue and beauty exist externally . He seems to assume that the universe must reflect virtue and moderation, since these are the best qualities . But perhaps it is just as erroneous on Plato's part to assume that these qualities have any relation to nature at all . He assumes that these qualities are pa r t of the nature of man which we use to order the universe rather than universal principles which man must strive to partake of in order to reach his highest state . Ironically, it is just the best part of Hippolytos' nature which brings about his doom . For it seems that his objection to the offer made by Phaidra's nurse is solely due to the shame of it being from a relative, as well as being crime against a man whom Hippolytos clearly loves and has every reason to admire . It is not due to an unnatural hatred of women, even though he expresses such a hatred in reaction to the offer . His refusal js clearly an act 63 �of virtue. He in fact could not act otherwise, since his nature is that of virtue. So in his ~efu~al, his artificial nature, which is virtue, triumphs over his bestial nature • . His vir~ue seems artificial because it seems cultivated and due to the fact that he is a rational man, but this nature need not be thought of as inferior to other natures . In fact his nature, like an unstoppable flood, forces his actions as the natures of the other characters force them into action. He cannot even violate his nature to save his life. Here I am, revering you, gods, and yet it's you forcing my ruin. 5 The tragedy of Hippolytos is that he assumes that his virtuous and rational naThis does not happen because once again his view of the universal system is other than its reality . He overlooks the irrational and unjust side of nature as he had earlier refused to see its element of sexuality· Theseus, upon returning home and finding his wife dead with a suicide note accusing Hippolytos of rape, is driven by his own nature for revenge. Hippolytos pleads for law and justice: t~re ';ill somehow s.ave him from destruction. At least won't you let time lay the facts before you in my behalf? ' ' ' T ime is our on 1 y incorruptible witness . 6 Law and justice are perhaps the only two things that could restrain the wild onrush of human ?ature, ~owever imperfectly. But in Hippolytos these do not seem to play any part in the universe as a whole or in the state. Theseus refuses even to address him in the se~ond person; much less is he prepared to listen to Hippolytos argue his innocence . Hippolytos is heroic in his persistence . His nature will not allow him to abandon hope that reason will vindicate him, as it will not allow him to save himself by betraying his oath to the nurse . His arguments have g r eat credibility . At the end however, not even unreasonable arguments can save him. If only this calm intimate house could speak for me and say fairly if there's anything vile in my blood. 7 In effect , Hippolytos calls upon the mute to persuade the deaf, since Theseus' conclusion was reached beforehand and cannot be alte red by persuasion . As Hippolytos is banished, the chorus grieves, When we imagine ourselves in the god's care, our troubled souls are inunensely reassured . But when deep inside us we struggle to make rational sense of our lives frustration strikes from all the erratic crisscrossing paths of reality: man's life is volatile; it will not run clear and reveal its essence. 8 By the failure of virtue and reason to withstand the blind force of Theseus' nature the just man is f o rced out and injustice and irrationality are victorious . If thes~ forces are supreme, the nature o f the universe has been revealed. It is not as in the Timaeus, characterized by reason, justice, aod harmony, but by their opposites : randomness, disorder and irrationality. Faced with such a uni verse, man has two options . Either we put our trust in god or surrender to the random forces of nature. Neither choice allows us free will. Either we are dominated by the whims of the gods or by the chance outcome of blind fate. Either way, as long as we live, we are driven by the forces of nature to our final end. The course of our lives cannot be de termined or revealed by reason. In this play, Hippolytos is doomed by chance and nature. It is hard to see what actions, if any, could have saved him from ultimate destruction. He is destroyed by his nature which will not allow him to do an unjust act, and by chance external forces. It can be argued that he is somewhat to blame because of his slighting of the goddess, but her actions seem extreme and arbitrary. At the end of the play, he is destroyed by nature in a literal sense when he is dragged by his horses after they a r e frightened by the bull of Poseidon. Even at this point, he is convinced of the rational order of nature. He calls out pathetically to his team, Stop! Stop! You mares, .• y~u were my children! Don't kill me! Does he imagine that even they are capable of being persuaded? Or does he endow them with the human property of gratitude? And what of the fact that he looks upon them as his children? Once again his view of nature is totally different from reality. He sees his horses as humans just as he confounds his own nature with that of the gods. He cannot see nature at large as being other than his own nature. He cannot imagine a uni verse in which the causes of actions are so obscure as to be either incomprehensible or nonexistent . He cannot imagine that the virtuous are to suffer along with, or even instead of, the unvirtuous. Well, I see my death-it's ineluctable, it's downhill, and it's black. All the good I did men through the love of god evaporates now. It adds up to nothing ... Why me? I have not d~Be one wrong act in my whole life. Only in his last moments does he come to some realization of the external powers which have destroyed him. I wish we men could curse god's11 curse and destroy those killers from our graves. His impotent rage and threats reveal that he still retains his distorted view of his nature, as if the eternal gods could be destroyed by a dying man's wish. To even consider the possibility of such a thing coming to pass is ludicrous. In contrast to Hippolytos is the character of Phaidra. Phaidra seems to realize from the beginning that the only way to def eat the passion in her nature and preserve her honor is for her to destroy herself. She is aware of a compulsion that's been ~~sery for the women of my clan. which is her mother's passion for a bull ana her sister's for Dionysios. She is equally aware of the same elements in her own nature which compel her towards forbid- 65 64 �den love. Phaidra knows her nature; her only problem is to decide whether to indulge it and remain alive, or die and preserve her reputation for virtue . Her nurse takes the position that total virtue is unobtainable. The forces that compel us forward are too powerful to resist. To spend your life in a neurotic drive for perfection is simply not worth it. Look at the roof of your own house. Is there a single timber not slightly askew? As a roof it's a great success. Sexual passion is a big rough sea and not something you, especially your frail majesty can swim through. The best that you, like any person, can hope for in life, is a little more good luck than bad. It's high time Phaidra, to drop your crazy talk of suicide. No more conceit , for it's ungodly conceit to imagine you can win, when you fight the powers who control your whole being . 13 But the nurse's plan ends in disaster because she fails to recognize that along with the irrational driving forces that exist in the natures of most people, there is an .opposite force that compels them towards virtue, or at least toward making an effort to protect their reputations. The nurse fails to recognize this trait in Hippolytos which will prohibit his accepting her offer . She also fails to recognize that Phaidra has this trait as well. Phaidra cannot endure even one person knowing the secret of he~ true nature, even if that person is bound by oath to keep silent. The nurse is as ignorant of this aspect of human nature as Hippolytos is of the other irrational side . Phaidra is the only character in the play who has an idea of both. Phaidra realizes that the only outcome of the conflict between the two forces in her nature is her death. The death will frighten me. On this day, gone from my life, I will at last delight you, Aphrodite . 14 Only now, the forces in her nature demand that Hippolytos also die to preserve he r secret and her children's future. In Hippolytos, we are presented with a universe in which man is bowed by awesome forces beyond his understanding. But the one aspect of man's nature that allows his freedom is his mortality. Death , like nature, pe r vades the play, touching all the characters. It is always seen as a force for the liberation of humanity. By death man may somehow transcend nature and destiny . As the chorus says, This is clearly a wish for death. similar: Theseus' I feel your life as vanishing from my cradling hands, leaping like a pulse of feathers, 16 a bird alighting in the underworld . In both, the dead soul is compared to a bird flying in freedom from the forces of nature . And Artemis comforts Hippolytos as he dies: Get wings, fly off into a bird's safe life, to keep your feet from miring in this polluted anguish. There are no men . who would ask you to share t h eir l' ives . 17 Death is the one quality that seems to separate mortals completely from the gods . Death is so alien to the nature of the gods that they are unable to bear even watching the death of a mortal . In the universe of the Hippolytos, death is the only means by which the guilty are punished. Artemis cannot save the life of Hippolytos; she can only promise the satisfaction of revenge by bringing death to a favorite of Aphrodite . Even though Hippolytos has lost his life, his death is his triumph over the forces which resulted in his destruction. For by his death we gain the realization that, though we are slaves to chance and nature, their hold over us is only for a finite amount of time. By posthumosly granting Hippolytos the status of hero, Artemis has vindicated his belief in virtue. Virtue is transformed to an external quality by the eternal honor paid to Hippolytos . In the sense that virtue continues to be honored among men, it ceases to be only a part of his individual nature and becomes the common property of all . Hippolytos' death not only results in the restoration of harmony in his family, but in a new sense of order in the world. Man no longer seems helpless in the face of the gods. Virtue has triumphed even in an irrational universe . The gods are exposed for what they are. Athens, you will have your splendor, but never again the splendor of this man you lose. Aphrodite , I have not heart fof your graces . 8 I remember only your savagery . It would be good to arrive in the mountains, poised in a secret recess on the rock facea god there might give me an airborne lightness, make me a bird arnoung the other high floating creatures; My flight will at last touch down on the Hesperian shore that gentle garden where apples thrive 1 and girls sing. 5 66 description of Phaidra's death is very 67 �All notes refer to the Robert Bagg Translation in the series of New Greek Tragedy in Modern Translations 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 On Reading W.H. Auden's After Reading A Child's Guide To Modern Physics. Too Late For Him To Answer James Beall 112-121 153-154 29-83 176 1648-1649 1626-1629 1675-1677 1728-1735 1889-1890 2069-2092 2138-2139 525-526 721-736 1108-1110 1120-1137 1164-1167 1960-1964 2205-2208 You should have known that metaphors are zoos used to cage the animals of creation. Instead, we find confused in you a faint nebulosity of irritation. Caged, each moves within the finite knots of a path--no one to lead us. Here and there, vague symbols unite or sprout in air as if to feed us. If somewhere rings some law or regularity stroking a vast sweep of remnant star to make it sing, we might not see it true as our own heat. Yet are these laws not metaphors for lust? Created in the furnace of our brains they come to light and whirl us. In their dust, contrite and incubating, we have lain. 69 68 �Cycadia James Beall Cycadia, these the same low boil into the building hiss rising unto the jet's wail. It the same, hence years will make no difference . The heat encompassed in its vail of air gathers us like love's holding loose and slick . Our bodies, then, are our bodies, and But yet and love the metaphor for air . if insubstantial, still if fluid the holding forms a strange cyclic music , movements r emnant of a forme r self , used , translucent beneath trees . 70 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. iii, 70 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cooper, Laurie (Co-Editor) Macfarland, Joseph C. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Fall 1986 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1986 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Fall 1986. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Fall 1986 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/d74c9b17cafddaddef1603965a4613b4.pdf ae383d19d225cd2b273d8301fda978a4 PDF Text Text r FALL 1987 �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. it ... vou EVEpyEta ~wit ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) Cover: "IMPRESSIONS OF A POLISH ARTIST" by Patricia Dawson Acrylic Painting Photographed by Greg Ferguson Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland Staff: Rachel Boyce Anne Carpenter Carloss Chamberlain Jana Giles Glenn Haya Erika Hoffman Daniel Hoh Michael McShane Ange Mlinko Kenneth Paradis Dwayne Rodgers Sarah Waters Co-Editors: Laurie Cooper Rhonda Datcher Faculty Advisor: Henry Higuera Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published three times a year and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis. The Energeia staff welcomes submissipns from all members of the community-poems, stories, essays, artwork, photographs, original math proofs, and the like. �CONTENTS BEFORE FIRST SEMINAR Beth Cross 1 PRIZE-WINNING SENIOR ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS) PENTHESILIA: -A LOVE AFFAIR WITH ACHILLES-BELONGING AND HAPPINESS IN THE WORLD Catherine Irvine 2 ON THE SONNET Daniel Hoh 35 CONVERSATION #4 Brian Cole 35 UNTITLED Dwayne Rodgers 36 IOCASTA'S SONG Rachel Duel 37 ON MECHANICS, GEOMETRY, AND NEWTON'S CONCEPT OF GOD; OR, AN ATTEMPT TO READ THE PRINCIPIA AS A PHILOSOPHICAL WORK Jana Giles 38 CARTESIAN EQUATIONS FOR RECTILINEAR FIGURES Kim Paffenroth 43 IMAGINARY GEOMETRY? Marcus Eubanks 47 THE BUS RIDE Jennifer Mischer 48 THE PASSION Ange Mlinko 50 THE DEATH OF ROMEO Erika Wilson 51 ARIADNE ASHORE Claudia Probst 52 CONVERSATIONS WITH THE MOON Beth Cross 53 PRIZE-WINNING JUNIOR ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS) REFLECTIONS ON LEIBNIZIAN SUBSTANCE Robert Demajistre 55 AT CALVERT CLIFFS Gretchen Berg 64 UNTITLED Anne Carpenter 64 THE CONVERSATION Adam Eggers 65 BRIDGE Tequila Brooks 66 IN THE BLACK Patricia Dawson 67 HONORABLE MENTION-FRESHMAN ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS) A DISSCUSSION OF JUSTICE AND ITS EVOLUTION IN AESCHYLUS' ORESTEIA TRILOGY Kenneth Paradis 68 A LETTER FROM AN ALUMNUS 79 �-----~-~------------------------------- -------- Before First Seminar Beth Cross ('88) The evening from solid stone rises s o sure of itself that our footsteps only echoe, the blue that does not stir with out passing words. In the twilight our ideas fold into themselves, their impression forms silent curves in the conversations held under the twinkling sillhouettes of locust leaves . What we cover in our eyes what is hidden from our gaze, the night already knows as if whispered far out at sea where the tide unbridled decides its heav ing weight in favor of the shore--a balance, returning We are returning t o each other ' s ta l k to the quiet of well- lighted rooms where behind straight back chairs black ·rectangles of night hang listening. We bend with intent and pending breath to the voyage. 1 �Penthesilia: -A Love Affair With AchillesBelonging and Happiness in the World Catherine Irvine ('87) My essay is concerned with finding happiness in the world. In The Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle tells us, "all knowledge and every pursuit aims at some good. Verbally there is very general agreement; for both the general run of men and people of superior refinement say that it is happiness " (Bk. I, Ch . 3 : l i nes 13-21). He goes on to say that the nature of happiness, however, is not so easily agreed upon. I can only offer a personal thought: happiness is a contentment which is achieved when an individual is in harmony with himself and has gained the things he deems are important for him. I may perhaps be forgiven for the vague character of my def inition, since it is not happiness that I want to explore. I would like to show that the ability to be happy depends upon an important relationship: an individual's feeling of belonging in the world. It is my impression, and I readily admit it stems from personal experience, that in the modern world we lack a sense of place . It is a world in which the laws governing behavior are constantly shifting, and the notions of the 'the good' are always changing. No doubt these things were t rue in Aristotle's world also, but I think that without a sense of place in the configuration of the whole, it is much more dif ficult to come to be happy in the world than it has been in the past. In support of this notion that we lack belonging in the world and that this af fects our ability to achieve happiness, I will compare two charac.ters from literary 1 works. The first is Homer's Achilleus • The second is Penthesilea , Queen of the Amazons, from a play of her name . It was written by the early nineteenth century playwright Heinrich von Kleist. The premise I go on is that the nature of an artist's work reflects, in some measure, the consciousness of the people of his time . The time gap between these two works will then allow a comparison of how a classical individual and a modern individual each feels in relation to his world , and , base d upon that, a sense of whether or not he can come to be content in the world. The choice of these two characters from these particular wo r ks is not a random one, nor does it rest entirely on the fact that they were pr oduced in such different times. Penthesilea purposefully invites comparison with The Iliad . The most general way in which the two works are connected i s in t he action of the p l ay: i t t akes place during the Trojan War, after Achilleus has killed Hektor . Kleist makes use of the myth that the Amazons, led by Penthesilea, went to the battle at Troy as allies of Priam. Kleist also plays upon the story that Achilleus slew Penthesilea and fell in love with her as she died at his feet . But the interesting thing about Penthesilea is that Kleist alters these myths. In the play, the Amazons are allied with no one, and it is not Achilles who kills their Queen, but Penthesilea who kills her beloved, Achilles, in a maenad-like frenzy that calls to mind Euripides's Bacchae. The s i mi l aritie s be t ween the works connect them closely , but it is alterations like these that make it intriguing to try to discover what Kleist intended to convey in the play . Kleist brings to bear his interpretation of Achilleus in his treatment of his own characters, Penthesilea and Achilles. Penthesilea reflects certain aspects of Achilleus, while Achilles takes on other characteristics of the great hero. Penthesilea displays many of the striking feature of Achilleus. For example, she too 2 seeks fame, the fame gained through conquering the most renowned figure in The Iliad . She says, "Once more the battle calls me to the field./ That young, defiant war- god I will tame him . / My friends , ten thousand suns melted into one/ Vast heat - ball seem not half so bright to me,/ So glorious, as victory over him" (Scene 5: p. 186). She is also protrayed as splendid, decked out in "war's rich panoply" (Scene 1: p. 168), and thirsty for the clamour of battle. Odysseus describes his first sight of her in the following way: as the dawn comes creeping up the sky Amazement seizes us ... For there in the wide valley at our feet Fiercely engaged with all the Trojan force We see the Amazons! Penthesilea, As storm winds sweep and rend the scudding wrack, Tumbles the fleeing Trojans down the vale As though her only though across the Hellespont, Ay, off earth's orb itself, to scatter them. (Scene 1: p. 168) Penthesilea, like Achilleus, is the child of an immortal and a mortal, Ares and the Amazon Queen Otrere. She also has about her the air of haughtiness that Achilleus possesses. There is another important respect in which Penthesilea and Achilleus resemble each other. Just as Achilleus must weigh his two fates against one another, Penthesilea must struggle with the way in which she should live her life: as a woman or as a warrior who thrives on the violence of battle. Achilleus, once Patroklos has died, moves in fury towards the end of his life and the glory that will be his. So too does Penthesilea strive after the fall of Achilles, because of the good she thinks this act will bring her. Achilles resembles his namesake in less striking and less flattering ways. He falls short of the image one has of Achilleus, for the depth of spirit and strength of character that Achilleus displays in The Iliad are transferred from his character into that of Penthesilea. For example, Achilleus' s refusal to participate in the fighting following his conflict with Agamemnon is interpreted by Kleist as an insensitivity to the needs and desires of his fellow Greeks. In the play, when Agamemnon orders his forces to stop fighting senselessly with the Amazons, Achilles disregards the orders and instead pursues his own personal goal, which is to capture Penthesilea and have his way with her. He says, Fight then like eunuchs, if it pleases you. A man I feel myself to these women, Though alone of all the host, I'll stand my ground. ••. All's one to me; by heav'n you have my blessing, If you would creep away to Troy again. ••. In short, go off. I'll follow you to Troy; I'll soon have had my way with her. But though I had to woo her many long months through Ay, years - I will not guide my chariot there ••. Nor once again see Ilium's tower'd heights, Until I first have had my sport with her. · (Scene 4: p. 185 ) Here Kleist's contempt for the cause of Achilleus's anger, the abduction of Briseis, 3 �is revealed. He makes Achilles involved only in satisfying his own desires, which in this case involve no high goal of honor, but simply the bedding of a woman. Kleist also protrays Achilles as dishonest and manipulative. In Scene 11, he walks into the Amazon encampment completely unarmed and speaking words of peace. Yet he comes accompanied by men who are armed, and he feels no compunction at ordering them to kill the women who threaten him. This is Kleist's reading of what Achilleus does in Book IX of The Iliad: he presents himself as being moved by things that inspire his desire for a swift return to Phthia, when he is actually moved by pride and bitter anger against Agamemnon. One thing that Kleist does do, however, is to give the character of Achilles the epithet 'god-like.' No other character in the play is consistently given such an epithet. In line with this, Kleist retains the Homeric image in the clear way he describes Achilles: Radiant he stands upon the rising ground, Cased all in steel his steed and he; sapphire Nor chrysolite cannot throw back such rays! The earth herself, the gay, flower-sprinkled earth, Wrapped now in thunder vapors' blackest gloom, Lies but a dark background, a murky foil, To make his flashing glory brighter yet! ( Scene 7: pp. 198-199; First Girl ) This passage calls to mind the image of Achilleus standing upon the ditch and screaming, helped by Athena who drapes the aegis about his shoulders and sets him all ablaze with fire ( Iliad, Bk. XVIII: lines 203-206) . Yet it is nothing but a description that has a resemblance to that scene. It lacks the power Achilleus wields in that moment and the sorrow that has engulfed his heart. Kleist's Achilles is incapable of such depth of emotion. Though both Achilles and Penthesilea share aspects of the Homeric hero, nevertheless it is Penthesilea who captures the attention. It is her on whom I will concentrate with respect to Achilleus. Because my purpose is to examine how a feeling of belonging is crucial to finding contentment in the world, I will first lay out the natures of the worlds in which these two characters live. Then, I will examine whether or not they belong in their worlds. Finally, I will present my analysis of how both characters come to contentment and of whether their contentments are compatible with their worlds. In each case, I will first put for th the Homeric situation and then contrast Penthesilea's situation with it. The world that Homer puts before us in The Iliad is a sharply defined one. Each thing has its proper place and mode of being, and each is portrayed in a detailed, clearly described manner. The most striking element in this carefully outlined world is the presence of the Olympian gods. They are introduced fully formed, and rather than being unearthly in character they are potent forces, supernaturally and physically. We see their strong presence in the very first pages of The Iliad when Apollo angrily strides down from Olympos to punish the Achaians for their treatment of Chryses (Bk. I: lines 43-52). The gods are often the inspiration for men's actions. In almost every way that a man can be moved to do something, the gods are found to be the cause. Zeus, for example, is the reason for Hektor's extraordinary valor as he makes his way unhesitatingly toward the Achaian ships in Book XV. This is a case in which the spirit of some emotion or physical attribute is instilled into men by the gods. There are also instances in which the gods introduce notions into the minds of men. In the beginning of the poem, it is mentioned that Achilleus called the Achaians to assembly be- 4 cause the thought was "a thing put into his mind 'by the goddess of the white arms, Hera" (Bk . I: line 55). Agamemnon's experience with Zeus's deceptive dream (Bk. II: lines 20-47) is another example of how the gods put ideas and courses of action into the minds of men. The gods even appear physically and attempt to make mortals do their wishes. In one memorable case, Athena appears to Achilleus and grasps him by the hair in order to stop him from attacking Agamemnon (Bk. I: lines 194-214). In a later passage, the river Skamandros, angered at Achilleus's slaughter of the Trojans, sends his flooding waters out to hold Achilleus occupied with saving himself rather than with killing men (Bk. XXI: lines 235-272). Given the unavoidable presence of the gods in their lives, the men of The Iliad put great stock in communication with the deities. Achilleus's response to Athena's words of counsel is this: 'Goddess, it is necessary that I obey ... [you] •.• /angry though I am in my heart. So it will be better./If any man obeys the gods, they listen to him also.' (Bk. I: lines 215-218) Achilleus feels the ne9essity, and the advantage, of dealing with the gods in much the same way as he would with men. It is not simply that the gods are more powerful and capable of bringing disaster down upon men. It is also because the influence of the gods in the lives of men is just as immediate as the influence that men have upon men. Libation, prayer, and sacrifice are therefore integral parts of the Homeric man's life. He seeks to know the will of the gods by observing natural phenomena, and he seeks to preserve his well-being through prayer and the rendering of proper respect. He knows that, just as men, the gods like to be shown favor. Phoenix's advice to Achilleus, when he warns of the danger of such immovable anger, captures this principle of communication with the gods: The very immortals I can be moved; their virtue and honor and strength are greater than ours are,/and yet with sacrifices and offerings for endearment,/with libations and with savour men turn back even the immortals/in supplication. (Bk. IX: lines 497-501) These words bring to light another aspect of the relationship that men have with the gods: the gods exceed men in all things, yet these things are shared in the natures of both. Indeed, all parts of the Homeric world reflect one another. Natural phenomena re fl ec t t he mood of the gods, and men are compared to both the gods , as in 'god-like Achilleus,' and to animals in nature. For example: So these lords of the Danaans killed each his own man/ . .• as wolves make havoc among lambs or young goats in their fury,/catching them out of the flocks. (BK. XVI: lines 351-353) Yet the connection between man, god, and nature goes further than this. All three are intimately tied together. There is a thread of commonality running through them. Rivers and winds are gods, men are children of the gods, and even the gods and the animals may love and produce offspring (Bk. XX: lines 215-225). Thetis, mother of Achilleus, is a good example of this merging of diff.erent beings into one another. She is a goddess, but her realm is not mystical. It is utterly natural: she is of the sea. And though she is a goddess, she was given in marriage to a mortal and bore a son from that union. 5 �Though the world of The Iliad is held together by the meeting and mixing of its parts, nevertheless it is a world of war. This means that it is a world in which all things are opposed to one another . All the parts, while overlapping into one another, remain distinct and struggle to maintain that distinction. Thetis through her association with Peleus does not forfeit her immortal status, and when she bears a son he is not a hybrid of god and man. Achilleus is human and subject to all the laws that other humans are subject to - most significantly , death. Although having a goddess for a mother endows him with privileges (such as knowing what his fate will be ) , Achilleus belongs to one specific mode of being, and that cannot be changed. One of the taboos that prohibit the attempt by a being of one kind to place himself among the ranks of another kind is the ban upon a warrior for bidding him to battle with a god. Zeus's comforting words to Aphrodite, when she suffers from an attack by Diomedes, revea l this ban: 'It was the godded Athene who drove on this man / against you; poor fool, the heart of Tydeus' son knows nothing / of how that man who fights the immortals lives for no long time.' (Bk. V: lines 405 - 407) And Achilleus too, despite his fury, stops pursuing Apollo when he discovers he is chasing a god: Deeply vexed Achilleus of the swift feet spoke to him: / 'you have balked me . . . most malignant of all gods, / when you turned me here away from the rampart, else many Trojans / would have caught the soil in their teeth .. . Now you have robbed me of great glory, and rescued these people / lightly, since you have no retribution to fear hereafter . / Else I would punish you.' ( Bk. XXIII : lines 14-20) Striving to maintain one's proper place reveals itself internally among the separate beings and it takes its form in self-assertion . There is, for instance, a constant struggle between Zeus and the other gods. Zeus finds himself compelled to pr oclaim his superiority over and over again, since the other gods are always thinking of ways to circumvent his commands. Many of the descriptive passages linking men to animals also illustrate this self - assertiveness. The passages not only show how man and animal come into conflict (like the wolves who attack man's livestock) (Bk . XVI: lines 351 - 353), but they also depict animals battling one another in an attempt to prove t hemse l ves t he stronger (Bk. XVI : l ines 823 - 829) . Among men, this self-assertiveness is displayed in vaun t ing. The war riors meet, hurl threats at one another, and when one falls or flees from fear, the other immediately begins to declare his dominance. Diomedes's fear of Hektor's boasting grasps the importance that this assertiveness has for the men of The Iliad: 'this thought comes as a bitter sorrow to my heart and my spirit; / for some day Hektor will say openly before the Trojans: / "The son of Ty deus, running before me, fled to his vessels." / So he will vaunt; and then let the wide earth open beneath me. ' (Bk. VIII: lines 147-150) The strong presence that the past has for both gods and men contributes to the significance of autonomy in the Homeric world. The closeness felt to the people and events of the past causes men and gods to be acutely aware of their own being and position in the world. The value that is placed upon genealogies illustrates the 6 weight which the past carries . When Glaucos and Diomedes face one another in Book VI, they give up any hostile stance as soon as they discover the friendship t hat had existed between t heir fathers (Bk. VI : lines 119- 231) . Connected to the proximity that the past has to the present is the power of fate in the world . Jus t as all t hat has occurred has a strong influence on the way that men and gods behave, so too does fate bring them close to the world in all its forms . It gives all their actions an important and immovable place in the patterns of their lives, and this in turn gives their lives a definite place in the pattern of the whole . Despite the opposition between groups and within them, everything is once again connected by a thread of commonality through fat e. Fate exists externally to all things . It operates from the outside, reaching into the world to tie it up into a whole. No one, not even a god, has the ability to evade it . Zeus has the power to direct the course of events and set the mechanism of fate in motion. He looks far ahead to see what must occur in order that all the ele ments in the cosmos (actions, emotions, etc.) may come together and bring destiny to fulfillment . He tells Hera, 'le t Pho i bos Apollo stir Hektor back into battle,/breathe strength into him • .• Let him drive strengthless / panic into the Achaians, and turn them back ... Let them be driven in flight and tumble back onto the benched ships/ ... And [Achilleus] shall rouse up Patroklos/ . . . And glorious Hektor shall cut down Patroklos / .•. In anger for him brilliant Achilleus shall then kill Hektor.' (Bk . XV : lines 59-68) Although from passages like this it might seem that Zeus can arbitrarily arrange what is to take place , it must be remembered that behind all the scheming lies the general question of Achilleus's destiny and the manner of its fulfillment. It is not simply the accomplishment of Thetis's request that Zeus grant her son glory , it is also t ha t Achilleu s must die if he is granted that glory . If he kills Hektor , t hen he will die. Even Zeus must work under the dictates of fate. His own wishes are irrelevant. He cannot save Sarpedon from death (Bk. XVI : lines 433 - 457), and when Hekt or finally faces Achilleus, Zeus mus t check his golden scales if it is truly the right moment for Hektor to die (Bk. XXII : lines 208 - 212) . The world of The Iliad is hence very ordered . There are certain laws which op erate in specific ways , and each object has its own place in the scheme of things. It can be looked at alone, clearly outlined by the things around it , or it can be seen as a distinct unit that goes into the structure of the whole . The world of Penthesilea could no t be mor e different f r om the Homeric one . The comment that best describes i t is uttered by a Greek man whom the Amazons have captured . He asks , "was ever dream so crazed as this reality?" (Scene 6: p. 197). Penthesilea' s world is full ~f confusion. It consists of a swirling mass of circumstances which do not come together in any coherent whole . There is nothing in the play which can be looked at in its own right without reference to other things, things both in the play as well as those brought to it by the reader. For instance, the memory of The Iliad is present throughout; Euripides's Bacchae, in its most hor rifying moment, is reproduced in Achilles's death; Phaedra's consuming passion for Hippolyt us i s c l e a r ly pre sent in Penthesilea ; and the myth of Actae on 's death, his punishment for looking upon Artemis while she bathed, is also woven into the tale. The descriptive passages bring to a focus the c9nfusion which is prevalent in the play. The dust which the armies raise up as they wage war obscures the vision, so that those looking on cannot see what is happening: One great dust cloud, 7 �With flashes here and there of arms and armor: The eye is helpless, strain how it will to see. A struggling mass of maids - and horses too All in a jumbled welter. Chaos' self, The aboriginal, had more of order. (Scene 3: p. 180; Dolopian) The contrast between The Iliad and Penthesilea is pointed out descriptively by Kleist himself. There is a vision of Achilles rising over the top of a hill, clearly visible in every part: Look! Look! Do you not see? Above that ridge A head appearing , plumed and helmeted? And now the neck - the massive neck beneath? The shoulders now, the arms in flashing steel? Now! Now! - The mighty, deep-set chest; oh see! ... His horses now, their white -starred foreheads - See! His chariot's steeds; still but their legs - their hooves Are hidden by the summit of the ridge. Ah, now! Clear-cut against the sky behold The whole equipage, blazing like the sun That rises jubilant in his early spring. (Scene 3 : p. 177; Myrmidon) Yet within a very short time, a cloud of dust billows up in pursuit of Achilles: But, look! Behind him - ! ••• At the mountain's foot Dust Dust, uptowering like a thundercloud And like the lightning sweeping on (Scene 3: p. 178) The world of confusion in Penthesilea is pursuing the clearly delineated figure from the Homeric world. The first clue in the action of the play pointing to the confusion in this world is provided in the opening scenes. The Greeks and the Trojans have no idea why the Amazons have burst into the midst of their conflict. Each thinks that Penthesilea must have come to fight beside one or the other , but she quickly disabuses them of this idea. The Amazons' are at Troy for their own special reason: to reap a crop of magnificent warriors to take back to Themiscyra as future fathers of their children. The Amazons' independence in this war between the Trojans and the Greeks spreads confusion. The sensible way in which the war was being waged, Greek against Trojan, is disturbed. The antagonists find themselves allied against the warrior women. Odysseus says in bewilderment , Each force in Nature , creates its opposite And fights with this; no room for any third. What quenches fire will not make water boil And turn to steam; likewise the opposite. Yet here appears a deadly foe of both, That makes fire doubt: should it not flow like water? And water; should it haply burn like fire? 8 The hard-press'd Trojan, .fleeing the Ama3on Shelters behind a Grecian shield; the Greek Defends him from the maiden's blade, and both Trojan and Greek are almost forced, despite The rape of Helen, to hold each o~her friends And join to fight a common enemy. (Scene 1: p. 170) Among the Amazons themselves there is much confusion. Penthesilea is thrown into confusion at her first sight of Achilles (Scene 1: p. 169; Ody.), and from that point on her disturbance communicates itself to her army. Bent upon pursuing Achilles, she ceases to pay careful attention to her role as leader of the Amazon host. As a result, none of her people knows exactly what is going on. Penthesilea a lso ultimately causes the physical disbandment of her army. She orders that no one other than herself may harm Achilles. Hence, when he comes marching into the Amazon camp no one can stop him. Penthesilea refuses to leave, and the army must abandon her and flee leaderless in many directions. In this world of confusion, nature, so communicative in Homer's Iliad, is hostile. The landscape is hard and cold, full of dust and rfck. Indeed, it serves only as a landscape, a place in which human action is staged. Through its lifeless dust it clouds the sight, and with its rocks it hinders human progress, unrelenting in the face of human advances (Scene 2: p. 175-176). We see young Amazon girls eargerly seek for roses in the plain, but the land is not bountiful. It will not serve their need, but keeps itself protected from interaction with them: 'tis harder far to win Roses upon these fields than prisoners. Though on the hills around the bounteous harvest Of Argive youths stand rank on rank and wait Only for reaping by the eager scythe, Yet in these vales so sparingly, believe me, And so well-fortified the roses bloom, That it is lighter work to hew through lances Than break a way through their entwined thorns. (Sc ene 6: p. 194; Second Girl) In this world no river god, not even in anger, would raise its voice to speak with a mortal in the way that Skamandros spoke to Achilleus (Iliad, Bk. XXI: lines 211-221). Just as nature is devoid of communicative life, ~oo are the gods far away. This is seen in many ways, and it is even said by Prothoe, queen Penthisilea's closest companion: "what thy eyes behold, /It is the world, our transient, brittle world,/On which the gods look down but from afar" (Scene 24: p. 261). When the gods are present, it is in name only. They do not speak, they do not come down from Olympos to aid or to hinder, and they send no omens or dreams. A good example of the distance that the gods have from the lives of men is found in Penthesilea's relationship with her father, Ares. Whereas Achilleus always has close contact with Thetis and hears what his fate will be from her lfps, Penthesilea never comes into contact with her father. Though she does hear from him that she is to lead the Amazons against the men at Troy, it is her mortal mother Otrere who tells her this. Another sign of man's alienation from the gods is the presence of a priesthood. Although there are priests in The Iliad like Chryses and interpreters like Kalchas, these do not play as great a role in the lives of men as the gods themselves do. But in Penthesilea, the priestesses of Diana serve as mediators between the goddess and her people . Diana's words and Ares's words come through the mouths of mortals (Scene 7: 9 �p. 199; High Priestess). It is not, however, quite correct to say that the gods have disappeared altogether. In their external manifestations, the way we know them from The Iliad, they are gone. But they reappear in Penthesilea in different form. They are stirrings within the individual. They belong to the human soul. Penthesilea is the character through which we see them. She often speaks of the powerful presences that are with her, but these presences are companions of her emotions, not the causes of the emotions. In her passionate haste to bind Achilles to her on the battlefield, Penthesilea feels the presence of the furies, and when she believes she has conquered him she feels beneficial deities joining her. She tells Prothoe, Let my poor heart Like a dirt-dabbled, happy child, sink deep One wondrous moment in the stream of joy. With every splash in those exultant waves A stain is washed from my sad, sinful breast. They flee at last, the dread Eumenides; I feel the approach of godlike presences And I would join my voice to their happy choir. (Scene 14: p. 221) These furies are not of the same kind as those who pursued Orestes, seeking vengeance for his matricide. They are not given external form. They are tools with which Penthesilea describes the nature of her own passions and desires. These 'furies' push Penthesilea in the same way the Eumenides drove Orestes to Apollo's sanctuary, but they push from within. There can be no such statements as "He [Apollo] spoke, and breathed huge strength into the shepherd of the people [Hektor]" (Iliad, Bk. XV: line 262) in Penthesilea, for such stirrings belong entirely to the soul. Penthesilea also says, "Man can be great in grief, ay, even a hero, /But only in happiness is he a god" (Scene 14: p. 222). What she is conveying through these words is that the clear boundaries between man and god that exist in The Iliad are lacking in her world. The gods have moved from Olympos into the human heart, and man himself can, upon achieving happiness, become a god. He is not 'god-like,' he is god, and he can be ruler over all things, not just over other men. Penthesilea, in her one moment of joy commands, "Out then and seek o'er the fields! And if /The niggard spring refuse me roses, breathe,/Breathe on the plain and it will burgeon for me!" (Scene 14: p. 220). Since the gods no longer are jn their own right, there are no ceremonious attempts to be in harmony with them. There are no libations, no hecatombs, and the only time something like a prayer is uttered, it is in a call of desperation - a cry that begs for the aid and presence of the gods in a world that is empty of them: nThee, Ares, I invoke, thou terrible one! /Thee, awful founder of our house, I call!/Oh! Swiftly send me down thy brazen car" (Scene 20: p. 246; Penthesi5ea). In the same way that the gods have lost their own forms and have become part of human heart, fate loses its external power to pull the world together in a grand scheme. It is changed into an extension of the human will . When Penthesilea refuses to flee from Achilles and his henchmen who come to raid the Amazon camp, Prothoe tells her, "Then, as thou wilt!/ If thou canst not, wilt not - good! Dry they eyes./ What thou canst not achieve: the gods forbid/ That I should ask it of thee" (Scene 9: p. 20~And when the High Priestess remarks contemptuously, "Cannot! I Though nothing holds her, no fate binds her here/ Only her infatuate heart!" (ibid), Prothoe retorts, 10 That is her fate!· You'd say steel fetters are unbreakable, Would you not? I say: she could break them, perchance, But never this feeling you treat so lightly. What darkly stirs within her, who can say? A riddle is every heart's deep-flowing tide. (ibid . ) Penthesilea's world lacks the nicely constructed pattern of Achilleus's world. The rules are harder to understand, since both the power of the gods and of fate have been transported into the individual. Penthesilea must bear all responsibility for her thoughts and actions. She cannot say, as Agamemnon can, that her anger comes from Zeus (Iliad , Bk. XIX: lines 76-138 ). In addition, Penthesilea lacks the security of knowing that her actions are fated to be as they are and that they are leading her toward a definite and unavoidable end. She must also bear the burden of choice: she governs the direction that her life will take. Again, the High Priestess says of her, "Oh, she runs steeply down to the abyss!/ 'Tis not to Achilles she will fall, when he/ Encounters her, but to this inner foe" (Scene 7: p. 200). The world of Penthesilea is turned upside down. Though the play takes place in the same world that Homer described, nothing is as it was in The Iliad. Order has become confusion. The next question is to see if the relationships that these two characters have with their worlds undergo the same reversal: is Achilleus at home in his world while Penthesilea is not? The first thing to notice about Achilleus is that he does not doubt his world. He does not question what he sees or hears, and he does not doubt his own judgments about what is around him. For instance, he accepts Athena automatically when she descends to stop him from raising his sword against Agamemnon: The goddess standing behind Peleus' son caught him by the fair hair,/ appearing to him only, for no man of the others saw her./ Achilleus in amazement turned about, and straightway/ knew Pallas Athene and the terrible eyes shining. (Bk. I: lines 197-200) To someone not comfortable in the Homeric world, it seems incredible that Achilleus does not think he is seeing things when he turns to see a mighty goddess at his back. But if we take Homer at his word, then we must say that Achilleus not only sees Athena, but faces her without a qualm. A similar thing occurs when Skamandros speaks in anger to the manslaughtering warrior on his banks (Bk. XXI: lines 211-213). It is no surprise to Achilleus that a river should be holding a conversation with him, nor is he shocked when his horse, Xanthos, given voice by Hera, prophecies his death (Bk. XIX: lines 404- 424). In the same vein, Achilleus is always capable of telling a friend from an enemy. Once he has decided that Agamemnon is against him, he never wavers in his distrust and dislike for the lord of the Achaians. Even when Achilleus 'unsays' his anger, he indicates that he must force himself to do so, to push away from his mind the anger "'sweeter ... by far than the dripping of honey"' (Bk. XVIII: line 110). 'We will let all this be a thing of the past, though i t hurts us,/and beat down by constraint the anger that rises inside us.' (Bk. XIX: lines 65 - 66) Achilleus judges friend from enemy on the basis of behavior . If he finds that their sympathies are not truly with him, then he will put no trust in men . For instance, when Agamemnon sends Phoenix, Aias, and Odysseus to Achilleus to try to lure 11 �him back into the fighting with gifts, Achilleus responds with aloofness. This indicates that he feels, and rightly so, that the embassy is working towards Agamemnon's benefit rather than his own. Achilleus does not believe that the embassy comes to him because Agamemnon has truly acknowledged his value. He knows Agamemnon sent them from fear. His response to Odysseus in particular revels his skepticism: 'Son of Laerties and seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus:/without consideration for you I must make my answer,/the way I think, and the way it will be accomplished,that you may not/come one after another, and sit by me, and speak softly./ For as I detest the doorways of Death, I detest that man, who/hides one thing in the depths of his heart, and speaks forth another.' (Bk. IX: lines 308-313) Achilleus also has conviction in his fate. This is shown in the way he takes action based upon what he knows, from Thetis, of his fate. For example, Achilleus's decision to kill Hektor following the death of Patroklos, though it certainly stems from grief and a desire for revenge, is also influenced by his knowledge that after Hektor dies he too is doomed to die . It may sound odd for a man to wish for his own end, but Achilleus knows that if he dies young he will achieve everlasting glory ?nd he wants this glory more than anything else. Thus, Achilleus intends not only to kill Hektor, but to do so in as spectacular a way as possible: 'Now I shall go, to overtake that killer of a dear life,/ Hektor; then I will accept my own death ..• Now I must win excellent glory.' (Bk. XVIII: lines 114-121) Although Achilleus does have moments in which he doubts that his fate will come about exactly as his mother has promised, the most striking of which occurs when he is trapped by the swirling waters of Skamandros (Bk. XX!: lines 273-278), he generally is sure that his fate will take place as his mother has foretold. He takes her words seriously . This is shown when he sends Patroklos out to drive the Trojans from the Achaian ships. Achilleus later reveals that he suspected, or perhaps even knew without a doubt, that Patroklos would die: 'May the gods not the way my mother while I yet lived light of the sun the strong son of accomplish vile sorrows upon the heart in me/in once made it clear to me, when she told me/how the bravest of all the Myrmidons/must leave the beneath the hands of the Trojans./Surely, the, Menoitios has perished.' (Bk. XVIII: lines 8-12) This passage explains why Achilleus so urgently warns Patroklos to return once he had driven the Trojans from the ships. Achilleus knew in his heart that he was sending Patroklos to his death, but because he wanted the accomplishment of his fate, for which he knew Hektor must die, he sent Patroklos out while warning him strongly: 'You must not, in the pride and fury of fighting , go on/slaughtering the Trojans, and lead the way against Ilion,/for fear some one of the everlasting gods on Olympos/might crush you. (Bk. XVI: lines 91-94) His next statement truly indicates that Achilleus knows much more about what will happen than he lets on. Though he has, "deeply troubled," told Patroklos, "'I have 12 no prophecy in mind that I know of'" (Bk . XVI: line 50), he now tells him , "'Apollo who works from afar loves these people/dearly. You must turn back once you bring the light of salvation/to the ships'" (Bk . XVI: lines 94-96). And indeed it is Apollo who brings about Patroklos's destruction (Bk . XVI: lines 786-792). The serious way in which Achilleus treats his fate suggests that he has an understanding of how his world works, and this in turn indicates that he is at home in his world. The shield which Hephaistos fashioned for him is a tribute to Achilleus's belonging in the world. Though we do not see him experience all the different facets of life on the shield, he is the one who carries it, and he is the only one who can look upon it: The goddess ... set down the armour on the ground/before Achilleus, and all its elaboration clashed loudly./Trembling took hold of all the Myrmidons. None had the courage/to look straight at it. They were afraid of it. Only Achilleus/looked. (Bk . XIX: lines 12-16) Achilleus belongs in his world. Penthesilea, however, is displaced in the already twisted character of her world. There are individuals in the play, like Prothoe, who do belong in that world. That means that it is possible to be comfortable in that world, though it is not the case with Penthesilea. The Amazon way of life and character in itself isolates and displaces Penthesilea from the world at large. The Amazons live in a secluded community, in the company only of women. When they do leave the confines of the community, it is only to go on raids to win men from whom they can continue their race (Scene 15: p. 232-233; Penthesilea) . Strict rules maintain that they can only gain these men as lovers by conquering them in battle. Penthesilea tells Achilles, Son of the dread sea-goddess! Not for me The common arts of gentler womanhood! ... I may not, as do your maids, chose my love And draw him to me with shy downward eyes Or with bright wanton nosegay ... I may not in the dark- leaved orange grove, ..• Sink on his breast and tell him it is he. No, on the bloody field of war must I go seek him, That youth my heart has chosen for its own, And clip him to me with harsh arms of brass. (Scene 15 : p. 228) The Amazon tradition of only coming into contact with men through war, and their custom of searing off one breast to facilitate use of the bow, set them apart from the usual mode of being for women. The Amazons inhibit the female inclination to love and be loved by men, and they only allow for it in the warped context of agression and dominance. Achilles asks Penthesilea, "But whence can spring, how ancient is that law,/Unwomanly, forgive me, nay, unnatural,/A custom strange to all the tribes of men?" (Scene 15: p. 228). Yet even mor e unnatural than this style of life and approach to the female constitution is the Amazon ability .to mix together both the feelings involved in aggres sive conflict, feelings of hate, with feelings of love and affection. Once the maiden warriors have gained their prize, they let their warlike feelings fade away, and they cultivate feelings of · love from which they can unite with their prisoners to produce offspring. There is a passage in which this odd 'reversibility of ·the Amazon character is protrayed: a group of Amazons tries to approach their Greek prisoners 13 �with love . But the prisoners, just recently confronted with these women in battle, cannot comprehend this friendly behavior. To make the situation even more bizarre, the Amazons cannot understand why their prisoners do not realize that they intend them no harm, but would like to treat them like kings in the lap of luxury . One Amazon asks, "Strange- mooded men! What gnaws thus at your hearts?/ Now that our ar rows sleep within the quiver,/ How can the sight of us affright you still?" (Scene 6: p . 196). Penthesilea is therefore not in harmony with the world because of this Amazon duality: the ability to one moment feel the hate necessary to wage war and the next moment to feel love. It is as Odysseus remarked: "Should [water] haply burn like fire?" ( Scene 1: p. 170 ) . The Amazons not only completely atter their perceptions and emotions, but they do so towards the same individuals. But Penthesilea is displaced in this already odd situation. For the Amazons, these feelings of love or hate should only accompany the suitable circumstance of war or victory and peace. Penthesilea cannot keep these feelin~ apart. She wants to conquer Achilles in battle, and the same time she has chosen him out specifically because she is infatuated with him and wants to become his lover. When Penthesilea looks upon Achilles, she is beset by both her emotions of love and hate: I long to see him grov'lling at my feet, This haughty man, who in this glorious And gentle field of arms, as no man yet, Sows strange confusion in my warlike heart . •.. Do I not feel - ah! Too accursed I While all around the Argive army flees, When I look on this man, on him alone, That I am smitten, lamed in my inmost being, Conquered and overcome - I! Only I! ( Scene 5: p. 186-187 ) The High Priestess points out how strange a thing it is to have among the Amazons a especially a Queen, so overcome with love: wo~an, The Queen, you say? Impossible my friend! Pierced by love's shaft? How can that be? ... She who doth wear the girdle of diamonds? The daughter of Mars, who lacks even the breast Where Cupid's poison'd shafts may strike and lodge? (Scene 7: p. 200) Because Penthesilea cannot untangle her aggressive feelings from her softer, yielding ones, she finds i t impossible to see anything in a unified way. Unlike Achilleus who puts much trust in what he sees other men do, Penthesilea cannot judge others. Her own thoughts and emotions make it hard for her to see what people are actually doing. For example, she has both admiration and affection for her Amazon people, yet she swiftly turns against them in anger: Curses upon this beastly, wanton haste! ••• A curse on lusts that in my Amazons' Chaste hearts like unleashed dogs do howl and quite O'erwhelm the trumpet's brazen-throated voice And all the leaders' cries of shrill command. Victory - is that yet won, that you should thus 14 In fiendish mockery pluck triumphal garlands? (Scene 9: p. 204) Penthesilea herself has given the order for the plucking of the roses, and she herself is the one who longs for love while the battle still rages on. But in her distracted state she is not aware of these things, and she sees those who are merely carrying out her orders as ridiculing her and as trying to take away her last chance of winning Achilles in battle. This is anger against herself., but the anger is so potent that it infects her ability to see objectively. Therefore, she strikes out at friends as though they were enemies. Penthesilea' s displacement both in the world and in .the Amazon environment does not just show itself in her projected anger or in her conflicting emotions. She is in real doubt about her world and herself in that world. Compared to Achilleus who i s sur e of himself, Penthesilea is a lost individual. She questions what the ru l es are that govern her behavior. She wonders if it is right to try to win her beloved through battle: Is mine the fault that I must woo him thus, Here on the field of war must force his love? What is it I long for, when I strike at him? Is it to send him headlong to the shades? I long - ye gods above! I only long To this warm beast I long to draw him close! (Scene 9: p. 203) And she wonders if it is not, rather, right to give way to her womanly feelings and yield herself to Achilles as any other woman would. Her questioning of Amazon law reveals itself in her discussion with Achilles: like the fiery hurricano's blast, We sweep into the forest of the menfolk, Snatch up the ripest of the fallen fruit .•. And bear them with us to our native plains. •.• Here we conduct them in Diana's temple Through many a solemn rite ... •.. The seed is sown, and when the crop is up, We heap on them full measure of glorious gifts; On steeds richly caparisoned we send Them home. The Fea~t of Fruitful Mothers this, In soo t h a fes t ival of little joy. Ah, son of Thetis! Many a tear is shed, And many a heart, fast gripped by dresry grief, Must ask itself: is Tanais The Great For every binding word so praiseworthy? (Scene 15: p. 233) Penthesilea does not just question, however. She actually loses all ability to recognize things for what they are. When she sees herself reflected in Achilles's armour, she is not sure who she sees (Scene 5: p. 186-187). And though she is very dependent on Prothoe, at one time she believes Prothoe to be working for her cause, while at another time she thinks her friend wants only to thwart her (Scene 5: p. 189-193). This is because Penthesilea is never positive about what her cause is: is it the well-being of her host, or is it her own satisfaction? 15 �Am I selfish? Is it !!!I desires Alone that call me back into the field? Is it not my people, threatened by the fate That even in the maniac flush of victory With audible wingbeat hastens from afar? ••• These captive youths that you have taken in fight. You'll never lead them to the fragrant vales Of our homeland ••• •.• Lurking in ambush, crafty, insatiate, I see him everywhere - Achilles, ready to spring Upon your happy train and scatter it. (Scene 5: p. 188) Ev.e n when Achilles is before her Penthesilea wonders i f h~ is really the man she has heard so much about: Achilles! That man that slew old Priam's greatest son Before the walls of Troy - Say! Was it thou? And didst thou truly, thou, with these thy hands Pierce his fleet ankles, then behind thy car Drag him headlong around his native city? (Scene 15: p. 225) '0 wrapped in shamelessness, with your mind forever on profit, /how shall any one of the Achaians readily obey you/either to go on a journey or to fight men strongly in battle?' (Book I: lines 149-151) Achilleus, with his genuine desire to halt the crisis and find a way to placate all concerned, thinks himself a better man than Agamemnon. The accusations that follow, however, point to an envy that Achilleus has long harbored for Agamemnon: "Never, when the Achaians sack some well- founded citadel/ of the Trojans, do I have a prize that is equal to your prize./ Always the greater part of the fighting is the work of /my hands; but when the time comes to distribute the booty /yours is far the greater reward.' (Book I: lines 163-167) At this moment it is evident that Achilleus is resentful because he is not given the kind of recognition he thinks he deserves. He knows himself to be the 'best of the Achaians,' and he cannot endure the thought that another man, whom he considers both less noble and less warlike, should receive more honor simply because he is lord over many men . Taking into consideration Achilleus's knowledge of his two fates, it is possible to reconstruct the way he must have felt about the enterprise at Troy, in order that this disappointment over Agamemnon be so bitter for him. Knowing that in Troy he faced death, but also everlating glory, Achilleus must have envisioned a splendid career in the Argive host. But though he is recognized as the mightiest warrior among them, Achilleus is never treated as well as Agaemenon is • He finds himself continually dominated by Agamemnon. He ·is disillusioned. When Agamemnon threatens to take Briseis, Achilleus can no longer control his envy. This the ultimate dis honoring, and he is furious because instead of being honored as he had dreamt of being, he has been humiliated. He says, At times, so bewildered and immersed in her powerful emotions is Penthesilia that she does not know where she is. In her joy at discovering that Achilles is her prisoner, 9 though this is a deception, she is so elated that she thinks herself in Themiscyra (Scene 14: p. 221), and when she wakes from her final madness she thinks she is in Elysium (Scene 24: p. 261). Finally, Penthesilea herself embodies that strange Amazon duality of love and hate. She feels in extremes: joy, bitter sorrow, anger, or all three synthesized into one blinding emotion. In her physical appearance, too, she brings together the conflicting elements of the dufoity. She is very beautiful, and her eyes have enough allure to draw any man to her. She is soft and delicate, the epitome of a yielding woman. Yet her beauty is encased in war gear, and she seems indestructible. Antilochus says of her, "A foaming-jawed hyena! 'Tis no woman!" (Scene 2: p. 176). In embodying this duality, Penthesilea is not at home in the world. She is made up of teeming opposites. Though Achilleus also has conflicting elements within him, he belongs in his world and because of this is able to bring those conflicting parts together - to achieve a resolution. Penthesilea, who has no firm ground to stand upon, cannot find resolution in the world. She does attain a kind of harmony with herself, but when she does so she must do it in madness, and when it is over she cannot remain in the world. Achilleus, on the other hand, comes to a resolution which endows him with a fulness of character that is truly great in the world. I will now examine how each of these characters comes to a resolution, and what those resolutions mean. Achilleus belongs in the world, but he is dissatisfied with the way it treats him. His criticisms of Agamemnon suggest certain things about the way Achilleus thinks about himself. He becomes angry at Agamemnon's behavior over Chryseis, and he accuses Agamemnon of being, in effect, childish in his attachment to his prize (Book I: lines 122-129). This suggests that Achilleus is sensitive to an ignoble side of Agamemnon's character. The Achaian men are dying because of Apollo's anger, and Agamemnon will not give up the girl to rectify the situation. Achilleus is astounded that such a man would be considered a kingly leader: Through the course of the story, however, a change takes place in Achilleus. At the start, he is acutely aware that his desires are not being satisfied. But from the moment that the entreats Thetis to plead with Zeus on his behalf (Bk. I: lines 393-412), he sets in motion a chain of events that not only results in the fulfillment of his desires, but also causes a growth in his understanding of himself in the world. The death of Patroklos is the pivotal point in this process. Hence, an examination of Achilleus 's attitudes towards himself and towards what will make him happy, both before and after the death of his companion, wil~ afford a view of what this change in Achilleus entails. In Book IX, Achilleus is a young man with a dream of glory. He is drawn to the warrior's life and the fame that accompanies excellent deeds , but he does not have any notion of what that dream will be when it is translated into reality. Achilleus concentrates on the glory which is foretold, and he does not give much thought to the death that is involved. On one hand this is odd, since as a warrior Achilleus has been faced with death many times, and he is at home on the bloody battlefield. On the other hand, Achilleus sends Patroklos out into the fighting even though he knows that his friend will die. Achilleus does this for the sake of his fate. He knows that he is sac- 16 17 'the heart in me swells up in anger, when I remember/the disgrace that he wrought upon me before the Argives,/the son of Atreus, as if I were some dishonored vagabond.' (Bk. IX: lines 646-648) �rificing Patroklos. Yet, despite prior knowledge of the event, Achilleus experiences real agony over his friend's death: the black cloud of sorrow closed on Achilleus./ In both hands he caught up the grimy dust, and poured it/ over his head and face~ and fouled his handsome contenance, I and the black ashes were scattered over his immortal tunic./ And he himself, mightily in his might, in the dust lay/ at length, and took and tore at his hair with his hands, and defiled it. (Bk. XVIII: lines 22-27) Thus, though Achilleus knew he was to suffer a great loss, he was thinking more towards what that death would accomplish than towards the death itself. Neither does Achilleus feel the force of fate, its completeness and its finality . He accepts fate as a given in his life, but he does not comprehend the range over which it operates, that it brings together many events and emotions in order to come to its accomplishment. he concentrates so much on the end result that he pays no attention to what must happen and what he must experience in order for that end of glory to be gained. Achilleus's withdrawal into the fate which promised a long but obscure life illustrates that he is not truly in touch with what life is. Because of his disappointment with the way the Achaians have treated him, he persuades himself that he wants the long life undisturbed by the turmoil of war. it is clear, however, that Achilleus has no inclination toward that life: he is an aggressive man who craves the opportunity to prove himself the bravest and the strongest of all men. He is not a man who would be happy in the confined and unchallenging world of Phthia. In Book IX, when Achilleus puts forward his reasons for wanting to return to the land of his fathers, he is speaking out of frustration. He is striking out at the Achaians because he feels hurt by them. It is a real moment for Achilleus, but he does not believe what he is saying. He explains: 'For not worth the value of my life are all the possessions they fable/ were won for Ilion ... Of possessions/cattle and fat sheep are things to be had for the lifting,/ and tripods can be won .•. but a man's life cannot come back again, it cannot be lifted/ nor captured again by force, once it has crossed the teeth's barrier.' (Bk. IX: lines 400-409) This is a profound statement, but Achilleus does not know what it means. he has already revealed the real reason for his threat to return the Phthia: his anger at Agamemnon . 'Go back and proclaim to him all that I tell you, I openly, so other Achaians may turn against him in anger/ ••• I will join with him in no counsel, and in no action./ He cheated me and he did me hurt •.• Let him of his own will/ be damned ... I hate his gifts. I hold him light as the strip of a splinter./ Not if he gave me ten times as much .•. not if he gave me gifts as many as the sand or the dust is,/ not even so would Agamemnon have his way with my spirit/until he had made good to me all this heartrending insolence.' (Bk. IX: lines 369-387) Agamemnon offers him because he cares no longer ·for gifts. He wants complete and utter recognition of his superiority. He will accept nothing less than Agamemnon's subordination beneath him. Achilleus hungers for transcendence over others, and his eyes look only toward the brightness of his fate. This is why his threat to leave for Phthia is nothing more than a threat. He intends to stay at Troy and be present for the unfolding of his destiny: 'I shall not think again of the bloody fighting/ until such a time as the son of wise Priam, Hektor the brilliant/ comes all the way to the ships... slaughtering the Argives, and shall darken with fire our vessels.' (Bk . IX: lines 650-653) Achilleus's lack of unqerstanding of the force his fate will have upon him indicates that he is not quite in touch with himself. He has a splendid vision of what he wants to be, but he has not yet found out who he is. He has not come into his own. Following the death of Patroklos, however, Achilleus is forced to confront the world that exists outside of his dreams. He tells Thetis, 'My mother, all these things the Olympian brought to accomplishment./ But what pleasure is this to me, since my dear companion has perished, I Patroklos, whom I loved beyond. all other companions,/ as well as my own life. I have lost him.' (Bk . XVIII: lines 79-82) Now, instead of being like the king on the shield Hephaistos wrought for him, who contentedly watches the reapers bringing in his crop (Bk . .XVIII: lines 550-560), Achilleus suddenly finds himself deeply involved in the work itself. All this time, from his ships, Achilleus has watched the events paving th~ way towards accomplishment of his fate, and now his fate has reached out and pulled him into the midst of it. The shining goal of glory seems as nothing compared to the sorrow and the desire for venge<;ince. Achilleus is also forced to confront himself, not in the terms he had done so before , thinking only of his own hurt and what he wanted from those .who had hu~t him, but in terms of how he affected other: 'I must die soon, then; since I was not to stand hy my companion/ , when he was killed. And now, far away from the land of his fathers,/ he has per ished, and la~ke d my fighting str ength t o de fend , him. I Now~ . . since I was no light of safety to Pat·roklo.s, no.r to my other/ companions, , . who in their numbers went down before glorious Hektor,/buc sit here beside my ships, a useless weight .on . the good land,/ .I, who am such as no other ... in battle .•. why, I .wish strife would vanish away from among gods and mortals,/ and gall, which makes a man grow angry for all his great mind,/ that gall of anger that swarms like smoke inside of a man's heart/ and becomes and thing .sweeter to him by far than the dripping of honey.' (Bk. XVIII: lines 98-110) There is only one way in which these words about the value of his life come from any genuine motivation. It is true that his anger does not stem from the stingy way Agamemnon has treated him. Achilleus will not now accept all the magnificence Though there still lurks, in the background, the memory of an Achilleus who works steadily towards the gain of glory - that same Achilleus who knew Patroklos would die - here there is an Achilleus who recognized he lived for more reasons than the achievement of glory . He realizes that there are things dearer to him than he 18 19 �had thought. He reassesses his judgments about what it means to live. As he confronts himself, he must also contemplate what his own death will mean. He had said that no possessions could equal the value of his life. With Patroklos 's death, Achilleus sees that there is one possession for which he would gladly sacrifice his life: the companionship of a beloved friend. With this recognition, Achiileus feels the completeness of fate. He sees that it is not a dream far removed from the innnediate experience of living. He knows now that it touches him in every way, and that it takes away from him things that he values. The ruthlessness with which he pursues Hektor is not, then, simply inspired by desire for vengeance. It is also inspired by a need to clear himself of his guilt in Patroklos's death. He loathes himself - even to the point of guaranteeing his own death. He tells his mother, 'there must be on your heart a numberless sorrow / for your son's death .•. since the spirit within does not drive me / to go on living and be among men, except on condition / that Hektor first be beaten down under my spear.' (Bk. XVIII: lines 88-92) Achilleus refuses even to eat or drink until he has both atoned for and avenged his companion's death (Bk. XIX: lines 319-321 ) . When it is all over, and Achilleus has taken the life from Hektor and may turn to the burial of Patroklos, we see a different man emerge. He resembles neither the fiery youth of the first sixteen books, nor the man consumed by murderous rage. Achilleus still suffers moments during which his rage controls him and he drags Hektor's body furiously around Patroklos's tomb. But these moments do not deny him his new character; rather, they show that he is not yet secure in it. During the funeral games, Achilleus acts with the same kind of grace and courtesy he gave a hint of when he received Agamemnon's embassy in Book IX (lines 185-198) . Here, however, there is more substance to his behavior. Achilleus is not merely pleasing his heart with music, dreaming of mighty warriors and deeds of fame. He is taking part in the interaction between such men. He carefully treats with the feelings of each one, and having learnt of the dangers of quarrelling, he says during a dispute, '"No longer now, Aias and Idomenus, continue / to exchange this bitter and evil talk./ It is not becoming'" (Bk. XXIII: lines 492-493). The consideration and civility that Achilleus exhibit during the games extend to the time when Priam comes alone to him in supplication. Achilleus is following the connnands of Zeus, yet he treats Priam with genuine sympathy and respect. He takes him in, and together they mourn their losses. Achilleus is honestly moved by this man who has wielded so much power, but who has suffered such devastation in the war with the Achaians. he $ees Priam as a fellow human being who has been granted by the gods both joy and misery and who is worthy of admiration (Bk. XXIV: lines 542-551). Even when Achilleus responds warningly to Priam's request to see Hektor's body, he does not indicate that his sympathy was simply an act. He warns Priam because the freshness of his grief is still with him, and he does not want his rage to come to the fore. 'You must not further make my spirit move in my sorrows, I for fear, old sir, I might not let you alone ... suppliant as you are, and be guilty before the god's orders.' (Bk. XXIV: lines 568-570) Achilleus does not want to disobey Zeus, and this is strong reason for his restraint. Yet, he could have complied with the gods without showing the consideration and rev- 20 erence that he does show Priam. By the end of the poem, Achilleus has come into his own. Despite the rage that still smolders beneath the calm exterior, Achilles has discovered who he is in the world. The dream has been translated into reality: he has all he wished for. Achilleus has achieved great fame, and he has achieved dominance over Agamemnon. Throughout the funeral games, Agamemnon defers to Achilleus's wishes, and Achilleus says to Priam, "' (The Achaians ) keep coming / and sitting by me and making plans, as they are supposed to'" ( Bk. XXIV: lines 651-652 ) . Achilleus acknowledges that consideration for others is important. He is like Aristotle's 'proud man' (Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. IV: Ch. 3) who is secure in himself and magnanimously recognizes the value and worth of others. Now Achilleus extends to Agamemnon the respect he deserves as lord of the Achaians . because Achilleus is no longer threatened by Agamemnon. The sense that one has at the end of The Iliad is also that Achilleus is far more aware of the value of his companions Automedon and Alkimos than he was of the value of Patroklos. They serve him, but he does not take them for granted. Achilleus, because he has a place in his world, is able to come to contentment in that world. penthesilea has a very different path to her resolution. it is full of tension, and the only way for it to be resolved is through madness. Certain passages in the play indicate that Penthesilea, unlike Achilleus, is not inclined to the warlike way of life. While he causes himself sorrow by abstaining from the war, Penthesilea suffers because she is in a state of war that she does not want to be in. While in Themiscyra, though Penthesilea was undoubtedly given military training, she was kept from engaging in real war with real opponents. She tells Achilles that until 1 fhe was twenty-three, she had not gone to war with the Amazons (Scene 15: p. 234 ) . She also tells him that she was so overcome with grief at her mother's death that she could not find any interest in taking her own place in life: Long, long I wept, a whole grief-laden month, At my dead mother's grave, neglecting still The crown that lay beside me masterless, Until at length the oft-repeated cry Of the people, who, eager for joyful war, Impatient, lay encamped around my palace, Dragged me by force to mount the throne. (Scene 15: pp. 235-236 ) This suggests that Penthesilea protection of her mother's power, the Amazon people she is destined In addition, Pentesilea is grace: was more inclined to her life at home, in the than she was to going out and proving herself among to rule. remembered as being a girl rull of compassion and Oh, such a virgin, Hermia! So modest! So deft in all the arts of women's hands! So lovely when she danced or when .s he sang! So full of wisdom, dignity, and grace! •.. The mottled worm that sported in the dust Before her delicate feet, she would not crush; She would recall the shaft ere it could pierce The savage wild boar's shoulder, and his eye,· Glazing in death, could drag her to her knees Before him, melted quite in soft remorse. (Scene 23: pp. 254-255; First Priestess ) 21 �l Penthesilea does not fit into her Amazon environment. She is dependent on her mother, and gains from her a false sense of belonging in the Amazon community. Her strange nature among these women who clamour for battle can be seen when her situation is compared with the feelings of a young amazon girl who appears in the play: Another time when all the Amazon host Marches to war with cymbals and with drums, We will go too, and not - oh promise us! Only to grace the mother's victory With rose-plucking and winding toilsome wreaths! My arm here - look! - can hurl the javelin, And from my sling the stone flies swift and true. Why not? Why not? I am no more a child. (Scene 6: p. 195; First Girl) Penthesilea is reluctant to go to war, just as she is reluctant to kill any living thing. She does not care for the dominance that her position as Queen would give her. She is also, perhaps, frightened of assuming the throne, since she feels alone. and vulnerable in a community which thrives on self-assertion. When the priestesses come to tell her that Ares has called her to war, Penthesilea begs, "Oh, let me stay beside thee, Mother!/ Use it once more, thy royal dignity,/ - For the last time - and bid these women go" (Scene 15: p. 235). She wants to stay beside her dying mother because she cares for her, but she is also afraid to leave her nest of security. As the host travels to Troy, Penthesilea begins to be filled with warlike feelings. These are not, however, natural to her. She describes them as though they were a new experience, and exhilirating for that reason. Her feelings are fueled by two things, neither of which stem from her own nature: her desire to fulfill her mother's last wish (Scene 15: p. 235; Pen th.) and her hope that in overcoming Achilles she will achieve a sense of belonging in the Amazon community. She says, Nearer I drew to old Scamander's stream, And every vale around through which I swept Echoed the clash of battle before Troy, So did my grief abate, and my wide soul Drank in the universe of joyful war. To myself I said: if they should all together, The mighty moments of the daedal past, Return for me, if all the company Of heroes whom the songs of minstrels sing, Should step down from the stars, I should not find Not one more excellent to crown with roses, Than that man whom my mother chose for me So dear, so wild, so sweet, so terrible The slayer of Hektor! (Scene 15: p. 236) The importance that conquering Achilles has in Penthesilea' s mind is seen in Scenes 14 and 15 when she believes she has won him. Up until this point, Penthesilea has been wracked by indecision and frustration, but here she falls easily into the role of Queen. She begins to think of preparations for the hosts' return to Themiscyra, and she has an air of confidence about her (Scene 15: p. 227) The surety and joy Penthesilea gains from the belief that Achilles has been tak- 22 en by her illustrates Penthesilea's notion of who she should be in the world. her ideal is an Amazon one: to be completely detached from any submissive, loving, feelings and to be physically capable of subjecting any man to her will. In taking Achilles, she will have proved to herset~' and to her people that she is truly Amazon and that she deserves her Queenship. Her happiness is thus dependent on her winning of Achilles. She explains to Prothoe the unhappiness she has suffered prior to this supposed capture of Achilles: They say misfortune purifies the soul, But I •.. have never found it so. Bitterness still, rage against gods and men, Unseeing passion are its fruits in me. With strange perversity I then have hated On others' faces every mark of joy; The blithe child playing in its mother's lap Seemed but conspired to mock my sullen grief. (Scene 14: p. 221) She was a woman who felt her means to fulfill her natural then have given her both the While she experiences Penthesilea incorporates her of Achilles that she becomes displacement among her people and who did not have the inclination to be loved. The capture of Achilles would love she craved and her place among the Amazons. those warlike feelings on the way to Troy, however, own nature into them. She builds up so great an image intoxicated with him. He fills all her thoughts: 0 thou son of Peleus! Ever my single thought when I awoke; Ever my dream in sleep wast thou! The world Lay stretched before me like a patterned web, And in each glorious, wide-gaping mesh One of thy deeds with craftsman's skill enwoven; Upon my heart, as on silk white and fine, I burned each deed with colours steeped in flame. (Scene 15: pp. 236-237; Penth.) As a result, when she sees Achilles, she falls passionately in love with him (Scene 15: p. 237; Penth) . Her problem of trying to make a place for herself among the Amazons is hence made even more difficult - and the solution even more important because while she tries to establish herself, her own inclinations towards love pull her in the opposite direction: towards succumbing to Achilles. Such an act would, of course, automatically dishonor her in the eyes of her people. At the opening of the play, Penthesilea is in this state of tension. Achilles stands before her as the shining key which will give her both happiness and belonging in the world. The path she takes is one of frantically trying to capture Achilles on the battlefield. His capture will make her what she wants to be. In this respect of having a bright goal to strive for - Penthesilea is like Achilleus. But whereas he looked for his own ability and splendor to be recognized by the world, Penthesilea looks for this through another: through Achilles, as though his brilliance might be incorporated into her . Penthesilea tries in every way to reach her goal, but she is hindered by several things. Nature itself seems to put itself up as a barrier between Achilles and herself. At one point, she is near enough to reffh out and grasp him, but he swerves and she falls as her horse stumbles on a rock. By the time she recovers, Achilles is far beyond her (Scene 3: pp. 178-179). Penthesilea's feelings of love also hinder 23 �her from striking at Achilles in battle. At crucial moments she stays her hand and Achilles goes unscathed (Scene I: pp. 171-172). Finally, as Achilles again and again eludes her, Penthesilea begins to feel desperate. She is overcome by doubts that she can gain him at all. She also worries that in her headstrong pursuit of Achilles she is endangering her host. This worry in itself undermines her ability to be the leader she yearns to be. It is in Scene 9 that Penthesilea comes to terms with the futility of what she is trying to do: work against her own nature. She has pushed herself to make one last attempt to conquer Achilles, and she herself has fallen in the confrontation. She feels then how much she does not want to meet Achilles in the context war. She is stunned that he could treat her with such aggression: So crush and bruise this breast! - How could he do it? Oh Prothoe! It is as wanton-cruel As though I were to rive the innocent lyre That hangs in the night breeze, whispering my name. At the bear's feet I would cower, nestling close, Would stroke and fondle the blotch'd panther, who Approached me with such feelings as I him. (Scene 9: p. 203) Penthesilea now abandons her hope of establishing herself among the Amazons, and of finding love with Achilles. She admits, The utmost I have done that human strength Is able - I have tried the impossible I have staked all upon one throw - all that I have. The fateful die is cast - it lies before me: And I must understand - that I have lost. (Scene 9: p. 207) She also strikes out at those who have helped her think that she could ever reach her Amazon ideal: That hand I curse that decked me for the fight This day, and that deceiving serpent-word That told me I should conquer. Accursed! Accursed! Oh, how they stood around me with their mirrors Flatt'rers! - on either hand and praised the form Divine of my smooth limbs, molded in steel! 14 Pestilence smite you with you tricks of hell! (Scene 9: p. 206) Penthesilea regains this state of mind in Scene 15 after she discovers that Achilles has, in fact, taken her in battle. The urgency of her request that he come with her anyway to Themiscyra is a sign that one final time she is trying to achieve place among the Amazons, and love with Achilles, in the context of Amazon thought (Scene 15 : p . 240 ; Penth . ) . But when Achilles leaves her , Penthesilea abandons any agressive stance. She accepts the shame of her un-warlike nature, and indeed, she feels she can do so since she has been legitimately conquered in battle. In anger she says: Was I not his by every use of chivalry, By fairest chance of war his lawful prize? 24 When man on man makes war .... ... Show me the law - I say, show me! - which then Permits the prisoner who has yielded him To be set free again from his captor's bonds. (Scene 19: p.241) Penthesilea, now trapped in an unsolvable situation, refuses to act at all. In shame she says, "I must bury me in endless night!" (Scene 19: p. 243). There is, however, a hint that Penthesilea expects Achilles to return and take her for his own. That would be the only way in which she might escape her present alienated situation among the Amazons. In Scene 20, when she hears that a herald comes from Achilles, she says in anticipation, "'Tis from Achilles! - Ah; what shall I hear?'" (p. 243). And though she follows this remark ~ith a command to bid the herald leave, she is mer~ly feeling the impossibility of · her situation. Penthesilea wants nothing more of the Amazon life. She wants only to follow her inclinations. towards love. Now that she has heard from Achilles's own lips that he loves her, Penthesilea is willing to leave behind the world she knows for another foreign one in the arms Achilles. This fragile reconciliation is doomed to be disrupted. Achilles is himself the agent. He, assuming that Penthesilea is comfortable in her world, and that she would never think of coming to without first~aking him in battle, challenges her to single combat. He intends to make a farce out of their confrontation, fall to her, and to go with her Themiscyra (Scene 21: pp. 248-249). But Penthesilea, having rejected the warlike stance and having reconciled herself to her womanly ' inclinations, cannot accept - or comprehend - that Achilles approaches her in terms of war: He, he, who knows I am too weak by far, He sends this challenge, Prothoe, to me? My faithful breast here moves him not a whit Till he has crushed and split it with his spear? Did all I whispered to him touch his ear Only with the empty music of the voice? (Scene 20: p. 244) Penthesilea feels betrayed. This challenge reawakens all the tensions that had been present before she came to terms with her lack of belonging in the Amazon world. In their rebirth, they are much more powerful. Penthesilea, experiencing the re-emergence of all these tensions at once, is in agony in her awareness of them. She retreats into madness and accepts Achilles' s challenge: "Now I do feel the strength to stand against him: Now he shall down and grovel in the dust" (Scene 20: p. 244). And Penthesilea goes to meet him, c~lling the gods down to witness her deed: with maniac tread among her hounds With foam- flecked lip she goes and calls them sisters, Who howl and howl; most like a Maenad she, Dancing across the fields, her bow in hand, She urges on the pack that pants for blood Around her, bidding them seize the fairest prey That ever, so she tells them, ranged the earth. (Scene 22: p. 251; High Priestess) In this Bacchic frenzy, Penthesilea kills Achilles, who means her no hf5m. As he hides in the boughs of a fir tree, she brings him down with an arrow and th.en 25 �proceeds to tear him apart, in the same way that Agave destroyed Pantheus, · her son. It is a scene of horror and insanity. The Amazon who witnessed the act reports, like the messenger who looked into the hidden chamber where Oedipus put his eyes out before Jocasta's hanging body: Oh you, Diana's holy priestesses, And you, Ares' chaste daughters, hear me speak: I am the Afric Gorgon, and to stone Behold ! - Your bodies' warmth I freeze at once. (Scene 23: p. 252; Meroe) This madness, despite its existence in the realm of abomination, does resolve all of Penthesilea 's tensions. In her madness she destroys them by killing that which brough t them a ll t oge the r fo r her: Achille s. I n killing him, Penthes ilea proves beyond a doubt that she is Amazon and that she is worthy of descendence from Tanais. Penthesilea had earlier-assured Achilles that despite her lack of a breast, Here in this left breast (all youth's tenderest, sweetest feelings ) have take refuge And are, by threat much, nearer to my heart. Not one shalt thou find lacking, friend, in me. (Scene 15: p. 231) But now, as Tanais symbolically tore her breast from her body at the founding of the Amazon race, Penthesilea has wrenched out of her very being the feelings that that breast symbolized. As Penthesilea drops the great bow of the Amazons at the feet of the High Priestess, the priestess says, Great Queen and lady! Oh, forgive, I pray! Diana is full well content with thee. I see thou hast atoned; her wrath is turned. The mighty founder of our women's realm, Tanais' self, I cannot well deny, She did not wield the bow more worthily. (Scene 24: p. 258) Penthesilea also resolves the tension she has felt between being true to her Amazon upbringing and therefore taking Achilles in battle, and being true to herself and hence taking him in love. She takes him in war, and yet in her tearing of him she is di ssolving t he barrieyg between herse lf and Achi lles. She is joining with him in the most literal of ways. When Penthesilea wakes from her frenzy, she feels· the peace which release from tension brings: "I am so happy sister! More than happy! / Quite ripe for death, Goddess, I feel myself" ( Scene 25: p. 261). She senses that she has achieved all that she could have wished for in life. She is ready for death because there is nothing more she can accomplish. And although she is horrified when she discovers what she has done, she finds that she can account for it: Surely I kissed him? Or did I tear him?... 17 .•. So - it was a mistake. Kissing - biting Where is the difference? When we truly love It's easy to do one when we mean the other. How many a girl, her soft arms fast entwined About he man's neck, says that she loves him so 26 lieyond words she could eat him up for love. And then, poor fool, when she would prove her words, Sated she is of him - sated almost to loathing. Now, my beloved, that was not my way. Why look: when my soft arms were round thy neck, I did it word for word; it was no pretending. I was not quite so mad as they would have it. (Scene 24; pp. 265-266) But in her realization of what she has done, Penthesilea also realizes that she does not have an understanding of herself in the world. She had tried to compromise: to think of what she ought to be, and the'ilto think of what she could be with Achilles. She never actually dealt with what she was. After her murder of Achilles, Penthesilea has no context to put herself in. She has rejected the Amazon life, even though she has now proven herself in it ( Scene 24: p. 266; Penth. ) , and she has destroyed Achilles, so that she cannot find belonging in him either. She can therefore, perhaps hoping to find her place in another realm, only assert her presence in the world through her death: now I will step down into my breast As into a mine and dig a lump Of cold ore, an emotion that will kill. This ore I temper in the fires of woe To hardest steel; then steep it through and through In the hot, biting venom of remorse; Carry it then to Hope's eternal anvil And sharpen it and point it to a dagger; Now to this dagger do I give my breast: So! So! So! So! Once More! Now it is good. (Scene 24: p. 267 ) And Penthesilea dies. It can already be seen that there is a great difference between Achilleus and Penthesilea. He finds himself in the world, and though he is fated to die, it is not necessary, by the very nature of his relationship to that world, that he die. Should he have lived, Achilleus would have been the most glorious product of the homeric world. Penthesilea finds herself and asserts herself. But she does this through the aberration of madness. That in itself shows what an impossible thing she wanted to do . She cannot, like Achilleus, consciously experience her coming into her own in t he wo r ld. Thus, when she has forced a resolution, she cannot remain in the world when she returns to consciousness. In order to spell out the distinction between these two characters, an analysis of the acts that facilitate their resolutions will be helpful . Achilleus wants glory, and in order to gain it he must kill Hektor. Penthesilea wants to find love and place in the world. In order to gain it she must kill Achilles. The ways in which they kill, and the motivations for the killing, are very different. Achilleus treats Hektor with utter disregard for Hektor's own glory and worth as an idividual . So full of r age and pur pos e is Ach i lleus t hat t he re i s no escape for Hektor. In the typical manner portrayed in The Iliad , Achilleus and Hektor face one another and hurl threats at one another: they assert themselves. And when Hektor falls, Achilleus vaunts: 'Hektor, surely you though as you killed Patroklos you would be/safe, and since I was far away you thought nothing of me , / o 27 �fool, for an avenger was left far greater than he was, I behind him and away by the hollow ships. And it was I; I and I have broken you strength; On you the dogs and vultures/shall feed and foully rip you; the Achaians will b¥8Y Patroklos.' (Bk. XXII: lines 331-336) There are two things to notice in this boast. Of the greatest importance is Achilleus 's use of 'I.' He uses it emphatically three times, and what he is conveying to Hektor is this: I am the greater man. You are nothing in comparison. Here Achilleus reveals his need to dominate, to stand alone as the most glorious of all men. The next thing of interest is Achilleus's juxtaposition of Hextor's doom to be devoured by carrion with Patroklos's imminent burial. Achilleus is stressing that while Hektor will receive no funeral rites and will thus never gain access into Hades, Patroklos, the man Hektor had dominated, will. Achilleus therefore not only supercedes Hektor by taking his life, but he further impresses his dominance upon Hektor by threatening to annihilate Hektor' s individuality in death. In being consumed, Hektor will be split into many parts, and he will be distributed among many. To make his point strongly , Achilleus says, 'I wish only that my spirit and fury would drive me/ to hack you meat away and eat it raw for the things that/ you have done to me. So there is no one who can hold the dogs off I from your head.' (Bk. XXII: lines 346-349) For Achilleus, this is the supreme statement of dominance: a threat to destroy the individuality of another by ingesting it into one's self. Achilleus's treatment of Hektor's body is in the same vein. He abuses it and tries to mar it in every way. His wish is that its unique form and beauty be destroyed. What Achilleus wishes he had spirit and rage enough to do, Penthesilea carries out. But Penthesilea's treatment of Achilles stems from motivations that are not the same as those of Achilleus. This changes the meaning of the act. Penthesilea' s desire to conquer Achilles does not primarily come from a need to dominate. She acts with tremendous agression, but it is not directed a supercession. It is directed at absorption of Achilles. She moved to meet that youth whom she so loves, •.. In the confusion of her youthful senses Aiming with all the horrid terrors of war Her hot desire to seize and possess him. (Scene 23: p. 252; Meroe) Penthesilea does not want to destroy Achilles. She wants to merge with him completely. Her deed demonstrates not a contempt of Achilles, but a valuing of him as a special individual. She would go to any lengths to grasp him, and she is so blinded by her eagerness that she does not realize that what she is doing destroys the very thing she seeks. The Homeric Achilleus wishes to comsume Hektor, but he cannot do i t because in that he would be bringing himself into the closest of contacts with Hektor. What he wants to do is separate himself from Hektor as much as possible. Achilleus must hence content himself with abusing the body in the dust behind his chariot. Penthesilea, having inadvertently marred Achilles in her killing of him, treats the body with love (Scene 24: p. 266). Having seen the different meanings that the deed has for Penthesilea and Achilleus, it is possible to gain clear insight into how very opposed these characters are to one another. For Achilleus, who belongs in his world, assertion of his 28 individualtiy is the most important function in liis life: the glory he will gain ensures his shining dominance over men even after his death. For Penthesilea, who has no place in her world, assertion of her individuality has no meaning until she finds belonging in the world. She tries to find this through another individual: Achilles. And because she put her goal in the being of another, her resolution in the world became, with his destruction, only something which destroyed her also. There are many ways in which Penthesilea's love affair with Achilles and the end in which it results can be read. Return for a moment to the idea introduced at the beginning of this paper that Kleist's Achilles and Penthesilea represent two sides of Achilleus. Looking at the two characters as parts of a whole, the play becomes Kleist's interpretation of how Achilleus finally comes into his own in The Iliad. Achilleus is a divided man. Part of him has great depth of feeling and great splendor, and the other part is calculating an manipulative. This part looks only to the end it desires. It will sacrifice anything to bring that end to realization. Through the course of the story, both sides of Achilleus are at work, and he is not in harmony with himself. But through the events that are fated to be, his emotional side and his calculating side are forced to merge with one another. In the death of Patroklos and Achilleus's resulting rage in which he destroys Hektor, these two parts are synthesized. Achilleus becomes whole. That is what makes his youthful death tragic: he has just recently become a mighty man. Kleist's Achilles and Penthesilea try to come together in the same way that the sides of Homer's Achilleus do. There is great conflict between them, and there is much conflict in the character of Penthisilea that represents the part of Achilleus that passionately desires and must feel the pain which the actions of that other, colder side cause. In this, Penthesilea and Achilles are like Artistophanes's hermaphrodites. the female half, Penthesilea, and the male half, Achilles, want desperately to come together. This accounts for Kleist's portrayal of Penthesilea as a Phaedra who, without the love of Hippolytus, cannot live her own life and wishes only to fade into death. It also accounts for why Kleist make Penthesilea an Amazon: being one half of Achilleus, she must have both a female yearning to be united with the male half and the ruthless rage of a warrior who blooms in battle. Penthesilea's killing of Achilleus in the way Achilleus wished to kill Hektor is very elegant, for it is in that moment, standing over Hektor, that the passionate side of Achilleus is fused with the calculating side: at Hektor's death Achilleus's glory is ensured, and he also atones for the sacrifice of Patroklos. Penthesilea, the passionate half of this split entity, does away with calculating Achilles in the same way the Achilleus loses his calculating side into a unity with his emotional side when he kills Hektor. It is also appropriate that Penthesilea must die. Just as it is tragic that Achilleus must die, it is tragic that there is nothing more she can do in the world. And as part of a whole, once Achilles is dead, Penthesilea cannot live. Prothoe says of Penthesilea (and this applies to the Homeric Achilleus also), Her blooming was too proud and glorious! Vainly the gale will shake the withered oak, But with a crash he flings the living down, 19 Grasping with ruffian hands her copious locks. (Scene 24: p. 268) Yet there is more to Penthesilea than this connection to one aspect of Achilleus 's character. Recall Keist' s portrayal 'of Achilles with all the distictiness that the figure is given in The Iliad. With this in mind, Penthesilea can be read as a contrast between the classical Achilleus and a modern one: Penthesilea. Kleist has worked the classical account of a man's struggle to come 29 �into his own in the world into a modern context. The world of Penthesilea and that character's difficulties in the world represent Kleist' s perceptions of the world of his time and the problems he saw hindering an individual from finding contentment. The sense of existing in a world where the individual struggles alone to find himself is Kleist' s evaluation of modernity. He purposefully incorporates The Iliad (and things like Racine's formulation of Pahedra 'a character) into his play in order to make explicit the difference he saw between the modern individual and the classical one· He then relies upon what the reader knows of the classical tale to make h~s meaning cl:ar. Penthesilea captures for Kleist the tensions a modern individual experiences· Given a lack of place in the world, the individual desires both to assert himself and to lose himself by attempting to find belongin~ through other individuals· The 0 (which is an unusual occurrence importance that Kleist gives to the power of love in classical works - only in Euripides's Phaedra do we see such a consuming emotion) suggests that love in this unbounded, blinding mode has become, in the modern world, the answer to this lack of belonging. Keist's opinion seems to have been that the classical individual, because he had definite place in the world and rules that governed him in that place, had no need for such passion. In line with this, · Kleist's Achilles does not have the same kind of love for Penthesilea as she has for him. He is fascinated by her, he wants to share his life with her, but he does not want to be utterly merged with her. 21 Penthesilea's madness is Kleist's judgement of what a modern individual must do if he insists upon achieving harmony with himself in the world. He implies that it is impossible to do such a thing naturally. It requires a madness that is monstrous. Penthesilea's death, achieved by drawing out of her soul an emotion that is powerful enough to kill, is the only thing Kleist sees as glorious and beautiful about the individual. He aggrandizes human mortality by depicting the human self at its greatest height when it rejects its world. It is not just her Amazon world that Penthesilea rejects; in destroying Achilles, she also rejects the shining image of that classical individual who does belong in his world. She has forced even glorious Achilleus to acknowledge the mightiness of her pure being which is uncluttered by things of the world. I think, however, that there is a more positive side to Kleist's analysis of the modern situation. Penthesilea can ,also be read as an allegory of romantic approach to Achilleus: the idealization of, and fascination with, that heroic figure. Penthesilea then represents the modern romantic who is infatuated with Homer's Achilleus. The love affair between the two characters is hence a description of how people like myself, as readers of The Iliad, become intrigued with Achilleus. We, like Penthesilea, chase after an image which exists in thought, wishing to overtake him, wishing to discover his tantalizing secret, wishing to assimilate into ourselves his secret that we might become like such a man. This interpretation of the play makes several things clear. Kleist may have made use of the Amazon character - the love / hate duality - to illustrate the relationship that the lover of Achilleus has with the splendid image. He both idealizes him and yearns to be like him, and yet he feels that Achilleus outshines him. He therefore envies Achilleus. The romantic wants to unveil Achilleus's secret because he does not want the image to loom so far above him. In the light of this idea, much of the disjunction between Penthesilea a nd Achilles is made understandable. If one tries to imagine actually meeting the Achilleus whom one has idealized, the situation would certainly be full of misunderstandings, and perhaps full of some disappointments as well, when the man did not live up to his image. Penthesilea day-dreams about Achilles, and when she meets him she is overcome by that vision out of the 'daedal past' that stands before her. 30 Yet when she talks with him, she is shocked because the man she is speaking with does not seem to be the one she imagined. She asks him if he is really that man who with such a heart of iron abused the body of Hektor. Achilles, too, does not know how to understand Penthesilea. She fills him with wonderment. At one point he says to 22r, "I was wond'ring/ If thou wert come down to me from the moon" (Scene 15: p. 232). The inability, therefore, that Penthesilea and Achilles have of coming together and understanding one another is an indication that they embody two completely different consciousnesses. Achilles is very much himself. He is in his proper environment. Penthesilea is misplaced both in his environment and in her own. She admires his stability and harmony in the world, while he is drawn to her literal unearthliness: 0 thou, who with soft, heavenly radiance, As though the realms of light had open their doors, Descendest on me, strange beyond with: Who art thou? How do I name thee? ( Scene 15: p. 226; Achilles) That it is impossible, however, for these lovers to come together except in the frenzy of Penthesilea' s madness, suggests that this play is a bitter comment on Kleist' s part, resulting from disillusionment with such romantic idealization of Achilleus. The black nature of the play may imply that Kleist thought this 'looking back to the past' and searching for the secret of being a whole individual is not the answer, that it could, in fact, be dangerous. It could go beyond all bounds and leave the modern individual floundering in an image that is truly imaginary. Just as Penthesilea is doomed to fall as she reaches out to grasp Achilles, in looking backwards too fervently the romantic is bound to fall. The presence of the myths concerning voyeurism - Pentheus peeking at the maenads, and Actaeon watching Artemis bathe - might suggest that in delving so deeply into the images of the past one is trying to see what is best not seen. In this attraction, the romantic could become an Oedipus, drawn almost against hi$ will towards an end that is horrifying. The element of punishment in these two myths might also be important with respect to this reading of Penthesilea. Although exact parallels cannot be drawn, it might be that Penthesilea is being punished for refusing to work on understanding and belonging in her world. Actaeon was punished for trying to gain access into a world of the goddess that was forbidden to him. Pentheus denied Dionysus. Agave's fault was much the same as his, though not as extreme. She refused to believe that Semele had lai12 with Zeus and was bringing forth into a world a new kind of god. Both 3 Pentheus and Agave resisted working on understanding how the new god would change their lives. Penthesilea, like these people, took refuge in something other than what could give her place in her world. She tried to find place through another, Achilles, who is not only a completely distinct individual from her, but who comes from another world altogether. It is possible that Kleist felt that looking back to the past was good thing, as long as it did not involve idealization. He might have felt that the approach that idealized would result in an eclipse of what is great in 2 the modern individual. I said earlier that this interpretation of Penthesilea as an allegory of the romantic idealization of Achilleus was more positive than the preceding interpretation. It is so because it does not make the·modern situation impossible. It does not suggest that death, and glorification of that death, are the only acts available to the displaced modern individual. If Kleist's message is to be careful not to lose what is great in the modern individual in looking back to the past, then 31 �Kleist would also advocate careful observation of the modern worzg: trying to see it clearly without having the vision blinded by images of the past. Perhaps Kleist never meant the play to be read as an allegory. Nevertheless, I find such a reading helpful. As I prepare to leave behind the images that have filled my thoughts for the past four years, I wonder about that world that lies beyond St. John's College, and I wonder how happiness can be found there. I have learnt from Kleist that, despite my own tendency to idealize the images of the past and search fervently for their secrets, I must look for what is splendid in modernity also. And though I do not feel at home in that world, I take Kleist's advice to work at finding a place in it. There is much that the images of the past have taught me, but I must hold myself back from turning blindly to them. They can give me a sense of comfort, because of the stability they convey to me, but through them I will not find belonging in my own world. Those images can guide me, since the past remains embedded in the present, but they cannot replace the present. ENDNOTES 1. I shall use Achilleus to refer to the character in The Iliad. Since he also appears in Penthesilea, this will help to distinguish between the Homeric individual and Kleist's Achilles. 2. Kleist is undoubtedly making fun of Homer's 'crafty Odysseus' in this speech. 3. Penthesilea is divided into twenty-four scenes. There are no acts which hold it together. Thus, the play is itself like this landscape in which events simply occur. 4. At least, no ceremonies that we see in the play. 5. It could be said that even the gods of The Iliad represent movements in the human soul. But they are not depicted as such, and I am concerned with the ways in which these things are described by the authors. 6. This is unlike Glaucos and Diomedes, who exchange armor as a sign of friendship. They meet as general foes, but in discovering the specifics about one another, they agree not to fight, though they fight others in the enemy camp. 7. The Amazon law also forbids that a woman pick her man. She is supposed to take whomever the god sends her (see Scene 15: p. 235). Thus Penthesilea, in her love for Achilles, is out of line in her Amazon world. 8. Tanais was the first Queen of the Amazons and the founder of their traditions. 9. The scenes in which this deception occurs correspond to Books XIV and XV of The Iliad in which Hera deceives Zeus. Both texts describe a love scene. Hera is able to alleviate, for a time, the dire circumstances Zeus has put upon the Achaians, and in the play Achilles's deception also, for a short time, keeps Penthesilea away from her tensions and the end they will bring her to. 10. According to myth, the look in Penthesilea's eyes as she died from Achilleus's blow made him fall in love with her. In the play, her gaze as she falls before him in battle drives away all thoughts of violence that Achilles had towards her. 32 . 11. Penthesilea may have accompained the host, as' the young girls who pick roses do in the play, but she would not have engaged in battle. In order to participate in the Feast of Roses, an Amazon must have conquered her man in battle. Since Penthesilea has not taken part in the Feast of Roses, she cannot have battled with any man. ' 12. What is initially taken to be a desire from fame (see p. 2, this paper) now turns out to be a desire to gain place in the world. Thus, though she and Achilles seem to be pushed by the same motivations, they are not. Diomede say~ to Achilles, concerning this well-timed swerve, Yet all that I have seen convinces me That thy so masterly retreat was not constrained But of free choice. One might indeed suppose That with the crack of dawn .... Already thou hadst marked that lucky stone O'er which the Queen should stumble .... With such sure course, by the eternal gods, Didst thou ent~ce her to this very stone. (Scene 4: pp. 182-183) Kleist, therefore, responded to the character of Achilleus in much the same way this I did, seeing him as manipulating his way to his gain of glory and seeing him as willing to sacrifce Patroklos for this goal. Kleist also saw the ~reatness inherent in Achilles. But he gave that greatness to Penthesilea. 13. 14. This is the moment in which Penthesilea most resemble Phaedra. It is interesting, however, that she is most like Racine's Ph'edre: Que ces vains or'n ements, que ces voiles me pesent 1 Quelle importune main, en formant tous ces noeuds, A pris soin sur mon front d'assembler mes cheveux? Tout m'afflige et me nuti, et conspire'a me nuit. (Larousse - Act I, Scene 3: lines 158-161) Kleist copies this passage almo$t exactly. It is significant, I think, that he chooses the modern interpretation of the character over Euripides's portrayal of her in Hippolytus (this passage can be found in Scene 1: lines 198-202). In his reinterpretation of the character of Achilleus through Penthesilea, Kleist uses a reinterpretation of the character of Phaedra. 15.Here Kleist mixes the story of Actaeon, who was changed into a stag and devoured by his own . hounds, with the story of fentheus hiding in the boughs of a tree in order to peek at his mother and the other maenads . 1 16. In Euripeides 's Bacchae, the mother, Agave, · des troys the separate individuality of her son, the being to whom she had given that individuality. . In her consuming of him (though that section of the text is now missing), she and her offspring become one again. Pentheus returns to whence he came. In calling fort,h The Bac~hae, Kleist is emphasizing the oneness of Penthesilea and Achilles at this moment. 17. In the German this reads: So - it was a mistake. Kisses (Kiisse) - bites (bisse) [They rhyme] . . When we truly love/It is easy to. grasp ~ne instead of the other. 18. Penthesilea's killing of Achilles . also occurs in the twenty-second part of the play, though it is not described in full until later. 33 �19. The German reads: But with a crash it flings the living down/ Because it can grasp the crown of the tree. 20. There are also many Christ images present in the play. Achilles is, for example, crowned with a wreath of laurel thorns by Penthesilea after she has killed him (Scene 24: p. 260; Pen th.). She also offers to sprinkle water upon his head, which has overtones of baptism. Penthesilea herself comes back from her deed crowned with thorns (Scene 24: p . 235; First Amazon). This connects Kleist's use of Phaedra and her love with the emphasis that is put upon love in the Christian religion. It also makes sacrifical beings - saviors - out of both Penthesilea and ' Achilles. These images too, as copies of the maenad frenzy in The Bacchae, suggest the presence of Dionysus: the breaking down of all rational barriers and the freedom of the individual to forget his isolated individuality for a time through the gift of wine. Thus, merging with others and finding salvation through that merging, are clearly issues the Kleist wanted to include. 21. Kleist himself committed suicide on November 21, 1811 . 22 . When the play is read in this way, it becomes much less dark . Some of the interactions between the characters, and especially between Penthesilea and Achilles, become very funny . They reveal a sharp humour in Kleist. On the Sonnet Daniel Hoh ('88) Is it mere waste, a trap made just to bind, An ill command, or prison, made to hold One'~ words as fettered to an ancient m ld, .o Denying freedom to the po'~t 's mind? With ornament and pretty meter lined, So that the tongue into a ball is rolled And meaning in the poem be annulled: Is such the cost when poets are confined? Look closer though, and read the words with care, For in such bars are worthy thoughts held fast. And though its stature's small and strict its frame, It says far more .than words of order bare.: A frame of wor'd s, which wood or gold outlast. And if a trap, let beauty be the game. 23. Though the names Pentheus and Penthesilea exist separately in myth , since Kleist wove Pentheus's story into Penthesilea's he must have connected the two together both because their names begin similarly and because he had some notion, whatever it might have been, which connected them together in his mind. .·. 1. 24. Penthesilea, as Kle ist's portrayal of a modern splendor of Homer's Achilleus. But she, in her acknowledge her own splendor. Kleist is suggesting, human soul is (KaAbv ) just like that of Achilleus, put into its own context. individual, has within he r love for Achilleus, does I think, that in modernity and i t should be cul tiv a t ed the not the and 25. The dust which is predominant in the play might also b.e a sign of the way our eyes are blinded by the grandeur of the past. The dust clouds t he vision of those who are looking at Penthesilea's mad pursuit of Achilles, and we, as readers of the play, see through the eyes of those who are looking . We, then , become confused by the confusion inherent in that pursuit. The texts I have used in the paper are as follows : 1. Homer, The Iliad; Trans. R. Lattimore. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, Phoenix Edition: 1961. 2. Kleist, Penthesilea; Trans. H. Trevelyan. The German Library: Vol. 25 , pp. 167-268. New York: Continuum Publishing Co.: 1982 The passages which I quote are marked beneath by Book and line for The Iliad, and by Scene and page (and if necessary, speaker) for Penthesilea. If a passage is pointed out in the text, this indicates that the passage supports the argument, and may be referred to if desired. 34 Conversation #4 Brian ·cole( '91) Scattered corners of important papers like clanging ief tove t pennies 'or smoldering con~ort ions of ·some emotionIn trust they remained safe, . under r usty snap~ in jacket pocke t s. · Until challenge d by t~e middle- aged librarian, who, speaking through her doctor's mask . -. claims they should . be numbered under plastic Laminate d to last a lifetime. I make my r eply gen t ly, asking Why do you wear stockings to cove r your shaven legs? And why haven' t you r eally looke d at the colou r s in a rainbow ? The y t oo s eem desolat e and uno r ganize d , but combine in blinding whi tene s s , She swore by her steri l e scalpe l t hat 'one day I would have t o s t op asking que s tions, But I know then I would just be l e f t wit h answers. 35 �Untitled Iocasta's Song Dwayne Rodgers ('90) Rachel Duel('89) t One hundred twenty-fifth street lies prostrate and still. Having spiralled down a gaping till, Crudely smothered in flat black paint, Not "Sam I am , " but "No I ain ' t " Is spattered on concrete walls, Loudly slanged from tenement stalls Where a screaming man, formerly of four Skid Row, Showers the gasping boys below With "smelling salts for a wasted land!" Where etherized phantoms drown in sand. Night whispers, seducing the day, Like a line of verse might say. But useless are poetic wisdoms of the universe When the boys glimpse a woman's beckoning purse, Glimmering beneath a cracked lamplight In the midst of this late summer's night. They take the purse with stiffly intent fingers Where the spectre of the whimpering woman lingers, Where my grandfather jazzed to Coltrane's tune, Drowsily dying and coming soon. Where nubile girls with needle tracks And peach fuzzed boys are laid on their backs In graves shovelled by their own hand Where etherized phantoms drown in sand. Where the screaming man places his wreath, Streaming from his dangling sheath. "Smelling salts for a wasted land!" And more trickles down his hand Onto the foot of a grieving mother Whose whimpering spectre grieves another. Dwayne Rodgers 36 'I Ah Oedipus , my sweet, my center; what was Laius compared to you? Naught but a shade, like you in form but in substance lacking! You entered my life like a king, by nature splendorous, and saved our city from the dreaded Sphinx. A young and strong monarch you then became, strong where he was weak, giving where he'd been immovable. Thinking back, you were much like him in features; but I don't wonder it escaped me, so different were you in kind. You and he may have resembled one another, but our souls were akin and I had eyes for this only. And what is it to ~w that I've offended the gods with my impure love for you? You are my reason for living; while I tremble to remember Laius' passion when he learned that I had borne him a son, I tremble even more to think that I endeavoured with him to bring about your destruction. I glory in a fate that allowed you to survive and to achieve the greatness that was truly your heritage, and one that allowed me great, all-consuming love! For I love you in all ways, as my son, as my self, as my lover. Oh that god is jealous who tries to destroy this passion by exposing it to the corrosive air. Does it really matter how our love came to be if it is in itself pure? Oh Oedipus, I love you more than life itself for you are my existence! I cannot bear to think that you who have truly known me will shudder with revulsion to have done so. By the god of the flames I am shredded up inside. Your inquiry has forced my hand and I sacrifice myself, not to Apollo but to you, my self augmented! 37 �On Mechanics, Geometry, and Newton's Concept of God; or, an Attempt to Read the Principia as a Philosphical Work Jana Giles ('88) Newton begins his Principia with a discussion on the differences between mechanics and geometry and their relation to philosophy. He concludes the Third Book with the necessity for a Supreme Being to exercise dominion over the world. Between these two very genera l s t atemen t s t hat descr ibe his i ntent i ons , and perhaps his motivation for writing the Principia, lie his mathematical principles and propositions which collectively allow him to apply his universal law of gravitation to the phenomena in his world. He describes the way he associates mathematics and philosophy in his Preface to the First Edition: Therefore I offer this work as the mathematical principles of philosophy, for the whole burden of philosophy seems to consist in this- from the phenomena of motions to investigate the forces of nature, and then from these forces to demonstrate the other phenomena. (Preface, p. xvii) To understand his "experimental philosophy" requires an understanding of his' distinction between mechanics and geometry. He describes mechanics as corresponding to motion and matter, and geometry to the magnitude of that matter. Mechanics describes the existence of bodies and their motions, while geometry allows us to analyze the qualities of those bodies and to attempt to explain how they move and affect each other: The description of right lines and circles, upon which geometry is founded, belongs to mechanics. Geometry does not teach us to draw these lines, but requires them to be drawn, for it requires that the learner should first be taught to describe these accurately before he enters upon geometry, then it shows how ·by these operations problems may be solved. To describe right lines and circles are problems , but not geome t rica l problems . (p. xvii) Mechanics would seem, then, to correspond to that part of us which is immediately affected by the physical world. His definition of practical mechanics as that to which all the manual arts belong indicates that we use practical mechanics in the art of drawing a line or in seeing the motion of an object, or in being hit by a moving object. However, practical mechanics has no self awareness. A hand is capable of drawing a circle, but it has no knowledge as to whether that which it has drawn is indeed a circle or is instead a right line. This requires the first purpose of geometry: to define a described circle as a circle, both in itself and in contrast to a right line. While mechanics presumes the application of the relations of the mind of--for example, resemblance, cause and effect, and contiguity in space and time (to use Hume's terms)--geometry analyzes the action that the mechanical artificer has performed, and distinguishes between the different relations. We then can apply the second faculty of geometry: the ability to rearrange those objects and relations and 38 to synthesize new combinations. This is merely an interpretation of this statement: "Therefore geometry is founded in mechanical practice, and is nothing but that part of universal mechanics which accurately proposes and demonstrates the art of measuring" (p . xvii). Notice that he describes that art as that of measuring and not of measurement. It is important to recognize that he is speaking about actions and mo tion, rather than a static state. For , as was explained above, mechanics is concerned with motion, and geometry with the analysis of that motion. But to analyze something already requires that one stop the motion in mid-movement and examine its distinguishable features: matter, position, time, speed, etc. Yet even more confounding is the fact that the act of abstraction is just that: an action. To abstract we must remove the burden of specific examples, locate the essential suppositions, and reunite these in a more general form. To synthesize we must ~ resemblances in different objects, actions, or ideas, we must be able to divide thes e into parts, and we must substitute similar parts from different things so as to create new ones. Therefore, geometry is, paradoxically, the act of describing a dynamic action in static terms. If practical mechanics is the original description of objects, and geometry is the demonstration of the act of that description, then rational mechanics is the explicit joining of the two. In Newton's understanding: "Rational mechanics will be the science of motions resulting from any forces whatsoever, and of the forces required to produce any motions, accurately proposed and demonstrated" (p. xvii). This procession from practical mechanics to geometry to rational mechanics seems analogous to Newton's "burden of philosophy" cited above. This becomes even more apparent when noting the organization and presentation of the Principia. He begins by presenting a few universal laws and definitions taken from the general phenomena he observes. In formulating these definitions, he is applying the first use of geometry to mechanical objects. From these first premisses, he moves on to combine these general definitions and laws with each other and with new mathematical objects to create the propositions that lead him to the universal law of gravitation. And in Book III he reintroduces the phenomena to support his conclusion. This brings us to the General Scholium at the end of Book III of the Principia. Evidently Newton has found the harmony and coherence of his own argument so conclusive that he is moved to assert: It is not to be conceived that mere mechanical causes could give birth to so many regular motions ••• This most beautiful system of the sun, planets, and comets could only proceed from the counsel and dominion of an intelligent and powerful Being. (p. 544) Indeed, Newton's endeavour has been tight, fluid, and powerful, to say the least, but these attributes have never been the standard of judgment for the truth of the existence of God. Whence, then, this conviction? Newton's reasoning in this regard sounds something like St. Anselm's: God is that which nothing greater than can exist. If we examine Newton's statements closely, we see that his argument for the existence of God is much like a geometrical deduction, for he has based it on the regularity and universality of his final general laws of gravitation and centripetal force. As has been elucidated above, these laws came f r om pr opositions formed using geometry, which in turn arose from the original definitions based on practical mechanics. Here we see the root of the problem: where is the origin of practical mechanics? The trouble is that we cannot answer this question using geometry since it presupposes mechanics. And we cannot understand the forces involved in mechanics without geometry to define objects and relate ideas. Therefore Newton's argument for the existence of God is based on phenomena that he fundamentally cannot explain. Did Newton see this problem and 39 �finding himself in a circular argument simply posit God as a final cause? Did he abstract to the concept of God from his own experience? Or was his God based on a different understanding , which either he did not describe , or I have failed to apprehend? If the case is the first, then God is merely a figment of Newton's imagination inspired by a fit of desperation. It adds nothing to the credibility of his project. If the case is the third, then this essay has been to no purpose. The second seems more likely, and also gives me an opportunity to go on with this endeavor. To assist him in his theologico-philosophical search, Newton presents four rules for reasoning in philosophy. They are as follows: Rule I: We are to admit no more causes of natural things than such as are both true and sufficient to explain their appearance. Rule II: Therefore to the same possible, assign the same causes. natural effects we must, as far as Rule III: The qualities of bodies, which admit neither intensification nor remission of degrees, and which are found to belong to all bodies within the reach of our experiments, are to be esteemed the universal qualities of all bodies whatsoever. Rule IV: In experimental philosophy we are to look upon propositions inf erred by general induction from phenomena as accurately or very nearly true, notwithstanding any contrary hypotheses that may be imagined, till such time as other phenomena occur, by which they may either be made mo ~ e accurate, or liable to exceptions. (pp. 398- 400) Allow me to clarify these using Hume's relations of the mind: Rule I assumes that our mechanics are accurate, that we observe carefully, that we make proper use of the relations of cause and effect, and that we are able either to immediately apprehend or extract the ideas of sufficiency and simplicity from natural things. Rule II assumes that we are able to observe cause and effect, to see resemblances among specific .effects, and from these to generalize regarding causes , and then to reapply these to the specific examples. Rule III assumes that we apply the concept of resemblance to qualities of specific bodies, and that we generalize to all bodies, justified by the consistency of the observation of those qualities. Ru l e I V assumes t hat both our . mech anics and our geometry are perfect l y accurate . He then applies these rules to his concept of God in the General Scholium: Every soul that has perception is, though in different times and in different objects of sense and motion, still the same indivisible person. There are given successive parts in ·duration, coexistent parts in space, but neither the one nor the other in the person of a man, or his thinking principle; and much less can they be found in the thinking substance of God. Every man, so far as he is a thing that has perception, is one and the same man during his whole life, in all and each of his organs of sense. God is the same God, always and everywhere. (p. 545) In this statement he is assuming that the soul's perception of phenomena is accurate and continuous, and he applies the simplicity of Rule I and the resemblance of Rule 40 II to posit the thinking substance of God. For although Newton clearly states that God has no substance, he is abstracting from the existence of the thinking principle of man to the thinking substance of God, and therefore the rules are applicable. God is not the thing itself, but the being of it: He is not eternity and infinity, but eternal and infinite; he is not duration or space, but he endures and is present. He endures forever, and is everywhere present; and by existing always and everywhere , he constitutes duration and space. (p . 545) One can see that these assumptions present problems to those who see Newton's reasoning as circular. But perhaps his understanding of God as an action rather than an obj ect might bypass these problems. This brings us back to the conflict between mechanics and geometry. To illustrate this further, I would like to introduce an example. Lemma I of Book I states: "Quantities and the ratios of quantities, which in any finite time converge continually to equality, and before the end of that time approach nearer to each other than any given difference, become ultimately equal" (p . 29). Lemma I is essentially about motion. It is a substitute for the theory of division that presented so many problems to Zeno. The unending convergence to equality of quantities in a finite time is analogous to the continuous division of a quantity into smaller discrete quantities in a finite time. In the case of division, if we divide our quantities into rational halves, theoretically we will never reach a single point since t here will always be left something to divide. The problem with division is that it is based on an abstraction, on a static geometrical analysis in which each piece of matter is examined and defined individually . When the pieces get too small, however, it becomes impossible for human perception, or mechanics, to dis tinguish one from another. Newton expresses this observation himself in Rule III: Moreover, that the divided but contiguous particles of bodies may be separated from one another, is a matter of observation; and in the particles that remain undivided, our minds are able to dis tinguish yet lesser parts; as is mathematically demonstrated. But whether the parts so distinguished, and not yet so divided may, by the powers of Nature, be actually divided and separated from one another, we cannot certainly determine . (p . 399) Lemma I would seem to obviat e this problem by appealing directly to mechanics and the phenomena of motion as it is presented to the human mind, being an expression of " ... the person of a man, or his t hinking princip l e ••. " ( taking " th inking principle to mean that which perceives and is capable of the geometrical act of abstraction) . When Newton says that "there are given successive parts in duration, coexistent parts in space .•• ", he is referring to division, to the abstract idea of dividing time into discrete particles. But just as the act of division does not explain how one may arrive at a single point, neither does the dividing of time explain how one is living in only a single present moment that is . passing by so rapidly that it cannot be defined nor distinguished from the moment immediately before it (this being one abstract understanding of time) . The implication of all this is that although man's thinking principle is capable of abstraction, it cannot explain the thinking principle itself by means of abstraction because abstraction is contained within it as an operation of it. Hence this reflection on God on p. 546: We have ideas of his attributes, but what the real substance of 41 �anything is we know not. In bodies, we see only their figures and colours, we hear only the sounds, we touch only their outward surfaces, we smell only the smells, and taste the savors; but their inward substances are not to be known either by our senses, or by any reflex act of our minds; much less, then, have we any idea of the substance of God. We know him only by his most wise and excellent contrivance of things, and final causes ..• by way of allegory, God is said to see, to speak, to laugh, to love, to hate •.. for all our notions of God are taken from the ways of mankind by a certain similitude. It is obvious from the above statement that Newton's concept of God is indeed an abstraction that derives its credibility from the presupposed Rules. This is an assumption on the part of Newton that, although substantiated by much evidence, ·cannot hope to be accepted because of the lack of a criterion of truth. Although we may remain dissatisfied with his proof for the existence of God, perhaps his motivation for presenting such an idea in the context of his mathematics, and hfs· awareness of the limitations of his "experimental philosophy" can be understood in his regard for the geometrical act of abstraction, or generalization, as presented in Rule III as "the foundation of all philosophy". And perhaps this sheds some light on his conclusive statement in the General Scholium: "And thus much concerning God; to discourse of whom from the appearances of things, does certainly belong to Natural Philosophy" (p. 546). Cartesian Equations for Rectilinear Figures Kim Paffenroth In the sophomore mathematics tutorial, we were shown that all our beloved conic sections - the circle, ellipse, hyperbola, and parabola - could be expressed by algebraic equations. We then found out that all these equations had the same general form, a form that came to be known as the general equation of the second degree: Ax. 2 + Bxy + Cy 2 + Dx + Ey + F = 0 Any conic section could be expressed in the form of this equation, and anything in the form of this equation was a conic or a degenerate conic (line, pair of lines, or point), if it was anything at all. The object of this paper is to see if we can find similar equations, which will likewise share the same general form among themselves and which will also represent rectilinear figures roughly equivalent to their conic brethren. Now, let's not jump right to the general equation. Let's start rather with the most basic conic section, the circle, with the simplest equation, x 2 +y 2 =r 2 • This will, of course, be a circle with center at the origin and a radius of r. Looking just at the algebraic equation, forgetting the figure for a moment, what properties suggest themselves as bridges of similarity between conic sections and rectilinear figures? The first property that suggests itself to me is that there are two values of x for each value of y and likewise two values of y for each value of x, except when x or y equals ±r, in which case the other variable must equal zero; these points are, of course, where the circle crosses the axes. The other property is that there are cetain limitations to the values I can assign to x and y, namely, that neither can be less than -r nor greater than +r; this is, of course, because a circle is a closed figure. Now, what rectilinear figure will display these properties of a circle, and what equation can we use that will also display these properties while representing a rectilinear and not a conic section? After some thought, the two answers occur almost simultaneously: a square with its center at the origin and its vertices on the axes, represented by an equation which includes absolute-value signs, as below. (~o) IXl+IYl=F F>O 42 43 �Now we have the rectilinear equivalent of a circle centered at the origin, along with its equation. And i f we just think of how we can change the first simple equation of a circle centered at the origin to represent first other circles, then ultimately all the other conic sections, we will be able to similarly alter our equation of a square to represent other squares and then other rectilinear figures. How does one move the center of a circle to different coordinates? By adding or subtracting a number from the x and / or the y value before squaring it. Similarly, if we wish to move our square, we will add or subtract a number from our x and / or our y value before we take the absolute value of it. And how does one change the size of a circle ? By changing the radius and / or changing the coefficient of x 2 and / or y 2 , as long as the two coefficients remain equal. Similarly, if we wish to change the size of our square, we will change the value of F and / or change the coefficients in front of our absolute- value signs, being sur e to keep the two coefficients equa l to one another. Thus, we have as the most general equation of a square, Now, if we wish to fold our square or rhomboid outward to make a pair of angles opening outward to infinity, we do the same we would have done to make an hyperbola: we make A and C of different signs. Thus--- (D, E.) A\X-Df+CIY-El=F A~D A=:C F>O F>O C<O F>O We have now arrived at an equation that looks very much like an unexpanded form of the general equation of the second degree: A(x-D) 2 + C(y-E) 2 = F (see footnote) This equation represents a circle if A=C and an ellipse if A does not equal C, but they are· of the same sign. Similarly, I saw that if we wanted to turn our square into any sort of rhomboid, we could do the same thing we would have done to turn a circle into an ellipse: make A and C unequal, but keep them of the same sign. The center and vertices of our rhomboid will be at the points shown in the diagram above, since these are general for any square or rhomboid. And finally, to make only one angle opening to' infinity, we observe that a parabola, the equivalent curvilinear figure, has only one squared term in its equation. Thus we remove one pair of absolute-value signs, our rectilinear equivalent of squaring, and our rectilinear equation becomes--- 44 45 �. A 1x-D\+cy=F · I Ax +C. IY .~E I= F OR F>O F>O c<O (f IE) A>O C>O A<O Equivalent degenerate sections can also be made. Setting A or C equal to zero makes a pair of parallel lines, unless F=O, in which case there is only one line. Removing both pairs of absolute-value signs gives us of course the familiar equation of a straight line. And setting F=O will give us either a point, a line, or a pair of crossed lines. Footnote -- This form has almost the same properties as the general form, namely: l)it represents a circle if A=C; 2) it represents an ellipse if A does not equal C, but they are of the same sign; 3) it represents an hyperbola if A and C differ in sign; 4) ~t represents a parabola if one of the terms is not squared. The manual points ' this out on p. 16 (Eq . 12), p. 22 (Eq". 26), · p. 33 (Eq.· 42), ·and p. 19 (5 th Eq . down), but it is easy enough .to · see, for if we go from the expanded to the unexpanded form, or the other way, for that matter, A and C do not change their values or their signs. 46 47 �ers. The Bus Ride Jennifer Mischer ('91) As number 23A turned down Averiue . de 'la Liberte, I stepped into the circular light of the street lamp so that the driver would be sure to see me. I dreaded these late rides home from track practice at the stadium . The little town of Monastir , Tunisia folded up at seven o'clock and didn't reopen until dawn. The large red bus slowed to an unsteady stop in front of me. Stepping up into the nearly empty bus, I missed the security of the sweaty, molten mass of bodies· which had oozed on and off earlier at lunch. I chose to sit on the long cushioned seat, universally known to bus riders, in the front. Across from me sat the bus's only other passenger--a robust woman, completely engulfed by her sari, as these Arab women often were, so that only eyes and nose were visible. Two corners of the large white sheet were crossed and tucked under her powerful ·armpits, while the other corners had been pulled down over her head and were clenched between· 'h.e r brown, crooked teeth. Fat and round, she seemed as if she might roll more easiiy than walk. Hooked on her left elbow was a faded milky-green ·plastic basket filled with treasures from shopping at the open-market souk. A· new lipstick, a bottle of dried garbanzo beans and a roll of mauve lace topped the basket. Her left hand clutched a newspaper cone of jet black sunflower seeds which she skillfully shelled ~ith her right hand and ate without dislodging the corners of her sari. "Bi 'l 'let..;" said the ticket man, swaying in front of me to keep his balance. "Carte," I responded, surprised that he had failed to recognize me in my schoolgirl tab'lier which clearly identified me as a Tunisian student who could ride with a student pass. The bus slowed, pulled right and stopped at the curb. Two teenage boys boarded. Their rowdy talking interrupted the meditative silence of the bus. The broken ceiling lights inside the bus ·flic_ ered on and quickly off as the bus jolted forward. k The boys bought tickets to Sousse and took the front double seat on my side. They obviously recognized me, and I was poignantly reminded of my instant identity as the girl from America . "You like Tunisia?" asked the tall lanky one, in confident English. I sat stony, staring out the window above the woman's head. "Come and sit on my lap," said the second boy in Arabic spoken so fast that I could barely decipher the words. "We can have some fun. All right?" "Oh, she won't talk to us," said the first to the second. "We' re too low for her. Aren't we, pretty miss?" "Will you make love to me? Come on. Let's make love." I studied the window glass, memorizing the dusty patterns and the clear glass streaks of its surface, aware of the images of the familiar dark streets as they passed through its frame. The boys were silent now. I lowered my gaze to the floor. I was surprised that my neck muscles had become stiff. The bus turned left onto the long straight section of the route before reaching Skannes. The white wall guarding Monastir's furniture factory came into view. The carved bold letters in the wall, spelling MONASTIR MEUBLES, could just be seen in the moonlight. The flat land extending beyond the wall seemed empty without its labor- 48 I was anxious for the bus to turn into Skannes, nearer my house. "That's a nice tablier you're wearing," called one boy. "Show us what's under your tablier, lady." My school tablier had always been my camouflage. I pushed my fists into its navy blue pockets. I was frightened. My eyes were fixed on the window. I dared not look away from the window. "Take off your tablier and show us your pretty clothes" taunted the shorter one, who had bad acne. My heart raced. I began to perspire. The long sleeves of the tablier stuck to my damp skin. I managed to swallow. As I turned from the window the piercing eyes of the woman across from me met mine for a moment. The boys moved quickly to sit on either side of me. My mind and body were paralyzed . Only my eyes could cry for help . "Let's make love," cried the tormentor to my right. The woman moved forward. She took the corners of the fabric of her sari from her mouth with her right hand and held them in the air about an inch from her chin. "You boys are disgusting," she hollered in an authoritative voice. "Look at her. She is not a tourist. She wears a tablier. She goes to 'lycee. We see her on the bus. You stop your nasty talk." The boys recoiled to the back of the bus in silence, temporarily shamed by her disapproval. Still paralyzed, breathing very softly and shallowly, I looked directly at my defender. We looked at each other intently, sharing a rare moment of understanding, possible only when there is common respect. The bus turned into Skannes. I stood to get off at the next stop. I did not look back at the woman. I knew she would not be looking at me. I stepped down out of the bus, breathed deeply, and let myself cry. 49 �The Passion The Death of Romeo Ange Mlinko ('91) Erika Wilson ('88 ) Wood softens in this air, my nails leaving carvings of despair upon the table. But I am unseen. The walls swell and the paint peels the floor gives where you walk swallowed moans the outside breeze slakes off water showered to the ground lighted squares across backyards black & drenched , fuming with rose . The moment sticks like windows at wrong angles to the sills, or like people's faces here snagged be t ween a grin and a gag, watching the street from the vantage of their door where, closely pressed, they sense the thing that crowds their antique foyers and nails them to the frame. 50 But, soft! What whisper doth escape thy lips? Nay, 'tis but a dream departed E'en as my heart now faintly trips, Its amorous leapings thwarted By Death's cuckolding embrace. And now I rush to fill his arms, Mine own grown weak that I must brace Myself with stone to behold thy charms One last lingering time. For I feel the cold steal over me, And hear the church bell chime The heartbeats I have left with thee. 0! Mine eyes grow dim, by night caressed, And I bow my head that I might press My bitter lips to thy marble breast. Yet, soft! And warm, that one might guess A living heart to beat within! Beneath my incredulous cheek I feel the wings Of a bird once caged, eager to win Its freedom from the deadly whisperings Of marble tombs and silent stone. 0 my love, my life, I say goodbye For we both shall wake alone. You to grieve and wonder why 'Tis I who lie upon this stony bed Not warm and sweet and welcoming, But cold and still and wrongly dead, Betrayed by love to prick myself with Death's destroying sting. Once more, I vow , while strength is mine , To take from you a lover's right And rob your lips of their sweet wine And feast upo~ the rich delight That lights your eyes with fierce desire. But no, I feel the bony hand of Death, And so with him retire. I leave to you my last faint breath, And with my whisper soft upon your lips I feel you stir and answe r me, Even as my life so very gently slips Into the midnight sea. 51 �Conversations With the Moon Ariadne Ashore Beth Cross ('88) Claudia Probst ('88) I Gravel sand biting into the soles of her small feet, Ariadne shifted from side to side, cast wild blossoms onto the receding waves. And the waves, expelling her offering, flung the sodden flowers, which lay then beyond their reach like frail ruined mollusks on the sand. She stood, one hip hitched up like a crane dancer, revolving slowly on her heels, and, resting a hand on her matted, golden hair she remembered Theseus, who had once cherished her, worked out the knots in her tresses with patient fingers and scented oil . "My lord and love" she cried "why did you forsake me here, on harsh Naxos, when for you I betrayed my father?" But he had gone, and taken with him her only ambition, to die beloved, and her words were lost, in the rhythmic mocking slap, slap of the waves and the the blood was flowing freely down her thigh to her ankle and seeping into the sand, her womb's small life lost while the wind plucked her dress delicately away, unstained. How would she die, she on the island beach, her chapped lip chatter skipping time with the waves? No trees stood near to chop and heave and plane, no boards would appear from under the sand, nor the bleached ribs of an abandoned boat, which, restored and launched into the waves, might yet save her. Home the last night had been a shallow cave that she had scratched out towards evening, and slept in, bloodied hands folded across her chest. She had no fire, and no other person to address would have welcomed a strayed gull's mew, or a feral dog's bark, sounds she would have gathered and nurtured, during the dark hours, within her thin sandpiper breast. 52 Spine White and whittled away tooth sunk into the <lark's heart I too am salted down to my narrow self shouldered against my dreams. We stare at each other in a stalemate without stakes. II III The odd shape that begs the question what is to be done with you-become? Vexed sharpness not quite concave oblong, off balance , what shall I call you?-who are not ready to be named or taken from. Out of my upturned palm, shallowed from footprints, half-formed intent-of these are you the echo or impetus? 53 Like the cutting of wisdom teeth you are not there but the hardness hiding is felt. Like the things about a day I dream instead of remember you bite. In the inside turning of sleep where the wings whir stirs darkness journeys. There, was it there that I saw you? Flying like a wild thing while abscent from on high? For why do I recognize the smile which you wear as you regain the sky? �Reflections on Leibnizian Substance Robert DeMajistre ('88) IV Pearl or seed awash in all else that is salt brine, knot, pit knuckled in around yourself, so sure of your circled shape, your obstinance is full-Predecessor to my heart, white as you are and so cold as to glow blue, you are not hollow. v On a long journey you follow in the clouds their veil across your face mimicking the quarters you race through in a month. The rails count the seconds in which I watch you, You, taunting-"Remember? The time at full? and where were you as I slid to half? and he? What did my shadowed side hold for you? remember? Can you ever be as swift as I? Time carries-and you?" The rails click in syncopation with the swooping telephone lines outside the window. "Will you ride with me tonight? ---out, alone--complete and evanescent in ourselves." 54 Unless great care is taken, the system outlined in Leibniz's "Monadology" may seem unintelligible. He seems to hold the most difficult and contradictory opinions of both the Cartesians and the Schoolmen. He asserts that the universe is composed exclusively of living creatures, yet, on the other hand, that it is meaningless to refer the motion of bodies to the causes proper to the "souls" of .these creatures. Upon reflection, however, one finds that the reconciliation of such seeming contraries as these would be very valuable, for although they oppose one another, the force of the arguments offered by either of these two schools of thought is nearly inescapable. In dealing with these arguments, Leibniz is attempting to navigate through the most treacherous areas of philosophic endeavor. For this reason, his work, whether successful or not, is of the utmost importance. Because of its importance and the extreme care needed to interpret the "Monadology," I have undertaken the following detailed examination of some of the issues raised in this work. Since the "monad," or simple substance, forms the basis of the "Monadology," I believe it most advisable, in seeking to understand the work, to formulate a general explication of substance, as well as of the relations between different substances. As a result, this paper will be divided into four parts: 1) substance in general, 2) God and substance, 3) the interrelation of simple substances, and 4) extension and substance. I. SUBSTANCE IN GENERAL Questions relating to the being and qualities of a class of entities understood to "stand under" things have challenged philosophers for centuries. Such a challenge is no doubt based on the observation that though things are capable of change through time, most changes seem to be gradual and proceed according to a rule. In the smallest perceptible time, a person undergoes a change, yet he rarely changes so much as no longer to resemble himself. If nothing "stands under" such changes, the person's identity is a mere illusion; yet if such a "standing under," i.e., substance, is posited, it must be admitted that a thing is not the same as itself, at least in some respect. Further, once substance is allowed, more questions arise, such as the scope of its permanence and its ability to be affected by other entities. It will be the purpose of this paper to explore Leibniz's answers to this second order of questions, for he clearly asserts the being of substance. First, it will be necessary to give a general description of his concept of substance, his ideas on simple and composite substances, and his "detail of changes." In the first few lines of the "Monadology," Leibniz separates the class of substances into the simple and the composite. Although the idea of composite substance is very important to Leibniz's teaching ( indeed, its meaning will be discussed subsequently ) , our discussion of substance will be directed toward simple substances or "monads." According to Leibniz, these monads are determined by the following limitations: 1) they have no extension, 2) they can be neither created nor destroyed by natural means, and 3) they cannot be naturally altered from without. He also asserts 55 �• that monads are' the "elements of all things" ("Monadology" #3) and that the "souls" of men and animals are examples of simple substances. There are at least two questions to be asked at this point. If monads have no extension, and they are the building blocks of all things, the manner in which extension arises is unclear. This problem will be dealt with in chapter IV of this essay. The second question seeks the possibility of sensation and death in Leibniz's system. Leibniz's response to this question involves the idea of "detail of change." As stated earlier , an explanation of this detail will be given shortly. Before dealing with those difficulties mentioned immediately above, we should enquire into the meaning of composite substance. What can it mean for a substance to be an aggregate of other substances? At this point, it may be helpful to look at a similar division ·of the class of ·substance offered by another philosopher. Aristotle also admits two classes of substance . Substance, in the truest and primary and most definite sense of the word, is that ·w hich is neither predicable of a subject nor present in a subject ... But in a secondary sense those things are called substances within which, as species, the prim.3f'y sub stances are included. (Categories Ch. 5, #1) monad to monad, and those simp1e substances that have "feeling," i.e., sense perception, have the most distinct perceptions. Since monads are indestructible, and in order to be, they must be perceiving (for wittiout perception they are indistinguishable and thus identical or non-existent), monads must always have perception. It is clear then, that sleep or death may be explained as a time of indistinct perception. Since distinctiveness is an individuating characteristic of the perceptions of a monad, therefore it must be determined by the detail of changes. Thus, this detail of change in the qualities of a substance may explain seeming alterations in the simple substance such as sensation and death. This, then, shall suffice as an overview of the Leibnizian idea of substance in itself, that is, considered without relation to other substances or entities. This explanation is, however, clearly incomplete. Without an account of the interrelation of these monads, any regularity or common perception in the universe must go without explanation. Further, it would seem impossible to say that a monad has perception of anything, as the monad has no faculty for being altered by any object. Thus, it would be impossible for us, being monads, to classify any parts of our perception as substances. A relational account is therefore more than necessary. The first step toward such an account is an explanation of the role of God in Leibniz's system. II. GOD AND SUBSTANCE These secondary substances are also, though in a different sense, collections of primary substances. A relation between the two concepts of secondary substances yields an important observation. Both thinkers assign the term "substance" to entities which do not have the properties of their respective simple substances, but have similar fun·c tions. The species man is predicated of "this man," though for most other relations, man ·may function as the subject. Similarly for Leibniz, the composite, e.g . , an animal, can have extension, and/or can be altered or destroyed. Yet it forms a whole that is generally subordinate to a single monad and for this reason is reflective of the same dispositions as this monad, though it is not clear as to the manner of this reflection (see Ch . IV) . Thus , the relat i on between simple and composite substances differs from the relation of the individual to the species in that a composite substance receives its unity through relation to a single simple substance; whereas the unity of a species is supplied through the definition of that species. We have now to consider the manner in which alterations such as sense perception or death arise in the monad. First, it is not entirely clear how a unity such as a simple substance may be altered at all. For any gradual change assumes a multiplicity (one part endures while another passes out of being), and any sudden and complete change destroys the substance , as nothing can "stand under" this complete disjunction. Leibniz himself uses this argument ("Monadol." #7) to show that it is impossible for a monad to be moved by another natural entity. He then asserts that monads must have some distinguishing qualities or everything would be indistinguishable. The term "quality" must be taken here in a semi-logical manner, that is, used to signify the contents or the predications of the substance viewed as a subject at a certain time. This interpretation allows for the impossibility of efficient causes affecting the monad (for a quality of a substance could not change a quality in another, because neither has existence outside its respective substance) ("Monadol. " 117), without eliminating the possibility of alter a t ion, as t he s e alterations are "accidental" rather than "substantial." Since nothing can change a simple substance, and alteration occurs, the substance must change itself. Leibniz calls the basis or "desire" for this alteration "appetition" ("Monadol." 1115), and the qualification of appetition that distinguishes one substance from another, the "detail of changes" specific to each monad ("Monadol." 1112). He then calls each state of this change "perception." Such perceptions vary in distinctiveness from As shown above, some necessary connection is needed in order for simple substances to relate to one another in the way in which we commonly believe them to. Leibniz supplies this connection through deducing a transcendental cause of perception for all monads. Once such a cause is found and determined to be a unity, a causal interrelation of monads will have been demonst r ated. This transcendental causality Leibniz attributes to God. Since he deduces God, at least in part, by means of a causal argument, it will be necessary to explore briefly some of the technical aspects of Leibniz's methods of reasoning. The first section of this chapter will be dedicated to such an exploration. We shall then proceed to explicate the two proofs of God given in the "Monadology," the one a posteriori and the other a priori. After these arguments have been given, it will then be necessary to fill out Leibniz's idea of God by a short description of the extent of God's power as required by the proofs . It is commonly observed by students of the physical sciences, such as Leibniz himself, that there are two basic classes of truths: those that are mathematically or logically determinable and those that transcend mathematical or logical determination. That a body which falls with a uniform acceleration describes a parabola is a truth of the first order; that bodies near the surface of the earth move with such an acceleration is second order truth. Leibniz refers to the first order truths as truths of " reason " and those of the second order as truths of " fact " ( "Monadol. " #33). From these two classes can be deduced two principles for discovery of truths: "that of contradiction," and "that of sufficient reason" ("Monadol." #30, 1131). Since the principle of contradiction had been overtly employed several centuries before Leibniz, no more need be said of it here. The principle of sufficient reason, however, is more obscure and merits further study. Though Leibniz is clearly not the first to use this principle, he is the first to place it on a par with the principle of contradiction. Leibniz presents a formulation of this principle in a fragment: " t hat every true proposit i on which is no t known per se , has an a priori proof , or that a reason can be given for every truth" (Wiener, p. 94). Further in the same fragment he writes, "These [same] reasons are founded on the principle of contingency, or of the existence of things, i.e., on what is or 'a ppears the best among several equally possible things." And in another fragment, (Wiener p. 95), the meaning of "the best" is clarified: "nothing ever happens without the possibility that an omniscient mind could give some reason why it should have happened rather than not." 56 57 I " �From this, one can infer that contingent truths must be consistent with some omniscient intelligence. It can also be observed that the principle of sufficient reason , like that of contradiction, is very limited in its ability to produce true propositions by itself, for it seems only to point to the existence of some unknown cause and provides little aid in determining this cause. Let us now, having the necessary tools, proceed to the proofs of God. The first proof is demonstrated almost completely through the principle of sufficient reason. First, Leibniz points out that the determination of the causes of anything "might run into a detail without limits" ("Monadol." 1136). Further, each one of the causes that have been determined must have a cause. Thus, no final determination of cause is possible within the series of contingents. The final reason (required by the principle of sufficient reason) must then have caused the entire infinite series from without ("Monadol." 1137). Leibniz then concludes , "and thus it is that the final reason of things must be found in a necessary substance, in which the detail of changes exists only eminently, as in their source; and this is what we call God." ("Monadol." 1138). As stated above, the application of the principle of suf ficient reason is the critical step in the proof. One of two interpretations of this step may be offered: 1) since the principle of sufficient reason presupposes an omniscient and in order to effect completely its designs - omnipotent intelligence, the argument is circular; 2) this argument is merely an analysis of the principle of sufficient reason, setting out to determine such presuppositions. Because there is no indication as to which interpretation is preferable, for the sake of the argument we shall adopt the second . We do so on the assumption that Leibniz could neither allow, nor be ignorant of such an error in such an important section of the work. Once adopted, this second interpretation itself gives rise to one or two observations: 1) this argument undermines the priority of sufficient reason, for if it were a principle, it should presuppose nothing; 2) since it is impossible to determine whether God is contained in the principle or the principle is contained in God, they may in fact be coincident. That is, this may be either a very improper application of the principle or it may be a very effective application , fo r t he pr oof of t he existence of the cause of the regress suffices to demonstrate the proof. I am in no position to give preference to either of these interpretations. Leibniz calls the above argument an a posteriori proof because it proceeds f r om contingent beings ("Monadol." 1145). He then offers a proof a priori. This proof is almost wholly contained in paragraph 44 of the "Monadology": source of all existence, he must be completely unlimited ("Monadol." 1141, 1145). This follows because there can be nothing that could have cause to limit him. Leibniz ascribes to God absolute "Power", "Knowledge", and "Will" ( "Monadol." 1148) • Power must be interpreted as the ability or necessity to be and corresponds to the "subject" of the created monad, that is, the very "substantiality" of the simple substance. Knowledge, or omniscience, corresponds to the "perceptive faculty" or the "detail of changes" in created monads. Will is similar to the appetitive faculty. Thus, all monads are indeed created in the image of God. This points to a third power of God, for not only is he the architect and the builder, but he is also an infinite prototype of the elements of his creation. No direct argument, however, is given for the unity of these powers. There seems to be no proof of one God as opposed to three. Yet one might argue that Leibniz thought multiple necessary substances to be absurd past mention, for each would limit the other. Since we have found that the details of changes of all monads are caused and supported by a single simple substance, a basis for their relation has been established. We also have found a tool with which to determine the origins of extension. As the final cause of all contains infinite intelligence, and we may apply the principle of sufficient reason, in the course of our explorations we should find nothing unintelligible or lacking a reasonable account. We shall, however, often be unable to account for that which transcends our own intelligence . Indeed, all our reasoning henceforth shall depend on the principle of sufficient reason, for only through this principle have we been able to infer the existence of God. All our reasonings will thus stand or fall by this principle . III. RELATIONS BETWEEN MONADS Understanding of this proof is, at least par t ially , fac i li t ated by ano t her fragmen t (p . 92 Wiener) where Leibni z asserts tha t possible essences "st r ive " fo r exis t ence and can exist only thr ough being "grounde d" in something actual. God is t hen t he abso lute ac t uali t y on which t he exis tenc e of any essence or e t ernal truth is based . This pr oof is bas ed on a s ort of fo r mal causal re gre ss while t he former pr oof was bas e d on an ef fi cient causal regress. This formal regress however need not be infinite. Yet, unless someth i ng i s pos ite d t o pr ovj-de unity t o t he being of t h e s e pos sib les, the regre s s s oon becomes unintelligib le. From t he a bove arguments we have come to understand God as a necessary substance wh ich pr ovi de s the f ina l reas on f or both efficient cause and the existence of essences and truths. Since God stands outside the chain of efficient cause, and is the The above account has furnished us with the principle by which a monad is related to entities external to itself. It is now necessary to determine its specific relations with such entities. We shall begin by examining the "connections" between simple substances. Since these monads cannot be externally affected by anything except God, any relation between monads must be given in terms of a harmony. That is, perceptions in each monad must be synchronized with the perceptions of all others to which it is related. The particular organization of monads will be described in the first part of this chapter. Leibniz also recognizes that it may appear to some that monads are in some way limited by other monads. This appearance arises from the fact that though the appetitive faculty provides desire within the monad, this desire is rarely, if ever, attained, i.e., it does not achieve the perception to which it tends ("Monadol." 1115). This will be explained under the head of activity and passivity in t h e l atter part of t his cha pter . Since the relations of monads depend completely on God, Leibniz finds it necessary to consider the intent of God and then to deduce the order of monads according to this intent. In one of the fragments cited above (Wiener p.91), Leibniz asserts that of all possible series, the one that exists contains the most possibles. This assertion, combined with that in paragraph 54 of the "Monadology," gives us a compre hensive formulation of the necessary state of the universe. This formulation is as follows: the existent universe is composed of the series of possibilities containing the maximum possible capacity of positive reality, that is, the series composed of the greatest number of more perfect things. Obviously, this existence is brought about by the choice of God, for this is the best possible configuration. This argument is based on two assumptions: 1) that the perfection of one possible tends to limit other possibles; 2) that a universe with the most reality is the best. The first assumption seems to be based on a presupposition of a sort of "conservation of perfection," where the lack of boundary of one possible causes boundaries to arise in 58 59 For, if there is a reality in essences, or possibilities, or indeed eternal truths, this reality must be founded in something existing and actual , and consequently in the exis t enc e of the necessary being , in whom essence involves exis t ence , or in whom it is sufficient to be possible in order to be actual. �others. The second assumption seems reasonable, for if a universe of a smaller de gree of perfection were created, this lack of perfection would impose unnecessary bounds on creation, and therefore on God - and a bounded God is never as good as it could be. All objections aside, this proposition of maximum perfection will provide us wi.t h a means to deduce the necessary organization of monads. It must be pointed out here that Leibniz does not seek to account for the entire perfection of the universe merely through the relations of monads. Such a quest would involve a study of the perfections of monads in themselves, while the present task is a description of the organization of monads that is able to contribute the most perfection to the whole. According to Leibniz, this maximum potential for perfection is brought about by allowing each monad to express, more or less distinctly, the perfections of all other monads. This leads him to conclude that a monad is a "perpetual living mirror of the universe" ("Monadol." il56). This relation enables the perfection of each monad to be reproduced to a greater or lesser extent in all the monads that perceive it. Indeed, it seems impossible to conceive of any other possible configuration that admits of a greater possible perfection, (aside from an amplification rather than a simple reflection - though such a model, if not meaningless, depends on the details of changes in individual monads, and therefore is not relevant to the argument). This model yields some rather pleasing consequences, particularly for those engaged in metaphysics or the physical sciences. In perceiving more clearly the perfections in nature and beyond, we increase our own perfection, as well as the perfection of the entire universe. Having described the relation of monads in general, we proceed to the said appearance of activity and passivity. Leibniz asserts that a creature is acting on another as far as it accounts a priori for what takes place in the object of its activity ("Monadol" t/50). This a priori account he attributes to distinctness of perception ("Monadol." t/49). In other words, one creature acts on another insofar as it can account beforehand for a change in the other. In order for the argument to be intelligible, this account must be rooted in the desire or appetitive faculty of the actor. Otherwise, a meteorologist could be said to act on the weather. Since a monad can have no direct effect on another, however, these activities must be indirect or "ideal" ("Monadol. 11 1151), for in all cases, God is the true actor. In the ideal interaction of monads, God judges between the appetites of the monads and determines which, if any, should predominate (presumably according to the principle of the best). Insofar as each appetite attains its desire it is considered active. It must be observed, however, that activity and passivity must be restricted to monads in certain relations. With few exceptions, one member of such a relation must be a composite containing or directly related to extension. Otherwise it would be possible for me to change your mind without mediation. This should be a sufficient explication of activity and passivity. Thus, the relations between monads have been explained through God and the principle of the best. It seems impossible that Leibniz could have discovered any other relation since he himself is a simple substance, some "reflectivity" must be assumed in order for him to have knowledge of other substances. If he were unable to reflect any substance, he could not have deduced this substance and would not have included it in the universe. For one who includes himself in a plenum, this conclusion seems inescapable. In Leibniz's "New System of Nature" (113) he reveals that the idea of monads, or "formal atoms", was originally formulated by him in order to account for insuf ficiencies encountered in mechanical explanations of nature. It is clear from this that monads bear an extremely important relation to matter and extension. Yet the "Monadology" lacks a basic explanation of the principles of this relation. It does, however, proceed as if the reader already has some understanding of them. No doubt Leibniz has assumed that those approaching the "Monadology" have read some of his other essays where the monad has been employed as an explanation of natural phenomena. As a result, reading the "Monadology" without textual perspective may give rise to questions regarding the origins of extension, since monads are said to be the "true atoms of nature" yet are not themselves extended. For this reason, the preliminary explication of the relation between monads and matter will draw on sources other than the "Monadology" more heavily than the previous chapters. We shall begin with an elucidation of the manner in which extension may be explained in monadological terms. The character of some particular relations between monads and matter will be dealt with briefly. Then a description of the general relations will be given. Finally, the problem of the connection of the soul to the body will b e discussed in terms of this general relation. Because the basis for the connection of monads to matter is described by Leibniz in works mainly concerned with the science of dynamics, it will be necessary to approach the problem in a manner different from that previously employed. This tack involves assuming matter and deducing monads. In one essay (Wiener 11100), Leibniz argues, against the Cartesians, that the actions of bodies cannot be described simply through extension and impenetrability. He asserts there that a metaphysical principle, that is, substance, is necessary in order to explain the behavior of bodies. In the "New System" (113) Leibniz argues for the need for simple substance. He asserts that since no atomic unity could be found in a purely material body, i.e., since extended bodies can always be divided, at least in thought, and a continuum is not composed merely of points, something non-material must provide the unity in bodies. He calls this non-material unity a "formal atom," and this simple substance he later calls a monad. From this it follows that Aristotle's "prime matter," that is, presubstantial, would consist of pure, undifferentiated extension. We may conclude, then, that monads are the origins of the unity in, and the characteristics of, bodies. In this way, Leibniz joins multitude (monads) and magnitude (extension) in order to synthesize an intelligible interpretation of nature. Monads are, thus, the true units or "atoms" of nature. We have, then, the basis for the relation of monads and extension. Since the arguments given above have been presupposed by Leibniz, this method of deduction should be permitted. There is a great danger that must be avoided at this point. If we accept the fact that every body in the universe has its own unique form or "soul," each possessing an appetitive faculty, experimental physics is clearly at risk. There may be no necessary consistency between experiments conducted on two similar bodies, or perhaps on the same monad at different times , governed by two distinct mona ds . This ab sence of necessary consistency is particularly dangerous in view of the fact that monads themselves have been deduced, at least partially, from the conclusions of experiments. Leibniz recognizes this danger and takes provisions against it. In "Specimen Dynamicum" (Wiener 11122, 11123)", he distinguishes "primitive force" from "derivative force." The former he defines as the substance in its basic sense, or substance considered by itself. Derivative force, however, is a limitation of primitive force which can be observed only when substances come into relation to one another. This latter type of force is only concerned with local motion, and is wholly quantifiable. The quantifications to which these forces are subject are commonly referred to as the natural laws of motion. This distinction must be based on the fact that though monads cannot affect one another directly, God constrains the perceptions of substances in respect to certain qualities (most notably, the quality related to position). From these limitations arise the laws of nature. In this manner, the basis of natural science is saved, and consequently, that of monadology also. This distinction between primitive and derivative force yields some peculiar 60 61 IV. RELATION OF SUBSTANCE TO MATTER �consequences. There arise from these two principles two separate chains of causality. The realm of cause assigned to primitive force is referred to as "final cause" and that of derivative force as "efficient cause." Since the appetitive faculty of any created monad is unable to cause motion, and, conversely, monads are unchangeable by natural means, the perceptions of any given monad must be "synchronized" with the chain of efficient causes in which it is directly involved. In the "Second Explanation of the System of the Communication of Substances" (Wiener #1 18, #119), Leibniz states that this synchronization must be explained in one of three ways: 1) mutual influence, 2) constant intervention of God, or 3) pre-established harmony contrived by God. The first of these alternatives has already been eliminated. The second choice seems to require a miracle at every point in time. The relation between final and efficient causes, thus, is determined by a pre-established harmony. Though such a harmony seems highly improbable, it could be very valuable to the natural philosopher. Not only are natural events predictable a priori through final causes, such as the deduction of the principle of least time found in t4e "Discourse on Metaphysics"; this harmony is able to shed light on deeper questions, such as the connection of the soul to the body. The question of the soul's relation to the body has puzzled philosophers for centuries. This puzzlement is rooted in the lack of definite connection between these two substances. As a result, many have denied any . connection at all, and in this denial, have required themselves to discard one of the two systems of cause. Those such as Hobbes have affirmed only efficient causes and found themselves facing questions involving the origins of consciousness and unity in animals. Thinkers like Hume, on the other hand, discard efficient cause and must seek some sort of subjective cause for perception. These thinkers find problems in determining the cause. of the consistency of perception or the reality of things outside themselves. Under Leibniz's system, the connection between the soul and the body does not rest in the animal, so no direct connection needs to be sought; the difficulties faced by the other thinkers mentioned here are easily avoided. These problems, however, have been faced and more or less accounted for . before this particular question was asked. It is therefore necessary to study this system carefully and determine its truth or falsity as far as possible. The relation between the monads and matter has been, for our purposes, sufficiently explained. If accepted as Leibniz has explained it, this relationship represents some very important natural and metaphysical advances in philosophy. It allows for an extensi~e stud~ of efficient causes, without direct regard to final causes, while preserving the metaphysical integrity of the system. It also allows for the limited application of final causes in natural science, such as the above-mentioned deduction of Snell's law. Such applications .of final cause yield valuabfe principles such as laws of conservation, e.g., the conservaticm of energy or "vis viva, " without necessarily admitting a "black box" into the system. The advantages .to metaphysics fur.nished by Leibn{z 's system have already been partially demonstrated in the above secti~n on the connection of the soul to the body. Further, this system may conceivably give rise to a new study where metaphysics is conducted through experiments relating to efficient cause. most natural philosophers at the time. He even shows that the curiosity that provides the impetus for the sciences is rooted in a tendency to increase the perfection of both the student and the universe. It must be observed, however, that this system is almost entirely based on the principle of sufficient reason and the principle of the best. For this reason, Leibniz may be assuming much more intelligibilty in the universe than he ought, thereby rendering his conclusions empty. Though the word translated in this passage as substance (ousia) has no direct etymological connection to the thought of "standing under," since it is used by Aristotle to signify a thing that serves only as a subject to modifications, such a meaning may be inferred. For since it is not able to function as a predicate, it is impossible for it to be changed in itself, though its function is to bear attributes that may be altered. 2. Leibniz asserts that absolutely indistinguishable entities are either one and the same thing, or utterly non-existent. He justifies that proposition by arguing that such repetition is not consistent with the perfection of God. 3. CONCLUSION 1. e.g., a body near the surface of the earth falls in a parabolic path because it is uniformly accelerated; it is uniformly accelerated because it is pulled toward the center of the earth over a small distance; why is it pulled thus? If the basic assumptions are al.l owed, the "Monadology" would appear to answer some of the . most .important questions of philosophy. The elegance of the system can do nothing but reflect positively on its plausibility. Leibniz not only makes a clear separtation between physics and metaphysics, eliminating the error resulting in their confusion, but establishes a ground for their relations. Thus the science of dynamics may stand upon firm metaphysical grounds, an accomplishment unparalleled by 62 63 �At Calvert Cliffs The Conversation Gretchen Berg ('75) Adam Eggers ('91) We play below chalk cliffs embossed with fossils, forming a ring in the water with our pants rolled up. The constant flux erodes us: even as we shout, salt cuts and wind culls and we are stuff for eons. Untitled Anne Carpenter ('91) This is a lovely kind of night, that plays with your untucked shirt, wafting. God said to Adam "My son come to me my first, most sorrowful son for we must talk" "Yes, Father" Adam replied And God spoke again "But my son do not come to me If you have any hope for mankind any dreams of love between peoples The belief that one man can make a difference Come speak to me when you know what I have just said is true Come talk with me and we can discuss my most wondrous, tragic experiment, Man" And adam answered, most somberly "I am not ready Yet." Sparkle of the charcoal road and fireflies mingle, like expensive scented powder, and the pebbles dent the flesh of your bare toes. Drink the milk the stars are pouring while bubbles break repeatedly, and sweet divine, sleeping cleopatra, with your frayed edges, remind yourself, of the strands of gold ahead, the pearly glow of patience weaves around your head. This is a lovely kind of night This is a lonely kind of night turn off your eyes of light and bow your henna head. 64 65 �Bridge Tequila Brooks ('91) Flanked by a grandmother and two aunts by the cowboy and his sons she enters with t he pr omise that-we're only going to look- neck in the noose of a skinbiting bit of lasso rope And the salesgirls aches with her eyes at the sight of mounds of brightly colored clothing which surround her in the blurr of the dressing room and she the cowboy's daughters look on with such sympathetic in their eyes that Dizzily, forlornly she stampedes the pulls tighter her tongue strains at the opening of her throat pounding hooves beat the grass-stained dirt chokes whimpers on dry tears beseeches the ceiling paneled sky with pounding sc r eams in the echoless bounds of her mind breaks free desperately eyes wild with fright front hooves nicked by stones and grass and the sting of scorpions in her flight until she tells a lie exits with pillow-tongued - i'll take this one she hurls headlong into a grinding tangle of barbed wire now and then she walks with cowed eyes boring holes in the ground directly behind her . " -/ /~ ~.:A~~ 66 67 �A Discussion of Justice and its Evolution in Aeschylus' Oresteia Trilogy Kenneth Paradis ('90) So much blood is spilled on so many hands of the house. of Atreu~ that o~e shudders to speak of the tragic events of the Oresteia as having kin~hip with J~stice. Yet each pair of bloodied hands fashions for itself an image of Justice to JUStify the~r heinous acts of vengeance. Aeschylus exposes the wretchedness of just~ce based on retribution and offers a resplendent vision of justice based on deliberation through the acts of the bitter house of Atreus. The litany of the Oresteia is the evolution of justice· From "bloodshed :or bloodshed" to "grace for grace" (Eumenides 982, 984), the barbaric pas~ of vindictive retribution concedes to a future of civilized clemency and temperate Judgement. Old justice has a narrow, individualistic scope which only concerns itself with. the ben~­ f its of the avenger and the punishment of the of fender, whereas new JUStice is grounded in a pluralism in which judgements are made for the benefit of the whole. One crucial aspect of justice's triumphant evolution is its transformat~on from personal vengeance to societal reason. Through the course of the Oresteia, Aeschylus demonstrates the dangers of the old violence, in this case through the words of the chorus: Here is anger for anger. Between them who shall judge lightly? The spoiler is robbed; he killed, he has paid. The truth stands ever beside God's throne eternal: he who has wrought shall pay; that is law. Then who shall tear the curse from their blood? The seed is stiffened to ruin. ( Agamemnon 1560-66) If the principle of justice is so limited as to be merely a matter of taking life for life, the danger is not only that the seed ?f the house of Atreus ~~ "stiffened to ruin, 11 but also · that the seed of mankind is doomed to fail. For this justice is "eternal" truth, mankind is doomed to eternal violence. How then does mankind escape this ruin? There are no inviolable standards ~f justice by which to assess the actions of mankind because the role of the gods in justice is in a state of becoming as is the ethic itself. Old justice has the intervention of the gods within its confines, and this does not lend stability to the system. In fact, the gods and mortals are both on trial in the Oresteia, and the gods need an end to the discord and chaos old justice is wreaking as much as the house of Atreus does. The gods are only one manifestation of the opposing forces that clash to forge this new justice, not the controlling element that one might expect. The violence of old justice has wrought similar conditions of social and political upheaval in the world of the gods and in the world of the men. .. ·· The Oresteia frees mankind from the , whimsical wills of .the childish gods_ A .• s~'cond aspect of just. fce 's evolution is th.a t it becomes a system based on the ·authority of the gods, but P,r acticed and maintained by mankind. Ridding mankind of the gods' interventions and t~eir passions for vengeance is a necessary step in expelling the mord1ls' penchant for the same ugliness. As we shall see, both Clytaemestra and Orestes believe their actions are divinely inspired and authorized - Clytaem~str:, through an interpretation of the laws stemming from Zeus, Orestes, through the inte - 68 vention of Apollo who shoulders the will of Zeus. In both cases, atrocities are committed, and the end result is more bloodshed - not resolution. The gods are ineffectual in fostering true justice and are committed to cultivating vendettas and hatred. The marrow of human action lies within the act of decision. Therein lies mankind's power of self-determination. Furthermore, it is by the merits of an individual's decisions that he is judged, that he seizes a preparedness for the future and an understanding of the past. Old justice not only strips mankind of his trait of deliberation, but it also seeks to discard basic emotions like compassion and love. These characters labor under the duress of dilemma because old justice is pitting pristine emotions against each other. Love and justice are irreconcilable. The Oresteia spotlights this struggle. "Justice so moves that those only move who suffer" (~ . 250), says the chorus of old justice. Along with Clytaemestra, Cassandra, Electra, and Orestes, the reader suffers the travesties of vengeful justice. As the reader grapples with the characters' decisions, they become his own; thus he experiences and understands justice's evolution. The clambering and struggle of each individual to fulfill his need for justice's company leads to the ugly atrocities of the old justice. Since its place is such a fundamental one, the struggle for justice can feed the ugliness of man's hatred and anger or nourish the compassionate and beautiful aspects of his nature according to the orientation of its laws. The plight of the house of Atreus is an extreme case, an absurd example, in which the thirst for personal retribution overshadows love between family members and honor toward the people the royal house rules. The plight of the house of Atreus demonstrates the inability of old justice to be a viable ethic and lends credence to the justice of deliberation, moderation, and clemency. The scope of this trilogy is expansive, and the themes are so closely interwoven that all of the aforementioned aspects of the plays must be considered to relate a somewhat comprehensive account of Aeschylus' commentary on justice. Therefore, let us examine this evolution of justice - the role of the gods and mortals and its meaning for mankind - in terms of the decisions of the characters who are guided by the entangled forces of the curse, fate and free will, pride and acquiescence, mortal and immortal will, and love and hate in the context of the trilogy. Much I have said before to serve necessity, but I will take no shame now to unsay it all. How else could I, arming hate against hateful men disguised in seeming tenderness, fence high the nets of ruin beyond overleaping? Thus to me the conflict of ancient bitterness is not a thing new thought upon, but pondered deep in time . I stand now where I struck him down. The thing is done. Thus I have wrought, and I will not deny it now. (~. 1372-80) These are the first haughty Clytaemestra dispatches to the chorus as she stands over the dead bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra in Agamemnon. She flaunts a hatred simmered over a long period of time, and peppered with treacherous tenderness. She proudly admits to the murder and the insidious premeditation that was involved to insure its successful completion. The idea of a curse implies an involuntary affliction which debilitates its victims like a disease. Yet, Clytaemestra claims she "pondered deep in time" on the "ancient" bitterness" of the curse, which leads one to wonder if the act was prideful choice bas ed on more than fated action. Does this passage imply that the curse is a course of action which ~an be voluntarily decided upon and that Clytaemestra embraced her role in perpetuating the curse? Is this curse a mad dog on a leash? At this point, the reader is offered two views on the curse. Cassandra, armed with a seer's wisdom, sees the house of Atreus as a place pervaded by a tangled evil, 69 �a sickness that she and every member of the house is doomed to catch. From Thyestes' one voice, a choir of "vengeful spirits" has raised its voice "drugged to double fury on the wine of men's bloodshed" (~ . 1188-90). Clytaemestra would lead the reader to believe that the curse is not such a disease. Like the fire signals from Troy, it grows stronger as the "watchers" awaken at every flaming post to feed the blaze and "kindle another beacon vaster than commanded" (~ . 301). She sees the curse as hatred kindled by the individual. Clytaemestra arrogantly sees the curse as her weapon. Perhaps both women are correct, in that the members of the house of Atreus display a propensity for violence that could be fate through an inherited character. The members of the house may be like the waiting watchman with his "watchtime measured by years" lying "elbowed upon the Atredae 's roof dogwise" (~ . 3). They cannot control the curse's appearance on the horizon, but they are prepared for it and a r e impelled to build on the hatred and nu r tur e its beacon . Clytaemestra ' s changing justif !cations tend to make the reader wary of adopting her view of the curse and the validity of her choice. Clytaemestra first appeals to the justice of the divine to justify her actions. She states that when Agamemnon was down after having been struck twice with her sword, she "struck him a third blow, in thanks and reverence to Zeus the lord of dead men underneath the ground" (~. 1385-87). With these words, the authority of Zeus and his justice are evoked in the defense of her actions to the chorus and the reader. The reader has no reason to believe that Zeus advocates or demands the death of Agamemnon other than allowing the justice of "anger for anger" to exist among mankind. Aeschylus offers a deluded Clytaemestra in her understanding of divine endorsement. Her pride leads her to believe that she may call upon their gods' laws for justification and that the authority of the gods themselves will be within those laws. She is judged by the gods, and to them she offers her reasons. Clytaemestra does not see a need to explain her actions to the people of Argos, for their judgements are not her concern. Clytaemestra refers to Zeus only to the extent that she envisions the avenging of Iphigenia's death as an act that would be judged righteous in Zeus' eyes and perhaps even necessary for the restoration of justice. Agamemnon deserves his fate in her opinion - carrion crow she sings the crippled song and is proud." (~. 1472-74). The chorus also foresees the end that awaits Clytaemestra: "still fate grinds on yet more stones the blade for more act of terror." The old men of the chorus, having witnessed one of the prophesies of Cassandra reach fruition, anticipate in a cryptic fashion the atrocities of the house to come. Both Clytaemestra and the chorus agree that Clytaemestra committed the murder of h~r own volition. Up to this point, they differ as to the "justice" of the incident and what the results of the action will be, but not as to her responsibility. . "Can you claim that I have done this?" (~ . 1497) asks Clytaemestra of the chorus. She adds that in her shadow stands the "old stark avenger of Atreus" and that "his revel of hatred struck down this man" (!&. 1502). Does this offer a refutation of what she said earlier about committing the crime? Has the pride she displayed over the murder disappeared? Is Clytaemestra claiming that her crime was fated for her and that she was merely an extension of the curse and not responsible for what occurred? Her decision is still valid, and her intention could be to add emphasis to her contention that the murder of Agamemnon is a just act of retribution, a sacrifice for the death of Iphigeneia. She may not be denying her free will in the killing of Agamemnon, but rather making the point that she did so as a willing extension of the "justice" of the curse. On the other hand, she may be completely denying responsibility and contradicting her earlier statements. In either case, Clytaemestra is searching for justification. Clytaemestra might also be readying the reader for the entrance of Aegisthus by uttering in this selfsame passage the ambiguous line, "speak to me nevermore as the wife of Agamemnon" (~. 1498-99). This passage could be construed to mean that Clytaemestra is noting a loss of identity in becoming an avenger of the old avenger of hatred. The passage could also mark a change in identity, in becoming the wife of the newest avenger who seethes with hatred and makes it his trade. At this point, the reader finds himself wondering about the role of Aegisthus in Clytaemestra's decision. Perhaps Aegisthus played on Clytaemestra's sorrow over the death of Iphigeneia and turned it to hatred for her once-beloved Agamemnon. Once Aegisthus had gained enough of Clytaemestra's trust to allow him to share her bed, sharing his hatred was a step easily taken. Were it religion to pour wine above the slain, this man deserved, more than deserved such sacrament. He filled our cup with evil things unspeakable and now himself come home he has drunk it to the dregs. (~ . 1432-34) 0 splendor and exaltation of this day of doom! Now I can say more that the high gods look down on mortal crimes and vindicate the right at last, now that I see this man - sweet sight - before me here sprawled in the tangling nets of fury, to atone the calculated evil of his father's hand. (~. 1577-82) - and his sacrifice is indeed necessary: By my child's Justice driven to fulfillment, by her Wrath and Fury, to whom I sacrificed this man, the hope that walks my chambers is not traced with fear. (~ . 1432-34) Clytaemestra is so firm in her conviction that her actions are just to the gods that she does not fear the judgement of the chorus. She brandishes her o1d justice "rights" with words that are as bitter as the wine of her vengeance. There is not acquiescence to the will of the gods in her words, just prideful seizure of the gods' ugly justice through vengeance. Thus, the reader finds himself back in a "discussion" of fate and free will and their relationship to Clytaemestra' s pride. Whether or not she chooses to do so, Clytaemestra discards the roles of wife, queen, and mother. Does the fate of the curse cause her to shirk these roles and adopt such hatred? She revels in her deed. Clytaemestra is seen by the chorus as unabashedly proud of the act of murder itself. "Standing above the corpse, obscene as some 70 This is a bold and brazen Aegisthus that appears at the end of Agamemnon. He speaks as if the injustice he was subjected to has finally been corrected. He judges that the gods in creating this atonement have restored the justice that existed before his father's rancid feast. Aegisthus may have been the one who told Clytaemestra that retributive justice was the will of Zeus and instilled a pride in her hatred for Agamemnon. He certainly sees himself in a position to judge the gods' actions. Aegisthus used Clytaemestra for his own ends; she was an instrument of his will. This exposes the true nature of the curse in that Clytaemestra was susceptible to being coached into thinking she had chosen to perform the act. Aegis thus is not concerned with justice, not even in the barbaric sense of retribution, but with something even more loathsome. The chorus threatens Aegisthus by stating that the people will not stand for his actions and Clytaemestra's and that they will retaliate with "stones of anger" aimed at his head (vengeance does not seem to be a sickness limited to the house of Atreus). Aegisthus reacts by first berating 71 �the chorus and then stating, "still with money I shall endeavor to control the citizens. The mutinous man shall feel the yoke drag at his neck" (~. 1638-40). Thus, we see that Aegis thus' intentions are insidious and beyond simply avenging his siblings' deaths. He seeks the power of the kingship of Argos and the potential to make of it a vile tyranny. At this point in the play, Aegisthus and the chorus are about to draw their swords to end the heated argument which has arisen over the murder of Agamemnon. The reader is prepared to witness the ends old justice offers, more bloodshed. Aegisthus claims that he is not afraid of death as he puts his hands on the sword hilt, and the chorus states its resolve to test his fears and to "take up the word of fate" (~. 1653). Who is it that speaks to stop more bloodshed and more violence? No, my dearest, dearest of all men, we have done enough no more violence Here is a monstrous harvest in bitter reaping time. There is pain enough already . Let us not be bloody now, honored gentlemen of Argos, go to your homes now and give way to the fate of stress and season. We could not do otherwise than we did . If this is the end of suffering, we can be content broken as we are by the brute heel of destiny. (~ . 1653- 60) The vengeance and anger of Clytaemestra have been replaced with an understanding of the situation and a resignation to claim responsibility for the action taken. She displays a reason that seeks to end the bloodshed. She refuses, at this point, the image of justice she acted upon earlier. Lurking in Clytaemestra's words is the understanding "that the brute heel of destiny" will repay her for her actions. Is she seeking an end to the bloodshed now? Is this sudden wish to end violence motivated by a fear of old justice claiming her life as well? If this curse was ever on a leash, it is absurd for Clytaemestra to think she can constrain i t af t e r she le t it loose . For, as she said earlier, "before this old wound heals, it bleeds again" (~. 1450). Driven by fate, destiny, and the curse, the old system of justice is always hungry for more blood. So where is justice in this stage of its evolution? Justice is primordial . Clytaemestra 's actions do not yield an end to this inward hatred, but its perpet uation. She ends the bloodshed between Aegisthus and the chorus , bu t her husband's blood still flows beneath their feet . Only momentarily, in one instance, does she see the futility of righting violence with more violence , of trying to reclaim a life by seiz i ng anot h er. Cly taeme stra and her j ust ice st ill wear carriage-horse bl inders . Clytaemestra's thirst for personal vengeance leads to more than her love turning to hatred, it convolutes her loyalties and concern for the state of which she is queen . Clytaemestra has not only stained the throne of the king (Zeus' representative), but also allows tyranny to enter the state Argos - which the chorus perceives as worse than death. If the purpose of justice is to restore the proper order of good after a wrong has been committed, her actions were more than fruitless; they were unjust. The imbalance of order that the curse has created becomes more severe as the bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra are added to the vengeance end of the scales . This justice has a limited vision of individual concern which not only obscures the concerns of society and the wisdom of pluralism in decision making, but also fails most funda mentally in aiding the individual. Old justice momentarily mollifies seething hatred and feelings of betrayal, and then, as the reader witnesses, repays the avenger in the currency of twofold hatred and death. As the reader turns his eyes and 72 · expectations toward the inevitable homecoming of Orestes, the words of Cassandra are remembered: We two must die, yet die not vengeless by the gods. For there shall come on to avenge us also, born to slay his mother, and to wreak death for his father's blood ..• for this is a strong oath and worn by the high gods. (~. 1278-85) The anger of the house in the Libation Bearers now manifests itself by terrorizing the sleep of its inhabitants and most acutely Clytaemestra's. The chorus graphically describes the state of the house of Atreus and the despair of ever resolving the curse. Only new blood-guilt with deeper stains is brought on by Agamemnon's death; at this point, "all the world's waters running in a single drift" cannot wash out the stains. Yet, as the chorus stands before the grave with Electra offering prayers to placate the angry spirit of Agamemnon, the women beseech Electra to ask for more death as a means of attaining a just solution. In the midst of the cacophony of voices filled with the prideful and angry timbre of vengeance, one voice, Electra's, defies the chorus by introducing a crucial distinction . As she asks the old women of the chorus how to appeal to her dishonored father, she entreats Agamemnon's spirit to pay back Clytaemestra for the evils she has committed. Yet, when the chorus tells Electra to ask for a body of men to ensure that her wish is fulfilled, Electra makes a distinction not seen up to this point: "to judge them, or to give them punishment?" (Lib. 120). . In this passage, Electra recognizes that there is a difference between reaching a judgement on a situation and inflicting punishment. She also imagines a judgement rendered by a body of men, not by an individual. The chorus tries to persuade Electra into simply asking for a life to be taken to honor the corpse of Agamemnon, as if she is foolish and deluded to ask such a question and make such a distinction. Electra also asks whether her appeal for more violence would be considered just in the eyes of one panel of judges, the gods. The chorus responds by simply quoting the law that it is obviously "right to strike back when struck first." Amazingly, Electra does not respond as if entranced by a curse that strikes at an inward penchant to do evil . She asks for temperance . Although she asks for the justice of vengeance, she admits that it is an evil prayer. Electra is not blind to moderation in discerning good from evil and is aware of her brother's and deceased father's welfares, not just vengeance. The curse is not an involuntary affliction in Electra's case, for she does not assume the destiny of bloodshed. With this recognition, the hope of justice's evolution resides. And for myself, grant that I be more temperate of heart than my mother; that I act with purer hand such are the prayers for us; but for our enemies, father, I pray that your avenger come, that they who killed you shall be killed in turn, as they deserve be tween my prayer for good and my prayer for good I set this prayer for evil: and I speak against Them. (Lib. 140-46) Enter Orestes. After confirming his identity to Electra and being exalted by her as "hope of the seed of our salvation" (Lib . 269) and the recip i ent of a ll t he love her sister, father, and mother would have received, Orestes explains his situation. The tone of his statements is not fraught with pride and blind conviction, but with doubt and deliberation . He outlines to Electra and the chorus the "big strength of Apollo's oracle" (Lib. 269) with as much intention to convince himself of the power of Apollo's words a5°his audience. Entering into his deliberation is the welfare of others and an understanding of the vengeance that he thinks must also be acted out 73 �to appease Apollo's "justice" and the wrath of his father. Shall I not trust oracles such as this? Or if I do not trust them, here is- work that must be done. Here numerous desires converge to drive me on: the thought that these my citizens, most high renowned of men, who toppled Troy in show of courage, must go subject to this brace of women. (Lib. 297 - 04) Clytaemestra's. At this point, the chorus and Orestes seem to have an inkling of the coming trial . The chorus explains that it thinks Orestes is right in his actions because he was blessed by the gods, and that ceremonies will "wash clean and cast out the furies" ( Lib. 968). They see a time when the remaining members of the house of Atreus will be free from the curse. Unlike his mother, Orestes publicly explains his actions to the people of Argos. He shows concern for them and respect for their opinions by offering this explanation. Orestes asks Zeus to "look on my mother's sacrilegious handiwork and be a witness for me in my day of trial how it was in the right that I achieved this death" (Lib. 986-88 ) . The pride Clytaemestra displayed after the murder of Agamemnon is not present in Orestes' words, but his concern for others' interests is: "I grieve for the thing done, the death and all our race. I have won; but my victory is soiled, and has no pride " (Lib. 1016- 17). The reader then has a second murder which involves an individual who is not fueled with hatred and bloodlust, a man who is compelled by the god Apollo and his father's .curse. He is not proud of his action or under the sway of a lover and is concerned with the welfare of the kingdom as well as his own, unlike Clytaemestra . The reader may venture to say that this is a more "just" murder, considering the circumstances. Justice has evolved in its intentions but not in its ends. The act is still wrong, and as even the chorus realiz~s, is not the answer to the end of bloodshed. Clearly, Orestes is not void of anger, but he is not a vessel of blind rage, overweaning pride, and a thirst for blood. He recognizes the concerns of others and examines his situation. Clytaemestra acted with less of an appeal to reason and without consideration for others. It must be said on behalf of both that the chorus is the only voice singing the thredony of vengeful justice joyfully . Yet , both Electra and Orestes still speak the vernacular and annunciate the laws of old justice. Both still seek revenge and never contradict the enthusiasm of the chorus . Electra, for all her wanting of temperance, still wishes to "smash their heads" (Lib. 395 ) , and Orestes asks to "take her life [Clytamestra's] and die for it" (Lib. 438). But this reader tends to find it easier to sympathize with the words that follow from Orestes and the mitigating circumstances and motives behind his actions than with Clytaemestra . In lines 554 through 585, Orestes relates the plan of treachery that Apollo spelled out for him and asks for that god to guide his actions. Orestes proceeds with the plan and when he tells his mother of his own death through the use of a stranger's tongue, she blames the curse for cutting down her son. Clytaemestra is not relieved that her possible avenger will not have the capability of killing her now. She laments the death of Orestes. After the chorus follows through on Apollo's plan by informing Clissa to tell Aegisthus not to come with bodyguards, it offers a prayer of supplication to Zeus and asks the "gods of sympathy" to "wash out the blood in fair spoken verdict - let the old murder in the house breed no more" (Lib. 802). The chorus sees sympathy in vengeance. The women add that they want the gods to guide Orestes' hand in the "innocent murder." The chorus seems to think that this bloodshed will cause an end to bloodshed. First Orestes kills Aegisthus, and then he confronts Clytaemestra. He still is doubtful of what should be done . He first asks his f riend Pyla des , "wha t shall I do , Pylades? Be shamed to kill my mother?" (Lib . 899) . From this point onward , we see that Orestes is more a victim of fate and destiny than Cly t aemes tra ever claimed to be. We see again in the coming responses that Orestes is not a blind agent of fate . Pylades' response exposes the role of the gods (in this case Apollo) in determining justice . He reminds Orestes that the oracles compel him to take Clytaemestra's life. "Count all men hateful to you rather than the gods" (Lib . 902) , remarks Pylades. Clytaemestra , hearing this , probably realizes t hat compassion has not left Oreste s' heart and reminds him that she is his mother . Orestes' response is simple . He asks how he could ever live with the woman who killed his father . She now changes the position she held after the murder of Agamemnon by saying, "destiny had some part in that my child" (Lib. 909). Orestes responds with, "why then, destiny has wrought that this shall be your death." Clytaemestra then reminds Orestes of the Furies that will haunt him i f he carries out his deed and of the evils of Agamemnon's acts. When that fails, she ret or ts tha t he is re sponsible and that he just wants to kill he r . Ores t e s r e sponds, "no, i t will be you who kill yourself. It will not be I" (Lib. 923) . Clytaemestra again r em:Lnds him of t he Fur ies. Undaunted·, another motivation for having to kill his mother emerges: "how shall I escape my father's curse if I fail here?" (Lib. 925). Orestes then takes her life . One must wonder if he would have taken his mother's life had not this mandate come from Apollo's and Agamemnon's avenging spirits. Personal revenge and pride do not figure in his decision as they did in The voice of old justice in the Libation Bearers whose strong words and frequent quotation of "blood stroke for the stroke of blood" ironically speaks of the futility in regaining peace and saving the royal house through this harsh, barbaric law. Perhaps the reader can find more sympathy for Orestes because of his circumstance, but he killed his mother and that is unjust . The role of the gods and fate in his actions may clear Orestes of responsibility, but an atrocity still has been committ e d. The fact that Orestes appears to have little or no choice in taking his mother 's life incriminates t he divine will that forced him into t hat situation. The gods are not capable of being judges because they are merely criminals who use old justice as an ins trument of t h eir wh i ms . Driven out of the house of Atreus by Clytaemestra' s bloodhounds, the Furies, Or estes seeks refuge in the sanctuary of Apollo's temple at Delphi at the beginning of t he Eumenides. After Apollo acknowledges responsibility for the crime, he sends Orestes to Athens to appeal to the wisdom of Athena in this matter. The sides are formed: one is the ghost of Clytaemestra and the Furies, who seek the perpetuation of vengeance; the other is Orestes and Apollo, who want an end to the bloodshed and the haunting Furies. The two sides represent more than vengeance and clemency. The chorus (the Furies) points out that Apollo is a "young god" who has "ridden down powers grey with age" (Eum. 150) and that his acts spite tradition. Thus, the reader can also sense that the argument of the Furies will be based on the authority of conventional justice and a fear of losing their role in that justice. They think a new distribution of power which includes mortals in justice will not include the Furies. They thus accuse Apollo: "he made man's way cross the place of the ways of god and blighted 74 75 The children were eaten: there was the first affliction, the curse of Thyestes. Next came the royal death, when a man and lord of Achaean armies went down killed in a bath. Third is for the savior. He came. Shall I call it that, or death? Where is the end? Where shall the fury of fate be stilled to sleep, be done with? (Lib. 1068-76) �At the outset of the trial, the Furies show the inconsistency and lack of fore sight that old justice affords. They first connnent on a valid concern, namely, that the precedent that could be set by freeing Orestes of responsibility would lead to a chaos of matricide, claiming the lives of many. The Furies' concern for themselves and for their role as representing the authority of tradition emerges. Because in the following stanza the Furies feel "parents shal} await the deathstroke at the hands of their children" (Eum. 498), they warn that they (the Furies) will "let loose indiscriminate death" in order to punish mankind (Eum. 502). Thus, they do not seem to be sincerely concerned with the welfare of mankind, but with the honor of their office. For if it were a legitimate concern of theirs that this act of acquittal would lead to the chaos of children killing parents, why would they have mankind atone for this wrong by wreaking indiscriminate death? The Furies also must sense the fall of the "house of Justice" in the process of deliberation itself, as well they should. After all, as they argue, the only things that instill respect for the laws are fear and pain. They doubt that fury would have any place in a justice of deliberation and reason. Within the Furies' questioning of Orestes, another fault of old justice is exposed. When Orestes speaks of the dishonor his mother Clytaemestra committed the • chorus retorts, II of this stain death has set her free, but you still live." One ' must pay for his dishonor with death in the old justice. Orestes asks Apollo to help him at this point because he does not have a refutation of the Furies' claims. He does not scramble for contradictory justifications like his mother, but courageously takes responsibility for his actions. Once again his affinity for deliberation comes to the fore. Orestes asks Apollo to answer th; Furies and adds, "but was the bloodshed right or not?" Apollo's response is another appeal to authority in that what was done was connnanded by Zeus. The gift of kin~ship is a gift given by the hand of Zeus and through his own kingship. Apollo claims to act on behalf of a dishonored Zeus. The murder is justified as a correction of this dishonor. In an attempt to prove Zeus a poor character witness, the Furies remind the jurors of how Crones was enslaved by him. The Furies claim this is proof that a stance based on the divine stature of kings as unassailable is one of contradiction for Ze~s. Thus, the reader sees two additional sides being drawn. Apollo responds to this attack by calling the Furies "foul animals" and stating that death, unlike enslavement, is an irreversible end. The Furies do not imagine any effective and fair implementation of justice as being anything other than dealing out rations of death. In such a childish fashion, the proceedings move along. The divine elements in the play concoct bigger and better threats to sway the citizens of Athens. Neither Apollo nor the Furies argue righteousness from any stance other than that of authority. They do not bait one another into serious discussions based on the motivations of Clytaemestra and Orestes, the debacle of Argos, or the ends to which this justice is leading them. The citizens show integrity and thought in that their decision of half advocating acquittal and half not reflects the evidence that there are good reasons to judge in favo r of eit he r the ghos t of Clytaemestra or Orestes within the old justice. They are stalwart in their resolution and unaffected by the threats of the gods. The citizens also do not think the fact that Athena was born without a mother is an important consideration in the case. That · fact has nothing to do with the case before them. Yet, in another display of frivolous, benighted divine judgement, Athena decides to cast her deciding vote for Orestes because she feels she is living proof that the role of the father is necessary to the creation of life and the mother is not. She judges Orestes' life or death on the basis that one kind of murder is less offensive than another, namely that matricide is not as evil as patricide. Orestes wins. Despite the bickering and the childishness of Apollo and the Furies and the limited wisdom of Athena, the bloodshed finally ends. The brooding Furies are placated with a new name and station; they ·become the passion to be treated justly. Thus, Athens is not blighted with a famine and the world has a new resplendent justice. The bloodshed ends. Mankind has a future. Along with Orestes, mankind wins this case because he can now free himself from 76 77 the age-old distribution of power" (Eum. 171 - 72). Armed with their fears, the Furies insist incessantly that they have a right to their justice. They claim that it is an integral aspect of the divine order. Apollo responds by speaking °'f the ugliness of this justice of vengeance and stating, "the gods spit out the manner of that feast that your loves lean to." This, the reader could imagine, is a preparation for the outcome of the trial. Despite what the reader has witnessed of the gods using this justice in the past two plays, Apollo makes it clear that now the gods find such justice repugnant. The Furies have not a chance, for the gods are vindicating themselves, even if through contradiction. Apollo begins by facing the Furies' objections that kindred blood is more sacred than a blood bond within the oath of marriage. This they see as a way of making Orestes' act more foul than Clytaemesta's. Apollo sees the relationship of a married man and woman as guided by "right of nature" (Eum. 218). The two sides represent the sides of blood bonds being the stronger and convenant oath bonds as the stronger. Since the bond between a citizen and a state is one of oath, not blood, the justice which is created to suit a society must be made with this distinction addressed. Apollo seems to be concerned with keeping his oaths and promises to Orestes for fear of the wrath Orestes will exercise if wronged. The reader witnesses the role of the gods changing because mankind has a power which holds even the gods accountable; perhaps it is man's appeal to justice. "But I shall give the supplicant help and rescue, for if I willingly fail him who turns to me for aid, his wrath before gods and men, is a fearful thing" (Eum. 232-34). Yet, both Apollo and the Furies are appealing to a false understanding of their authority, like inept parents. Apollo wants to claim that he "speaks justly" because of his seer's wisdom and favored position with Zeus. The Furies see their "right to office" as license to "conspire to steer men's lives" (Eum. 310-11) with their song of frenzy and fear. But the dangers of justice based7olely on the authority of those involved have already been shown. There is a difference between the two appeals though, in that the Furies see as a right of their office a justice that ignores circumstance. "We hold memory of evil; we are stern nor can men's pleadings bend us" (Eum. 383), say the Furies. Yet Apollo asks Orestes to be cleared on the basis of the reasons for his actions. Amazingly, both parties allow the court the right to judge their case despite their contentions that their station makes their actions right . Therefore, not only will the court of mortals be judging the actions of a man, but they will also be asked to assess the offices of the divinities that are in opposition. No more unconditional smiting, hunting or haunting will be afforded the gods. They are being held accountable - being judged. The gods will no longer thrive on executive privilege. The court is assembled. Twelve honored citizens of Athens shall strive to find truth. All evidences are admissible and deliberation is recognized as essential. The reader readies himself for an exciting stage of evolution. He pushes onward through the pages anticipating a triumph, an end to the madness. Litigants, call you witnesses, have ready your proofs as evidence under bond to keep this case secure. I will pick the finest of my citizens, and come back. They shall swear to make no judgement that is not just, and make clear where in this action the truth lies. (Eum. 485- 89) �the pathetic litigants of this case. The gods' authority is imbued in the court, but they no longer preside as judges. The gods have been escorted out of the ~ourtro~m to adorn the steps outside with their marble images. This one aspect of Justice s evolution reaches ifrluition. t f its evolution is that it moves from individualistic Another cruc a aspec o . h. d d f Argos vengeance to pluralistic reason. The preservation of the kings ip an or ~r ~ t reflects a societal concern. The pluralism of the jury and th.e presence o t e cour will not be obscured with cloudy, subjective thinking. The JUry can offer clemenc~ and com ass ion and can consider circumstances for mankind's benefit. The futu~e o his law: and their interpretation is finally out of the hands of t~e s~lfish, fickle ods Man now has mastery over his fate; he has the power of true JUStice. g ·Mankind's justice now has the capability to reflect and foste~ the beautiful as ects of his nature: compassion and reason. Now hatred and JUStice are not ir~econcilable . The chorus , which throughout the trilogy has been the vo~ce 0 ~ ~~: justice, offers the reader the prayer of man's new justice in the conclusion o Oresteia: This is my prayer: Civil War fattening on men's ruin shall not thunder in our city. Let not the dry dust that drinks the black blood of citizens through passion for revenge and bloodshed for bloodshed be given our state to prey upon. Let them render grace for grace. Let love be their common will; let them hate with single heart. Much wrong in the world thereby is healed. (Eum. 976-87) All textual references are taken from Richmond Lattimore's Oresteia printed by the University of Chicago Press in 1953. 78 translation of the A Letter from an Alumnus The following letter was written by a graduate of St. John's College and addressed to current tutor. The New York Times Book Review article that is referred to in the letter is entitled "What's Left Out of Literature" and was written by Charles Newman. a Summer 1987 Dear Tutor, Here's the article from the NY Times Book Review that I mentioned. He occasion- --- --ally gets carried away with the literary criticism lingo, but most of it seems coherent, and I think he is very accurate with many of his arrows/observations. The musing in the final paragraphs about the "why" of it all relates to, gee, the debate about liberal education--a debate that has perhaps subsided but the conclusions of which, nevertheless, people don't really want to face. I think the "cultural weight lessness" this fellow speaks of is very much at the heart of the contemporary educated person's disposition towards the world. It receives expression not only in the literature, which a lot of people don't like, but also in the music and certainly in films, each of which are, in contrast to the literature, very popular. I think this makes a certain amount of sense in that there is little to distract one from the emptiness of a novel or short story, while there is plenty of distraction to be had in music and at the movies. Recent NY "art films," like Jim Jarmusch's Down by Law and David Byrne's True Stories (which you've seen), and also the summer's Hollywood smash, The Untouchables, are weightless in the extreme, to my eye, and for the most part I do think this was the intention of the filmmaker. I am friends with the assistant editor of Down by Law, and was at the opening of True Stories, where Byrne came out afterwards and fielded questions for an hour. He made it clear that the irony of the movie was intended as detail and comic relief, and that the general expression was one of approbation. It was the judgement of a sophisticated New Yorker that the small town scene in Texas is okay too and that whatever one does and must do to find happiness has to be considered fine-- what basis for criticism exists, after all? We all want to be happy. Byrne then was intending to lecture the sophisticated New Yorkers a bit, in this odd way. I for one wish he had not been so generous. For better or worse, I don't think that "whatever" is "fine." Too many nights listening to conversations of Happy People in a taxi has left me with this sour state of mind. My roommate and I had something of an argument about The Untouchables. She works in video, is a movie person more or less, and, like most of the NY movie people I know, thought it was a great film. I saw it with four movie people, and all they could do was rave about the cinematography, the "sepia tones," the campy (but so what?) performances of de Niro and Connery, and, above all, the director's "quotations" from Hitchcock, and of the famous baby-carriage-on-the-steps scene from the classic Potemkin. On and on. All the while ignoring-- that is, accepting with no qualms-- the comic book treatment of the theme. The theme was law and order, for it's the story of the treasury agent Elliot Ness, who was imported into Chicago to try to nail Al Capone. Every character in the film was a caricature. No attempt was 79 �made to defend with development any of the pertinent cliches. A high- priced NY playwright did the script (David Mamet), and I have to assume he had his reasons fo r restricting himself to the comic book approach. I can even think of a good reason , to wit, to force a pseudo - sophisticated audience to face the cliches and acknowledge their simple truths, for the modern audience has seen everything. There is no surprising or shocking it, and its sole critical activity has become the activity of recognizing and filing away the familiar formulas. In doing so, it assures itself that whatever is being aired has been seen and presumably deconstructed before and requires no direct consideration. I am not saying this very well, but I think its one of the most important things to note about the way contemporary, educated people approach expressions of all sorts, about the way they approach the world. I listen to it all the time in the cab, and this is really one of the main reasons I took to recording taxi conversations; what I would call social considerations seem to ru l e 90% of a ll discussions, re gar dless o f content . I t is most important to have something to say immediately, to say it, to be agreed with, and to pass on the next thing. That is, the aim is to dispense with whatever has been said, and if there's to be any dissecting at all, it's accomplished with stupid cynicism and pseudo-sophistication. Entertainment remains as the only value- - .how entertaining, for whatever reason, was the film/play/book/painting/person, and more importantly, how entertaining is the blithe discussion in which it/he/she is recognized and filed away? For Mamet, then, to write a screenplay about law and order that is no more sophisticated than a Dick Tracy cartoon is to provide the audience with very little entertainment of the latter sort, for the bare cliche is dispensed with the barest amount of entertaining after- theater conversation. The problem with this tack is that people simply ignore the theme altogether. Especially when the movie's director, Brian de Palma, is obsessed with film history and technique, and is notorious for making movies that say nothing. If it was Mamet's intention to try to make people face the simplicity of the cliche truth, it didn't work well, at least not with the sophisticated NY audience, not with the NY movie people. As to whether it matters that the theme gets no better treatment than it does in a comic book- - to ask such a question is to invite embar assed silence. My movie roollllllate finally said, in exasperation, that it's not necessary that the movie say anything important. I replied that, of course, it's not necessary, but for that matter movies period are not necessary. Necessity has nothing to do with it. What one would like to see, rather, is the question. What one likes, finds interesting, worthy of attention, worth the time. In considering this, I said that a multi-million dollar project that says nothing more than a thirty cent comic book seems less than what one should be satisfied with, and that during this summer America has fallen in love with Oliver North and similar people who seem to have less of an unders tand ing of t he complexi t y of t h e l aw and order questions t han one woul d wish in men working in the White House. When I made these admittedly simple and glib sort of suggestions about what I would have pref erred The Untouchables to be, my roommate said "I get very uncomfortable when I feel I'm being lectured," implying that when something makes her uncomfortable she dispenses with it. Her meaning was that a "serious" treatment of the law and order theme was not only unnecessary but was not at all to be desired, would be declasse, something NY movie people, and perhaps sophisticated audiences in other cities too, would not put up with. Further it would be an insult to their intelligence. But these might well be the words of Ollie North, and Poindexter, and who knows who else. In any case, the attitude that an attempt to state a developed position, one in which certain values are seriously de.fended or attacked, is something that should not be made is the serious underlying attitude of the sophisticated audience. I do think it's pseudo-sophistication, and I think the article here is talking well about this sort of thing. In the end, as the fellow suggests, its a sign of an ignorance, "a king of a quiet nervous breakdown," due to 80 the fact that "we don't quite know what has happened to us." To admit to such a state wou ld b e quite paralyzing for people with a conscience. Most of the contemporary music is trash. I've always thought Springsteen an exception, of course, and there are others I consider great poets and great r The two needn't necessarily go hand in hand but they seem to th d p otesters. something from a lecture Albert Camus gave in Paris in 1957 ese abysf. This is born: ' , a year e ore I was On occasion art may be a deceptive luxury ... For about a century we have been living in a society that is not even the society of ~oney (gold can arouse carnal passio~s) but that of the abstract ym~ols of mon:y. The soc~ety of merchants can be defined as a society in which things disappear in favor of signs Wh ruling class measures its fortunes not by the acre of l~nd ore~h a ingot of gold, but by the number of figures corresponding idealle ~o al~ertain number of exchange operations, it thereby condemn~ tse . to setting a certain kind of humbug at the center of its experience •.. There is no reason for being surprised that such society chose as its religion a moral code of formal principle: an~ that it inscribes the words "liberty" and "equality" on its priso~s.as well as on its temples of finance ... Is there anything surprising in the fact that such a society asked art to be not instrument of liberation but an inconsequential exercise and a: m~~e entertainment? Consequently, a fashionable society in which a troubles were money troubles and all worries were sentimental worries was satisfied for decades with its society novelists and with the most futile art in the world, the one about which Oscar Wilde, thinking of himself before he knew prison said that th greatest of all vices was superficiality ' e In this way the manufacturers of ar~ of middle - class Europe b:!~~~ and after 1900, accepted irresponsibility because respon~ si ty presupposed a painful break with society (those who really broke with it are named Rimbaud, Nietzsche Strindberg a~d we know the price they paid). From that peri;d we get th~ ~ eory of art for art's sake, which is merely a voicing of that irresponsibility ... The more art specializes, the more necessar popularis.ation become.s. In this way millions of people will hav~ the feeling of knowing this or that great artist of our time because they have learned from the newspapers that he raises canaries or that he never stays marrie d fo r mo re t han s ix months The greates.t renown today consists in being admired or hated without having been read ... Consequently, there is nothing surprising in the fact that almost everything worthwhile created in the mercantile Europe of the nineteenth ~nd twentieth centuries - - in literature, for instanc:-- was raised up against the society of its time. It may be said that until almost the time of the French Revolution current literature was, in the main, a literature of consent . From t he moment when middle- class society became stabilized, a literature of revolt developed instead •.. There is no need of determining whether art must flee reality or defer to it, but rather what precise dose of reality the work must take on as ballast to keep from floating up among the clouds 0 : from draggi~g along the ground with weighted boots. Each artist solves this problem according to his lights and abilities . 81 �••• The loftiest work will always be, as in the greek tragedies, Melville, Tolstoy, Moliere, the work that maintains an equilibrium between reality and man's rejection of that reality, each forcing the other upward in a ceaseless overflowing, characteristic of life itself at its most joyous and heart-rendering extremes. Then, every once in a while, a new world appears, different from the everyday world and yet the same, particular but universal, full of innocent insecurity •.• That's just it and yet that is not it; the world is nothing and the world is everything-- this is the contradictory and tireless cry of every true artist, the cry that keeps him on his feet ••. Much is missing here between the last paragraph and the bulk of what I've typed befo r e it, mostly a discussion of social realism and of romanticism. The debate comes to this ambiguous, uniting conclusion. Whatever its merits, the idea that "weightlessness,'' that a value-neutral literature, a literature of silence, can be reputable, seems something Camus would argue against, and something that itself calls for protest. This hasn't been a very clear transistion from the stuff above about movies, but ••• Here is a Springsteen lyric. It eventually, at the end, touches on out theme. It isn't a poem proper, but is a lyric to a song only a piece of the Piece, but-JUNGLELAND (somewhat quietly, with piano and flute in background) The Rangers had a homecoming In Harlem late last night And the Magic Rat drove his sleek machine Over the Jersey state line Barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a Dodge Drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain The Rat pulls into town rolls up his pants Together they take a stab at romance And disappear down Flamingo Lane Well the maximum Lawmen run down Flamingo Chasing the Rat and barefoot girl And the kids round here look just like shadows Always quiet, holding hands From the churches to the jails Tonight all is silence in the world As we take our stand Dowin Jungleland (crashing rock and roll) The midnight gangs assemble And pick a rendezvous for the night They'll meet 'neath that giant Exxon sign That brings this fair city light There's an opera out on the turnpike There's a ballet being fought out in the alley Until the local cops 82 Cherry tops Rip this holy night The street's alive as secret debts are paid Contacts made, they vanish unseen Kids flash guitars just like switchblades Hustling for the record machine The hungry and the hunted Explode in a rock and roll band Face off against each other in the street Down in Jungleland In the parking lot the visionaries Dressing in the latest rage Inside the backstreet girls are dancing To the records that the DJ plays Lonely-hearted lovers struggle in dark corners Desperate as the night moves on Just one look,, and a whisper, And they're gone (breakdown in beat, turn to a long, jazzy saxophone instrumental that eventually dies down to the long piano, sounding exhausted, lost ) Beneath the city two hearts beat Soul engines running through a night so tender In a bedroom locked in whispers of soft refusal And then surrender In the tunnels uptown The Rat's own dream guns him down The shots echo down them hallways in the night No one watches as the ambulance pulls away Or as the girl shuts out the bedroom light ( rising) Outside the street's on fire In a real death waltz Between what ' s flesh and what's fantasy And the poets down here Don't write nothing at all They just stand back and let it all be And in the . quick of the night They reach for their moment And try to make an honest stand But they wind up wounded, not even dead Tonight in Jungleland It's the silence, noted in the first two stanzas and then returned to in the last, that made me think of this right now. The crazy str~ggles take place oddly surrounded by sile~ce, and there's a protest here that some people, perhaps the "kid~ just like shadows b~t clearly the "poet," should say something. They have an obligation to say something. I think there's a reference to the very first important 83 �song written by Paul Simon, back in 1967, entitled The Sounds of Silence. Jungle land seems to me far from a naive or romantic view of several different strains of struggle, by the way. It adopts a cartoon hero form, but then turns on itself: the black hero/dreamer dies ignominiously, in a sense a suicide, indeed; his girl has no choice but to just turn out the light; the worshipping youth are conned into a stupid war, eventually setting their world on fire, uncertain of what is real and what is not, uncertain of the value of reality and fantasy. This is something like the uncertainty that Newman writes about in his last few paragraphs perhaps; Newman begins his piece by complaining about the silence of the poets in the face of all this, whereas Springsteen ends his with the same complaint. But each suggests that the poets are wounded, something quite different than the controlled silence of Minimalist art of the seventies, for instance. I really had no intention of writing all this. I have very little in the way of organized things to say. Concerning my alleged novel , I h ave an i mp oss ible time t r ying to judge it, whether it is silent and empty. Or do I -- I guess I don't worry that it's empty. I do worry that no one will, nevertheless, care enough about such a character to read it. It is written from a depressed view of life, certainly. Today such an attitude is not i n vogue. I had not adopted the attitude; it w.as / is something I have to contend with. The hero is not a cartoon character. He has to be both strong and weak. There have to be reasons for people to care about him, as the narrator does. At the same time, there have to be given the secrets of his failure, which the narrator has only barely come to understand as he begins to wonder if he, the narrator, isn't really the better man. That's something he was always sure wasn't so, having always been sure of his inferiority. But then is he the better man, or merely better suited for life? Is viability the only criterion? If so, the question of what happens to a good man in a bad city never gets aired. For such a scenario to exist there must be other criteria to allow for the unviable organism to be nevertheless deemed good. Without other crit eria the environment is always the measure, cannot be deemed bad. Without other criteria, the bad city is a phantasma, impossible. It is a woman, the dead hero's old girl and the narrator's new love, who suggests to the latter that the hero was no hero , in that he was an unviable organism, suggesting then that no other criterion exists. And, given the new love, the narrator has good reason to agree, to dispense with the rival (dead but still a rival). The post- mortem, then, takes place subjected to all sorts of pressures, and is important in that it is an evaluation of how one evaluates life. Why live, why not die? I hope this isn't so vague it is rubbish for you. I've been feeling better the past two weeks, but am still in the process of recovering. I've had little energy all summer, and this has been, I guess, an attempt to bash through and think about the task of painting this character . I've been writing very litt l e , rea l l y a f ra id of doing it while my mind is slowed by the medical problem. I am feeling better, but it's disturbing to feel less than what I know I am. The boundary between the physiological and the psychological, of course has long been blurred. "Know thyself"--no mean thing. I hope all is well with you. Alla prossima, St. John's Alumnus 84 �Non-Pro BULK U.S. PO St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 PA PERMIT ANNAPO � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. 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Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/1efb31e2b66a38236bd33d4de7779091.pdf 9542edd8f8bd370577818ee2590bf1b5 PDF Text Text FALL, 1989 �[ ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. 11 •.. vou Evtpytia ~ro11 ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) Cover: "B. GOODE" Photographed by John Silver '89 Staff: Jennifer Accardo Carolyn Barndt Eugenia Bergeron Akiba Covitz George Dolan Bryan Frost Brian Levy Laurae Melbin Ray Rivera Laura Webner Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland Editors: Rhonda Datcher Ken Paradis Faculty Advisor: Henry Higuera With special thanks to: Ray Gifford Geor ge Tu rner Ty Yancey Chris Colby Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published two times a year and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis and Santa Fe. The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community--essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. + �l CONTENTS THOUGHTS ON MACHIAVELLI AND TACITUS: THE PROBLEMS OF ETHICS AND POLITICS (Honorable Mention, Sophomore Essay) 5 GRAND L UNA L OVE Ned Dobner 12 "GRACE COMES SOMEWHAT VIOLENT ... THROUGH THE WRECK AND THE BLOODSHED" (Prize-Winning Freshman Essay) Michelle Nicoll 13 CLASS DAY ADDRESS John Verdi 20 Part One of: TRAGEDY, PHILOSOPHY, COMEDY: A VISION OF TRANSCENDENCE IN EURIPIDES, KANT, AND HEGEL (Honorable Mention, Senior Essay) Michael McShane 22 ARISTOTLE'S WHEEL Cherie Craig 33 THE BEGINNING OF TIME Eugenia Bergeron 35 THE CAVE Seung Ahn 37 BEHOLD THE LAMB OF GOD: CHRIST AND MEN IN THE GOSPEL OF JOHN Kev in Graham 38 UNTITLED POEM Laurae Melbin 47 COMING TO IN THE FATHERLAND (Prize-Winning Original Poem) • Alexander Lo Jessica Lamb 48 �•. Thoughts on Machiavelli and Tacitus: The Probletns of Ethics and Politics Alexander Lo ('90) Preliminary Discussion The antithesis between Machiavelli and Tacitus cannot be more apparent than in their works, both in terms of their views of history and their methods of inquiry. In many striking passages, they explicitly spell out their intentions and motives. For Tacitus, the historian's highest task is essentially a moral task. He does not "relate at length every motion, but only those such as were conspicuous for excellence or notorious for infamy." History's highest function is to let "no worthy action be uncommemorated, and to hold out the reprobation of posterity as a terror to evil words and deeds." Thus history, or rather historical reconstruction by the historian, is essentially a series of moral lessons: the historian is a moral critic of the actions of individuals and the events of particular historical periods. In the writings of Machiavelli, political history or analysis becomes a part of politics and is not apart from politics. He too is critical. He analyzes politics as it is practised, but not how it ought to be practised. It is customary to view Machiavelli's writings as 'value-free', as free from ethical consideration. But this is clearly not the case, as even a casual reading of Machiavelli will show. He is full of praise and blame for the political and the historical actor. Clearly, his ethical criterion is that of the good and the bad, as opposed to the good and the evil. But this is only the 'surface' antithesis between the two authors. At a deeper level, there is a common denominator which is shared by all historical and political writers. (I shall use history, politics and political history interchangably.) Regardless of their moral and ideological persuasions, they all aspire to objectivity, historical knowledge, and authentic historical reconstruction. Of course, both Tacitus and Machiavelli, and all of us, are aware of propagandistic writings. Very frequently writers conceal such events as would reflect disgrace upon their century, whilst magnify and amplify those that lend lustre to it. The majority of authors obey the fortune of conquerors to that degree that, by way of rendering their victories more glorious, they exaggerate not only the valiant deeds of the victor, but also of the vanquished. (The Discourses, New York: the Modern Library, 1950, p. 271) The history of Tiberius, Caius, Claudius and Nero, while they were in power, were falsified through terror, and after their death were written under the irritation of a recent hatred. Hence my purpose here is to relate a few facts about Tiberius ...without either bitterness or partiality, from any mo tives to which I am far removed. (The Annals, New York: the Modern Library, 1942, p. 3) Nevertheless, all historical writers assume the intelligibility of history. History is both a reality and an object of knowledge, is simultaneously that which is experienced and that which can be known. Thus, we have reduced the apparent antithesis betwen Machiavelli and Tacitus to the common assumption of historical intelligibility. In 5 • �order to praise Germanicus and to denounce Tiberius, in order to praise the grandeur of Rome and to denounce the corruption of the Italian pr inces and republics, it must be assumed that the policies of governments and the actions of individuals are historically intelligible. One assumption, two ethical views on history: it is at this level of history as a formal study that the problem of ethics and politics becomes interesting. The two ethical views, which we have discussed briefly at the beginning, lead to two different approaches to historical reconstruction -- in other words, two different ways of making history intelligible. We shall discuss t he limitations and the ad vanta ges of the two approaches and those of the two ethics within the context of historical intelligibility. By limitation, I mean practical intelligibility, the limited extent to which the intelligibility of a historical event is revealed. By advantage, I mean the extent to which the intelligibility of a historical event can be revealed. Machiavelli's Ethics and Method In discussing the two forms qf ethics, it is tempting simply to use the formula of ends and means. While the one emphasizes intentions, actions, and the means by which goals are achieved, the other emphasizes results in tended and consequences resulted. The latter seeks to determine not whether the means a re desi rabl e but whethe r the results produced are desirable. Commenting on Romulus' murder of his brother, Machiavelli expresses the latter ethics elegantly: "It is well that when the act accuses him, the result should excuse him" -- the murder being n ecessar y to the fo u nd ing of Rome (p. 139). Christian ethics is a particular manifestation of the first type of ethics. Significantly, Machiavelli does not condemn "our religion", namely Christian ethics, which " places th e supreme happiness in humility, lowliness, and a contempt for worldly objects." He simply realizes that these [Christian] principles have made men feeble, and caused them to become an easy prey to evil-minded men, who control them securely, seeing that the great body of men, for the sake of gaining Paradise, are more di~posed to endure injuries than to avenge them. (p. 285) Without the qualities of the lion and the fox, "our institutions" do not "teach us to love and honor our country", or to expand our domain of influence. On the other hand, "the other religion", namely the Romans', renders men formidable by emphasizing "grandeur of soul and strength of body" and by attaching the highest esteem to honors and possessions. The latter is the ruthless pursuit of power, whether for oneself (the prince) or for one's community (the republic). The two ethics are incompatible and Machiavelli knows which one he perfers. Nevertheless, Machiavelli does not exclude the possibility of political greatness for the Christian state. It is Machiavelli's realization of such a possibility that prompts Max Weber to comment thus: further than, Mach iavelli. Not sur prisingly, even clergymen in Machiavelli's time had said it, in internal documents of course: When the existence of the Church is threatened, she is released from the commandments of morality. With unity as the end, the use of every means is sanctified, even cunning, treachery, violence, simony, prison, death. For all order is for the sake of the community and the individual msut be sacrificed to the common good. (Dietrich Von Nieheim, Bishop of Verden: De Schismate Libri III, A.D. 1411) Nieheim's passage is almost an exact duplicate of Machiavelli's: Machiavelli, in a beautiful passage of the History of Florence, has one of his heros praise those citizens who deemed the greatness of their native city higher than the salvation of their souls. For where the very safety of the country depends upon the resolution to be taken, no considerations of justice or injustice, humanity or cruelty, nor of glory or of shame, should be allowed to prevail. But putting all other cosiderations aside, the only question should be, What course will save the life and liberty of (_The Discourses, p. 528) the country. (Politics as a Vocation, New York: Oxford Univer- · sity Press, 1946, p. 126) It requires exceptional lucidity and humility to Literate and cultured men have been, and still are, prevented from fallowing the "new route" because of their reading of Socrates' decisive arguments against Callicles in the Gorgias and Thrasymachus in the Republic, because of their faith in Christianity, and because of their being shielded from the reading of internal documents. On the basis of the formal ethics of responsibility, to borrow Weber's phrase, Machiavelli is in an unique postition to analyze power as it is practised, as it should be practised if goals are to be realized successfully, but not how it ought to be practised so as to conform to the ethical norm. This is apparent throughout The Prince and The Discourses. He is less interested in individual characters than in the decisions that they have to make, in the actions that they have to carry out, and in their assessment of existing situations. This is partic ularly so in the case of the Prince. U nli ke Tacitus, rarely does he give minute portraits of his characters' thoughts and motives, beyond such general categories as courage, cowardice, and magnanimity. He analyzes in detail material causes as opposed to individual motives. For example, he analyzes the usefulness, or rather the uselessness, of money and fortresses in warfare, and the Roman emphasis on infantry as opposed to cavalry. He is more interested in large social and political movements than in individuals, except to the extent that a knowledge of individuals is necessary towards an understanding of these movements. Book One of formalize the two positions in no uncertain terms, to choose one while recognizing the legitimacy of the other. This by itself is an admirable quality. Max Weber, who formulates the two ethics in contemporary language,_ says, "one cannot prescribe to anyone whether he should follow an ethics of absolute ends (Christian ethics) or an ethics of responsibility (Machiavellian ethics) or when the one and when the other." (ibid.) . This ethics is prerequisite to the particular type of analytical method of history and political analysis on which Machiavelli's fame rests. In the introduction to the first book of the Discourses, Machia vell i sa ys what h e has done here may prove for the common benefit of all; I have resolved to open a new route, which has not yet been followed by anyone, and may prove difficult and troublesome ... I shall have shown the way to others, who will carry my views with greater ability, eloquence, and judgement. (p. 103) His "new route" is "difficult and troublesome" not because of the intr insi c intellectual depth of this type of political analysis. Rather, the new formal ethics, incompatible with the Christian ethics into which political writers and cultured men are trapped, has yet to take hold of our moral and intellectual constitution. This ethics is nothing new; it probably has been practised from time immemorial. Platonic characters Callicles and Thrasymachus have voiced it. The Indian classic Kautaliya Arthasastra has gone as far as, if not The Discourses is concerned with Roman internal politics, while Book Two deals with the expansion of the empi re. Thus, he gives detailed analyses of Roman institutions such as the tribunate (which represents the people), the senate (which consists of the nobles) and the consulate. A brief comparison between Machiavelli's account of the Roman agrarian law and Plutarch's account of the conflict between Pompey and Caesar will illustrate the differences, both in method and style, between Machiavelli and morally motivated historians such as Tacitus and Plutarch. Plutarch tells us next to nothing about the larger historical and political context out of which the conflict between Caesar and Pompey arose. For him, the conflict was simply the personal rivalry between the two greatest Roman politicians of the day: Caesar had lond ago resolved upon the overthrow of Pompey, as had Pompey, for that matter, upon him ... (I)f the one of them wished to make himself the greatest man in Rome, he had only to overthrow the other; and ifhe again wished to prevent his own fall, he had nothing for it but to be beforehand with him whom he feared. (Plutarch's Lives, "Life of Caesar," Chicago: the University of Chicago, 1952, p. 588) From Plutarch's account, we learn that the people were generally behind Caesar while the aristocratic Pompey was greatly respected by the noblemen. But this state of affairs had its origin in the passing of the agrarian law, which, according to Machiavelli, caused the fall of Rome. As decreed by the law, "no citizen could possess more than a certain number of acres of land," and that "all lands taken from their enemies should be divided amongst the Roman people." The law worked to the disadvan tages of the nobles. First, "those who had more land than the law allowed (which was the case with the greater part of the nobles) had to be deprived of it; and by dividing amongst the people the lands taken from the enemy, it took from the nobles the chance of enriching themselves." (Discourses, p. 209) The law caused constant conflicts between the people and the nobles, first in the civil war between Marius, whom the people favored, and Sylla, whom the nobles favored. Later, Caesar joined the party of Marius, while Pompey u pheld the pa r ty of Sylla. It is typical of Machiavelli that he should pay more attention to the agrarian law, while Plutarch simply related the personal rivalry between Caesar and Pompey. 7 6 • �Characteristic of his method, Machiavelli "demonstrate(s) by ancient and modern examples, rather than attempt(s) to do so by arguments, which will not do as well." (Discourses, p. 375) He chooses particular historical situations as examples, and on those bases he abstracts general rules. What he says of the common people, so he thinks similarly of the historical writer: ''Men are apt to deceive themselves in general matters, yet they rarely do so in particulars ... The knowledge of things particular had removed from their minds that delusion into which they had fallen by looking at things in general." (Discourses, p. 233, 236) For example, it is well to argue about equality and the just distribution of power. When it comes to particular actions, such as the election of common citizens to the Roman Consulate, the citizens know that not one of them is suitable. Similarly, it is well to advance Socrates' argument according to which suffering evil is better than practising evil. We all know where this ethical viewpoint will lead to in real life power-politics. Good does not necessarily result in good, and evil does not necessarily lead to evil. How can we know that the initial good deed will reslult in morally desirable consequences, and that those consequences will result in further desirable consequences? As Isaiah Berlin says, in matters such as these, humility is called for. Those who insist that evil must be resisted at all cost, such as Socrates, and those who say arrogantly that if they have to choose between the lesser of two evils, they will choose neither, such as the Austrian writer Karl Draus, have no calling in politics and should stay out of it altogether. Machiavellism is at once an ethics and an analytical approach. It is the vulgar understanding of Machiavelli's works that leads us to equate Machiavellism with the ruthless pursuit of power. In reality, it implies vigor of thought and a profound knowledge of history. It implies moderation and humility which realize the inconclusiveness of political actions and the necessarily limited knowledge of past and present. Machiavelli himself says that it is "a fact that we never know the whole truth about the past." Machia vellism is a mirror of politics as "the art of the possible". It does not hesitate with the use of violence and other morally dubious means. However, it fully realizes the allpervading unpredictability which we encounter in the political realm: "Before deciding upon any course, therefore men should well consider the objections and dangers which it presents; and if its perils exceed its advantages, they should avoid it." (Discourses, p. 245) Since it does not demand perfection, does not claim scientific understanding of historical processes, and does not profess moral purity (Machiavelli is fully aware of the antiChristian, or the evil, character of his teachings), it is the opposite of fanaticism and idealism. Machiavelli says in the introduction of The Discourses that "I shall at least have shown the way to others, who will carry out my views with greater ability, eloquence, and judgment," a subject to which we will return. We shall now turn to Tacitus. which he ascribes to his characters fit in so nicely with the consistence of his protraits, that we wonder whether we are reading dramatic writings or authentic historical reconstructions. In Tacitus's eye, Germanicus could do no wrong. In his own words, Germanicus "was a young man of unaspiring temper, and of wonderful kindliness, contrasting strongly with the proud and mysterious Tiberius." "The nearer Germanicus was to the highest hope, the more laboriously did he exert himself for Tiberius, and he made the neighbouring Sequani and all the Belgic states swear obedience to him." (p. 24) Tiberius, on the other hand, even if he acted expediently on several occasions, as any competent politicain would have done, is nevertheless criticized on those occasions. On the occasion of Augustus's death, when all the religious rituals had been performed, when the nobles urged Tiberius to succeed Augustus, Tiberius delivered a "routine" speech which expediently expressed obviously false modesty as to the greatness of the task, his own inadequacy in the presence of so many capable men. Nevertheless, Tacitus has to comment thus: Tacitus' Ethics and Method I have quoted Tacitus as saying, in the beginning of The Annals, that his purpose is "to relate a few facts" about the Roman emperors, without bitterness or partiality, or any motives . other than for the sake of genuine history (as distinct from romance). But few historians have consciously revealed more about themselves, their moral sentiment, and their preferences and prejudices than Tacitus. He is quite bitter and is far from being impartial, as he himself tells us later: by My labours are circumscribed and inglorious; peace wholly unbroken or but slightly disturbed, dismal misery in the capital, an emperor careless about the enlargement of the empire, such is my theme ... I have to present in succession the merciless biddings of a tyrant, incessant prosecutions, faithless friend ship, the ruin of innocence ... and I am everywhere confronted as wearisome monotony in my subject matter. Tiberius' language even in matters which he did not care to conceal, either from habit or nature, was always hesitating and obscure, and now that he was struggling to hide his feelings completely, it was all the more involved in uncertainty and doubt. (The Annals, p. 11) The animosity that Tiberius had for Germanicus is understandable enough. On the other hand, one wonders whether the latter's unfailing loyalty to Tiberius is as simple as Tacitus thinks. What Machiavelli says of Scipio, the same can be said of Germanicus: (The Annals, p. 162-163) Nevertheless, it is the historian's moral task, or history's highest function, "to hold out the reprobation of posterity as a terror to evil words and deeds." Thus, "there must be good in carefully noting and recording this period, for it is but few who have the foresight to distinguish right from wrong or what is sound from what is hurtful, while most men learn wisdom from the fortunes of others." (p. 163) With such a didactic view of history as Tacitus's, it is not surprising that he should be more interested in characrter-analysis, in the thoughts and the motives of his protaganists, and the struggles between individuals, than in social and political movements, ins ti tu tional changes, and other objective or material conditions which make possible individual rivalries among political players. This quality is apparent in his protraits of Germanicus and Tiberius. His characterizations are so consistent, the feelings, motives and thoughts Scipio had conquered, from the great reputation which his victory after so long and perilous a war had given him, from the rapidity of his actions and the popular favor which his youth, his prudence, and other remarkable virtues had won for him. All these were so great that everybody in Rome, even the magistrates, feared his influence and authority, which offended the intelligent men of Rome as an unheard of thing. (The Discourses, p. 191) Tacitus's didactic view of history leads him to paint a Manichaean (good and evil) picture of the conflict between Tiberius and Germanicus. But Tiberius's distrust was manifest even in the golden age of Rome, with the rise of Scipio. And it would be man if est in any age, however corrupt or glorious. Writing about the recent corrupt past, 8 Tacitus cannot conceal his nostalgia for the glorious days of the Roman empire: "How few were left who had seen the republic!" (p. 5) In the words of Marcellus, "I do not forget the times in which I have been born, or the form of government which our fathers and grandfathers established. I may regard with admiration an earlier period." (The History, p. 598) One cannot be in disagreement with Tacitus in one respect: the intelligibility of a historical event cannot be revealed without taking into consideration the thoughts and the motives of individual actors. The problem for the historian is to find out in what way it is possible to know the actor's thoughts and motives. Tacitus assigns speeches to his protagonists which they could not have deliv ered, motives and thoughts of which Tacitus could not have known except through conjecture. For example, according to Tacitus, Tiberius had "a mind which brooded over its resentments even though the first impulse of his displeasure had subsided." (p. 156) He explains Tiberius's final leap into cruelty and tyranny as the resu lt of the influence of Aelius Sejanus, whom he describes in the following terms: Sejanus careless and freespoken ... It was not through his craft, for it was by this very weapon that he was overthrown; it was rather from heaven's wrath against Rome, to whose welfare his elevation and his fall were alike disastrous ... He was as cringing as he was imperious; before the world he affected humility; in his heart he lusted after supremacy, for the sake of which he was sometimes lavish and luxurious, but oftener energetic and watchful, qualities quite as mischievous when hypercritically assumed for the attainment of sovereignty. (p. 144) It is reassuring that Tacitus the historian knows about heaven's wrath which naturally explains Sejanus's rise and fall. We have to conclude that his delineation of Roman personalities, his analysis of their thoughts and motives, possess far greater literary and dramatic merits than historical authenticity. Historical Method and Historical Intelligibility The problem of historical intelligibility is a large question and it goes beyond the scope of this essay. Therefore, I shall not treat the problem independently but only within the context of our discussion, namely Machiavelli's and Tacitus' respective ethics and methods. 9 + �Specifically, there are two problems which I would like to discuss. The first is what I shall call the problem of Tacitean analysis. In line with Machiavelli's maxim, according to which general matters often prove to be confusing, we shall begin with a specific example: Why did Caesar cross the river Rubicon? The very act itself, in this case Caesar's decision to cross the river, possesses a plurality of meanings which is inexhaustible (Raymond Aron, History, Truth, Liberty, "Three Forms of Historical Intelligibility" Chicago: the University of Chicago Press, I 98 5). A historical explanation of the act might conceivably take into consideration what we have called Tacitean analysis, namely the thoughts and the motives behind Caesar's decision, the subjective meanings which Caesar himself experienced and which led to his decision. But the subjectivity of another mind of a different historical epoch and of a foreign culture is complex and probably impossible to discern. How can the historian discover the subjective meanings experienced by the historical actor as distinct form true historical meanings of which the actor himself is probably unaware? One would have to consider the psychological makeup of the actor, his knowledge of the situation, his decision and actio·n within the system of values -- ethical, religious and symbolic · · of the society on culture of which he is a member. This leads us back to the formula of ends and means: within a particular historical and cultural context, what means are morally acceptable? what ends are morally desirable? This implies the application of sociological concepts to history. As such it is beyond history proper. But the application of sociology to history, sociological history, implies that we do not see the individual actor as an independent actor, but as an expression of his time: his action and decision can only be discerned within the larger political, historical and cultural context. The historian must respect facts, which means that he can only explain a historical act on the basis of what is known and what can be known. The Machiavellian historian would be justified in tracing the conflict between Caesar and Pompey back to the passing of the agrarian law, since this is what he knows. On the other hand, we argue that in principle, Tacitean analysis is impossible, since it implies a knowledge of the subjectivity of the historical actor, to whom we have no access (Perhaps psychoanalysis will give us the necessary tool, as Erik Erikson had done in Young Man Luther. I shall say no more on the subject). On the question of Tacitean analysis, it seems that the historian can only give a negative answer: one should not transfer one's motives, thoughts and moral preferences -- one's system of values -- to one's historical subject. To give a crude analogy, a writer should always aspire to tell his readers more about the subject in question than about himself. This leads us to our second problem, which has to do with value judgement. As Leo Strauss says in Natural Right and History, history, or any social science without value judgment, or as a value-free science, would be not only dull but meaningless. Here, I want to argue that value-freedom and value judgment are not the same thing, the confusion of which lead many "scientific students of society" as Strauss complains, "to be unwilling or unable to . make value-judgements." (Thoughts on Machiavelli, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, I958, p. I I) As he says of Max Weber, "Weber, like every other man who ever discussed social matters in a relevant manner, could not av oid speaking of avarice, greed, unscrupulousness, vanity, devotion, sense of proportion, and similar things, i.e., making value judgments." This is true. But to bring out more explicitly the issue at stake, let us pose this question to both Strauss and Weber: in what way should value judgements be made in the fields of social science and history? Certainly, they should not be made in the sense of Tacitean analysis -transference of one's moral feelings to one's historical subject. Weber, and all of us, know that valuefreedom is an ideal and is impossible to be realized fully. Essentially, a value-free system does not prohibit value judgments. Rather, it provides a certain rigor to value judgment and the analysis of the historian or of the social scientist. In short, there is nothing to prevent the value-free historian from condemning or praising Tiberius or Germanicus -- in Strauss's words, to speak in the language of praise and blame. To give a contemporary example, instead of adhering to the battered notions of totalitarianism and democracy, French writer Rayond Aron coined the terms monopolistic and constitutional-pluralistic, tw o terms which are like a breath of fresh air to the student of modern history. The. new terms at once minimize the possibilities of disagreement by eliminating controversial and disputable vocabulary in contempory political language. This does not prevent Aron from favoring Western democracies over the Soviet state. Value-freedom is actually implicit in, and an extension of, what I have called Machiavellism as an analytical approach. I say this in the sense of the rigor which Machiavelli displays in his analysis of politics. Often, Machiavelli uses valuewords, such as humility, cruelty and cunning, as if they are value-free words. For example, in Book 3, ch. 19-21, Machiavelli considers whether it is better to rule the multitude with humanity or with severity. He arrives at the conclusion that in the case of republics, it is better to rule with humanity towards one's own citizens. In the case of monarchies, it is more appropriate to rule with severity. He is not deterred by the usual moral preference for humanity over severity, nor does he automatically choose severity as the better of the two. It is only through a lucid analysis of the two words within the context of military affaris and government that he settles the matter. Another example can be found in Book 1, ch. 5, in which he asks the following question: "As every republic is composed of nobles and people, the question arose as to whose hands it was best to confide the protection of liberty." As always, he gives historical examples, analyzes circumstances under which it is better to confide to the people. Examples of this kind abound throughout his works. Machiavelli is always lucid, reasonable, never dogmatic. If his examples are often extreme, it is because he maintains that political essences are revealed most precisely in such cases. If it is misleading to think of Machiavelli as a scientist, as someone who is free from ethical judgement, it is equally misleading to think of him as a teacher of ev ii. It is true that his writings ab oun d with value judgements, and he praises those who practised what we may call evil. However, and I think this is all -important, he does not praise the practice of evil as such, but only within the context of prudence and ability. So it is true that he teaches us to kill Brutus, Brutus' sons, and their sons until the line is exhausted. He also teaches us not to kill Brutus if we are not read y to kill his sons. Decisions must be made, actions must be carried out, all of which require prudence, ability, and courage. It is prudence, ability and courage which he praises, the practices of which may turn out to be evil. But action and thought, and their intentional and consequential good and evil, are all constituent elements of reality; they are inherent in the realm IO of politics, namely the realm of power, violence, and crime. As such, it does not help us to understand Machiavelli by calling him a teacher of evil. Those issues that are raised by Machiavelli will inevitably confront every intellectual or thinking person who participates in politics. The two ethics which we discussed are not necessarily incompatible in all situations. But they tend to be so in extreme cases -- life and death, peace and war. In such cases, we are compelled to choose: either success over moral convictions, or moral con victions over success. I have, in this essay, praised Machiavelli at the expense of Tacitus. Strauss may well be right, that we cannot see the true colour of Machiavelli's teachings because we live in the age of Machiavellism, and we are all heirs to his teachings whether we choose it or not. Nevertheless, as the unfortunate sons of Machiavelli, we should not be deterred from appreciating the morality and nobility of Tacitus, as Machiavelli himself regards Tactitus as a supreme authority. To have discovered one's calling in politics and history, to interpret this calling as a moral endeavor against evil, and to consider as its highest function the remembrance of past excellence and nobility, these by themselves constitute nobility and moral excellence. 11 • �"Grace Cotnes Somehow Violent ... Through the Wreck and the Bloodshed'' Grand Luna Love Michelle Nicoll ('91) Ned Dobner ('91) In Platonic theory, dialectical inquiry arises out of duality and is conducted by reversal. Being is attained when the false hypotheses employed in the search are destroyed to give way to a true beginning, an end to the cycle of reversal and destruction. Aeschylus' Oresteia trilogy shall be viewed in terms of the dialectical search. The protagonists utilize a form of hypothesis, the decision to act. Their drive to act is rooted in a duality inherent not simply in the things they perceive but within themselves. These conflicts are between: what an individual demands of others and how he acts himself; perception of disorder and the true state of affairs; the desire for permanence and inescapability of mortality; individual and universal order; and self and others. This paper will illustrate the role of the hypotheses created for the sake of justice and self-interest and the nature of the reversals that occur within the trilogy. I will discuss the murders in order to explore the correlation between judgement and destruction and the consequences of using violence as a means to achieve justice. Specifically, the behavior of Clytaemestra and Orestes will be contrasted to explicate the synapse between suffering and wisdom, or the generation of hypotheses and the dialectical process of casting off the falseness. This comparison will support the redefinition of freedom, pride, and authentic selfhood in terms of the dialectic. Grandmother was today a blooming beauty, breathtakingly alive with the promise of new dawning and ever so alluring in her knowing mystery of unaging timelessness. Her mantle, spread in glimmering wavelets, was tossed in a tassled, fanciful, flitting expanse -- playful and at ease with such soothing sensual languor. Like a pearlescent bouncing ball, she called her tune with a voice serene and melodious, a lulling note, laden with still blooming fragrance of gardenia and first blush of morning. She whispered your name to the cloudless twilight that spread your sound to the farther seagulls soaring near the shore. And they laughed and danced in your grace, blessing the day. Blessed with a luminous shining love. The pervasive theme of the Oresteia trilogy is the rise and fall of man as not only inevitable but necessary for the eventual establishment of equilibrium. Inviolable constants govern this world: man needs to show proper respect to the gods by accepting the will of the gods, or the yoke of necessity, in a manner that is yielding and not high vaunting, and man falls when he commits an action of high daring. At some point the characters decide to strike down the proud and enact these imperatives. They judge othe rs and, in an attempt to stabilize their own world, destroy that which they see as a threat to their order. In lifting a hand to strike those who dare, the one striking dares; but the one striking has perhaps first crossed the line of daring in making a judgement. By satiating their desire for destruction the judges may seem to correct the household temporarily, but they only harm themselves. As they judge, so are they judged; as they destroy, so are they destroyed. The theme of the necessity of destruction of the proud is evident from the beginning of the trilogy. By marrying Helen, Paris disrupted not only the order within the Argive kindgom but also a greater order, the order of moral imperatives, or the "things inviolable". He fractured the established pattern of the guest-host relationship -- a theme common among other killings, for example, Atreus's killing of Thysestes' children. His great daring insured his destruction. 13 12 • �In the end the Black Spirits of Vengeance bring to obscurity him who hath prospered in unrighteousness and wear down his fortunes by reverse; and once he hath passed among them that are brought to naught, there is no more help for him. Glory in excess is fraught with peril; 'tis the lofty peak that is smitten by heaven's thunderbolt. Agamemnon functions as the thunderbolt of the gods when he seeks to destroy not only the man Paris but also the entire Trojan city for their "pride of wealth". By judging the Trojans and seeking to destroy them, he is placed in the position of pride and strength that is not equated with moral virtue but egotism and earthly power. He becomes like that which he tries to destroy. Blackmailed by the gods, he undertakes the "daring" of immolating Iphigenia so that his forces will remain strong. Ironically, it is this sacrifice, endured for the sake of his kingdom and demanded by the gods, that produces disorder within his own household and is thus one of the stimuli for his own death (or even sacrifice) at Clytaemestra's hands. However, it is not the intrinsic value of yielding to the god's dictates that is the daring element of the action; it is the manner in which he performed the action. But when he had donned the yoke of necessity, with veering of spirit, impious, unholy, unsanctified ... For mankind is embold ened by wretched delusion, counsellor of ill, primal source of woe. In this sense, it can be said that he wove his own nets of destruction. Clytaemestra perceives Agamemnon to be the creator of turbulence within the household and her life. She implies that her own internal balance was injured by his actions, saying that his long absence was not on ly a sou r ce of worr y t hat prevented her from sleeping, but also "evil and a thing of terror." He has violated her definition of the conjugal relationship and her desire for permanency by placing warfare above fami ly lif e. By sacrificing Iphigenia, Agamemnon sacrificed that which was a part of Clytaemestra and an extension of her identity. By br inging home the concubine Cassandra, he has introduced a further element of discord, a threat to the ex cl usi veness of the marriage relationship. Thus, he has reduced parts of the identities ':lytaemestra attempts to portray in front of oth ers , h er rol es as mot her an d wife. As a consequence, he damaged her sense of self hood by curbing her strength and capacity fo r control, an injury that makes her desire to lash out in passion to reestablish identity and order. Clytaemestra's passionate actions are provoked both by h er hypocritical condemnation of Agamemn on for faults that are within herself and by he r blame of him fo r actions that she herself has imitated. Clytaemestra plays out the role of faithful wife when greeting her husband upon his return from the war, yet she criticizes him for not appearing as he is. Ref erring to his "hateful [disguise] in seeming tenderness," she more accurately comments on herself than on him. She perhaps carries out the acting of her role to excess, yet feels a need to destroy the excess of Agamemnon's proud warrior pose. Angered that he has brought Cassandra h ome, she has alre ady brought Aegisthus into the household. Although criticizing Agamemnon for his treatment of their daughter, she later sends their son into exile. Clytaemestra th us does not live by the patterns she demands of others, but places herself outside the sphere of moral imperatives by which she judges others. Seeing herself above the order she would have others uphold, Clytaemestra raises her estimation of herself to that of a god. Indeed, she claims to serve as an agent of a god by taking it upon herself to "set aright what fate ordained," that "he who long time ago was great, throbbing with gigantic strength, shall be as if never were, unspoken." She plays many roles both before and after the slayings: dutiful mother, faithful wife, hostess, mu rd eress, judge, prosecutor. In this way, she creates and continually recreates selves and identities, thereby approaching the function of a god. Through the actions undertaken during the fulfill ment of these r oles, she repeatedly reasserts the importa nce of herself as a standard by which to measure others as though she were an absolute value. She is able neither to discern the difference between herself and an absolute standard of justice nor to temper passionate reac tions with objective delibe ration. Clytaemestra does not see; she imagines. She works from a fixed premise, from a need to view things acco r ding to a preconceived notion. The Agamemnon she sees in the chariot must be made to concord with her image of him, for it is necessary that she justify her actions based on her judgement, such as her relationship with Aegisthus. In laying down the carpet, Clytaemestra furnishes the means by which Agamemnon can visibly uphold his image as the proud warrior who must be shaken down. She sees that as he tramples down the carpets, so has he trampled down wid er moral imper atives because·he is so proud. (Later, she refers to the "rage and strength" of Cassand r a as r eason fo r her elimination.) She creates a situa tjon in order to evoke a specific response from him, allowing him no opportunity to act differently than her plans for him. He even protests walking on the carpets, yet she persuades him because it is her will that he do so. He has become a vehicle for the enactment of her imagination, an object to be subordinated. This is a way for her to reduce things around her to terms to which she can relate from a position of superiority and control, thus achieving part of her stru ggl e to actuali ze h er vision. To an extent, Clytaemestra depends on Agamemnon's pride to secure the reality of her imagination. She needs to say "No" to him, to refute what she would like to view as false. This scream of renunciation directed toward Agamemnon was farmed prior to her actual encounter with him. Judgement has preceded perception, a break from a logical order in which pe rception precedes judgement. She thus grants undue importance to her subjective view of her husband, placing it above considerations of fairness or rationality. Agamemnon is not granted an identity outside of Clytaemestra's private world, for she cannot separate her p rejudices about him from his reality. She views Agamemnon not as he is but as she wants him to be, encountering him as an image of her own cr eation a nd no t as a person. Her judgement does not fluctuate but has become a thing that must be upheld . In this way, she does not adapt her vision to the situation but allows her vision to shape the situation. Her perception and judgement have acqui red an undue importance; they are not simply means to ends but hav e become ends in themselves. Distortion of perception regarding the world around h er entai ls the creation of a world of her own. By inventing a situation for Agamemnon to confirm her perception of him, she shares in the formulation of his action. In this way, Clytaemestra has created her own sphere of existence, her own realm within which she provides the standards for justice and enacts her own judgements. She thus chooses isolation, the distancing of herself from the reality of others to immersion within herself and separation fr om others. T his is done not out of strength but out of fear and weakness. Her frantic need to maintain selfhood and to achieve identity and purpose by dehuman- 14 izing others arises out of a weak sense of identity. The demand for order from others is founded upon imbalances or weaknesses within herself. Her own vulnerability allowed Agamemnon undue influence in infringing upon her sense of order, and she must therefore lash back to reestablish her self hood and superiority above him through violent action. This is not actually the independence or superiority of postition that she strives for but rather dependence on others as standards to be superior to, as objects to renounce and to subject. She derives selfrighteousness and pride not from a well-founded belief in herself or in an absolute but from her need to view others as wrong. Although her pride is a building up of self, it is also a self-destruction. "Standing above the corpse, obscene as some carrion crow she sings the crippled song and is proud." Even her speech is "a clamor of pride." In committing an action of daring and thus becoming a "towering mountain," she provides for her own destruction, because the judge shall be judged and the destroyer shall be destroyed. In fact, as Orestes says when killing her, "It will be you who kills yourself. It will not be I." Furthermore, because she shares in the creation and enactment of the image for which she punishes Agamemnon, she appears to be resisting the actualization of her vision when she destroys him. Therefore, her conflict is not only between her vision and reality but also between her desire for the endurance of her vision and her tendencies toward self-destruction, her vulnerability and scramble to project the illusion of strength. Despite these conflicts, Clytaemestra has dared to impose her plan for order by harming others. She pushes aside awareness of her even tu al fall by means of faulty reasoning and a deluded sense of self-accomplishment. Confusing the immediate with the permanent, she triumphantly decl ares, " I swe pt f rom these halls th e mu r d er, the sin, and the fury ." She who has a "lust for conflict" and a tyranny of fury within the brain actually presumes to impose her sense of order while in a state of disorder herself. She has created false hypotheses: that killing Agamemnon and Cassandra will balance the order within the house and that violence is an appropriate means to protest violence. As Cassandra prophesizes, "Rescue is far a way," for Clytaemestra's act of evil will only breed similar acts of evil. By shedding the blood of others, Clytaemestra does not set the course of the house straight but bends it to further destruc- 15 • �tion. She has set a pattern of judgement a nd destruction in which bloodshed is piled upon bloodshed. Oddly, she achieves a t ype of permanence, although it is not the perma nence that she envisions. Such inaccuracy of vision and lack of realism about her actions is further evident when she sends an envoy to pour libations on the grave of Agamemnon. Ostensibly, this movement is toward repentance or sincere grief. In truth, she designs this token gesture out of self-interest, "to ward off ill...", indicating some concern regarding appeasement of the gods and a measure of respect, eve n f ear, fo r th eir power. However, be ca use she does not sorrow sincerely and openly, she merely effects a ''graceless grace" and not "the blessing of tears worked soberly from a true heart." Hindered by the burden of her pride and her immersion in her own private system, she cannot see the ramif ications of what she has done to perceive her true distance from the realm of the divine. Her offering is "too small for the act done" because she cannot show remorse. Instead of proving her deference to the gods, she commits an action of daring. The chorus comments, "Pour out all your possessions to atone one act of blood, you waste your work, it is all useless, reason says." This illustrates how irrevocably distant from reality and rational objectivity she has become. Caught in a web of her own manufacture, she has become so enmeshed within her system that she cannot see beyond it, as her portrayal as a shadow in Eumenides shows. Despite the suffering she has undergone and her construction of hypotheses, she has not achieved wisdom because she cannot see beyond herself to cast off the falseness and reach a true beginning. Electra and Orestes react to the duality and excessive elements exhibited by their mother in a manner similar to that in which Clytaemestra deplored th e disru ptive eff ect of Agamemn on's actions on the household. Both children and mother sense the need for destruction in an attempt to balance the order of the house, concerning themselves largely with the violation of their personal positions. Electra, for example, asks, How shall we be lords in our house? We have been sold, and go as wanderers ... Now I am what a slave is ... while [Clytaemestra and Aegisthus] go proud and live in the high style and luxury of what [Agamemnon] worked for. Electra wants Orestes to "win [their]father's house again," seeming to have less conce r n for the i nfractio n of morality than for the immediate effects of their mother's actions. Like her mother, Elec tra is willing to sha re in a mu r der but does not wish to di e fo r it; she also feels immune to recipr ocal judgement. Orestes' motivations are not restricted to the type of blind personal reaction that may be seen in Electra and Clytaemestra. He says, "The loss of my estates wea rs ha r d on me; the thought that these my citizens, most high renowned of men ... must go subject to this brace of women." His anger toward his mother is not so much due to her violation of his identity but because of her infraction of moral imperatives; his vision transcends perception of the violation of the household order to see that civil law has been disobeyed. He kills Aegisthus for this end. His concern lies with the good of the state which has been usurped by the "twin tyrannies" that have overthrown the normal course of right. He seeks to correct his mother's "daring" saying: "You killed, and it was wrong. Now suffer wrong." Orestes seeks to correct the breach of Justice that has occurred, taking it upon himself to enact the god's dictate that those who dare to assume power for themselves, the mountains of strength, must be checked. Orestes thus acts for the sake of earthly justice as well as a higher standard of justice. He was "in the guidance sent by the god." "His hand was steered by the very daughter of Zeus; Right we call her." One senses that he is playing out the role of savior-by -violence because he "must strike and prove [his] destiny." One does not know, however, if the murders are an action he wittingly condoned, because he speaks of "spells that charmed me to such daring." The chorus' repeated mention of an O r estes "harnessed to the chariot of suffering" adds to this effect. The central image is Orestes' burden of carrying out the roles of savior and avenger: "[Clytaemestra] wrough t so, in h is bu r ial, to make his death a burden beyond your strength to carry." Orestes' role playing is minimal, however, because he has a greater range of vision concerning his action. His attitude closely resembles repentance. Immediately after he murders, he cries, "I grieve for the thing done, the death, and all our race. I have won; but my victory is soiled; it has no pride." Orestes' attitude contrasts Clytaemestra's pride and delusion about the capacity for violent action to balance disorder. Rather than cling to his need for position and identity, he transcends immersion in himself and is able to view himself and his relation to the a bsolutes with accurate vision. This is shown when he kneels a t the temple of Athena. He realistically accepts his humanity and capacity fo r erro r. Humili ty, knowledge of the consequences of his action, and sincere sorrow for the falseness he has created exempt him from the thunderbolts of Zeus. There is no need for him to be destroyed; he is merely removed from the action near the end of Eumenides. In passing from his posture of pride and judgement to that of suppliance, Orestes has enacted for himself the reversal of position necessary after an act of judgement and destruction. He does not falsely conclude that violence will end violence, but knows that in assuming a role of judgement over others he will face reciprocal judgement. He acccepts the reversal of his role from judge to that of the one being judged. Yielding to fate rather than blindly overstating his importance, he goes outside of himself fo r a standard by which to measure his actions. He says to Athena, "This is my case. Decide if it be right or wrong. I am in your hands, Where my fate falls, I shall accept." The judges that Orestes first faces are the Furies, the final storm of potential bloodshed in the house. As a matricide, Orestes supposedly has committed an act of high daring, thus violating the order of justice and incurring the Furies' wrath. Their instantaneous judgement is similar to the type of blind reaction demonstrated by Clytaemestra and Electra, although the Furies concern themselves with an order larger than that of a household -- the sphere of justice and absolutes. The Furies assume the role of those who strike down the proud and relentlessly pursue those who "assume outrage of own hand in violence." Like Clytaemestra, they demand of others standards that they do not uphold. They say, "The man who does right, free -willed, without constraint shall not lose happiness nor be wiped out with all his generation." However, they do not promote this ideal because their method encourages men to become just out off ear, not out of a love for what is just. Athena justly accuses them; "You wish to be called righteous rather then act right." Their anger has its source in their distorted perception, their hypocritical attribution to Orestes for faults in which they sha re. Their blame of Orestes is not precise; Orestes is not proud of what he has done nor is he godless, because he has acted with the approval of Apollo. By gu id ing Or estes, Apollo supposedly infringes upo n the Furies' orde red world. The Furies feel that he has sullied the temple of Athena in sheltering the matricide Orestes. They say, "He made man's way cross the place of the ways of god and blighted age-old distributions of power." (It is interesting that they are also said to disturb the sanctity of the temple.) Apollo's disruption of the temple is also see n as a personal attack. The Furies remark to Apollo, "A young god, you have ridden down the powers gr ay with age." and accuse him of "destroy[ing] the order of an elder time." Thus, the conflict between Apollo and the Furies, representatives of the young and the old generatio n, is heightened by the old order's resistance to the natural progression of the new order. In their method and in their persistent concern for the continuance of their own position, the Furies resemble the killers in the house of Atreus. They choose destruction as a means to achieve balance and maintain order as they see fit, while not actually being in order themselves. They are an "unlyric threnody" that attempts to create harmony while in a state of disharmony. Although they preach to others that it is unfavorable to have a tyranny within oneself, they are victims of their desire for revenge and bloodshed. The hypocrisy continues: they would overthrow the houses of others yet not have their own house, the House of Justice, overthrown. Like the other killers, the Furies aim to strike down the proud but in doing so become proud themselves. Their reiterations about "my old rights" and their indignation and refusal to accept the natural progression from the old order into the new merely highlight the fact that they have become that which they wish to destroy -- the proud and the disturbers of order. The outcome of the trial of Orestes determines which order shall be validated. When the verdict is given , the Fu r ies a ga i n reac t in the mien of Clytaemestra and Electra; for their concern is voiced in terms of "me" -- my order, my rights, my Although they would appear to be position. indomitable destroyers, they display a vulnerability to overthrow: "I, the mind of the past, to be driven under ground, out cast, like dirt! They have wiped me out and the hard hands of the gods and their treacheries have taken my old rights away." The Fu r ies would do well to listen to their own words: "The all is bigger than you." It seems that they must realize the necessity of adapting to the changing nature of things, rather than attempting 17 16 • �to derive function and permanence by continuing the house of Atreus's cycle of judgement and destruction through violence, ruin heaped upon ruin. By clinging to their identity and personal system (or "hypotheses"), the Furies show that they are one in the series of false hypotheses that must be "cast out" or "be stilled to sleep, be done with." The silencing of the Furies is only a silencing of their hatred and not their utter destruction: they are allowed to decide their transformation for themselves. Ostensibly realizing that destruction is not the means to grace, they say: "Let there blow no wind that wrecks the trees. I pronounce the words of grace... let no barren deadly sickness creep and kill." "Civil war fattening on men's ruin shall not thunder in our city ... Let them render grace for grace. Let love be their common will. Let them hate with a single heart." They let go of their concepts of violent vindiction for violent crimes in favor of notions of grace and peaceful justice. It is unclear whether their conversion has been made out of fear of Zeus's thunderbolts or a true vision of themselves and their false hypotheses. It is fitting, howevr, and part of the pattern of reversals throughout the trilogy, that the ones who have spurned others to justice by instilling fear are themselves brought to justice by this method. As they have treated others, so are they treated. By presenting the Furies with an alternative to hateful wrath and an opportunity to take a place in the new order, Athena harmoniously assimilates their old order into the new order of Athenian justice. She accomplishes this without either the violence or the bloodshed that requires more blood to be spilt. Before the trial she says: The matter is too big for any mortal man who thinks he can judge it. Even I have not the right to analyse cases of murder where wrath's edge is sharp ... Since the burden of the case is here, and rests on me, I shall select judges of manslaughter, and swear them in, and establish a court into all time to come. Thus I advise my citizens to govern and grace, and not to cast fear utterly from your city. Be ca use she defers to reason and is able both to yield and to assert her authority, Athena shows that she has acheived freedom. She projects an identity that lacks pride and does not depend on the violent subjugation of others. She is not immersed in her role and does not need to remain in a position of superiority separate from others. Athena can say to the Furies, "Put to sleep the bitter strength in the 18 black wave and live with me and share my pride of worship." The new system that Athena establishes puts an end both to the hasty reactions to the actions of another and to the hypocrisy which characterized the judgements of the Atreiadae killers. Enactment of justice becomes more than a personal attack on someone who is seen as having violated the world of another or the order of the household. The "me" voice of pride is dissipated; rationality has replaced the subjective reactions of soul in conflict. Because the judges are a plurality rather than a singularity, the element of personal vendetta and attacks ad hominem will be subdued. Prosecution will be based on evidence that is not generated by the ones judging. Emphasis in the new court will be placed upon objective analysis and deliberation combined with the subjective judgement of the jury. This harmonious incorporation of the old with the new and the elimination of the majority of the false elements allows for permanency, a tribunal established "into all time to come." Justice has become more than an exchange of wrong for wrong; it is also an exchange of good for good. "For good things given, your hearts' desire be for good to return." A state of grace has been brought about through the wreck and the bloodshed of the house of Atreus. This is said to be brought about by Zeus, "all through Zeus, Zeus, first cause, prime mover. For what thing without Zeus is done among mortals? What is here without god's blessing?" Like the dialectical process outlined in the Republic, equilibrium is gained after a cycle of generation of hypotheses and destruction of the false hypotheses. The false elements in the household have been cleansed and purified through deliberation and reason, not passionate destruction. Thus, "With well-measured cast, caution [has heaved] over boa r d a po r tion of th e gathered wealth, the whole house, with woe overladen, doth not founder nor doth it engulf the hull." It is an earthly sort of grace, not to be confused with the absolute state of wisdom and grace that is attained by the most complete dialectical search, one which necessitates separation from the corporeal world. In dialectical terms, the leap between suffering and wisdom, or disorder and the attainment of equilibrium, is the casting off of the false hypotheses. The characters' progression from the formulation of hypotheses to wisdom is impeded by their resistance to what necessity has dictated. In a sense, they resis t limitations inherent in thei r human condition, seeking to overcome mortali ty by resisting the inevitability of their fall. Their struggle to establish identity depends upon their subjugation of others under the guise of exacting justice according to inmperatives which they violate themselves. Thus they necessitate their own destruction by confusing their ends, the enactment of the god's will, with the means they use to attain that end, the immersion in selfhood and personal vision. This pride can be viewed as a clinging or enslavement to the false hypotheses. What, then, is freedom in terms of the dialectic? Freedom entails self-knowledge, knowledge of one's placement with respect to the gods, accurate assessments of reality, and the realization that, as a human, what one does is necessarily imprecise and does not reflect the absolute. Freedom means holding onto one's own as much as it leads one to the good. It also entails yielding or letting go of selfhood and the actions, or hypotheses, one has created. One cannot decide fate but one can decide the manner in which one encounters it. All of this necessitates acceptance of one's humanity and of one's limited capacity to achieve permanence. It also involves a form of knowledge of self that necessitates viewing what one has done and the false hypotheses one has made, and accepting that one has chosen to act in a certain way that one may regret for its falseness. Regret cannot consist only of a "me" voice -- "I have suffered, I have accepted the yoke of necessity, I cannot bear what I have done, I have borne what cannot be borne." One must progress form this state of regret and shame to place oneself in a larger context; one must look beyond oneself to one's relationship with a higher power. This involves supplication, a voluntary reversal of the position of pride that one has put oneself in. Thus the synapse between suffering and wisdom is bridged through repentance. Repentance is a form of rendering an account of what one has done; it is a transcendence of the limitations inherent in the human condition because it is a realization of those limitations. Through humility and acknowledgement of one's position with respect to the gods, true identity is reached instead of the separation from oneness that occurs due to pride and concern fo r eart hly identity. Thus the self is truly elevated through kneeling, an action that is a posture of lowering. Fullest actualization of identity is found by an apparent abandoning of that identity. Afterword The idea for this essay began when the violence in the Clouds reminded me of the violence of the dialectic (for example, the destruction of the false hypotheses in the Republic, the renunciation of the body in the Phaedo, the sting-ray quality of the Socratic method.) Other themes from the tragedies seemed to support a discussion of tragedy in the terms of philosophy, such as: the relationship between violence and false reasoning; cycles of judgement, violence, hypocrisy, pride, and selfabnegation; fate, will, responsibility, and punishment; the boundary between ambition and tryin g to reach the good and arrogance; the separation of mortals from the realm of the divine; the attempt to escape mortal conditions and the rejection of Necessity. I saw a way to understand the tragedies in terms of the dialectic, choosing the Oresteia as the most complete vehicle for the discussion of this correlation. It was then my intention to understand the Platonic dialogues as tragedies and Socrates in the terms of a tragic character who judges and destroys others (the Sophists, the poets) although being somewhat similar to them himself, then renounces necessity (rejection of the body in Phaedo, when both soul and body pass under the throne of Necessity in the Republic), and thus necessitates his own destruction, becoming like that which he tries to destroy, just as the characters in Oresteia. It would be interesting to discuss the Sacra tic method in terms of a false hypothesis that must be destroyed because of its emphasis on discursive reasoning at the cost of poetry, and then introduce to Christianity as the hypothesis which supplants it. Such was my intention. The constraint of time and the magnitude of the task prevented me from completing this project. One final note. The human characteristics I have discussed as protrayed in the Oresteia are by no means exclusive to the nightmarish world of Aeschylean tragedy; I believe there is a trace of Clytaemestra in all of us. •All citations are from the Richmond Lattimore translation, with a few from Smyth's. The passages ref erred to from the Re public are: 5 lOb, 511 b, 524d525a. 19 �importance of intellect to ourselves and those around us. Though admiration and love are frequently found together, they are, and must remain, independent of one another. Maybe a friendship suffered because you expected your friend to be a better person than he or she was. And this is certainly understandable. But not everything has to be made of gold -- silver, too, has its value. Or was it that you expected too little from your friends? You were content simply to be "sociable," to rub against one another in order to create the illusion of intimacy and contact, as if this was all one could hope for from others. But like any improper use of your spiritual energy, such activity often left you merely exhausted, and no richer than before. By "socializing" you hoped to mask your aloneness, rather than stare it in the eye. And so it is your constant companion. Maybe a friendship failed despite the attention and generosity you showed your friend. You were always around to help, to go out of your way, to give to him or her, but you watched confused as the friendship seemed to slip away. Maybe your generosity was meant to exact a debt, and thereby to bind the other to you. But even if this was not the case, it is still more important and more difficult to be able to receive a gift generously than it is t o make a hundred sacrifices. More is done to help a friendship by receiving a gift in a way that graciously returns it to the giver than by any amount of giving we might do ourselves. I know this may at first sound paradoxical, but hasn't it been your own experience that in living, healthy friendships, each friend is always finding new ways to all ow the other to give? And then there have been those potential friendships, where you knew the seeds were present, and all you had to do was scratch the soil a little, and you didn't, because busyness and distracti~ns had made you r h ea r t rou gh and ra gged. Even today many of you, I'm sure, can think of people you regret not havin'g gotten to know here at the College. Of course, you can't cultivate friendships with very many people, but you can be wary of dissipating your energies fruitlessly. I have myself failed others in all these ways. And what is worse I have often allowed myself to forget my former friends, making the excuse that it's difficult enough to attend to those who are a part of my life today without having to attend to memories of those who shared by life yesterday. And by forgetting, I fail them again. Class Day Address, May 21, 1988 John Verdi I was very moved to be asked to talk to you today. Many of you have been students in my classes, and I've worked closely with some of you on essays and other odds and ends over the three years since I came here from Santa Fe. I've grown fond of this class and will miss you come Monday. When I realized I'd be speaking to you in the Great Hall, I thought back to the last time I stood here, about a year ago, when I was married. The words I spoke then were a public declaration of the most important friendship in my life, and of my hope for and commitment to its future. Today, however, before you all leave St. John's, I want to talk to you about how friendships die, not exactly a subject filled with humor and optimism. Maybe I chose this topic because of the way I've been feeling lately, knowing that our life together will soon be finished. It's also the case that a few days ago marked the third anniversary of the death of someone who had been my friend for over twenty years. Our friendship had very rough times, and it was only during the last year, after we knew he was to die of a particularly painful and insidious disease, that we drew inseparably close. Thinking of him invariably forces me to confront the numerous ways in which my friendships have failed , and to accept the bitter irony of my relationship with him, which was rescued only by the imminence of death. I also want to urge on you that we must do everything we can to keep friendships alive, but that, even after we have exerted the greatest efforts, if we find we have failed, we must discover ways to mourn the death of a friendship just as we would the death of a friend. During your years at St. John's you've lived and worked in a community with people your own age, who have shared many of your interests and enthusiasms. In such surroundings friendships flourish, for friendships are founded on and nourished by common activity, even more so than by common ideas and sentiments. But even in this most fertile of environments, you have witnessed the death of friendships. Sometimes you were yourself involved, and other times you watched from a distance. In either case what happened was upsetting to see, for it laid bare the fragility of human relationships. I want to tell you what I think just a few of the causes are for such failures, and you can then get some idea of how you might try to prevent them. And I know that by speaking in this way, I am revealing to you more about myself than a bout friendship. Perhaps you didn't cultivate that kind of humility which ought to come from the awareness that other people care about you. Instead you wished to be admired as well as loved by your friends. And when you were not, you were disappointed and hardened your heart to them. But we must always seek to allow ourselves to be loved without being admired, which for many of us at St. John's is extremely difficult, aware as we are of the 20 I have known many of you who are sitting here. Some of you I have known for two or three years, and some longer. I know too that you are about to leave people who have been dear to you for a long time. Perhaps you've promised to write one another letters, and that is a very good thing. But we write letters as much to ourselves as to our friends. The written word does not foster friendship. At best it sustains it until that time when friends can see each other again face to face. After you leave St. John's, try to be physically present to your friends as much as possible. Exert yourself to see them and to talk with them. And though no human being is a permanent source of happiness to another, still the love of our friends and families is the most divine gift we can be given. It alone, if anything, gives meaning to our lives. And above all, as St. Theresa of Avila says, "Never grow weary of receiving". I want to leave you with a Neapolitan proverb my mother taught me. It goes like this: "Piu lundana du cammina, a cha d'aspetta." That means, "No matter how far you walk, I'll wait for you here." 11 21 • �seems to me that everyone can clearly recognize the human suffering depicted there. If a dialogue can be established between the tragedian and the philosopher, then perhaps it can be seen that they are talking about the same questions in different ways. The body of the essay will come in three sections, on Euripides, Kant, and Hegel, and in that order. Besides the obvious historical considerations, there is another reason for proceeding in this order. Perhaps it is not giving away too much of the argument if I announce here that this progression is one of gradually increasing optimism about the possibility of human tran scendence. Euripides' vision is almost unrelentingly dark; Kant's is guardedly optimistic; and Hegel's is almost grotesquely cheerful. Yet, as will be seen, these three transcendent writers sha re much in their visions of the nature and possibility of human transcendence. Tragedy, Philosphy, Co111edy: a vision of transcendence in Euripides, Kant, and Hegel Michael McShane ('88) Nothing, however, can continue to give us pleasure always, because our natures are not simple, but contain a second element (which is what makes us perishable beings), and consequently, whenever one of those two natures is active its activity runs counter to the nature of the other, while when the two are balanced, their activity feels neither painful nor pleasant. Since if any man had a simple nature, the same activity would afford him the greatest pleasure always. Hence god enjoys single simple pleasure perpetually. For there is not only an activity of motion, there is an activity of immobility, and there is essentially a truer pleasure in rest than in motion. But change in all things is sweet as the poet [Euripides, Orestes] says owing to some badness in us; since just as a changeable man is bad, so also is a nature that needs change; for it is not simple nor good. Nonescapist Nonfiction: Tragedy and Transcendence in Euripides' Hippolytus Nicomachean Ethics Then if this most perfect mastership and most perfect knowledge are in the god's world, the gods' mastership can never be exercised over us, nor their knowledge know us or anything in our world. Just as we do not rule over them by virtue of rule as it exists in our world and we know nothing that is divining by our knowledge, so they, on the same principle, being gods, are not our masters nor do they know anything of human concerns. Nor ought we to obey those who enjoin that a man should have a man's thoughts and a mortal the thought of mortality, but we ought, so far as possible to achieve immortality, and do all that a man may to live in accordance with the highest thing in him; for though this be small in bulk, in power and value it far surpasses all the rest. But surely, said Socrates, to deprive the gods of knowledge would be monstrous. Parmenides l 34d-e Nicomachean Ethics Introduction This paper will discuss arid criticize the treatment of the theme of human transcendence as it appears in certain works by Euripides, Kant and Hegel. Specifically, it will focus upon the problem of the human suffering of "external" conditions, and the possibility of transcending those conditions. Now "transcendence" is a big word and its sense is not immediately obvious. The term is loaded with heavy connotations, both metaphysical and theological. Yet, I will argue that in the form of such things as forgiveness, learning, and maturation, a limited form of transcendence is certainly present in the everyday world. Since, then, the meaning of "transcendence" is itself at stake in this paper, I hope I can be forgiven for not giving a precise definition of it here. If the essay is successful, the significance of the concept will emerge more clearly as the paper progresses. In more than one tragedy, Euripides has his choruses deliver speeches such as this one from the Hippolytus: One thing should be discussed in advance, however; even though this paper will pay much attention to the writings of Kant and Hegel, it is not about "philosophy" in any narrow sense. This essay will constantly run the risk of losing itself in the intricacies of highly abstract philosophical arguments, but its subject matter actually concerns questions of concrete human suffering -- matters close to everyone's real life in the real world. If this essay succeeds, then, it will be because discussions of the "transcendental unity of apperception" or of "Absolute Spirit" will have revealed something recognizable about the problematic nature of human identity. In fact, one subsidia ry goal of this paper is to try to show how I understand philosophy itself as being a part of the real human world. It is partially for this reason that I have chosen to write about the tragedy of Hippolytus. For it 0 to escape and lurk high under Steep crags, At the touch of a god to rise, A wing'd bird among flying flocks! To soar over the swell of the Adrian coast, Above the waters of Eridanos Where, in lament for Phaethon, His sisters drop their piteous tears Which glow like amber in teh dark stream; And then to reach that shore planted with Apple-trees Where the daughters of evening sing, Where the sea lord of the dark shallows Permits to sailors no further passage Establishing the solemn frontier of heaven Which Atlas guards; Where divine fountains flow beside Zeus' marriage bed, Where holy earth offers her choice fruits to enrich the blissful gods. 22 Typically, such speeches express the chorus's desire to escape altogether from the horrible scene of tragic action unfolding around it. Such speeches attract attention in a variety of ways. First, they are often among the longest sustained passages of writing in Euripides' plays. Their length affords the tragedian the op portunity to freeely display his transcendent poetic talent. Consequently, speeches of this kind often prove to be among the most beautiful in his plays. Yet, because of their length, and because of their subject matter (which is frankly escapist), such escape passages present readers with problems. I have heard it suggested, for example, that such long passages amount to little more than beautiful ornaments -- speeches that are somewhat digressive and ultimately irrelevant to the unfolding of the tragic plot. Such escape speeches can seem like selfenclosed poems, somehow adventitiously lodged in Euripides' dramas. In at least one Euripidean play, however, the question of escape and its possibility emerges as a central motivating theme. This first section of the essay will try to show how escape comes to mean transcendence in the Hippolytus. The section will examine generally the presence and significance of the human yearning for transcendence expresseed in the tragedy. Now, each of the play's major characters seeks escape from their circumstances, but Hippolytus presents this desire most clearly and selfconsciously. Thus the paper will first discuss how the theme of transcendence relates to the Nurse, Phaedra, and Theseus before focusing more closely upon Hippolytus's strivings. Finally, this section will examine the most general vision of transcendence in the Hippolytus: that of the chorus, as expressed in the passage quoted above. Now it is perhaps obvious that, wittingly or not, what all of the characters of the Hippolytus desire to flee is Fate itself. Euripides sets up the problem of fatedness in a particularly brutal way: he has Aphrodite walk on stage at the outset and simply announce (nearly) everything that will happen throughout the tragedy. The play itself then seems to be little more than a horrible repetition of the scenes she describes so coldly at its outset. The chorus summarizes the inevitable end: "The wheel has turned, disaster follows upon disaster. Fate is irresistible and there is no escape." (125 2) But to say that Fate is what all the characters desire so desperately to escape sounds a little 23 • �unsatisfying. The claim is certainly true but a little vague. Bare fate is an abstraction modern readers have difficulty with. The play does offer some help to us by providing mo re concrete ways of thinking about fate and what it would mean to try to escape it. We shall try to see more clearly how fate is expressed in the play. The escape theme first arises explicitly early in the drama. The nurse is confronted by Phaedra's mysterious suffering, and she commiserates. The nurse mourns, The whole of our life is full of pain, And sorrow finds no relief. And after this life, is there a happier world? That is concealed from us, wrapped in clouds and darkness. The truth stands plain: that we blindly love, Such as it is, our little gleam of day. For we know nothing of any other life; The world below is a mystery; And we are carried along by foolish tales. happy unless one's living friends and descendents are also content. Thus, in a tragic turn, it seems as if the only way for her to escape the trap is to entrap innocent others. Phaedra thus makes her fin al escape only by binding Theseus and Hippolytus together in a horrible maze which can only result in destruction. If it has been established that Phaedra desires to escape something, we must then ask what it is that she so desperately seeks to flee and what a successful flight would mean for her. Most immediately, Phaedra desires to escape a fate that expresses itself in her passion for Hippolytus. That passion exists inside her but it is an alien thing: she did not desire it, did not encourage it, and indeed sought to repress it. In every sense Phaedra's fateful love for her son was a passion which she suffered and before which she was nearly powerless. She desired to escape it and could not. Another expression of fate as an external controlling force for Phaedra concerns her family his tory. Interrogated by her nurse as to the root of her problems, Phaedra mentions her mother, who had a "craving for the bull." (322) Then she in vo kes her siste r "whom Dionysus loved." The nurse asks, "Why raise these evil memories of your family?" Phaedra responds, "I am the third, the curse that struck them now kills me." And she conc ludes, "My wretched fate began with them; it is not new." Thus we see that Phaedra desires to esca pe the history of her own family. Like her passio n, her family is something which is both inside her and outside her, both her and not her. It represents something which confronts her from the outsid e; she can have no control over the things wh ich happened in her family's past. Yet her family histor y somehow fo r ms and predestines her inner nature. Finally, it is because of her family's future in the shape of her sons that Phaedra cannot simply 'escape to oblivion,' but must entrap Hippolytus. Phaed ra's understanding of family history or fa tedn ess is also conveyed by her discussion of wha t will happen to her own sons if she die s dis honored: the nurse's escape vision, Phaedra's desire for escape is expressed not in terms of some future time or otherworldly place, but instead in terms of a nostalgia for pleasant places and activities that Phaedra has known. If Phaedra's and the Nurse's escape fantasies differ in terms of past and future orientation, however, they are united by a common yearning for absent times and places. Also, it should be noted that Phaedra's three nostalgic dr eams (of the wild place by the fountains, the sport of hunting and horse racing) share an element off ertile purity. All three are unstained by human social intrigue. But for Phaedra the op portun ity to dream of escape from an unbearable present through nostalgia for past places and pleasures soon proves to be an unsustainable luxury. As soon as her nurse, unbidden, reveals Phaedra's obsession to Hippolytus, Phaedra's dreams of escape turn again to a terrible future: (187) 'Chorus: This passage treats a specific kind of escape from the pain of the world -- that is, an escape to a happier world after death. The nurse is characteristically pessimistic here. She seems to entertain the idea of a happy afterlife and to long for it, but only briefly; then she dismisses the possibility of such an escape as being merely "foolish tales." The interest in an escape to an afterworld here is not accidental, for the nurse is addressing the deathly sick Phaedra who has strong inclinations toward such an escape route. Phaedra herself expresses her desire to escape her present -- although unidentified -suffering in a series of fantastic speeches immediately following the nurse's meditation upon suffering and the afterlife. Phaedra here gives three short speeches: the first one expresses a desire "to k neel by a fo untain in the fre sh dew and drink a cupful of clear water!" (218-231) The second takes the form of a rhetorical command to her followers to "take me out to the hills!" where she "longs" to hunt deer. This "command" is merely the expression of a longing, not a real order, for it is obvious to all concerned that the sick Phaedra is in no shape to go anywhere. Phaedra's third speech expresses an equally unrealistic desire to ride race horses on a race-track. Although both Phaedra and her nurse conclude that these escapist speeches expose Phaedra's madness, they do have significant content. Unlike Phaedra: What then?: Do you see any way out? What will you do? I know only one thing, that death must End this torture as soon as possible. There's no other remedy. (599) It is significan t tha t once Phaedra's conf ession-by-proxy has occurred, and her incestuous appeal to H ippolytus rejected, ther e is no longer any ques tion of escaping to something. Phaedra no longer dreams of better places or times to which she might flee. Moreover, in desiring death, Phaedra does not speak of an afterlife such as the one her nu rse speculated about before. Instead death re presents to her only a n escape from an intolerable r eality, an escape into oblivion. By now, mortal escape itself has become merely the least bleak possibility for her. Moreover, matters become even worse f or Phaedra. She recognizes that even her death will not release her and hers form the labyrinthine ramifications of her situation. Once Hippolytus has announced that he does not consider himself bound by the oath of silence "sworn only by his tongue," Phaedra is in deep trouble. For she then realizes that not even her death can salvage her reputation and the reputations of her sons. In order for her to obtain their excape too, she must implicate Hippolytus himself. Phaedra sees the terrible wisdom of the claim that Aristotle makes in the Ethics that even after death one cannot be I want my two sons to go back and live in glorious Athens, hold their heads high there and speak their mind like free men, honored for their mother's name. One thing can make the most bold spirited man a slave : to know the secret of a parent's shameful act. ( 421) 24 Here again we see the aspect of fate ensla ving people by means of pregiven conditi ons over which they have no control. Phaedra's dreadf ul fam ily history in some way leads to her own destru ction, which in turn will enslave her sons. Is there any reaso n to hope fo r an end to the se fa ted fa milial chains of destructi on? One of the most horri fying aspects of this tragedy is the potentially infi ni te reach of its horror. We shall see thi s theme of infinite horr or recur later in the play. A final conditi on which Phaedra desires to escape is her femininity. In one speech Phaedra says, "I was a woman -- a thing hated by ever yone." (95) In an other place she exclaims, "How cruel a curse it is to be born a woman. Wh o wou ld not pity us? What shift, what resource ha ve we, what words, once we have stumbled, to und o a knot a word has tied?" (667 ) Phaedra recognizes her femininit y as another pregiven condition which someh ow re nd ers her powerless. Again, we see that Fate is somet hi ng which confronts the sufferer as on the one hand someth ing which is external a nd unchosen, bu t on the other hand is something wh ich cond itions her inner nature. In the play Phaedra cannot esca pe the feminine aspect of her fate an y more t han she can flee her passion or her fami ly histor y. But the nurse and Phaedra are not the only charcaters of the Hippolytus wh o dre am of flight. Theseus, too, is moti vated by a desi re to escape his conditions. Now Theseus ha s had a ver y checkered career. On the one ha nd, he has been a grea t hero, killing mo nsters, ba nd its, etc. On the other , he has been a noto riously faithless man , given to deceit, ra pe, murd er. Theseus's ma r riage to Phaedra is founde d upon such cri minality; he married her only afte r marooning his savio r, her siste r, Ariadne. During the pla y, an d throughou t his life, one of Theseus's ma jor charac teristics is his absence from home. It seems reasonable to inf er that Theseus leaves his home so often because he is ashamed of what it rep resents to him -- that is, his past, with its hauntin g viciousness. In fac t, Theseus's very presen ce in tra gic T roe ze n came about as part of a plan to a tone fo r his past criminal bloodletting. (Aton ement is a ki nd of esca pe. ) In general, T heseus desi res to escape the ongoing ramifications " f rom sin commi tted in time lon g past." (8 31) After reading Pha edra 's letter cha rging his son with raping her, he cries, "I am crushed; wh ere can I esca pe?" (87 4) 25 • I I I �As in the case of Phaedra, Theseus's attempt to escape the conditions he suffers leads him into trapping others. Theseus wants to escape from the contaminated presence of his son, who he believes has defiled his wife and home. Yet, because Theseus is king, he believes he can make good his escape without actually having to flee himself. Theseus believes he has power so he attempts to secure his own escape not by leaving his surroundings but by making them leave him. Hence, he banishes and curses Hippolytus, thus ensuring the horrible death of his own son. At the moment Theseus banishes Hippolytus, this significant exchange takes place: Hippolytus: Theseus: If you were my son, I your father, I would not Have corrected you with exile, I'd Have seen you dead if you'd thought fit To lay a finger on my wife. Your words are worthy of you! You shall not die that way-According to a law you've laid down For yourself. Many an outcast would Be glad of a quick death. No, you shall Wander exiled from your native land And drain on alien soil the bitter lees of life. (1074) As father and king, Theseus is in the position to condition others. Here Theseus asserts the dependence or conditioned nature of his son vis a vis him. In attempting to preserve his own power and freedom while actively escaping his surroundings, Theseus necessarily must deny freedom to his son. The key sentence in the exchange is: "You shall not die that way -- according to a law you've laid down for yourself." Here we find Theseus denying his son's autonomy. And, as we shall see, autonomy here is defined almost exactly as Kant and Hegel will define it centuries later: as obeying laws laid down by oneself for oneself. To be autonomous is to be unconditioned by alien powers. We have thus far examined the escape dreams of the Nurse, Phaedra and Theseus. Let us collect their common elements and try to reach a conclusion about fatedness, escape and transcendence before turning to see how these issues are involved in Hippolytus' story. First, it should be noted that while abstract Fate is a concept difficult for readers to grasp today, the play certainly provides a more concrete way to understand fatedness. For surely the idea of someone being radically conditioned -- or fated -- by their gender, political environment, passions, acter is his longing to escape the necessity of honoring "a god worshipped at night" (108) -Aphrodite. Jealously, the goddess describes how Hippolytus "abhors the bed of love; marriage he renounces." (13) It is clear that in attempting to reject these things -- which he regards as impure - Hippolytus is attempting to flee his own sexuality. Surely Hippolytus suffers from a hatred of something in himself -- or at least one of his selves. Yet, in Hippolytus's case, his disdain for his own sexuality issues in a hatred for something seemingly external to him -- women. Outrageously, Hippolytus rails at Zeus for having "established in the sunlit world this counterf cit coin, woman, to curse the human race." ( 617) "Women," he concludes, "it seems are always evil." (695) They are the ones responsible for his lack of freedom. Hippolytus expresses a desperate desire to escape half the human race and enter into a fantastic scenario in which men buy their children instead of requiring women for conception. Again, one wonders whether the feminine is as contingent and external t o Hippolytus's soul as he might believe. A third conditioning factor that Hippolytus desires to flee is the political realm. He says to his father and king, Theseus, personal past or family history, does not sound foreign to modern ears. Each of these conditioning factors seems to come with its own set of laws and determinations. These laws themselves deny the autonomy of the characters, and together they dictate the inescapable Fate of each character in the Hippolytus. If it is established that the characters of the Hippolytus desire to escape such fateful conditions, it then becomes appropriate to examine the relationship between escape and transcendence, the theme of this essay. Certainly not all escapes are examples of transcendence. For instance, if a rock is about to fall on your head and you step ou t of the way and thus escape the rock, it is not appropriate to say that you have thereby "transcended" it. This is because the rock represents a force entirely external to its prospective victim. In the case of the characters of the Hippolytus, however, things are different. They all desire to escape conditions which are in one sense external -- otherwise they would not be perceived as escapable conditions. But in another sense these conditions are internal to the identities of the people who wish to escape them. (To varying degrees, such conditions as gender, passions, personal and family history, political environment, etc., all work to inform the inner nature of the characters who suffer them.) An escape from conditions such as these -- with their ambivalent interior / exterior status -- represents transcendence. From these considerations two related things follow which shall remain important throughout the whole of this essay. The first is that to speak of transcendence implies the overcoming of something internal to the identity of the person who transcends. Another way to put this is to say that often freedom for self becomes freedom from sel f. This consideration leads to the second critical conclusion: Assuming that one's identity in some way remains constant, the transcending self has been internally split. For one aspect of the self transcends; the other is transcended. The identity of these two selves, and their possible relati onship, will become a thematic question for this essay as a whole. Let us now turn to the central character of Euripides' drama, Hippolytus himself. Like the other characters, Hippolytus desires to escape -- or transcend -- a variety of conditions. The most immediately obvious aspect of Hippolytus's char- Do you think a throne carries attraction For a balanced mind? None; since to feel delight in kingship is to be Corrupted by it. No, my wish is to come first In Greek games, in politics to take second place, Secure in happiness, with the noblest of my friends. (1013) By contrast to Phaedra's desperate death wish into oblivion, we see in each instance of Hippolytus's escapism the dual aspect of an escape from something he fears to something he loves. He wishes to flee from Aphrodite to Artemis and the activities she sanctions, such as hunting and riding. (Like Phaedra, Hippolytus seems to be motivated here by a desire for a kind of pureness or innocence he believes to characterize the wild natural world.) He wishes to flee from politics and Athens to Greek games, his noblest friends, and Troezen; he wishes to flee from the presence of women to a fictional world in which the feminine never existed. In each case, Hippolytus dreams of retreating from a realm that is characteristically human; and as the play's ending reveals, in each case his bid to gain freedom from these human realms fails. We will return later to the question concerning the general nature of the realm Hippolytus desires to fly to. Hippolytus's wish to transcend his political and sexual nature can plausibly be traced to his ambivalent attitude toward his nearly-alwaysabsent father, Theseus. As mentioned above, Theseus's history of dealing with women and with his own sexuality is not exactly savory. He is said to have raped Helen when she was thirteen, for example. Hippolytus himself was generated as a result of an illicit affair between Theseus and the Queen of the Amazons, whom he also raped. On the other hand, Theseus is justly famous for his heroic deeds. He is widely recognized as Hercules' successor. Also, he is a great and powerful political figure. [For a fascinating and illuminating account of Theseus's past, see Plutarch's Life of Theseus.] Against the overwhelming background of his father's history, it is Hippolytus's problem to try to establish his own identity. For all sons, paternity itself represents a kind of determining condition. Again, the inside / outside problem arises: Fathers externally pre-exist sons. They first cause their sons and then literally rule them for many formative years. Genetically and psychologically speaking, fathers pass on much of their own identities to their offspring. Thus, like other conditions mentioned previously, all fathers both internally and externally ground the identities of their sons. For Hippolytus, however, this problem is particularly acute, for his father is a much more intruding figure than most. Hence, Hippolytus's rejection of sexuality and politics can be seen as an attempt to transcend the conditioning of his father's past and thereby to establish his own autonomous identity. The stakes are high for Hippolytus (as for all sons) in this connection; if he cannot ground his own identity in himself, then it could regress from him infinitely. In this case, Theseus cannot provide solid ground in either a moral or a theoretical sense. For Theseus, although father, is also himself the son of a father who was a son, etc. Thus, if Hippolytus tries to discover his identity in the identity of Theseus, his quest will be thrown back by an ineluctable logic -- through all of genealogical time. [N.b.: The problem of the infinitely regressing identity is not unique to Hippolytus; it is common to all sons, children and finite entities in general. This problem will emerge thematically in the Hegel section of this paper.] The fin al and most general kind of condition that Hippolytus desires to escape concerns his 27 26 .. �mortal law-boundedness. This is shown at the beginning of the play, when his servant is trying to persuade Hippolytus to recognize Aphrodite. He asks Hippol ytus if he knows "an old law laid down for mortal men." Hippolytus responds, "I don't ..." (91) The argument concludes with Hippolytus claiming that "since gods may choose whom they will honor, so may men." (88) With the question of mortal law and fate versus an escape to autonomy, we can see the most general form of Hippolytus's desire for transcendence. Hippolytus wants to govern himself as he sees fit. He desires to escape the laws imposed upon him (as he sees it) from outside which condition his mortal nature. Now these "laws laid down for mortal men" include the determinations inherent in all the previously mentioned conditions that Hippolytus wants to transcend, but they go mu ch fu rt h er. F or Hippolytus is nothing if not an ambi t io us f ell ow. In order to get a sense of how radical Hippolytus's desire for transcendence is, let us examine what he says about how he believes he will (has) tran scend( ed) these "laws laid down for mortal men." In his second speech of the play, Hippolytus addresses Artemis directly and announces: Goddess, for you I have twined this crown of flowers, gathered Fresh from a virgin meadow, where no shepherd dares To graze his flock, nor ever yet the scythe swept, But bees thread the spring air over the maiden meadow. There with clear stream-water Chastity tends the flowers; And those whose untaught nature holiness claims entire May Gather garlands there; and the impure may ~ot. Dear mistress, take this circlet for your golden hair, Offered with reverent hand. I alone among mortals Enjoy this honor, I am your companion, speak with you And hear your voice, only your face I do not see. And as my life's course has begun, so may it end. (78) This is a very important speech and it contains many important aspects of Hippolytus's dream of transcendence. First is his most striking claim that he is the companion of Artemis, a deity. This apparently is not idle bragging, because Artemis later confirms that the two a re "friends." Now Aristotle argues that in order to be someone's friend -- or to relate to another on any level -- one must in some way stand on the same ground as that person. This would indicate that in some way Hippolytus has at least a limited aspect of the divine present within him. (As we shall see, the text bears out this indication.) "Limited" because he is not able to en joy her full friendship -- ."on ly [her ] fac~ [~e] cannot see." It is t hrough this resort to the divine -- both ins ide himself and externall y in the form of A rtem is -- that Hip polytus believes he can t ran scend the conditi ons of h is mor tality. This a r gument abou t t h e internal presence of the divine helps answer a question posed above. F or we recall that transcendence imp lies a d ual self -- one that is free to transcend and the o~ he r that is con d itioned and , one h opes, tran scended .. I n the case of H ippolytus, at least, it becomes clear that th e free and tran scendent internal self co r responds to some d ivine as pect in the huma n soul. And, in fact , the presence of two selves, one divine an d t he other empirical and conditioned, w ill become th ematic in each account of transcen d ence discussed in this essay as a whole. Let us return to Hippolytus's transcendence speech. The second question it ra.ises concern.s ~he zone in which Hippolytus's relat10n to t he divine tak es place. The "virgin meado w" is a place that is u ntouched by impure mortal s. T h is pla ce that is no human place is ch a racte r ized by an abundance of innocent n a t u ra l th in gs: bees, flowers , clear stream-wate r. For Hippolytus the move to transcendence in volves a reso r t to th e sub-human -- the natu ral -- and the super h u man -- th e divine. He wan ts to be either com plete ly fr ee, in the case of the divine or so en ti re ly conditioned that he no longer kno'ws i t or ca res, as in the case of the animalistic. It is th e mortally human lying between these two r ealms tha t h e ca nnot abide. Both extreme realms are somehow united in the figure of Artemis, the nature goddess. They are also united in the fig ure of Hippolytus himself, who possesses both an animal and a divine self. If Hippoly t us d esi res to flee human space, he also desires to flee human time. In fact, he claims to have alre a dy partially succeeded at this. One might say that the noti on of ''a lrea dy" is central here. For H ippolytus claims that thi s zone is only for those "whose untaught nat:ire .holine:s claims entir e." The thing about teachmg 1s that 1t takes time, and sufferi ng. (I n fact, Socrates argues that learning is itself a transcendence of ignorance.) Hippolytus's claim to be "untaught" then means that he has always known what he knows and thus been what he is -- partially divine. The passage ends with Hippolytus's praying that he. can always remain outside of time: "And as my hfe~s course has begun, so may it end." Of course, this prayer is emphatically not granted, at least in the ·, sense Hippolytus had in mind. Thus several important things have emerged from Hippolytus's transcendence speech. First, Hippolytus's attempt to transcend his conditioned and finite self is contingent upon a resort to atemporal and aspatial divinity, both internal and external. Second, that the "laws laid down for mortal men" which Hippolytus desires to transcend go far beyond the laws of the various external / internal conditions already mentioned, such as family history, etc. In fact, the laws Hippolytus is concerned with pertain to the most basic conditions defining him as a mortal man -- those of human spatio-temporaltiy. To desire, as Hippolytus does, to be independent of those laws is to desire the autonomy of divinity. The desire for divinity, then, is at the heart of the exchange between Hippolytus and servant that starts with Hippolytus wondering, rhetorically, "If we mortals use the same laws as the gods" and ends with him concluding that "Since gods may choose whom they will honour, so may men." The ending of tragedy suggests that, despite what he believes and prays, Hippolytus has a lot to learn and a lot to suffe r. For like all the characters of the play, his dreams of full transcendence are dashed. In light of the play's ending they appear to be exactly as the nurse diagnosed them -- mere "foolish tales." Let us then turn to the play's tragic conclusion. As it turns out, the Hippolytus has two endings. One is narrowly concerned with the destiny of Hippolytus himself and the people around him. The second ending is not an ending and could involve anyone or everyone in the world. First, what happens to Hippolytus: his death reveals a central problem inherent in Hippolytus's attempt to transcend the things that fatally condition him. His very dying itself indicates that he failed to transcend the laws of mortal human space and time. In the death scene , Euripides systematically shows the failure of Hippolytus's attempts to transcend his paternity, his political nature, "his" femininity, his sexuality. For his death was caused by his father's curse, his political exile, his (female) mother's and nurse's conspiracy, his sexual passion [as symbolized by the bull from the water and the past]. Worse, Hippolytus' death was caused by the very elements he desired to escape to -- the divine and the natural. For his death came about through the divine plotting of Aphrodite and the tacit consent of his "companion" Artemis; Hippolytus is killed by means of the natural horses he had used to escape from human society. It is ironic that the very things Hippolytus tries to escape from and to ultimately conspire to kill him. But perhaps this irony should come as no great surprise. For, as we have seen, Hippolytus tried to transcend the various conditions of his mortality by means of flatly rejecting them. But this is problematic: for Hippolytus's revolt against his conditions means a revolt against himself. Thus, in attempting to secure an identity by means of simply negating his conditions, Hippolytus in effect negated his identity; his very attempt to find himself led Hippolytus to kill himself. All of this is closely related to the central problems of transcendence: the interiority /exteriority of conditions, and the dualism of selfhood. The ending of Hippolytus is tragic; however, it is not as grim as it could be. For one possible transcendence does occur there. This transcendence involves the only major event of the play not initially predicted by Aphrodite -- Hippolytus's forgiveness of his father in the moving final scene. The dialogue goes: Theseus: Hippolytus: Theseus: Hippolytus: Theseus: Hippolytus: Theseus: Dear son, what are you doing to me? Will you break my heart? I see before me now the gates of the dead world. And will you leave me guilty, with unholy hands? No, you are free. I here absolve you of my death. I am free? You discharge me of bloodguiltiness? I swear it by the conquering bow of Artemis. 0 dearest son, how noble a heart you show your father! (1454) Now forgiveness is a form of transcendence. It indicates a kind of freedom from the human laws of cause and effect involved in endlessly tragic cycles of violence and counterviolence, transgression and re venge. Forgiveness does mean a kind of negation of history, as Hegel suggests. The fact that this forgiveness is n ot preannounced by Aphrodite at the beginning of the play indicates that it is a kind of break from fatedness. For a variety of reasons, the transcendence involved in Hippolytus's last minute forgiving of his father is hard to interpret. First, it only occurs after much horror, including the suicide of Phaedra. The final forgiving might seem a merely minor bright spot against an overwhelmingly dark background. Yet it does represent a significant accomplishment. Second, it is hard to tell what his forgiveness means to Hippolytus in terms of his transcen- 29 28 - �de nce quest. If it is true that "to fo r give is d i vine," it is also true that to fo r giv e is human. For Hippolytus to recogn ize hi s fa ther 's guilt and still accept h im an yway indicates that he has suffered himself to lea rn. It means Hippolytus has adopted a new attitude towards mortal humanity and thus t owards himself. Previously Hippolytus's whole attitude t owards his father and the rest of the mortal wor ld has been one of rejection and denial. He had re garded himself as beyond the whole finite world, w h ich he accordingly despised. Thus Hippolytus's forgiving Theseus indicates a kind of acceptance of the mortal world, with its viciousness and external cond itioning. Now, forgiveness is good, so, on the one hand, this new acceptance is good. On the other hand, it represents Hippolytus's abandonment of his perhaps unrealistic dreams of radical transcendence. So, th e first ending of the Hippolytus, with its hor rible death and with its transcendent forgiveness, is hard to understand. There is some good the re but the ove rall picture remains tragic. The second and more general "ending" of Hippolyt us will be discussed below. But, before leaving the fi rst ending, and with it Hippolytus and his famil y, per haps it is worth making one remark on how to rea d the character of Hippolytus, the "tragic hero." It is a naive and hubristic mistake, I believe, to understand him as simply a naive and hubri stic you ng man. It is also a mistake to search for his "tragic flaw," as if it were some trait idiosyncra tic to him that we could identify as the contingent cause of his downfall. To do this is to change the Hippolytus from a human tragedy into a mere morality pla y about the downfall of a flawed man. The moti va tion behi nd this way of reading the "tragic h ero" is the h uma n desi re to esca pe tragedy -- i.e. to keep i t safely external to us. We want to say "it couldn't happen to me;" or (as Racine's H ippolyte puts it when speaking of himself), we wa n t " to watch a ship wreck as if we were safely on shor e." To hubristically read a tra ged y in this fashi on is to try to change it into a comedy for us. As both Hi ppolyte and Hippolytus discovered, to deny tragedy is not only foolish, but dangerous. Iro nically, then, the naive reader's very attempt to escape tragedy's "laws laid down for mortal men" only mor e emphatically re-inscribes him into th e r ole of "tr agic hero." Para do xi cally, one way for readers to perhaps tran scend the role of the "tragic hero" is to recognize th emselves in his identity. That is, to 30 recognize that his problems and concerns are theirs, only perhaps on a larger scale. In the case of Hippolytus this means recognizing that he is not merely a fantastic fictional monster. Instead, despite his particularities, Hippolytus was a man who was profoundly concerned with the great potentialities and flaws of human nature. He risked everything to actualize the human potentialities and transcend the human flaws present in himself. From Euripides' point of view, Hippolytus's failure to achieve his end means something, not only for a fictional character, but for all those governed by the "laws laid down for mortal men." T o fail to recognize oneself in that category means to attempt an escape from tragedy; such attempts ofte n have tragic consequences. The possibility of a reader's denying his involvement in tragedy is the subject matter of the "second ending" of the Hippolytus. This second "ending" actually precedes the first. It is even darker than the first ending and literally infinite in the scope of its horror. The second ending comes right before another chilling moment in the play's fin al scene. That is, when Artemis denies her involvement in the tragedy and aband ons her "friend" Hippolytus, saying "I may not look upon the dead, nor strain my sight with the anguish of departing breath." (1465) Two thing s seem to follow from this. First, gods cannot be relied upon to aid humans in their quest for transcendence. Second, it would seem as if Euripides' gods, at last, can escape human tragedy. The "second ending," however, will call into question even the gods' ability to remain external to the laws of tragedy. The tragedy's most general "ending" comes earlier in the same horrifying speech; its moment is when Artemis blithely announces to Hippolytus that, Though you lie in the dark of earth, that Wrong which Aphrodite's angry purpose wreaked on you Shall be repaid, to vindicate your piety And noble spirit. I will requite her, striking down Myself, with this unfailing bow, whatever man Her heart holds dearest in the world. (1446) It is hard to comprehend the brutal significance of these words. At the very least they mean that there is yet another tragedy in store; this tragedy will be an identical repetititon of the Hippolytus, but with Artemis and Aphrodite reversing roles. One imagines this play beginning with Artemis speaking the fateful words spoken· by Aphrodite in the beginning of the present tragedy "To those who reverence my power I show favor, and throw t o the earth those I find arrogant and ~roud." (5) This new tragedy will continue, being httle more than a horrible repetition of the first just. as the Hippolytus itself was little more than ~ horrible repetition of Aphrodite's first speech. · But this promised second tragedy is not all that Artemis's fateful words portend. I think we know enough about the horrible logic of revenge in tragedies to see that Aphrodite will respond to Artemis's vengeful gesture in kind, thus mechanically generating yet another horrible Hippolytus, etc. (If this is true, then even the gods themselves can become locked into the infinite tragic regression.) What is more, there is no reason to think that our Hippolytus is the original link in the chain. Perhaps, like the sin Theseus desires to escape, the "original" act of the series occurred "in a distant age" infinitely long ago. Thus we face the prospect of the Hippolytus being a mere moment in an infinite series of tragedies, extending backwards and forwards forever. Like the bull from the past that killed Hippolytus, the play itself has suddenly crashed through its bounds and roams freely through history. It could re-emerge from the waters of time at any moment. Thus, no longer can we guarantee ~hat the Hippolytus is not written about us today JUSt as much as it is about its ancient Greek characters. Thus, the second "ending" is not an ending. As sons are also fathers, this "ending" is also a beginning and middle. Thus it calls into question those comfortable Aristotelian Poetic categories: beginning, middle, and end; inside and outside; player and spectator. The second ending thereby implicates us in the tale. After the second ending, transcendence is no longer the pressing c?ncern only of Hippolytus and his tragic family; smce we readers are possibly in the play, it is now our concern too. Like Hipp olytus, Phaedra and Theseus, we readers ourselves are challenged by Euripides to transcend the "mortal laws" of our own violent histories; failure to recognize this challenge means running the risk that our personal endings turn out as tragically as Hippolytus's. [My recognition of my own implication in the Hippolytus inspired this essay. M.M.] From the tragedy's double ending we have seen the urgency of the question of transcendence in the Hippolytus, (not only for its characters but for its readers as well). Thus, perhaps we should return to Euripides' most compelling vision of the problem of transcendence, that vision arises in the choral words quoted at the beginning of this paper: 0 to escape and lurk high under Steep crags, At the touch of a god to rise, A wing'd bird among flying flocks! To soar over the swell of the Adrian coast Where, in lament for Phaetohon, ' His sisters drop their piteous tears Which glow like amber in the dark stream; And then to reach that shore planted with Apple-trees Where the daughters of evening sing Where the sea lord of the dark shallows Permits to sailors no further passage Establishing the solemn frontier of heaven Which Atlas guards; Where divine fountains flow beside Zeus' marriage bed, Where holy earth offers her choice fruits To enrich the blissful gods. (731) The first feeling this poetry suggests is one of a longing for great freedom. Flying as a bird, one escapes gravity and earth-boundedness. One has escaped one's conditions, sailing above and beyond the particular places, laws, and tears of one's fated existence. Certainly, for all the characters in the Hippolytus escape means a kind of freedom. When Phaedra announces h~r escape plan to kill herself she says, "[I plan] to die, but how I'll order it is mine to choose." (724) As we have seen, freedom here means both the negative freedom of simply evading the conditions that predetermine or fate one and also the more positive freedom of autonomy. The character of the transcendence depicted in the chorus's escape speech means more than soaring freedom, however. For this freedom comes as a result of a total transformation from human to bird -- a kind of animal -- by means of the interceding "touch of a god." The plight of the characters in the Hippolytus is so desperate that the transcendence they desire must be completely radical. There seems to be no way to escape the horrible conditions of humanity and still remain a recognizable human being. The conditions and complexities of being mortal seem so horrible to the chorus that, like Phaedra and Hippolytus, it envies the wild simplicity and freedom of the sub-human 31 �animal. The fact tha t-a god is required to perform this substantial transformation indicates even more fully that the chorus believes there is no possibility of independent human transcendence. Yet, as the play's first ending shows, gods cannot be relied upon in the mortal human world. What's more, it is not clear that even they are sufficiently beyond it to escape tragedy anyway. We have seen the theme of a longing for escape through animality and divinity already in the Hippolytus. Phaedra's escapist dreams of wild places, hunting, and horse-racing indicate a certain abhorrence of things human. Hippolytus also attempts to escape through hunting and riding animals. He believes he can achieve this through his ill-fated friendship with Artemis. The second stanza of this escape poetry reveals that even the freedom of soaring animality does not suffice for a full escape of mor tal conditions. To fully escape the conditions of human mortality the chorus yearns to pass into a radical Beyond -- a place where sailors are permitted no further passage past the Atlas-guarded frontiers of heaven. Again, as with Hippolytus's vision, this is a place characterized by an unearthly mixture of the subhuman natural and the superhuman supernatural, or divine: "Where holy earth offers her choice fruits to enrich its blissful gods." In the second stanza the bird's eye view is dropped and the chorus seems to long to be present with blissful gods in almost a divine fashion. Here then, we find complete transcendence of all things miserably mortal. All verbs in the passage are either infinitives or in the blank . present tense. There is a sense of timelessness in this condition Beyond -- beyond human being, beyond human determinations, beyond human places, beyond human times, beyond human suffering, beyond human mortality. This poetry of longing seems to me beautiful and I think one reason for this is the sense of yearning, nostalgia, sadness that pervades it. The passage is beautiful for the same reason the play itself is successful -- we recognize the human desire, suffering, and failure it depicts. The chorus delivers the poem at a moment of great horror in the play -- just after Phaedra announces her plan to kill herself and destroy Hippolytus too. This escape passage seems to serve as a moment of sublime relief in the plot. It focuses our a tten ti on on some safe, peaceful, and fanciful Beyond just as matters grow nearly intolerable on stage. Yet, the 32 manifest futility of this escape dream, combined with the contrast its content provides to the action onstage, only serves to heighten the horror of the tragedy as it unfolds. Even the escape to the poetic sublime provides no escape, no transcendence. The dream of timeless immortality only renders more painful the drama's depiction of finite human suffering. The beautiful dream of escape and transcendence expressed in this passage is radically impossible for mortal humans, just as all the other escape dreams presented in the Hippolytus are impossible. That very impossibility of transcendence is what renders tragic the tragedy of Hip- Aristotle's Wheel Cherie Craig ('89) polytus. 1Editor's note: Due to space limitations, only the first two parts -- the introduction and the Euripedes section of Mr. McShane's prize winning essay -- are included here. The complete work is available on file in the College Library. The problem involved in the paradox of "Aristotle's wheel" is one of geometrical correspondence. However, in order to understand what actually is occurring geometrically, one must understand the motions involved. It is clear that the two concentric circles of figure 1, travel an equal horizontal distance. (For now, let those two distances be represented as Ll=L2. ) Also, the smaller circle, being carried by the larger, must rotate at the same angular rate as the larger, (Rl =R2). We also know that if the larger circle makes one complete rota ti on, the distance it travels will be equal to its circumference, (Ll =Cl ). Since RI equals R2, the circumference of the smaller circle also makes one complete rotation; but since Cl does not equal C2, then LI should not equal L2 and C2 should equal L2. We seem to be left with a circle rolling through a distance equal to its circumference, yet moving farther than the length of its circumference. Fig. 1 B D c However, the smaller circle is, in fact, not rolling. When we say that the larger circle rolls, we must recognize the two distinct motions involved: its rotation and its horizontal movement. The hori zontal movement of the larger is acquired solely by virtue of its rotational movement, because it cannot rotate while resting on a surface without moving forward. Therefore, if it rotates through a distance equal to its circumference, then Cl equals LI. The horizontal motion of the smaller of the two circles is not due to its rotation, but due to the horizontal motion of the larger circle, and therefore C2 does not equal L2. Thus the smaller circle's rotational movement is not acquired from its horizontal motion, but from the rota ti on of the larger circle. The larger circle imparts exactly as much motion to the smaller circle as it itself possesses. The smaller circle, then, is being moved horizontally while being rotated, rather than itself actually rolling. Rolling seems to occur when there is a special correspondence, that is, equality, between the length travelled and the length rotated. The problem still remains, though, to account for how it is that the smaller circle rotates through a smaller distance than it travels while its circumference is actually in contact with the line traversed. A point on the circumference of the larger circle travels the same distance on that circumference in a given time as the center of the circle moves horizontally in that same time. Therefore, they move with the same velocity. On 33 �the circumference of the smaller circle, a point travels a shorter distance than the center in that same amount of time and conseque ntl y moves with lesser linear velocity. (The angular velocity is the same as that of the point on the larger circle, but the linear velocity is not the same.) In reference to figure 1, it becomes clear that as every point on arc AB has a corresponding point on arc EF, geometrically as well as in time, and as AB=AC=ED, then every point of ED must correspond to a point on arc EF (even though they are of unequal lengths). This same "type" of correspondence is illustrated [figures 2 and 3] by two points moving along two unequal straight lines, or a curve and its chord, in a given time. -----<--- B E c A Fig. 2 Ref erring to Figure 2, we may move line BC such that point C will coincide with point A, while BC remains perpendicular to AC. In Figure 3 we may meet the requirement by moving both the line and the curve with two given velocities in a given time. However, the curve, being longer, must be moved at a faster rate in order for the motion to be completed in the same time. The semicircle AOB rotates counterclockwise 18 0 degrees such that point B of the curve passes through point 0 and rests at point A. The segment AB slides to the left such that point B of the segment passes through point E and rests at point A. Figure 1 also requires two motions with differing, yet uniform, linear velocities. In a given time, we may slide the segment ED to the left such that D will coincide with E, at the same time moving Eat a slower rate a long the arc EF such that it corresponds with F [figure 4]. In this latter example we may obtain the same effect, or relative motion, using motions which are equal but opposite to those mentioned. 34 Instead of moving segment ED to the left, we can move the circle to the right, and instead of moving E counter-clockwise along arc EF, we can rotate the circle clockwise through arc EF. We thereby obtain the two motions of the smaller circle and their seemingly paradoxical effect. We expect there to be the same relationship between the two motions (namely, liner and angular) in the smaller circle as between those of the larger circle, simply because they are both circles. As a result, we fail to see that, although one of the motions of the larger circle is dependent on the other, the two motions of the smaller circle are independent of each other. Once we recognize this , the behavior of the smaller circle should no longer surprise us, and it is found to be no more problematic then the correspondence without equality as we saw with Figures 2 and 3. Out of this, it must be said that in order to understand what is occurring geometrically when geometrical figures are set in motion, we need to take the natures of the motions involved into account. Geometry cannot be separated from mechanics; rather, mechanics is inherent in geometr y. D ~-------~ E I \ / Fig.3 G The Beginning of Titne Eugenia Bergeron ('92) Eo-A ustralopitheca leather scraped fish dried herbs brewed her man away on a hunting trip suddenly leisured sits on sand before sparkling sunlit water (notices playful progress of three dolphins moving east to west halfway between her feet and the horizon) Eo-Australopitheca my sister my double perfectly acquainted with the Shaman's view on eternity transmitted through measureless eons that then and now are one never having questioned the wisdom of ageless antiquity at this hour in this place permits herself to listen to her senses F D' D E Fig. 4 35 �Eo-A ustralopitheca having observed the evenings and the mornings of many days remembering the playful progress of three dolphins (moving east to west halfway between her feet and the horizon) here then there now she sees as if afresh unhurried unstopping unhastening diagonally advancing waves implying sequence implying time Eo-A ustralopitheca (as all the waters under the firmament wave by curling white-embroidered wave approach her feet each covering one tiny fraction more of sand) chooses the evidence of her eyes over the testimony of tradition ·knowing that soon water will cover the island of sand left by last night's low tide glimpsing a small pale conical shell pierced near the point filled with sand she speculates that held aloft the shell will empty before the water touches her toes 36 37 �request as a gift, and asks him about its source, saying, "How is it that thou askest drink of me," i.e., "What enables you to ask a favor of me?" Behold The Latnb of God: Christ and Men in the Gospel ofJohn Kevin Graham ('90) I. Introduction Halfway through the first chapter of John's Gospel, Jesus enters the narrative in the wilderness beyond the Jordan River, where John is preaching. 1:29 The next day John seeth Jesus corning unto him, and saith, Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world. 30 This is he of whom I said, After me cometh a man which is preferred before me: for he was before me. 31 And I knew him not: but that he should be manifest to Israel, therefore I am come baptizing with water. John comes to baptise us with water and to say to us, "Behold the Lamb of God," in order that the chosen people of God may see Christ manifest. Whoever Jesus is, he is identified by a relation to us, as the Lamb who, sanctified, will take our sin away. And whatever John's annunciation may mean, John announces him to us for our sake. Thus the Evangelist claims that we should want to know who the Lamb of God is. And if we want to know ourselves, we must consider what it means to have sin which this Lamb must take away. In this essay, I hope to discover just these things: Who is Christ, and what are we that we need such a Sa vi or? To this end, I will read a few of the stories in John's Gospel closely, hoping to hear our need articulated in the words of Mary Magdalene, Simon Peter and others, and to hear Christ's fulfillment of that need spoken in his words to them. I am not asking whether we need Christ, but why, according to John, we need him. This essay 38 can only prepare us to answer that larger, more fundamental question. II. Christ and the Samaritan Woman at the Well 4:5 Then cometh he to a city of Samaria, which is called Sychar, near to the parcel of ground thatJacob gave to his son Joseph. 6 Now Jacob's well was there. Jesus, therefore, being wearied with his journey, sat thus on the well: and it was about the sixth hour. 7 There cometh a woman of Samaria to draw water: Jesus saith unto her, Give me to drink. 8 (For his disciples were gone away unto the city to buy meat.) 9 Then saith the woman of Samaria unto him, How is it that thou, being a Jew, askest drink of me, which am a woman of Samaria? for the Jews have no dealings with the Samaritans. The scholars off er many explanations for the Samaritan woman's surprise at Jesus' speaking to her: religious and political feuding between the Jews and the Samaritans, the social unacceptability of a Jewish man speaking to a woman in public, the ritual impurity of all Samaritan women. 1 Jesus' words immediately break down these walls of defensiveness and hostility, which normally prevent words exchanged between members of enemy races from becoming conversations. He accomplishes this by an act of humility, forsaking the high social rank a Jewish man would normally assume in this situation in order to allow the Samaritan woman to become his benefactor. I think she wonders not so much at his simply speaking to her, but more at the charity which allows him to ask a favor of her. She recognizes his 4: 10 Jesus answered and said unto her, If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink; thou wouldest have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water. 11 The woman saith unto him, Sir, thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep: from whence hast thou that living water? 12 Art thou greater than our father Jacob, which gave us the well, and drank thereof himself, and his children, and his cattle? Jesus confirms her recognition of his gift, and promises her that she does not know the whole of it: his charity, which makes their conversation possible, is of God. Moreover, he who speaks to her is more extraordinary than she could know from his simple words. Had she seen him for who he is she would have known that he is the source of wha~ she needs most, Ii ving water. Though Jesus offers no explanation of what this mysterious living water is, the woman asks not what it is, but whence he would get it. He cannot draw it from the ground, for he has nothing with which to draw even ordinary water from the well. He must speak of a water not drawn from the ground at all -- a water not of the body, but of the spirit. Jesus seems to claim to be able to provide more than the water and fer tile land she and her people inherited from Jacob. The woman relies on such blessings of God for preservation and prosperity. Now she asks Jesus whether he offers her a greater gift of God. 4: 13 Jesus answered and said unto her, Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again; 14 But whosoever drinketh of the water I give him shall never thirst; but the water I give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life . In asking Jesus about the source of the living water, the woman implicitly asks him about its character. Likewise, in speaking about the character of the living water, Jesus speaks implicitly a bout its source. Jes us says that the quenching power of living water is different in kind from that of ordinary water. While ordinary water leaves the body temporarily satisfied but dependent on a well dug in to the ground for replenishment, living water becomes a perpetually sustaining spring in the spirit. Bodily thirst cannot be quenched thus, nor can the life of the body be sustained everlastingly: this must be a water of the spirit, springing forth from the Spirit of God. The woman's hope is confirmed: Jesus speaks of a new blessing from God for His people, which will truly sustain them in spirit, and not just in body. She need no longer rely on the well dug by Jacob for Jesus offers her a new source of life, or perhaps a new kind of life altogether. 4:15 The woman saith unto him, Sir, give me this water, that I thirst not, neither come hither to draw. 16 Jesus saith unto her, Go, call thy husband, and come hit her. 17 The woman answered and said, I have no husband. Jesus said unto her, Thou hast said well, I have no husband: 18 For thou hast had five husbands; and he whome thou now hast is not thy husband: in that thou saidst truly. 19 The woman saith unto him, Sir, I perceive thou art a prophet. The woman asks for the water which Jesus offered and claimed she needed. Jesus seems to have succeeded in showing her who he is and why she needs him. Yet he withholds her fulfillment telling her to go fetch her husband. The woma~ neither lies to cover up her shameful string of living arrangements nor leaves in shame as though to call her husband, sulking in the misery of her unworthiness of Christ's gift. 2 Rather, she makes the least embarrassing statement she can of her situation, "I have no husband." Jesus praises her for speaking as well as a person can under the circumstances and says that he knows all about her past husbands and her present lover. The woman's first surprise is at Jesus' diviner's knowledge of her life; she cannot doubt that he is a seer as well as the bearer of the new gift of God. But perhaps her second surprise is the greater: though this prophet knows her life intimately, he does not condemn her for her sin. To discover that God knows us perfectly is terrifying, for we know we bear the mark of our sin. But to discover that God knows us intimately and yet loves us is joyous, for such a God would almost be a friend. The woman is beginning to think that she has discovered just such a God in Jes us' words; now she asks about this friendship with God. 4: 19 The woman saith unto him, I perceive that thou art a prophet. 20 Our fathers worshipped in this mountain; and ye say, that in Jerusalem is the place where men ought to worship the Father. 21 Jesus saith unto her, Woman, believe me, the hour cometh, and now is, when neither in this mountain, noryet in Jerusalem, shall ye worship the Father. 22 Ye worshipye know not what: we know what we worship: for salvation is of the Jews. 23 But the hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshippers 39 �shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth: for the Father seeketh such to worship him. 24 God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth. By stating what she and Jesus both know about the religious division between the Jews and the Samaritans, the woman hints at a question that springs from a hope so great and so dear that she dares not give her question a voice: "May even we, the outcasts of Israel, rejoin the family of God?" Much of her life must have been shaped by being outcast, as a Samaritan, as a woman, and as an adulterer. The charity of Jesus' words has kindled hope in her. To no one else could she voice her desire to rejoin the family of the chosen. Jes us speaks about the true worship of God as he spoke about living water: as he compared ordinary water, which sustains the body temporarily, to living water, which sustains the spi rit everlastingly, so he compares the worship of the Father in many places to the worship of the Father outside of place, in spirit and in truth. Spirit and truth will unite true worshippers with one another and with the Father across all barriers, and will lift them to a higher worship which is impossible in the bodily world. And Jesus specifically says, "The hour cometh when ye shall worship the Father thus: "the community of God shall indeed include you, the outcast and despised. Jesus' words fulfill the woman's desire and reward her hope. What began as a casual conversation has revealed the Kingdom of God to her. She stands in awe before the man who has released her from. e.xile an? welcomed her into the community of sp1nt. The JOY of her soul tells her that he is God · again, she dares not voice a hope so dear in ~ question, but masks it in a declaration. 4:25 The woman saith unto him, I know that Messiah cometh which is call~d Christ: when he is come , he will tell us all things'. 26 Jesus saith unto her, I that speak unto thee am he. 27 And upon this came his disciples, and marvelled that he talked with the woman: yet no man said, Whatseekest thou? or, Why talkest thou with her? 28 The woman left herwaterpot, and went her way into the city and saith to the men, ' 29 Come, see a man, which told me all things that I ever did: is this not the Christ? The evidence the woman offers that Jesus is the Christ is that he knows everything she ever did. Knowing her enables Jesus to minister to her deepest need, the nee'd for communion. She needs a M~s~iah who knows her and yet loves her by forg1vmg her. Jesus fulfills her need by promising 40 her the gift of the Spirit, which will sustain her everlastingly and enable her to join the community of spirit in God. III. Christ and the Man Born Blind In the beginning of the Gospel's seventh chapter, Jesus sends his disciples to the Feast of the Booths in Jerusalem, saying that he will remain in Galilee; but he follows them to the feast in secret and comes to the Temple to teach openly. The Feast of Booths, or of Tabernacles, is a memorial of Israel's wandering in the wilderness, when Abraham's children were purged of their wickedness.3 Appropriately, Jesus speaks of the Jews' need for his redemption beyond what the Covenant of Abraham and the Law of Moses give them; the p~ople take up stones to kill Jesus for putting himself above Abraham, but he passes out of their midst and into the streets. 9: 1 And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man who was blind from his birth. 2 And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? 3 Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him. 4 I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day : the night cometh when no man can work. 5 As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world. 6 When he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground, and made clay of the spittle, and anointed the eyes of the blind man with the clay. 7 ~d said u~to him, Go, wash in the pool of Siloam, (which is, by mterpretatton, Sent.) He went his way therefore, and washed, and came seeing. Jesus answers the disciples' question about the cause of suffering not by explaining the necessity of punishment for sin, but by healing the man outright. The man, Jesus says, was born blind so that the work of God might be made manifest in his healing; something of God is revealed in the healing of the man's impairment which could not have been seen were he not impaired. But to whom is the work of God revealed, to those watching or to the man who is healed? And what is seen in the work of God? 9:8 The neighbors therefore, and they which before had seen him that he was blind, said, Is not this he that sat and begged? 9 Some said, This is he: others said, He is like him: but he said, I am he. 10 Therefore they said unto him, How were thine eyes opened? 11 He answered and said, A man that is called Jesus made clay, a?d anointed mine eyes, and said unto me, Go to the pool of Siloam, and wash: and I went and washed, and I received sight. 12 Then they said unto him, Where is he? He said, I knovi not. 13 They brought to the Pharisees him that was afore time blind. The man's neighbors do not wonder that he sees, but that he has been healed. To see is not uncommon; but to restore the sigh t of the blind is unheard of. Such a wonder seems inexplicable so the man's neighbors forego asking, "How co~ld Jesus do that?" Instead, they ask where Jesus is. Perhaps they are merely curious about a worker of wonders. But might they not want to seek Jesus out .themselves, hoping that he might heal their spuits?. Such a longing to be made whole in spirit ':ould imply a deep feeling of incompletion and sickness, so close to the core of our souls as to be almost unspeakable. When the man fails to direct them to Jes us his neighbors bring him to the leaders of th~ church. Surely they do not desire to convict him of being healed by an unknown, unauthorized prophet. It seems more likely that they seek the Pharisees' opinion about whether the one who opened the eyes of their blind friend might be able to heal them too. ro: 9: 13 They brought to the Pharisees him that was aforetime blind . 14 And it was the sabbath day, when Jesus made the clay and opened his eyes. 1~ 1'.1en again t~e Pharisees also asked him how he had received his sight. He said unto them, He put clay upon mine eyes, and I washed, and do see. 16 Therefore said some of the Pharisees, This man is not of God, because he.kee~th not the sabbath day. Others said, How can a man that Is a smner do such works? And there was a division among them. 17 They say unto the blind man again, What sayest thou of him, that he hath opened thine eyes? He said, He is a prophet. A student of the Law might respond to the man's story by saying that a man with power such as Jesus' must be divine, or by noting with surprise that Jesus worked the miracle on the Sabbath. But Jesus' app~rent divinity should overshadow any legal quest10ns about the conditions of his work and it is troubling that the Pharisees see th~ situation in reverse. The skeptical Pharisees accuse Je~us of a. literal violation of the Law; the sympathizers voice their wonder only in the context of the legal question. The man born blind perceives God's work more clearly; his simple statement "He is a prophet," reflects an unshakeable visi~n of the great wonder of Jesus' healing. 9: 18 B~t the J~ws did not believe concerning him, that he had been blmd, until they called the parents of him that had received his sight. 19 And .they asked them, saying, Is this your son, who ye say was born blmd? how then doth he now see? 20 His parents answered them and said, We know that this is our son, and that he was born blind: 21 But b~ what means he now see th, we know not; or who hath opened his .eyes, we know not: he is of age; ask him: he shall speak for himself. 22 These words spake his parents, because they feared the Jews: for the Jews had agreed already, that if any man did confess that he was Christ, he should be put out of the synagogue. 23 Therefore said his parents, He is of age; ask him. I~ order to corroborate the man's testimony, Phansees seek testimony of the healing, from parents who know well that the Pharisees seek evidence about Jesus' work not in order to believe but to condemn, and to threaten their opponents with expulsion from the synagogue. Now, the man's parents know their son, and that he sees; and surely they do not doubt that he speaks honestly a?out t~e healing. Why, then, do they not support his testimony? As parents, they should rejoice that Jesus has opened the eyes of the son they bore into darkness. As human beings, they should rejoice in the hope that Jesus can make them whole in spirit as he made their son whole in body. Their reticence may signify that they do not yet feel this second joy because they fail to see how Jes us' power to heal the bo~y might also be a power to heal the spirit. For wh1l.e fear ?1ight quell their joy over bodily healing, the JOY of seeing Jesus' power to redeem overwhelms all fears, as their son's boldness shows. t~e hi~ 9:24 Then again called they the man that was blind, and said unto him, Give God the praise: we know thatthis man is a sinner. 25 He answered and said, Whether he is a sinner or no I know not: one thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now see. 26 Then they said to him again, What did he to thee? how opened he thine eyes? 27 He answered them, I have told you already, and ye did not hear: wherefore would ye hear it again? will ye also be his disciples? i Facing conclusive evidence of the man's healing, the Pharisees advise him to attribute his healing to God and not to Jesus. In doing this they probably seek both to control Jesus' popularity, and to teach the man the truth about the agency of his he~ling. The ~an responds that he knows only one thmg, that he is healed. By this he seems to mean that whatever may make sense and whatever he may not understand about healing, he knows that he has been made whole. The knowledge that a prophet of God has made him whole and that this 41 �healing implies the promise of spiritual restoration must be so great and so brilliant that all other knowledge looks dim and shabby by compa r ison. Jesus proposed himself to be the light of the blind man's world by doing this healing work of his Father. When the man sees such a light, he sees that in order to know anything he must see it in this light. Just as the light of the world is the first principle for the man born blind, so is the Law of Moses the first principle for the Pharisees. The man born blind has told them a new thing, but they hear only an apparent violation of the Law. They offer th e man th eir best counsel a bout his healing in li ght of the Law, and he discards it. Again they ask for evidence with which they may convict Jesus under the Law, and thus serve the Law. The man refuses, saying that he has already told them his story, which is far more important to them as potential believers than it could ever be as lawyers; they will not hear it in any important way if they listen so as to con vi ct rather than so as to be restored. 9:28 Then they reviled him, and said, Thou art his disciple: but we are Moses' disciples. 29 We know that God spake unto Moses: as for this fellow, we know not from whence he is. 30 The man answered and said unto them, Why herein is a marvellous thing, that ye know not whence he is, and yet he hath opened mine eyes. 31 Now we know that God heareth not sinners: but if a man be a worshipper of God, and doeth his will, him he heareth. 32 Since the world began it was not heard that any man opened the eyes of one that was born blind. 33 If this man were not of God, he could do nothing. 34 They answered and said I unto him, Thou wast altogether born in sins, and dost thou teach us? And they cast him out. The Pharisees love the Law because through their study of it, God converts their souls and enlightens their eyes by revealing His will to them in its perfect purity and righteousness [Psalm 19:711]. But thei r love of the Law has grown out of proportion: they have taken it not for a guide toward the light of the world, but for that light itself and are therefore unable to see the true light which is come into the world. When God works a new thing by restoring sight to the blind, they see it not as something surpassing the Law, but only as something outside the Law. When the man born blind challenges them to see God's new work of healing, they cast him out. They fail to see the main lesson of the Law: that all have sinned and fallen short of God's glory, and cannot share in that glory without the healing Christ offers. Their vision of God, to which they steadfastly cling, is partial. 42 IV. Christ and Mary Magdalene at the Tomb · 9:35 Jesus heard that they had cast him out; and when he had found him, he said unto him, Dost thou believe on the Son of God? 36 He answered and said, Who is he, Lord, that I might believe on him? 37 And Jesus said unto him, Thou hast both seen him, and it is he that talketh with thee. 38 And he said, Lord, I believe. And he worshipped him. Jes us does not ask the man, "Do you believe that I am the Son of God?" but more generally, "Do you believe that there is a Son of God, a Redeemer of men?" The man asks Jesus to identify the Redeemer. For if Jesus is not the Redeemer, then he must wait for the Redeemer to come to fulfill the promise contained in his healing. The man has, however, been enlightened, he knows that his bodily restoration signifies the spiritual restoration to come. Jesus fulfills this hope, he says that the man has both seen the light of the world in his own healing by Jes us, and now hears the Son of God identify himself with that light. Somehow we all need both to see the Light and to hear the Word. When Jesus restores us to our natural wholeness, and in his healing of us we see the Light, we are ready for Jesus to talk with us. Jesus offers to speak to all of us, even those who did not walk with him as contemporaries. This is the work of the Spirit of Truth, whom Jesus sends us in order to tell us all things. 9:39 And Jesus said, For judgment.I am come into this world, that they which see not might see; and that they which see might be made blind. 40 And some of the Pharisees which were with him heard these words, and said unto him, Are we blind also? 41 Jesus said unto them, Hye were blind, ye should have no sin: but now ye say, We see; therefore, your sin remaineth. By "the blind," Jesus probably means those whom he heals by removi ng their si n, thus revealing to them the Light. But by "the sighted," Jesus cannot mean people altogether unimpaired by sin; perhaps they have a partial vision of God, such as the Pharisees gain from their study of the Law. It is their claim to complete vision which prevents them from admitting their need for Christ's healing. The Pharisses fail by not tempering their delight in the Law with a feeling of imperfection and of need for a healing which the Law cannot provide. The disciples scatter into the night when Jesus is betrayed and arrested. Only Peter and another, most likely John, follow Jesus to the palace of the high priest, where Peter denies Christ]. Only John is present at the crucifixion; he stands before the cross with three other followers: Mary, mother of Jesus, Mary, wife of Cleophas, and Mary Magdalene. This is John's first mention of Mary Magdalene; Luke says that Jesus cast seven deamons out of her and that she and some other women Jesus healed supported him and the disciples by their own means. She is also presumably one of the women who help bury Jesus' body. 4 20:1 The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, when it was yet dark, unto the sepulchre, and seeth the stone taken away from the sepulchre. 2 Then she runneth and cometh to Simon Peter, and to the other disciple, whom Jesus loved, and saith unto them, They have taken the Lordoutof the sepulchre, and we know not where they have laid him. The joy of the Resurrection begins in bewilderment and despair. After the wild joy of the triumphal entry into Jerusalem has fallen into the darkness and despair of the betrayal, the trial, and the crucifixion, Mary comes to the tomb, immediately after the Sabbath, presumably to anoint Jesus' body and finish her ministry to his worldly needs.5 She comes out of love, and out of devotion, not knowing what else to do. Yet even her last service to Christ is denied her, for she finds an open tomb. In her despair, she can only conceive of one explanation, that grave robbers have taken the corpse of Jesus. Now the darkness of Mary's world is complete, the last ember of its light having been extinguished. She must tell someone, find support somewhere, she runs to tell the disciples. 20:3 Peter therefore went forth, and that other disciple, and came to the sepulchre. 4 So they ran both together: and the other disciple did outrun Peter, and came first to the sepulchre. 5 And stooping down, and looking in, saw the linen clothes; yet he went not in. 6 Then cometh Simon Peter following him, and went into the sepulchre, and seeth the linen clothes lie, 7 And the napkin, that was about his head, not lying with the linen clothes, but wrapped together in a place by itself. 8 Then went in also that other disciple, which came first to the sepulchre, and he saw, and believed. 9 For as yet they knew not the scripture, that he must rise again from the dead. 10 Then the disciples went away again into their own home. Peter and John's reac tion to the news of the open tomb is not despai ring, as is Ma r y's, but hopeful. Either the hope that Jes us has escaped the tomb or the fear that his body has been stolen could bring them running to the tomb, but only hope could carry Peter into the tomb itself to examine the burial garments. Fear would ask no more than to see the empty linens from the door. Once Peter has entered the tomb out of hope and steadfast love for Jesus, John can follow. In the dim light of the early morning, John sees exactly what Peter saw. By the guess of most scholars, the reason Peter and John conclude that the corpse has not been stolen is because grave robbers, not wanting to carry a naked corpse around, would not have bothered to unwrap the body. 6 Most of us, like Peter, would now be able to hope that the body had not been stolen. But without seeing the living Jesus, we could hardly believe that a man has overcome death, would not this imply that men are no longe r mortal? Yet John puts faith in Jes us' resurrection. John has been chosen to possess both great vision and great belief: the Evangelist calls him both "the disciple whom Jesus loved" and the disciple "which also leaned on his breast at supper, and said, Lord, which is he that betrayeth thee?" Yet remarkable as his faith here is, one thing is denied him -- to see Jesus risen. And only this vision brings understanding of the resur rection and its place in God's plan as shown in the Scriptures. 20: 11 But Mary stood without at the sepulchre weeping: and as she wept, she stooped down, and looked into the sepulchre, 12 And see th two angels in white sitting, the one at the head, and the other at the feet, where the body of Christ had lain. 13 And they say unto her, Woman, whyweepest thou? She saith unto them, Because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid him. 14 And when she had thus said, she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus. When Mary summons her strength to look within the tomb, she sees two angels, who ask her why she weeps. Their question prepares her to see Christ resurrected by prompting her to voice her need to find Jesus. But they cannot console her. So overwhelming is her emptiness that messengers from Heaven seem but a shadow of what she has lost. She turns from them, failing even to wonder at their presence: could Heaven fail to notice the extinguishing of the light of the world? Now Mary feels the deepest sorrow and the deepest need that 43 �any human being has ever felt, and perhaps possibly ever could feel. She is prepared to see the risen Christ. them, I ascend to my Father, and your Father; and to my God, and your God. 18 Mary Magdalene came and told the disciples that she had seen the Lord, and that he had spoken these things unto her. 20: 14 And when she had thus said, she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus. 15 Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him h ence, tell me where thou h ast laid him, and I will take him away. 16 Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto him, Rabboni.: which is to say, Master. Now the work of Christ on earth is almost complete: having been raised up and having drawn us up to him to become sons of the Father, it only remains for him to breathe forth the Spirit into us and send us forth into the world. When we have seen the r isen Christ with Mary Magdalene, our work as disciples, or learners, is complete, and we are ready to become apostles, or, those sent forth. Mary is at first unable to see Jesus, who, seemingly, has been transfigured. In her despair, an y unfamiliar man would look like someone wh o mi ght have taken Jesus' body. 7 Jesus begins to re ach out to her in order to reveal himself to her, asking, "Why do you weep? Whom do you seek?" Mary's answer, "Where have you taken him?" shows that she can't imagine anyone failing to know wh ose tomb is empty and that what she seeks is not Jesus' body, but Jesus himself. Then Jesus says, "Mary." She hears him, and turn s her soul to see him. He speaks her name with the breath of divine charity. He is nowhere in what he says. Where before he revealed himself by saying "I am he," now the first person in n o way enters his words. Thus he gives himself over to her com pletely, to be her healer and comforter. He ope ns himself completely to show forth his glory as div ine love. Her deepest need is filled by the revelation of Christ to the ears and the eyes of her sou l. Mary sees the risen Christ and says, "Rabbi," which must be understood to mean "Teacher." A teacher cannot simply reveal things to his student. He must know her and reach out to fill her need with a word spoken in char ity; for onl y such a word can truly fill the need of an animal with speech. Mary is prepared to hear the word because she knows that Jesus is the source of her life and because she feels the sorrow appropriate to the loss of that sou rce. Hearing that word enables her to turn to see the glorified Christ as our Teacher, and to see something of the Father in him. T o teach is to speak the word of love and thus reveal something of the Father to the hearer,: it is the mos t perfect of Christ's works. To learn is to prepare ourselves to receive his word , so that he can make us whole and reveal the Father to us. 20:17 Jesus saith unto her, Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father: but go to my brethren and say unto 44 V. Christ and Simon Peter at the Sea of Tib erias After appearing to Mary Magdalene before the empty tomb, Jesus appears twice to his discip les, once during the evening of that same day and again eight days later. John concludes his Gospel after recording these events in the twentieth chapter, but goes on to write the following epilogue. 21:1 After these things .Jesus showe d himself again to the disciples at the sea of Tiberias; and o n this wise shewe d he himself. 2 There were together Simon Peter, and Thomas calle d Di dymus, and Nathanael of Cana in Galilee, and the sons of Zebedee , and two other of the disciples. 3 Simon Peter saith unto them, I go a fishing. They say unto him, We also go with th ee. They went forth, and entered into a ship immediate ly; and that ni ght they caught nothing. 4 But when the morning was now come, Jesus stood on the shore: but the disciples knew not that it was Jesus. 5 ThenJesussaith unto them, Children, have ye any meat? They answere d him, No. 6 Then Jesus said unto them, Cast the net on the right side of the ship, and ye shall find. They cast the net therefore, and now they were not able to draw it in for the multitude of fishes. 7 Therefore, that disciple whom Jesus loved saith unto Peter, It is the Lord. Nowwhen Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he girt his fisher's coat unto him, (for he was naked,) and did cast himself into the sea. The image of food first appears in John's Gospel after Jesus speaks to the Samaritan woman at the well. When the disciples return from the city with food and urge Jesus to eat, he replies, "I have meat to eat that ye know not of... My meat is to do the will of him that sent me, and to finish his work." Bringing the Samaritan woman into the Kingdom of God nourishes Jesus' spirit: acts of love sustain the spirit's new life which living water begets. Jes us tells the disciples to look upon the fields of the world, ripe for the harvest of the food men need most, "the fruit unto life eternal." Later, following the feeding of the multitude, Je sus speaks of himself as the bread of life, meaning that the belief in the redeeming power of his crucifixion sustains our spirit into eternity. Now the Son of Man has been raised up, and has ~rawn us up to him; the disciples, having eaten of his flesh and drunk of his blood fallow Peter into the field of the world to reap ~hat God has so~n, and onto the sea of life t o draw up the meat which dwells therein. They toil fruitles sly all night until Jesus ap pears on the shore at dawn.8 At his urging, they persevere to cast once more· when their net fills to overflowing, John percei ;es that the one who made possible and then rewarded their final eff ort must be the Lord. John tells Peter what he sees, and Peter leaps into the sea to swim to Jesus: so strong is his love for the sower whose harvest he reaps. 21:8 And the other disciples came in a little ship; (for they were not far from land, but as it were two hundred cubits dragging the net with fishes.) ' 9 As soon as they were come to land, they saw a fire of coals there, and fish laid thereon, and bread. 10 Jesus saith unto them, Bring of the fish which ye have now caught. 1.1 Simon Peter went up, and drew the net to land full of great fishes, an hundred and fifty and three: and for all there were so many, yet was not the net broken. 12 Jesus saith unto them, Come and dine . And none of the disciples durst ask him, Who art thou? knowing that it was the Lord. 1_3 ~en ~esus cometh, and taketh bread, and giveth them, and fish hkewise. 1~ 1:llis is now the third time that Jesus shewed himself unto the d1sc1ples, after that he was risen from the dead. Jes us invites the disciples to add some of their_ abundant harvest to what he is already cook mg, and to share with him the feast of life of whi~h ~e told them beside Jacob's well [4:36]. The y eat m silent wonder at the t oil of the night, at the bou?ty of the morning, and at the transfigured Chnst who made their labor and their harvest possible. I wonder what it was like to eat of the feast of the Kingdom of God, on the shore of the world into ~hich they were about to set out, sharing that feast with a Son of God unfamiliar to them in looks, but unforgettable to them in acts of love and gifts of grace. 21: 15 So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon,. son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my Iambs. 16 He saith unto him again the second time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love th~e. He sa~th unto him, Feed my sheep. 17 Hesa1th untoh1m the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, Iovest ~?ou me? Peter was grieved because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me? And he saith unto him Lord thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love th~e. J~sus saith unto him, Feed my sheep. . J.esus singles out Simon Peter from among the disciples and asks him for an aff irma ti on that his love is greater than that of his fellows. Throughout the Gospel, Peter is the disciple of steadfast love and the leader of the faithful as the beginning of this story illustrates. When' Jesus' followers dwindle, after his discourse on the bread of lif7, and Jesus asks the disciples whether they too will leave him, it is Peter who says, "Lord, to ':horn shall we go? Thou hast the words of eternal hf e." Jesus' question points out Peter's need to love Jes us before all others and more than all others if he is to found the church in the world. Jesus' question changes when he repeats it. Rather than reminding Peter of his special duty to the commandment of love, Jesus seems to be doub~ing Peter's devotion to him altogether. Peter's react10n changes from puzzlement to pain as Jesus prods. him with his guilt and weakness, asking his question once for each of Peter's denials: The prospect of setting out to fish for men seems much less promising to him now; he remembers well how hope c_an fail during night's toil. How can he hope that his love for Jesus will sustain his spirit once Jesus has departed? 2!: 18 Verily, verily, I say unto thee, When thou wast young, thou girded thyself, and walked whither thou wouldest: but when thous~alt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not. 19 This spake he, signifying bywhat death he should glorifyGol And when he had spoken this, he saith unto him, Follow me. By his strange, vague statement about Peter's destiny, John, and I suppose Peter as well understands Jesus to propesy that Peter will suff e; martyrdom, perhaps by arrest and crucifix ion. The sea's darkness grows deeper in Peter's mind. He must steel himself against the possibility that his night's toil will end not only in fruitlessness but also in pe rsecution and a painful death. The darkest specters man knows, spiritual barrenness and bodily suffering, never loomed more ominous than they do before Peter now. 9 Then Jesus says to Peter, "Follow me." He ~peaks not of a lonely journey, but of a guided Journey, and this makes all the difference. Even the first disciple cannot toil through the night alone and hope to succeed. But the image of the 45 �apostles setting forth, leaving Jesus behind on the shore, or absent altogether, is wrong, for Christ's role in it is insufficient. Where Peter expected to seek his own way, Jesus promises to lead him. Darkness may sometime come upon us as we labor, because of failing love or fear of death, but the Light of the world goes always before us, that we may work in his eternal day. VI. Conclusion These four stories do not speak of what Christ offers each of four different kinds of people, those who are like the Samaritan woman, those who are like Simon Peter, etc. The need for redemption which we all share is far greater than what sets us apart from one another. This is why each of us can join the one fold which the Good Shepherd guides and protects. Though most of us do not share the political and religious exile of the Samaritan woman, exile from the family of God is common to all people because all have sinned. Jesus welcomes us into the community of spirit by saying to us that he knows us and our sin, but for gives us and loves us as brethren and friends. To receive the Spirit and enter the Kingdom of God is to drink of the living water which becomes a well springing up within us to sustain us everlastingly. We share the blindness of the man whose sight Jesus restored, if not in body, then in spirit, by virtue of our sin. But Jes us says that we are blind in order that we may see the God's healing work manifest in us. Once we se.e this work in Christ's being raised up and taking our sins upon himself, we, like the man born blind, know only one thing: whereas we were blind, now we see. When we know this, we are ready to receive the Spirit, so that Christ may talk with us as well as be seen by us. When we share with Mary Magdalene both the knowledge that Christ is our very life and the sorrow appropriate to the loss of that life, we feel the deepest sorrow and the deepest need that a person could ever feel. Then we are ready to hear Christ speak the word of love and to see him as our Teacher. In order to begin the work of Christ in the world, we must, along with Peter, know the weakness of our love and see the dark specter of the trials we must face. Then we are ready to hear Jesus' command, "Follow me," the promise that he will light our way and make our toil fruitful. 46 \ Christ is the Redeemer who forgives our sins and restores our sight, welcoming us into the Kingdom of God; moreover, he is the Teacher who lifts us out of our deepest despair to hear his word of love, to see him revealed in glory, and to reap the harvest of the field he has sown. We are the exiles with whom Christ reunites, and the sick whom he makes well; moreover, we are the disciples who need to hear Christ's word of love and to see him revealed, and the apostles who do his work in the world. Untitled Laurae Melbin ('92) 1:12 But as many as received him, to them he gave the power to become the sons of God ... she argued everything he said refused to agree or even listen to him but he loved her anyway. 1Raymond Brown, The Anchor Bib le: The Gospel According to John, I-XII, vol. 29, Gardern City, NY: Doubleday & Cop., Inc., 1966, note to 4:9, p. 170. 2Jews, and presumably their Samaritan relatives, were only permitted three marriages; thus, her past two marriages and her present co-habitation would all be considered adultery, a capital offence. [Brown, op.cit., note to 4:18, p. 171. Leviticus 20:10.] 3Deuteronomy 16:13-15 and 31:9-13; Leviticus 23:39-43. she slapped him in public because of her irritation numbly he stood back and waited for her to stop screaming and slapped her back and she held him while he cried he became proof to himself that people he had scorned women who remained with abusive men henpecked husbands were helpless and he was guilty of hypocrisy 419:38-42; Matthew 27:57-61; Mark 15:42-47; Luke 23:50-56. SMark 16:1, 2; Luke 24:1. 6Brown, The Anchor Bible: The Gospel According to John, XIII-XX!, vol. 29A, Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co pl, Inc., 1970, notes to 20:5, 7, pp. 985-987. ?The simplest explanation of the slowness of Mary and, later, of the disciples to recognize Jesus after the resurrection if that he just looks different. This argument is supported by this passage, John's story of the appearance at Tiberias, and by Luke's story of the appearance on the road to Emmaus. 8Darkness falls only three times during the Gospel: when the disciples set out across the Sea of Tiberias without Jesus, when Judas leaves the supper to betray Jesus, and in this scene .. 9Brown, op. cit., note to 21:18, pp. 1106-1108 Bibliography Brown, Raymond, The Anchor Bible: The Gospel According to John, vol. 29 (I-XII) and 29A (XIl-XXI), Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., Inc., 1966 and 1970. The Holy Bible, Oxford: University Press. he loved her he wanted her to have their children and she would kiss his face gently and repeat that it would make her fat so much more fun this way sometimes he didn't know how he could stand it he suprised her with dinner he loved to cook she laughed and called him a wimp you're not a real man she said he despised her he became a symbol of chains and she was the only way out but she wouldn't let him near her she curled a way from him in bed sometimes put pillows between them he knew her indifference fascinated him and held him and despised himself for he believed that he was weak she would block her ears humming loudly to discourage his attempts to communicate finally when he gave up she found the house empty sat in a chair humming loudly with her hands over her ears. �of the predatory birds. But the dead he says frowning slightly, avoiding my eyes, never let you stop loving. Corning To in the Fatherland Jessica Lamb He has been away what seems like a lifetime, in Africa stalking rhinos with arrows, like a native, and thanks to his native stealth, he returns wealthy, though weathered and past his prime. "Just missed a tusk in my gut last safari," he tells us . "I took that as a sign. Not fear sent me home, but recognition of time's flight." A dangerous business for a man getting on in years. We are sitting on the front proch watching the rain move over the mountains, flashing; he is recalling the violent deaths of wild animals. A difficult recognizance begun carefully with anecdotes. An antelope fled headlong through his window, once, and bled to death on the living room floor. The stripped green of his gaze sharpens with humor. It happens, he says, to this unprotected flesh. And holds towards me, embarrassed, his hand to be quickly clasped. "'Nature is a bloodthirsty mother," he explains, and goes on to tell of tiger attacks on elephant herds , of the constant stench of carrion, I am wearing ivory earrings made from his last kil1. For his son he brought a leopard skin. Peace offerings. How his little on es have grown. We notice the acuteness of his elbows, the starved babble of his fingers , and imagine him in Africa carving arrowheads from tusks, claiming tusks with arrows. We were babies when he left and have imagined him in more unlik ely places: on the moon , under the sea, next door, silently scoping us from behind his devious disguises . He wonders how long we mou med him after his supposed death. I show him the garden I staked out and planted when I was old enough to know my loss. He would return, I believed, by the time the sweet peas grew to my bare I y four foot height. They shot above my head and blossomed, and the lettuce stretched in stalks as tall as I and went to seed; tomatoes , cucumbers and carrots were harvested and canned year after year , "to eat if we're ever stranded here," my mother said in jest. At thirteen I added herbs: savory, oregano, sage; and then asparagus which ripened slowly and would give him time. When it first bore I was f u II y grown. On the hill to the south I planted fruit trees and berries. For five years we've eaten amply from them. 49 �Now as I stoop to cut a spa ra gus for his homecoming feast (that vegetable's seventh season I remark -- all that time in anticipation, not in mourning), he wants to know why mother up and died a f cw years back. "It happened in her sleep. Au topsy said a clot of blood in her brain." After a pause he says unsteadily, "Think of her death as a dcv ia tion . To stay on course is no easy feat. It is hardly human ... " "Yes," I reply. "You arc lucky to find us, at least, still here where you left us, when we could all so easily be worlds apart." We sit down to eat, hands clean, linen in our laps, and the long awaited return has grown already ordinary. I had wanted to greet him fully grown in the garden, or under the apple tree, my lap full of fruit. But it was a father not a king came home. Who knows were he has been. He thinks he has come full circle, finally, back to his point of departure. But this territory cannot be reclaimed. For there were times when I too cou Id have disappeared. Podding peas now while the men build the barbecue, I watch the piece of road pressed into the wilderness off the front porch, as familiar as the press of my own lips against each other, and I remember winters when a long, frostbitten stillness seemed to stretch as far as foreign countries out my window; the day my brother, barely eight, and I, nine, set out over the ridge towards town on skis and emerged terrified at dusk too exhausted to breathe relief, in a valley ten miles fom home. Childhood perils, not worth boasting about, perhaps. But grown inevitably into the strange places and postures of pubescence, I found the greater risks of love to shy from. I have hoped to live perfectly, without storm or shipwreck. Yet I am ashamed that Father found us, waiting, brother and sister, ma rr icd to the same land he left, ma rrooncd there. 50 51 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper (bound book) Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 51 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Fall 1989 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Fall 1989. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Datcher, Rhonda (Editor) Paradi, Ken (Editor) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1989 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Fall 1989 Student publication